Skylark (3 page)

Five, ten years must have passed since he had abandoned all hope of one day giving Skylark away in marriage. The idea no longer even crossed his mind. Yet whatever happened to the girl affected him profoundly. Even if she simply changed her hairstyle, or put on a winter coat at the end of autumn or a new dress for the spring, he could be miserable for weeks before he grew accustomed to her altered appearance.

And Ákos was miserable now. He pitied his daughter, and took his pity out on himself. He watched her intently, almost offensively, still unable to get used to her face, at once both plump and drawn, the pudgy nose, the flared, horsy nostrils, the severe, masculine eyebrows and the tiny watery eyes which somehow reminded him of his own.

He had never really understood women, but knew only too well that his daughter was ugly. And not just ugly any more, but withered and old. A veritable old maid.

It was only in the flood of almost theatrically rosy sunlight cast by the parasol that this became irrevocably clear to him. A caterpillar under a rosebush, he thought to himself.

He ambled along in his mouse-grey suit until they reached Széchenyi Square, the only square, the only
agora
, in Sárszeg, where instinctively he strode a couple of paces ahead, so as not to have to walk beside her.

Here stood the Town Hall, the Baross Café, the old grammar school with its worn and hollowed stone steps, its little wooden tower whose bell would chime each morning, calling the children to school; here was the King of Hungary restaurant and, across the square, the Széchenyi Inn, backing on to the Kisfaludy Theatre and offering a slanting view of a one-storey palace, decorated with climbing roses and a bright gold lightning conductor, one of the finest buildings in the town, and home of the Gentlemen's Club. Further down began the shops: the paint shop, two ironmongers, Vajna's stationery and bookshop, the St Mary Pharmacy and a new, smartly furnished leather-goods store, Weisz and Partner. The owner stood smoking a cigar in the doorway, bathing his cheerful watermelon face in the sun. Removing the cigar from his mouth, he bowed and greeted the Vajkays with a broad grin.

Ákos, like the rest of his family, rarely ventured into town. The gaping openness and never-ending curiosity made him feel awkward.

Sitting on the terrace sipping beer, the afternoon clientele of the Széchenyi Café looked up from their newspapers and stared at Skylark. Not disrespectfully, just the way they always did: with a look of grey, benevolent sympathy, lined in red with a certain malevolent pleasure.

With this the old man put a stop to his sullen, self-tormenting thoughts. He slowed his step, allowing his daughter to draw level, then marched beside her defiantly, so that he too should face the sympathy and malevolent pleasure. And as always at such times, he tugged nervously at his left shoulder, pulling it close, as if to cloak his embarrassment at the offence his own flesh and blood had caused to the order of nature.

They arrived at the railway station. The local train was already puffing and fuming on the track like a little coffee grinder. The bell sounded for all aboard.

They bustled along the platform towards the ladies’ carriage, hoping to find a suitable seat for Skylark. But to their dismay, there was not a single place unoccupied. Skylark had to stagger from one crowded carriage to the next before finding a second-class compartment at the end of the train, occupied by a young man and an old, gaunt Catholic priest. They decided this would have to do and Father climbed aboard to arrange the luggage.

Ákos swung the suitcase on to the train and lifted the wicker basket up to the luggage rack all by himself. He handed his daughter the white striped woollen blanket, then the water flask so that she shouldn't drink strange water during the journey. He drew the curtains so that she shouldn't fry in the burning sun, and even bounced up and down on her seat to try the springs. Then he bade his daughter farewell, kissing her on both cheeks. He never kissed her on the lips.

He climbed down from the train. Pulling his black bowler hat over his eyebrows, he joined his wife, who stood waiting beside the carriage anxiously watching the window. And yes, disguise it as they might, Mother and Father were already crying. Quiet, unaffected tears, but tears all the same.

The good citizens of Sárszeg who watched them with their curious, provincial, peering eyes, could hardly have been surprised.

