They Were Counted (11 page)

Countess Laczok, however, did not remain for long among her guests. As soon as she had greeted the new arrivals she left the room to supervise the preparation of the buffet which was to be served later. Her departure was the signal for Aunt Lizinka to start talking about the Laczoks, for her a subject of perennial interest.

‘My dears!’ she began: ‘I do feel so much for darling Ida and my dear nephew Jeno …’ And she embarked with great relish on the subject of the family black sheep, Jeno’s elder brother, Tamas, the ‘ne’er-do-well’ who, after several years’ absence, had recently returned to Transylvania as, of all things, a railway engineer! This had surprised everybody since, for the first forty-odd years of his life, Tamas had lived entirely for pleasure, never giving a thought to anything more serious than drinking and making love. When he was young he was continually getting into debt, for which his family was always expected to pay up, and he had lived openly with a succession of gypsy girls. Largely as a result of this last offence he had been disowned by the family and one day he had disappeared, apparently abroad. For six or seven years
nothing
had been heard of him, until quite recently he had suddenly returned, qualified as an engineer. And now here he was, building the new railroad not far from Var-Siklod.

‘But don’t think he’s changed, my dears. Oh, no! It’s the same story all over again. He’s got a little gypsy with him. She can’t be more than fourteen! Oh, yes, I know it for sure! Isn’t it
dreadful
? My poor niece. Why, he could even go to prison … debauching a minor. There’s a law against it – what a shame for the family! Who would have thought it when he was little?’ and added, pointing at a portrait on the wall depicting a lady in a
crinoline
with two small boys, ‘What a beautiful child he was! The one on the right is Jeno, and the other is that monster Tamas!’ And so she went on, her little piping voice spreading poison
nonstop
.

 

While Aunt Lizinka was at her usual mischief-making upstairs, the smoking-room was ringing with the laughter and loud talk of the men. Count Jeno sat on a green velvet sofa smoking a pipe while most of the others lit cigars. Though the main subject of conversation was politics, it was not the bitter, passionate politics of the discussions under the lime tree. Those discussions had
concerned
serious matters, Hungarian matters and Hungarian
politics
. Now they talked about happenings in the great outside world, happenings that were for them only a comedy, subject for fun and mockery, for entertainment and ribaldry, not to be taken seriously nor talked about with passion or real fury. The
Russo-Japanese
War had just reached a crucial point. So, discussing it, the men split into two groups, dividing those who thought the Russians would win and those who were convinced it would be the Japanese. No one took it too seriously; they would even
retract
and change sides if there was an opportunity for a good pun or a joke.

To start with, the very names of the admirals and generals sounded funny and so they would twist them, purposely
mispronouncing
the unfamiliar sounds to give ribald or coarse
interpretations
: the pro-Russians trying to ridicule the Japanese and the pro-Japanese doing the same with the Russian names.

Anything went if it sounded rude enough. This light-hearted chaff continued for some time until Tihamer Abonyi, Dinora’s husband who always took himself seriously, tried to raise the level of the conversation. Coming from Hungary he felt he was in a
position
to show these provincial Transylvanians that he had
superior
knowledge of world politics. Also he had had far too much champagne and several tumblers of brandy, with the result that this normally retiring and modestly-spoken man became
unusually
bold and talkative.

‘One moment, please! If you don’t mind?’ And everyone fell
silent
because they all realized they would soon have an
opportunity
to tease somebody – and teasing was the Transylvanians’ greatest pleasure.

And so the poor man started. Clichés fell, one after another, from his lips: ‘Well-informed circles’, ‘in regard to this’, ‘in regard to that’, ‘all serious students of world affairs know that if the
Russians
, etc., etc., etc., then the English and the Americans will be obliged’, ‘all this must be reckoned with’, ‘and as for us, the
Tripartite
Agreement’. The pompous voice droned on and on …

But not for long. As soon as one hackneyed phrase was uttered it would be taken up by someone else, distorted, laughed at, thrown to another, who would take the joke further with a new twist. A third would then turn the meaning inside out and offer it back to the speaker, who, still completely serious, would try to
explain
what he meant. And while he did so, another of his sayings would be taken up and teased and dissected in the same way until it sounded a ridiculous confirmation that these provincial
Transylvanians
understood nothing.

Everyone took part in the game. Old Crookface interjected only short obscenities; Jeno Laczok, with a straight face and dry humour, would pose seemingly irrelevant questions; while Uncle Ambrus kept to the subject, but, in his deep rumbling voice, gave every phrase a grossly sexual meaning. Abonyi, his eyes bulging in astonishment as he found himself mocked by the country bumpkins, could not conceive why his superiority was not
universally
respected. He battled on, and finally tried to explain that the war would never end because neither side had the necessary weapons …

‘Because then comes the great big Kaiser with his great big tool …’ roared Uncle Ambrus.

