The Door (25 page)

I hadn't brought anything. I kept looking at my watch to see how much longer I had to sit with her. I didn't trouble her with talk, but now and then I touched her under the sheet. Each time she pulled herself away, but otherwise gave no sign that she was aware of me. After a while an exasperated doctor almost shouted at Sutu and Adélka that it might be too early to say whether she would pull back from the grave, but if she did, one thing was clear: she didn't want anyone to witness the process. Feeding her, bombarding her with plates of food, was a waste of time. She was ignoring them and she wasn't going to eat. Everything she needed to sustain her was being given intravenously. If they really wanted to help, they should leave her in peace. He was right. No matter who was addressing her in hushed tones, they were treated in the way she treated me, shutting her eyes to avoid having to see anyone. What I took away, as I rushed home from the hospital to put on my black dress in preparation for the festivities, and get some sort of order into the careworn features that stared back at me from the mirror, was the image of her eyeless face, resembling nothing so much as a death mask.

The large envelope in which the award notification arrived had also contained several other useful bits and pieces, including a sticker for the taxi's windscreen to allow us all the way through to the carpeted main entrance. This was fortunate, because I was barely capable of walking. I said not a word as we drove there, and very little at the ceremony. It wasn't the first time that I'd been given something in a way or in circumstances that almost crippled me, and now it was happening again, as the pictures taken clearly show. Before the prize-giving had even begun they ushered us into a vast room for photographs to celebrate the great day. Even in that extraordinarily anxious time, all I could think was how tragic, and how comic. The photo of me that would be filed away in an official album would immortalise a quite surreal image — the lingering horror on the face of some ancient heroine who had looked on the Medusa. I had gone to the ceremony from a deathbed. I didn't need a doctor to explain that Emerence would not recover, and that I was in some way responsible. She will never again be completely well, I kept thinking, as I mouthed "thank you" and "yes, but of course" and "very much" and "absolutely"; not because her amazing constitution wasn't capable of surmounting even this hurdle, with the doctor's care and if she would take her medicine. This was about something else, something medical science wasn't equipped to deal with, for which it had no cure. Emerence no longer wished to live, because we'd destroyed the framework of her life and the legend attached to her name. She had been everyone's model, everyone's helper, the supreme exemplar. Out of her starched apron pockets came sugar cubes wrapped in paper and linen handkerchiefs rustling like doves. She was the Snow Queen. She stood for certainty — in summer the first ripening cherry, in autumn the thud of falling chestnuts, the golden roast pumpkin of winter, and, in spring, the first bud on the hedgerow. Emerence was pure and incorruptible, the better self that each and every one of us aspired to be. With her permanently veiled forehead and her face that was tranquil as a lake, she asked nothing from anyone and depended on no-one. She shouldered everyone's burden without ever speaking of her own, and when she did finally need my help, I went off to play my part in a TV show and left her, in the squalor of advanced illness, for others to witness the single moment of degradation in her life.

How can I truly describe her, or trace the real anatomy of her compassion — this woman who peopled her home with animals? Emerence was spontaneously good, unthinkingly generous, able to reveal her orphaned condition only to another orphan, but never giving voice to her utter loneliness. Like the Dutchman, she steered her mysterious ship entirely alone, always into unknown waters, driven by the wind of ever-changing relationships. I had long known that the more simple a thing was, the less likely it was to be understood; and now Emerence would never have the chance to make anyone understand either herself or her cats. No matter what she might say, her credibility had been destroyed by the stench that had poured out of her home and the dirt that remained there to be cleaned. The chicken and duck carcasses that surrounded her, the rotting fish and boiled vegetables, testified to what had never been true, that she was mad, not that her body had left her iron will stranded. After the stroke, how could she possibly have cleaned and tidied up, or taken the leftovers out to the bin? It was a medical miracle that she had been able to drag herself out to bring in the gifts of food at the start of her illness. A well-behaved and very mild embolism, which had begun to heal almost immediately, had made her life impossible in the eyes of an entire community, and, by taking the huge birch broom out of her hands, had annulled a lifetime of unstinting work.