They had long grown accustomed to the Vajkays crying in public. They cried every Sunday in church, at Mass, during the sermon, they cried at funerals, at weddings, at national celebrations, when all the solemn flags and speeches raised their spirits to a higher plane. It was almost as if they cherished such occasions.

At home they lived quite cheerfully. But whenever an opportunity presented itself, some pretext for being generally moved, they'd “have a good cry” as they'd say to each other later, smiling slightly, still wiping the tears from their eyes.

And now they were crying again.

When she had finished arranging her belongings in the compartment, Skylark went over to the window. She noticed at once the tears in her parents’ eyes, but tried to force an expression of indifference, even a little smile. She didn't dare speak, for fear her voice might abandon her midway.

Their parting was long and awkward. It seemed as if the train would never depart. Local trains are always somehow overzealous. At first they panic everyone into believing they are just about to thunder off down the track with an almighty jolt, then, at the very last minute, there is always some improbable hitch. They had plenty of time for their farewells and were beginning to run out of things to say. The couple dried their tears and lingered awkwardly on the platform, longing for the protracted episode to come to an end.

“Don't catch cold now,” said Mother fussily, “in this infernal heat.”

“There's water in the flask,” Father added. “You won't go drinking cold water, will you?'

“And no melon. Or cucumber salad either. For heaven's sake, Skylark, don't let them give you cucumber salad.”

The train let out a terror-stricken whistle which gave all three of them a start. But still it did not set off.

“Well, God bless,” said Ákos, drawing together his remaining strength and bringing the conversation to a close in a decisive, manly fashion. “God bless, and take care, my child.”

“Skylark,” cried Mother, chewing the end of her handkerchief because she was about to start crying again, “my dear girl, you'll be gone ages.”

Only now did Skylark speak.

“Friday. I'll be back on Friday. A week today.”

And at that moment the ramshackle engine gave its short, flat carriages an unexpected jolt, and set off lisping and spluttering down the track.

It rattled out into the open fields.

The girl leaned out of the window. She gazed back at her parents, standing on the platform side by side, waving their little handkerchiefs, yet somehow stiff as statues. For a while she could still see them. Then they disappeared from view.

Barracks, towers and haystacks waltzed, pillars raced, lilac bushes swayed to and fro in the wind whipped up by the train. Dust and sunlight stung her eyes and she coughed from the smoke of burning coal. Everything reeled about her head.

Skylark was much like her father. She simply lived her life from day to day. But now, as the receding landscape, the alternating meadows made her think of what could never change, would always stay the same, her heart sank.

She walked to another window which was still shut. But here in the glass she could see her own face. She didn't believe in looking at herself; it was a sign of vanity, they said, and, besides, what was the point?

She set off back down the swaying corridor of the train, hurrying anxiously as if in flight, as if in search of a more secure and secluded space in which to hide her pain.

When she reached the compartment where the young man and the old, gaunt Catholic priest sat in silence, she tried to return to her seat. But now she could no longer contain her suffering.

Her eyes filled with tears.

Her first feeling must have been one of alarm, for she suddenly raised a hand to her eyes as if to avert suspicion and to deceive her fellow passengers, surprised and horrified to find that what she had feared most of all, had counted on coming only later–when she arrived on the plain perhaps, or later still–had already begun. So many tears. In all the world she had never thought there could be so many tears.

She didn't reach for her handkerchief. It would have been to no avail. She wept openly in front of the two men, still on her feet, flaunting her torment almost indecently, heaving her interminable curse with a mixture of indifference and ostentation. A thick membrane of fathomless tears clouded her eyes. She saw no one, and didn't care who saw her.

Then all her nerves and muscles began to jerk and twitch, convulsions seized her throat, rasping and scratching like some unbearably bitter poison chasing down a mouthful of sweet wine.

The two men witnessed in silence the timeless process of weeping. Lungs billowing with a single sigh, twitching lips snatching desperately for air, a few more gasps and spasms, then the winding-down, which also hurt, even if it signalled the death of pain.