Abonyi jumped up, furious: ‘And as for you, Ambrus, you know nothing of – politics. All you care about is sex …’
Offended
, he ran to the door, fumbled with the handle, and rushed out. He was followed by roars of mocking laughter.

 

On the wide balcony above the porch the young were also
enjoying
themselves. Some sat on the rococo stone balustrade and some on chairs that the footmen had brought out from the hall.

Gazsi Kadacsay was making a good story of his ride to
Var-Siklod
, and it seemed even funnier because his slanting eyebrows, raised high, gave his face the expression of someone begging for mercy.

It had started on the rrrace-course, he said, rolling his r’s. Just as he was about to start, Joska Kendy had come up to him and said, cigar-holder in mouth:

‘What can you do with that nag of yours? I’ll get my lumbering old wagon to Siklod before you’ve even got that hay-bellied hack into a canter!’ and he imitated Joska’s grating voice so well that everyone laughed. ‘Well, you know me! I’m such a sucker I bet on it – ten bottles of bubbly. How could I be such a moron? We’d start late, Joska said, shrewd old beast that he is, and the road’d be clear. What happened? I got among all those cursed Szekler carts – they were all over the road – nearly fell into one, nearly snagged my poor beast’s legs on the axle-pins, was blinded with dust; and Joska, crafty old thing, just drove them all off the road! He got through easily, driving like Jehu, and I only caught up with him once … once, I tell you. It was just as we turned off the main road – and when I tried to get past that team-of five of his, he nearly ran me down. After that I had no chance in the narrow drive!’

‘You certainly fooled me that time, you dreadful man,’ went on Gazsi plaintively but grinning at Joska as he spoke. Kendy just looked at him ironically and said, dryly:

‘That piebald isn’t a horse, it’s just a louse with four legs!’

Gazsi cringed in mock horror at the insult, holding his head as if recovering from a blow.

‘Vulgar abuse, on top of it all! I’ll kill this man, you’ll see! One of these days I’ll get him!’

But it was all good-humoured fun. The anger was mock-anger, and the despair mock-despair. To Gazsi, Joska was a hero and he knew he could never get the better of him, let alone surpass him, either riding or driving. He did not mind losing the bet, in fact he was rather pleased because if Joska had not won Gazsi’s whole world would have collapsed. So he rejoiced and was glad, and all his clowning was really just an expression of his happiness.

As with the older men in the library the conversation ended in general laughter interrupted by the music starting again in the great hall. Laji had begun with an old Transylvanian waltz that everyone knew. Everyone went inside.

The band looked happy and relaxed, and Laji’s face shone. Obviously they had been given a good supper and no doubt a good few bottles of champagne had come their way.

Farkas Alvinczy grabbed young Ida Laczok and swept her off to start the others dancing. Down the long hall they went, turning and gliding to the beat of the music. Other couples soon joined them.

In a few moments the room was filled with dancers; the girls, in many-coloured gowns that swept the ground, holding their heads high and gazing at their partners as they skimmed swiftly over the polished floor.

 

Dances … Dances … Dances …

Two French quadrilles, two typical exciting csardases lasting an hour, many waltzes slow and fast and even a polka, though not many cared for this.

At about half-past-one the big double doors of the hall were opened and Countess Laczok, round and smiling, made her
appearance
just as they were finishing the last figure of ‘The
Lancers
’, which was still popular in Transylvania though in Vienna it had disappeared at the end of the Biedermeier period half a
century
before. The countess stood in the doorway until the dance was over and then made a sign to Farkas Alvinczy, who had been leading the dance. He signalled to the band leader, and the music stopped.

The young people flowed out into the great drawing-room of the castle where the supper was laid. The gypsy musicians
vanished
to their by now third meal of the evening, and Janos Kadar, helped by a maid, started changing the candles in the Venetian chandeliers. As he did so, young Ferko and the footmen rushed to remove spots of candle-grease from the floor and polish the parquet.

In the drawing-room the long dinner-table had been re-erected to form a buffet and on it was displayed a capercaillie, haunches of venison, all from the Laczoks’ mountain estates in Czik; and home-cured hams, hare and guinea-fowl pâtés and other
specialities
of Var-Siklod, the recipes of which remained Countess Ida’s closely guarded secret (all that she would ever admit, and then only to a few intimate friends, was: ‘My dear, it’s quite impossible without sweet Tokay!’).

At one end of the table were grouped all the desserts –
mountainous
cakes with intricate sugar decorations, compotes of fruit, fresh fruit arranged elaborately on silver dishes, and tarts of all descriptions served with bowls of snowy whipped cream. As well as champagne there were other wines, both red and white. An
innovation
, following the recent fashion for imitating English ways, was a large copper samovar from which the Laczok girls served tea.