As it happened, so many people — family members, distant relations and others — flooded into the presentation room that I didn't even get a seat, and I was glad, because it meant I wasn't trapped in one place. I waited for them to call out my name when I would step up to the table, receive the box and then be free to go to the buffet and pretend to be eating. But I would have much preferred to dash away. I had the feeling that if Sutu, Adélka or anyone else realised what needed to be done and finished the job before me, Emerence wouldn't be the only one to break down, I would too. If I didn't do it myself, I would never again be able to look her in the face. But the ceremony dragged on interminably. It was the greatest formal occasion of my entire life, outshone only by the reception ceremony later that evening. But that too ended on a surreal note, which echoed one of my childhood dreams. I had always wanted to make my way up an immense stairway in a long dress, with everyone watching me and noticing my beautiful figure, how attractive I was. If one can walk badly, just as one can sing out of tune, then that evening I did it. Bent over, I shuffled miserably up the steps, shook whatever hand had to be shaken, and slipped out of the building by a side stairway, certain in the knowledge that if they did let me into the hospital they wouldn't even remark on my dress. If I approached her stark naked or in a borrowed royal gown, Emerence wouldn't even glance at me.

When I think back to that day — the day I was awarded the prize — the one thing I remember, apart from the continuing sense of helpless bitterness, is how very tired I was the whole time. My part finished towards one o'clock. The moment I arrived home I changed into my working clothes and set off for Emerence's flat armed with cleaning implements. I was not going to leave her to her shame. There would be no need for the decontamination men. By the time they arrived I would have removed everything that shouldn't have been there. It was the Saturday of a public holiday weekend and I was sure I'd be able to complete the job, because the sanitation workers would have already begun their break. By the time they pitched up they would find nothing but order and cleanliness. Then the bucket fell from my hands. There on the porch, taking a cigarette break, were the decontamination men. The doctor had forgotten to tell me one thing: the department had ordered immediate action, including the total destruction of all the furniture (with full compensation) in the interests of public health. I stood before them, stunned. I must have looked like a melancholy circus clown in full paint — I had changed only my dress. I still had the make-up on my face and my hair was done up in curls. But who could accept, or even consider accepting what they were about to do? Did they think they could just demolish someone's home, like vandals?

Nothing of the kind, replied the man in charge. First they would clean everything thoroughly, in a neat, orderly way, get rid of the dirt, scrub the floor, the furniture and the walls, then they would burn anything that was still filthy or infected. "So kindly put that bucket down, and don't attempt to help, if you please. There's no place here for private initiatives; this is a job for professionals, for the authorities. But you could, as a representative of the family, attest that the work is carried out in accordance with regulations. Strictly speaking, it should be the sick person herself, but I'm told she's not all there, so would madam be so good as to act as temporary legal representative and check the inventory to make sure it is accurate, because the owner is to be reimbursed by the city council for any property destroyed? There's no point in complaining. Please don't argue with us. This is official."

I spun on my heel and dashed back home to the phone. I'd been told it was once again possible to contact the Lieutenant Colonel, back on duty for the public holiday after his break. I couldn't speak to him because he was already on his way to the flat — we arrived at almost the same moment. The officials had already begun, and all six were hard at work, wearing rubber gloves, aprons and masks. They shovelled up the putrid slush and dumped it in a decontamination tanker reeking of chlorine, washed everything down very thoroughly with a spray of chemical solution, scrubbed all the furniture and then took it out into the garden, on to Emerence's beloved lawn, where the slime-covered chairs, fouled lovers' seat and wardrobe were left to sprawl. Items that were relatively unscathed or had already been treated were moved a short distance away. And there, against Emerence's lilac bushes, I saw my mother's mannequin, stuck all over with faces, like something in a vision. Pieces of paper, stinking books and scraps of fouled clothing that had fallen into the dirt were piled on to the lovers' seat, along with old calendars, newspapers, boxes and copies of my own works, inscribed to Emerence, which she had insisted on having but had never even opened. When everything was finally outside, and some pieces of furniture and other objects had been separated out from those selected and officially recorded as being for destruction, they sprayed the lovers' seat and chairs with petrol, and set them on fire. As I stood watching the flames I thought of Viola. This was where he had grown up, on this sofa; this was where the old woman had always rested; it had been her bed. And here too the cats — the sometime, never again, eternal cats — had sat, like birds on a telephone wire. Into the conflagration went Emerence's shoes, stockings and headscarves.