Skylark leaned back against the door of the compartment to spread the heavy burden of her labour. There was hardly a grimace, hardly a sign of physical pain on her face. Only that flood of boiling tears flowing through the channels of her eyes, nose and mouth, shaking her otherwise unaffected body from the knees to the shoulder blades, a force invisible to anyone but her, the rising presence of a shapeless memory, a half-formed thought, an image of torment, no less acute for being inexpressible.

She sat down in her place. Her broad face warmed in the sunshine, stains of hot lymph making her nose glow red. In that feathered hat of hers, poor thing, she really did look quite grotesque.

The young man–a handsome but gormless sort–who had been reading until now, set his book down on his knees and stared at the quietly sobbing girl. An offer of assistance kept finding itself on the tip of his tongue, but never passed his lips. He simply couldn't imagine what had happened. Perhaps she had fallen ill, or suffered the kind of “blow” they wrote about in the cheap paperback novels he read.

Skylark paid him no attention whatsoever. She stared resolutely, almost malevolently above his head. He was no different from all the other young men who avoided her gaze and registered her approach with the same spiteful, studied coldness. This was her only form of self-defence.

The boy understood this instinctively. He withdrew his inquisitive gaze and buried it in his book. Skylark changed places. She sat down facing the priest, who all this time behaved as if he had noticed nothing. He was reading from a breviary printed in red letters, resting his head against the inner window of the corridor. The protruding cheekbones of his somewhat sickly face betrayed a kind of inner peace.

He wore a threadbare cassock with a button missing and a crumpled celluloid collar. This slight, humble soldier of the cross, who had returned to his village to grow old, engulfed by love and goodness, knew exactly what was going on. But out of tact he said nothing, and out of sympathy showed not the slightest sign of interest. He knew the world was a vale of tears.

Only now did he cast a glance at the girl, his keen, blue eyes intense from regular encounters with the Lord; a steadfast glance that caused Skylark no offence, and almost seemed to cool her burning face. She looked back gratefully, as if to thank him for his kind attention.

She still had tears in her eyes, but no longer shook or sobbed. Before long she had completely calmed down. She gazed at the passing countryside and, from time to time, at the worn and haggard priest, who, past sixty and already nearing the grave, radiated a certain serene simplicity, reassuring and consoling her without words. Throughout the journey they did not speak at all.

Some thirty minutes later the young man got to his feet, slung his double-barrelled shotgun over his shoulder, picked up his hunting hat and left the compartment. Skylark nodded a silent goodbye.

At Tarkő the priest helped her down with her baggage. Uncle Béla stood waiting by his chaise, his friendly, dumpy face, discoloured by the healthy air of the plains, shining as he beckoned. As always, a cigarette burned between his teeth.

Skylark smiled. Her uncle's beard was yellow-red, just like the Persian tobacco he always smoked. His familial kiss reeked of the same tobacco.

And someone else was waiting for her, too. Tiger, the hunting dog. She ran alongside the chaise when they set off, and was still beside them when they reached the farmstead.

Ákos Vajkay,
formerly of Kisvajka and Kőröshegy, retired county archivist, and his wife Antónia Vajkay, née Bozsó, of Kecfalva, gazed after the train as it panted out of the station and dwindled to a smoky black dot on the horizon.

They stared dumbly into space like the speechless victims of some sudden loss, their eyes still hankering after the spot where they had last seen her. They couldn't bring themselves to walk away.

When people go away they vanish, turn to nothing, stop being. They live only in memories, haunting the imagination. We know they go on being somewhere else, but no longer see them, just as we no longer see those who have already passed away. Skylark had never left them like that before. At most she had been away for a day, when she travelled to Cegléd, or for half a day, on an excursion to Tarliget. And even then they had hardly been able to wait for her return. It was very hard to imagine that she would not be coming home with them today.

Such thoughts tormented the elderly couple. They hung their heads and stared at the gravel on the track as mournfully as at an unexpectedly and hastily filled grave.

They could already feel their loneliness. Swelling painfully, it hovered around them in the silence the departing train had left behind.