They Were Counted (37 page)

The light ironic smile with which Balint had looked at the
damnation
of the Hungarians had not escaped the
popa’s
notice.

‘Oh, that! Never mind that! It’s a bad painting anyway, bad, very bad!’ And taking Balint by the coat sleeve he led him outside to continue his explanation. ‘Here, on the new front, we’ll carve an inscription on the wood that the enlargement of the church was made possible by the generous gift of Count Abady.
Everyone
will see it! It will last for ever!’ he said, thinking that this would clinch the matter and be for Balint an irresistible
inducement
. He smiled slyly, congratulating himself on his own cunning when Balint promised him the wood, little realizing that this is what the Count had already decided to do and had only delayed giving an answer until he was himself at Gyurkuca, and could do it himself without the good offices of the notary.

On their way down the hill they again passed the priest’s house where the tubercular youth lay on his cushioned bed. This time the
popa
admonished the boy and told him to greet the Count, who had just given the wood for the church. The boy nodded but did not speak. In his look burned the same hatred as before and his eyes followed Abady as he passed.

Below, at the bridge across the frozen river, Balint took his leave of the
popa
and the two grey-haired elders and, looking back up at the priest’s house he saw the sick boy still staring intently at him.

 

From Gyurkuca the road followed the river Szamos down to
Toszerat
where Balint owned a sawmill. Krisan Gyorgye lived
nearby
. From there they continued on their way uphill to the next watershed, but before they arrived at the top they decided to turn off and make a detour to see the famous waterfall.

The valley was narrow but so thickly wooded that no view of the other side was possible from the road until they came to a place where the strong winds had cut a wide swathe in the forest. On the opposite side of the valley a few small peasants’ houses could be seen and, about a quarter of a mile above them, a square stone house with a roof of tiles rather than the stone shingles usual in the mountains. The windows were heavily barred and the plot of land on which the house stood was surrounded by high stone walls now almost submerged by snowdrifts. Even from across the valley Balint could hear the barking of three ferocious guard-dogs.

‘What on earth is that strange building?’ asked Balint.

Zutor replied: ‘It belongs to a man called Rusz Pantyilimon. He decided to move out here.’

Balint remembered the name and looked at the house with
renewed
interest. ‘Why did he build such a fortress?’

‘Well, your Lordship, I can’t really say. Perhaps he is afraid …’

‘Afraid? Why?’

‘Why? Because … well, he’s afraid, that’s all.’

Balint would have none of these evasions and ordered Zutor to tell the truth. The story was that Rusz, a Romanian, had been a school teacher somewhere in Erdohat and there had been some trouble which cost him his job. Some people said he had tried to corrupt small boys. To get away he had come up here to the mountains in the Retyicel country where his mother had been born. Soon he had set up as a money-lender, and now he was a rich man.

‘How did he start if he had no money?’

‘People say it was the
popa
who provided the money, and they split the profits!’

‘And the
popa
? Where did he get the money?’

Zutor hesitated again. Then he replied: ‘Well, your Lordship, it’s said that he’s an agent of the Unita Bank and funded by them.’

Balint tried to remember the snatches of conversation he had heard round the campfire. ‘Does Notary Simo have anything to do with all this?’

Honey Zutor looked around to see if they were overheard. Krisan Gyorgye and young Stefan were some way ahead clearing the way of fallen branches and the others were still far behind them with the pack horses. When sure that no one could hear what he was saying, the forester went on: ‘People do say that he writes the loan contracts, and that what he reads out to them is not what is written on the paper! That’s what they say, but, your Lordship, you can’t believe everything you hear. These are ignorant, foolish people!’ He seemed to regret that he had gone so far because he quickly added: ‘Your Lordship ordered me to relate what people say … it’s not me who says all this. I don’t believe a word of it.’

Balint understood Honey’s fears and, shaking his head at him, said reassuringly:

‘Don’t worry! Nothing you have said will go any further!’

 

It was already dusk by the time they arrived in the Valea Arsza under the high peak of
Eget
t
kö
–
the Burnt Stone – where they were to make their last camp.

