They Were Counted (78 page)

For nearly two months Wickwitz had been dancing attendance on the attractive Armenian widow. Mme Lazar was a
good-natured
woman who accepted the bad with the good, and saw through Wickwitz at once. Many men had come chasing her and she never despised or ignored the good things of life. She was tall and desirable, handsome and strong, with a small head and long limbs. Her skin was brown and healthy, over her red lips there was a faint line of velvety down which extended also along the line of her jaw. She radiated health and strength and her large eyes glowed like black diamonds behind thick lustrous lashes, so lustrous indeed that they could have been brushed in with charcoal.

Her husband had died ten years before, and since then she had managed her estates better than most men would have done. Her son was at the same school as young Zoltan Miloth.

She was both desirable and rich. She owed more than two
thousand
acres close to Kolozsvar, and Wickwitz was sure that she also had a respectable balance in the bank. It would be a sensible move to marry her, he thought; it looked as if nothing would be easier as he had already been accepted as her lover. And as for the
matter
with Judith … well, that was really very complicated and he thought that maybe there he had bitten off more than he could chew! It was for this reason that he had written the girl a letter full of sad resignation, giving up honourably all that he had ever asked of her and filled with such phrases as ‘
and
anyhow
I’m
not
worthy
’ and
‘
It
would
be
dishonourable
of
me,
and
unscrupulous,
if
I
were
to
ask
you
to
share
my
disreputable
life
’.
It was a good letter. It was full of romance and honourable regret and it left him free to look
elsewhere
, while not entirely breaking everything off between them.
Mann
kann ja
nicht
wissen
–
who knows? He had this letter delivered by young Zoltan Miloth and the boy had brought back a brief note which had merely said: ‘I’m desperate! I can’t write now, but I will soon. Wait for me! I love you!’ Nothing more.

Wickwitz had a whole sheaf of letters from Judith and these he had kept by him. Now, seated in the open carriage with Mme Lazar, he pondered over the nature of his relationship with the widow. It was true that she was very kind to him, exceptionally so – and generous – but it seemed to him that she did not take their friendship very seriously. It seemed that she quite
realistically
took the situation for granted as a simple, obvious, natural arrangement which could hardly be bettered and which could last indefinitely without any change. Perhaps she would be
content
to go on for ever like this? That would never do, not in his
situation
! The thing to do would be to throw a good scare into her, make her jealous, wave a few of his other possibilities in front of her, show her that there was someone else, younger too, who was prepared to be his wife. I’ve got to speed things up, he said to himself in sporting terms, for he rarely thought in any others, and so he would use Judith as a ‘running mate’ – as in racing they call the horse who will never win but who will keep his
stablemate
going until that last effort is needed to be first at the finish. If Mme Lazar realized that she was in danger of losing her soldier lover then it shouldn’t be difficult to steer matters in the right
direction
. Perhaps she herself might even suggest marriage.
Nothing
would be better than that. Nothing.

After they had had lunch and were sitting sipping their coffee in Mme Lazar’s cool sitting-room, Wickwitz broached the subject.

‘Dearest Sara,’ he said, his eyes swimming with sadness. ‘I’d like to ask your advice about something very delicate. In
confidence
of course, because one shouldn’t really talk about such matters.’

From the sofa where she was reclining, leisurely smoking a cigarette, Sara looked up from under her heavy eye-lashes: ‘What sort of matter?’

‘I’ve got some trouble on my hands. There’s a girl who … who … well, I can’t help it, says she’s in love with me and I don’t know what to do.’

‘Who is she, this girl?’ asked Sara, though she knew, and had done for some time, all about Baron Egon’s pursuit of the Miloth girl. She knew about it because young Zoltan, who had often read the letters he had carried between them, had boasted to Mme Lazar’s son about the matter and he, thinking she would want to know everything about someone who called upon her regularly, had recounted what he had been told to his mother. Where is all this leading to now, she wondered?

Wickwitz told his tale, little bit by little bit. It was his own
version
, of course. He explained how he had felt sorry for the girl,
indeed
so sorry for her that he’d even considered marrying her out of pity. Just that, out of pity, because she was so desperately unhappy.

Sara shrugged a generous shoulder. ‘There’s no reason to rush into anything, especially marriage. She’ll get over it in time. All girls have some unhappy love affairs when they’re young, but no one ever died of it!’

Egon insisted: ‘But this isn’t quite so ordinary. In fact, it’s an extreme case! Look,
meine
Liebe
,
these are the letters I’ve been
getting
!’ and he brought out a packet from his inner pocket. ‘I
always
carry them with me,’ he said untruthfully, ‘as I’m afraid to leave them lying about in my hotel room. Have a look at one or two of them, and you’ll see what I mean!’