Now, for the first time, the Lieutenant Colonel assumed the role of policeman and investigator. Before consenting to the destruction of each item, he examined it carefully, and if it was to escape the bonfire, put it to one side. He even emptied out the drawers. There was now only one thing left in the kitchen. They had disinfected it and scrubbed down all the walls. Out on the lawn, the old furniture looked thoroughly ashamed of itself; everything else was in flames. Passers-by would spot the blaze, stare into the garden and have to be chased away.

By now the only thing left in the kitchen was the safe that blocked the entrance to the inner room. A metal plate announced that it had been made in the older Imre Grossman's steelworks. Its door had been forced open once before, during the Arrow Cross period. This time it contained nothing but the ceramic mugs that had already been removed: if Emerence had had any jewellery or cash, it had vanished in the blaze. We found nothing in the drawers; neither of us bothered to poke around in the corners of the upholstered chairs, which Józsi's boy had already gone through anyway. Towards lunchtime, the men decided they had dealt with everything that had been contaminated; next after the kitchen they would make a start on the inner room. But here the Lieutenant Colonel took charge. The men accepted his argument that its contents weren't a hazard either to the occupant or the neighbours because the safe would have denied Emerence access, and neither animals nor parasites would have been able to squeeze through behind the huge object that had kept the room sealed off. The fact that it was the start of a long weekend focused the brigade's minds on the good and useful work they had accomplished, and the superfluity of attempting anything more. After all, the Lieutenant Colonel served in the local police, he knew the owner, and it was his view that the inner room should be left untouched. They had incinerated most of her kitchen and personal effects — it was quite enough for the old lady to take in. He would personally take charge of whatever else remained to do, and if further sanitation measures were necessary, he would contact the department. If they didn't hear from him, it would mean that he'd found everything in order. Meanwhile he would put his signature (alongside mine) to indicate that he took responsibility in the name of the local police. Everyone was pleased. The squad leader decided that he saw no further source of risk, and that the Lieutenant Colonel's suggestions had merit. But they carried out one final task. With enormous effort, they moved the safe back from the door, so they could say in all conscience that they hadn't neglected anything. There was no key in the door, and they were reluctant to break it down. The condition of the wood, the snow-white, undamaged paintwork showed that Emerence hadn't pulled the safe away, and couldn't have gone into the inner room since the time of the Lieutenant Colonel's visit as a junior officer. They were free to go. There couldn't possibly be any food or insects in there. No-one had been in there for decades. They took their leave and made off.

Meanwhile Józsi's boy had arrived from the hospital, and was staring in horror at the bonfire. He reported that Emerence's condition hadn't changed. The greatest cause for concern was now not her heart but her total passivity. She was giving no help to the doctors, and making it clear that she didn't care what happened to her. My message from Parliament had reached her, and the doctor on the case was concerned, because though she had evidently understood what she was told, she had made not a single comment. She wasn't interested.

My message from Parliament? I had to think what it might be. It was difficult to concentrate, standing on the porch of a wrecked home that stank of disinfectant, while a short distance away Emerence's past life went up in smoke. On to the fire they had thrown pillows, wooden spoons and simple, old-fashioned housekeeping implements, objects that must have held countless memories. I realised with a start that I didn't even know whether I had brought home the box containing the prize, so dazed had I been during the ceremony. Now I remembered that after the photographs were taken, an even more surreal moment had followed. I'd been seated in a separate room with a colleague, and a TV person was grilling me about what I thought and who I had to thank for helping me get where I was. I had named Emerence, as an example of someone who had taken care of everything around me that might have kept me from writing — behind every public achievement there was some unseen person without whom there would be no life's work. The sisters in the hospital had heard the report, the nephew said, and one of them had dashed over to the old woman to tell her they were talking about her, and put a little radio against her ear so she could catch the end. Emerence showed total indifference and said nothing. She was on all sorts of medication, and that might have been the reason for her silence. I knew better. Emerence had understood perfectly well, but she didn't give a damn. She had loathed publicity and polished phrases all her life. I should have been with her in the lion's jaws, at her Golgotha, and I wasn't, and she had had to stand alone and bear what was done to her. So now she had no interest in my chatter, my cheap phrases — I'd spend my time lying on the bier at my funeral service, looking around to see how many people had come. She knew me like the back of her hand. She knew that no shock to my nervous system could ever be so great as to stop me finding the right words.