Here in the deeply forested valley the dawn broke later than on the high mountains. Nevertheless the little party was early on its way. The going was hard, for many fallen trees, their trunks deeply buried in snow, blocked the way. Even so it was easier for the men than for the ponies, whose weight made every step hazardous. The calm and dexterity of the animals was extraordinary,
impressing
Balint with the skill with which they tentatively put down each hoof to be sure it was on solid ground and not in a snowdrift.

Balint, who was anxious to get the best view of the famous
waterfall
– famous even though it was so difficult to reach – started
descending
the steep side of the ravine with Stefan, Krisan and Todor Paven. Zutor he sent the long way round to meet them at the
lower
creek with the horses. To get down the almost vertical thickly wooded side of the canyon the men cut long fir branches which they used as ropes to lower each other over the snow-clad boulders. At last they reached the bed of the ravine which was so narrow that it was like a very deep well. It was almost dark as the sun never reached these depths, and on each side were nearly perpendicular stone cliffs which seemed black against the
occasional
patches of snow. The vegetation was dense and lush with hanging beards of moss, thick bunches of fern fronds which were now covered with tiny frozen droplets of spray that hung like
ice-thorns
in the still air. Though the waterfall could still not be seen, they were so close that at every step they were drenched by the spray, while the roar of the falling water echoed round them like thunder. Then, clinging to their long fir boughs and sliding,
slipping
through the snowdrifts, they rounded one more giant boulder and there it was, right in front of them, a huge arc of water springing clear from the rocks a hundred feet above.

Nothing interrupted the fall of the water: it was like a pillar of liquid bluish-green metal in front of the glistening black of the wet rock cliffsides, and from this dark mass rose white foam-crests of spray, which in turn were transformed into large droplets white as pearls that fell into the boiling swirling mass of water in the
basin
at the foot of the great fall. Sometimes a thread of water would break away from the central mass and seemed to hang quivering in the air until it too dissolved and merged with the rest.
Immediately
others would take its place springing out freely over the chasm below, endlessly repeated, endlessly varied, a constant
picture
of which the details were never the same from one moment to another. Underground springs fed the basin at the foot of the fall and even when in the air it was degrees below zero steam would mingle with the spray to form icicles which hung from every bow and every overhanging rock, so that the fall itself was framed by pillars of ice.

Balint was fascinated by the sight of the great surging energy and apparent will to live that was represented by all this
turbulence
at the heart of the silent, motionless frozen forest. In its own way it was like the soaring flames of the camp-fires, a force of
nature
, invincible, unquenchable, dominating all around by the sheer force of its blind progress to unknown but inevitable ends. Once again, as when Balint lay contemplating the fire so now, in front of the waterfall, Adrienne’s image was conjured up by the beauty and restless movement of uncontrolled nature. He could only think of the woman as once more he saw in his mind the
image
of her graceful form, her movements, the arc of her lips, and her impulsive, enchanting smile.

Angry at himself for allowing her image to pursue him, Balint turned away and hurried down to the edge of the basin below him. But the image did not disappear; so clearly did Adrienne
remain
in his mind that he began to wonder if he were bewitched. Dismayed, he asked himself why of all the women in the world he should have become obsessed by one so complicated and capricious.

Following the path beside the rushing water he decided that until he had freed himself from the torment of thinking of Adrienne he would do everything he could to avoid meeting her.

A
TELEGRAM WAS WAITING
for Balint in Kolozsvar.
Parliament
had been recalled and he would have to leave at once if he were to be there for the formal presentation of credentials
before
the session opened.

His mother was upset. ‘You never spend any time with me,’ she complained. ‘It’s almost worse than when you were a
diplomat
!’ She made him promise to come back at the end of the month no matter what happened in the capital.