Sara took the letters and started to read. When she had finished one she placed it in her lap and took up another. She read for a long time, with great attention, and when she had finished the last one, she turned to him and said: ‘Poor girl! She really is very smitten!’

‘Didn’t I tell you? You see how serious it is?’ replied Wickwitz, triumphantly thinking that his plan had worked. And he
suddenly
broke into a peal of that strangely ugly barking laughter which transformed his otherwise handsome if melancholy
features
into an ugly satyr’s mask.

The woman watched him as attentively as she had read the
letters
. She took shrewd note of his laughter. Then she said: ‘I think you were right: the best thing would be to marry the girl!’

This was quite the wrong answer and Wickwitz, shattered, did not know how to proceed. His plan hadn’t worked. For a
moment
he looked at her dully and then, though not very
convincingly
, he said faintly: ‘But, Sara, I love you, only you!’ He reached out to take her hand and looked up with infinite sadness in his great calf-like eyes.

‘Ah, well, that doesn’t really matter, does it?’ She laughed lightly. ‘These things aren’t very important for people like you and me. But, since you’ve asked, that’s what I think you ought to do!’

‘Have I done anything to offend you?’ asked Wickwitz putting on his saddest expression.

‘Absolutely not! On the contrary, I feel flattered that you have confided in me and, naturally, for the present, and until you’re married, you’ll always be welcome here! As always – on the same terms. These things really are so unimportant. It makes no
difference
at all.’ and she allowed Baron Egon to start kissing her arm all the way to the shoulder.

Later on, before he left, Wickwitz asked her to let him have back Judith’s letters, but she did not hand them over.

‘I’ll keep them here for you!’ she said in a decided manner that brooked no denial. ‘They are much too dangerous’ – she almost said ‘valuable’ – ‘to keep in a hotel room!’ She went to her desk and locked them in a drawer. ‘This is a much better place!’

Thus did Wickwitz’s plans go awry; worse, in fact, than even he knew, for when his carriage drove away and she waved him goodbye from the window he was quite unaware that she was thinking: An agreeable animal, but, oh dear, what a scoundrel! And stupid! Even stupider than I thought. Imagine trying to trick me with all that talk about marrying the girl! And as for letting me see everything she’s written to him, it’s despicable! That poor girl! I’m glad I’ve kept her letters. Stretching voluptuously she got up, dressed, selected a sunshade and went out to oversee the afternoon milking.

 

Wickwitz was angry. As soon as he got home he counted what money he had left: only a few hundred crowns. He took a look at the banker’s promissory notes and saw that in February the
prolongation
of Dinora’s draft had cost him eight hundred and thirty crowns, in May the same. Meanwhile he had to live. There had been Carnival. That had taken a lot. Money just disappeared and he could not go on as he had. Something had to he done, and done immediately. His only remaining chance was Judith: they would just have to elope, for there was no other means of being sure of her. But for this, too, he would need money. The only way would be to cash Countess Abonyi’s drafts; he could think of nothing else.

A day or two later he went to Vasarhely to see Soma Weissfeld the banker. But Baron Weissfeld would not co-operate even when shown Dinora’s signatures. In fact he refused even to discuss the matter. ‘We can’t take these into consideration,’ he said. ‘We did it originally only because you told us the Countess would repay the drafts when she had sold her crops. Since then we’ve agreed to delay the repayment, but the matter is not straight and
above-board
, so I am afraid …’

In vain did Wickwitz try to intimidate the banker by glaring at him menacingly; but the latter held his ground and, far from becoming immediately submissive, himself took the offensive. ‘Should Count Abonyi get to hear of all this, what would be the effect, do you think?’

There was obviously nothing doing here.

Back in Kolozsvar Wickwitz found a café-restaurant near the railway station which he had heard was frequented by
commission
agents. After giving the head-waiter a good tip he asked if the man knew where he could borrow some money. As a result of what he was told he took a train to Varad and there, at the Privatbank Blau, which was obviously more of a money-lending shop than a real bank, he obtained nine thousand crowns on the promise of repaying twelve thousand in six month’s time. It was expensive, but he had to have the money. What was worse,
however
, was that now he had to countersign the drafts himself, with his own name. He knew that this was dangerous, for everything that he had borrowed previously had been in Dinora’s name and had been covered by her signature. Until now there had been no proof that he had been involved and so, if it came to it, he could have denied all knowledge of the transactions. No one would have blamed him, or even accused him, for his word would have been quite enough, since in matters where a woman was involved it was the accepted thing that one knew nothing. Discretion was the privilege of a gentleman. But now that he had himself signed the Privatbank’s drafts the matter was quite different, and much more serious. He had just six months to arrange everything and that meant that he would have to move quickly. It was lucky that before going to Nagy-Varad he had given young Zoltan a
beautifully
phrased sentimental letter for Judith in which he had
renewed
the link that he had so recently severed and asked if they could not meet somewhere in secret.