The atmosphere in Budapest was just as stormy as it had been the last time Balint had been there. The members of the coalition now in office were still delirious with pleasure at finding
themselves
in power and clung desperately to their election promises, insisting that no matter how they, and only they, would bring about the independence of the banking and customs systems and the national integrity of the army commands. But it was not to be as easy as the coalitionists imagined. There had been audiences with the monarch in Vienna; and Franz-Josef, in his capacity as King of Hungary, had rejected all their extremist demands. The crisis, therefore, was no longer that of opposing political ideals for now it had become constitutional, a conflict between the
government
and the crown with the various opposition parties jockeying for position in an undignified and confused scramble.

The first two meetings of the House passed relatively calmly, but at the third a storm broke out. In his opening speech the
Minister
-President made an outspoken indictment of all that had happened in the past. No party was spared, every word was an accusation, a battle cry. Uproar followed. After two more brief sittings the House was adjourned.

Only one event marked this brief and largely useless session, a sad, absurd, unnecessary and, had it not ended in tragedy, almost ridiculous incident.

One of the newly elected Members was old Istvan Keglevich who would have been Speaker of the House if Tisza’s party had won the election and so responsible for implementing the new Rules of Procedure which had been proposed in November. It was for this reason that, for the first time in his long life, he had accepted nomination as a parliamentary candidate.

Tisza himself had selected him for this difficult task because he had a commanding personality, and was forceful, courageous and daring. He also had a first class brain. He could be as
merciless
as a Renaissance tyrant prince, and as lordly, even though he had lost nearly all his once vast fortune in speculative
economic
and artistic ventures. The reason for this was simple: Keglevich was way ahead of his time and whether he planned improvements in planting forests, founding theatres or building distilleries, he always spent more than the budget and then met the losses from his private means until he had nothing left. At the time of his
election
he was Director of the State-owned theatres, an honorary post which he held with such distinction and efficiency that Franz-Josef had accorded him a state pension in lieu of a salary to which, as it was an honorary position, he was not entitled. In this situation the man-eating wolves among the Members of
Parliament
found a succulent morsel into which they could sink their teeth.

During the verification of the Members’ credentials an extreme left-wing member asked to be heard as soon as Keglevich’s name was mentioned. He accused him of being disqualified for
membership
of the House as he was a servant of the crown, a King’s man on the payroll of Vienna, and that this was not compatible with being a Member of Parliament. The Opposition went mad with joy. No one stopped to consider that as Keglevich had
renounced
the pension on his election there was no longer any
incompatibility
. They had found a whipping boy … and whip him they would!

From all sides of the House came hoots of derision and Balint was disgusted by the pleasure they seemed to take in sneering at and deriding this distinguished seventy-year-old man who might have been their Speaker.

As the wolves howled the old man sat erect on the front bench, his back straight and his great chest puffed out proudly like a mighty bear surrounded by snapping hounds. His chin stuck out. He sat motionless before the storm, but his eyes searched the room for the first man to insult him personally so that he could challenge him to a duel.

His opportunity came when new young member shouted: ‘King’s lackey! Hireling swine!’ No sooner had the words been
uttered
than Keglevich had leapt to his feet and challenged the man. Gravely and in measured terms he demanded satisfaction for the insult, which could only be assured by a fight with the weapons of his own choice.

Speaking with cold authority he issued his orders. The duel would be fought with his own swords, old-fashioned weapons with broad rigid blades honed to a knife-edge. No bandages would be permitted; thrusts would be allowed – and this despite the fact that he was a swordsman of the old Hungarian school which used only cutting strokes while his opponent was of the
Italian
style – the
punto
d’arresto
in which the master stroke was a
killing
thrust. The next day Keglevich was carried out dead from the gymnasium where the encounter had been arranged. At the first ‘On guard!’ the old man attacked with all the vigour of youth. His opponent backed away and then suddenly countered with a thrust of such force that the old man was run through, the sword point coming out through his back. So a man of no
importance
took the life of a statesman old enough to be his father.

 

As soon as the House had been adjourned Balint, after only ten days in Budapest, returned home to Kolozsvar as he had
promised
his mother to do. He arrived on Shrove Tuesday in time for the Mardi Gras Ball, and though he was not all that keen to
attend
he realized that as everyone knew he had returned he had no excuse not to go. He decided to put in an appearance but to leave early. After all he had no reason to stay until dawn. After dinner he told his mother he must go and dress.

‘Come and see me when you’re ready,’ said Countess Roza. ‘I haven’t seen you in tails for such a long time and I like you in your finery. Come and be admired! We don’t go to bed early.’

‘No, indeed!’ said Mrs Tothy.

‘We’ll be waiting for you!’ said Mrs Baczo.

Balint promised to return and went to his room. Laid out on the bed was the tail suit with the stiff white shirt and collar neatly placed between the coat and white waistcoat. The sight of these formal clothes brought back memories of Budapest and especially of his cousin Laszlo. Balint stripped and started to shave before the washstand on which a jug of hot water stood waiting with a towel laid over it. As he did so he remembered how he had only seen Laszlo once or twice, always at the Casino and always dressed in evening clothes. They had only exchanged a few words because there had been dancing every evening in the great
ballroom
on the ground floor and Laszlo, now the official organizer, had to be present all the time. He had wanted Balint to join him, but Balint had refused as it would mean returning to his hotel to change. Laszlo had not insisted.

Now, lathering his chin, he recalled how Laszlo’s manner had somehow seemed subtly different, more assured and
distinguished
. He had carried his head higher than when they had last met at Simonvasar.

As Balint dipped his razor into the hot water – for if he didn’t shave in the evening he would be covered in bristles before
morning
– he remembered how an English friend had once told him that no gentleman should ever wash without a razor!

A little later, now in trousers and stiff white shirt, Balint returned to the mirror to put on his tie, an operation he did not relish as unless it was perfectly achieved in one single movement the starched white piqué cotton became wrinkled and the whole thing had to be done again. Balint’s first effort went wrong and, as he started to thread a second tie through the loop at the back of his collar it came to his mind that Adrienne was sure to be there. He imagined her in the dark green dress she had worn at
Var-Siklod
– though as no doubt she possessed many dresses there was no reason to think it would be the same one. Still, he could see her in green, her dark hair fluttering as she moved, dancing with one of the young Alvinczys or Pityu Kendy. Let her dance the whole night if she wished! He at any rate would not be there to see because he would only go for a few moments, just long enough to show his face so that no one could say he’d stayed away out of pride.

The second white tie was a success. After glancing approvingly at himself in the looking glass above the dressing table, Balint stepped back to the bed, put on his white waistcoat, checked the pearl buttons, put on his tail coat and was ready to leave.
Suddenly
he thought of a little cocotte he had met in Budapest. She, he decided, would be better for him. It would not cost him much and would be far better than getting entangled with a married woman. Of course it had been different when he had been abroad
en poste.
Everyone knew that diplomats would move on, that they were not their own masters and that any affair must naturally come to an end. He had had several liaisons with married women who, as the phrase went, ‘accorded him their favours’, cried a
little
when the parting came, gave him a last night of passionate lovemaking (‘to remember me by!’) and then maybe wrote a
letter
or two or a postcard before the inevitable silence. These
affairs
, transient though both parties had known they must be, had had their compensations. The first moves were as exhilarating as the beginning of a deer stalk – with the difference that though the prey might have to be pursued for two or three weeks, both knew that the doe wanted, eventually, to be caught.

Now almost ready, Balint started to collect all those small
objects
without which no gentleman felt properly dressed: a slim gold watch on a chain, keys, cigarette case and lighter, wallet and some small change. Then he selected four fine linen handkerchiefs and sprinkled them with eau-de-cologne as he had been taught by an elegant and accomplished Swedish lady during his stay in Stockholm. It was she who had told him that men should never use scent, which was either vulgar or effeminate: cologne alone was socially acceptable. And she had taught him many other things besides, the fine points of making love, the etiquette of a lady’s bedchamber, the details of dressing and undressing. What a charmer she had been and how intelligent! He wondered what she was doing now … and he tried hard to remember her name.

Checking that he had forgotten nothing, he went down to see his mother.