The girl’s reply arrived a fortnight later. It came in a thick
envelope
which also enclosed the letter which Abady had given to Adrienne and which she had sent back to her sister. Judith had written the first letter when she had received that from Wickwitz saying goodbye to her. Of course it was no longer important to either of them but Judith still sent it on to him as a sort of
self-justification
, telling him of its history and how it had been given to AB’s groom, intercepted by AB and then … but there really was no need to go into all these details because eventually she had got it back. Now she wrote with love and devotion: ‘
Of
course I
’ll
join
you
whenever
you
ask.
I
trust
you
with
my
life
.’ She told him how carefully she was guarded, so it would be impossible to see her now, but that if the family came to Kolozsvar as they usually did at this time of year, then no doubt something could be arranged.

A
BADY DID NOT RETURN
to Budapest, for it hardly seemed worth-while to make the journey for a single session which had been called only for the House to consider – and, of course, pass – a motion calling upon all national and provincial
assemblies
to civil obedience.

Every day a different province, county or district would turn against the nominated government, now mockingly known as the
Darabont
–
Bodyguard or Lackey Government – which was a play on words since Fejervary had previously commanded the Darabont Guard and the word
darabont
(though only in
Transylvania
) had a secondary and derogatory sense, for in most great aristocratic houses in that province it was the name used for a kind of inferior lackey or man-of-all-work, ever at the beck and call of his masters. And the word Bodyguard, of course, at once conjured up pictures of the monarch’s own Household.

Kristoffy, who was Minister of the Interior in the ‘Bodyguard’ government, at once proclaimed a universal suffrage measure in an attempt to win popular support. The opposition political
leaders
countered with a new slogan: ‘The Will of the People must be the basis of the Constitution, not its destruction!’ This soon became the rallying cry of all the opposition parties. It was a good phrase and expressed what everyone felt, especially at a moment when there was a general feeling that this was not the time for inter-party feuds or for war between the right and left. Everywhere could be sensed a universal fear that the independence of Hungary, as
guaranteed
in the 1867 Compromise, was itself threatened, that their hard-won liberties were being secretly undermined and menaced by subversive hostile forces working towards undisputed
dominance
by Vienna. Even independents like Abady, who were
convinced
of the rightness of many of the Austrian proposals – such as those for the armies of the Dual Monarchy – and who had
despised
the mindless obstructions and flag-waving of the
anti-Vienna
lobby, now docilely fell into line with everyone who
opposed
the ‘lackeys’. Abady realized that many people had now sensed what Slawata had already revealed to him of the plans being laid by the Heir in the Belvedere Palais.

The government declared null and void the civil disobedience motions passed by all the provincial assemblies, and those sheriffs who had supported these motions were dismissed and others
appointed
in their place. In Transylvania, the first General
Assembly
called to inaugurate the new officials was to be held in the Maros-Torda district, at Vasarhely.

For several weeks in advance plans were being laid, not only there but also all over the country, to prevent such inaugurations being effective. At Vasarhely the town was filled to overflowing the day before the assembly was due to be held. There was a grim, serious look on everyone’s face. The main square was packed with people and every table on the pavement in front of the
Transylvania
Café was crowded. There was not a place to be found and it was difficult even to thread one’s way from one table to another. At one of the marble-topped tables sat the great Samuel Barra, who had been the idol of the county ever since, the year before, he had led all the obstructionists and in particular had dared to oppose Ferenc Kossuth after the latter had suggested
reconciliation
between the parties. He had also taken a leading part in the controversy concerning the use of Hungarian as the language of command in the army. Barra was a dark, stocky,
broad-shouldered
man with a short beard and shining, dome-like
forehead
. He had large, dull-coloured eyes set under bushy eyebrows, but everyone who looked at him normally noticed only his
enormous
mouth which seemed to have become overdeveloped
perhaps
by the tremendous number of words that were constantly emerging from it. His lips were thick and the muscles round the mouth so exceptionally powerful that he could transform himself into a human loudspeaker at will.

Even now, though he was merely chatting with a group of his admirers, when he opened his mouth everything he said could be heard as far away as if he were talking into a megaphone. Around him sat his supporters in a tightly knit group. On his right was Ordung, the suspended prefect who was doing his best to play the martyr’s part; his deputy, Bela Varju, who was a member of
parliament
; the older Bartokfay, who loved to recount how much better things had been in the ‘Great Days of Yore’; and chubby, baby-faced Isti Kamuthy. The last two had both been
unsuccessful
candidates at the last elections and were now all the more fired with public zeal as they hoped to be elected next time round,
always
providing, of course, that there should be a change of
government
. Their leader at this moment was saying little, merely replying to the soft-spoken arguments of the lawyer, Zsigmond Boros, who could easily and elegantly explain, in persuasive,
flowery
speeches, the most complicated legal problems. It was he who was taking the lead in their talk and he did so as by right, being one of the members for Vasarhely who was now in the heart of his own constituency. Also present was Joska Kendy, his pipe clenched between his teeth, and Uncle Ambrus, both of whom
remained
silent. Though this was expected of Joska, who hardly ever opened his mouth, it was unusual for Uncle Ambrus. Ambrus was normally louder and more vociferous than most, but today he was keeping quiet only occasionally belching out a rude word or two with a grin of good humour and doing his best to maintain his role as an uncouth but well-meaning and ultimately guileless good fellow. He had put on an innocent face, like a new-born babe, and every now and then whispered something to the two younger Alvinczys, Zoltan and Akos, who were seated on each side of him. These two disappeared alternately every fifteen
minutes
or so. All around the supporters of the local leaders sat and talked and walked about and were pleased that all these great and important people had turned up for the assembly. Near to the edge of the pavement sat two so-called neutrals, Jeno Laczok and Soma Weissfeld, who were doing their best to look like
patriots
and thereby atone for having previously sat on the fence.

Abady remained at Barra’s table for nearly an hour. The talk was of general matters, nobody mentioning the next day’s
assembly
. The party leaders were careful to avoid the subject, even though everyone already knew what their plan was. It was an excellent plan, and, as everyone already knew it, was a well-kept secret. As soon as the notary acting as president opened the assembly, Bela Varju was to stand up and, before the notary was able even to start making his official statement, propose the
suspension
of the notary. If this were accepted – as it certainly would be – then the notary would automatically have to give place to the President of the Chancery Court, who was Bartokfay’s
younger
brother, and he in turn (as had already been plotted) would at once announce that the Assembly did not recognize or accept the government nominee as prefect. This would mean that the president of the chancery court would at once be suspended: but then would be automatically succeeded by Gakffy, the Chief Justice, thereby ensuring that for many months to come, the
provincial
government would be headed by someone opposed to the government in the capital.

It was well thought out; and it was perfectly legal. The only worry was that, as everywhere else, there were dissensions in the province; and no one was quite sure how long it would be before they rose again to the surface. Though it was more than fifty years since the counties of Torda and Marosszek had been united in one administrative unit, the people of the former stronghold of the Szeklers in the Maros valley never wanted the same things as those of the northern part of the district. It was certain, therefore, that the Szekler party would want something different from what was being generally planned, if only to underline their
independence
, and that they too were plotting some ‘secret’ move. Being another ‘secret’, everyone knew it too. The Szekler move was
almost
identical to the majority plan, except that their refusal to
recognize
the government-appointed prefect, even though he had been nominated by the king, was to be based on the fact that he was a ‘foreigner’. Though both sides wanted, to all intents and purposes, exactly the same thing, they wanted it in different ways, and each was prepared to stab the other in the back if
thereby
they could get their own way. The two parties even adopted different names: the Suspension Party and the Decree Party. Everyone was well aware of what was going on, but no one was prepared to talk about it. At his table on the sidewalk in front of the café Dr Boros was discoursing elegantly on various
non-controversial
legal matters and everyone was paying attention to him. At last there was an interruption.

An unusual four-horse carriage drove up; unusual because
instead
of the conventional carriage horses it was driven by four stocky little mountain ponies with short strong legs, long tails and thick shaggy manes.

The coachman, and the man on the box, were dressed in long linen dust-coats and wore the high cylindrical hats of the Upper Maros. A tall man got up heavily from the rear seat of the
low-slung
carriage: it was Miklos Absolon, political leader of the Upper Maros region. The crowd around the coffee-house did not notice his arrival until he tried to make his way towards where everyone was sitting. Then they all jumped up and made way for him, though they knew that he was a trouble-maker and had only come in order to laugh at them and stir up what mischief he could.

Absolon immediately made for the table where the party
leaders
were sitting. He had a severe limp as a result of a twisted left leg that ended in a stump. He walked always with a short crutch held tightly to his thigh and now he made his way swiftly and
noisily
to the table where Barra was seated.

His progress was as relentless and unstoppable as that of an
express
train and on arrival they all rose and asked him to sit with them. ‘Good evening to you all!’ he said, and sat down, though without going so far as to shake anyone’s hand.

‘Give me a chair for my leg!’ he demanded of his neighbour, the Chief Justice Galffy, who immediately surrendered his own. When Absolon was settled he put his crutch on the table and turned to Barra. ‘Well, Samu, so you’ve come to see the fun!’ he said in a rasping voice.

Barra, instead of replying with one of the well-turned phrases of which he was such a master, merely replied, in a careful,
noncommittal
manner: ‘Yes, here I am!’

Balint could see old Absolon well, for his face was lit up by the lamps of the coffee-house in front of him. He looked remarkably like his nephew Pali Uzdy, with the same stylized Tartar head, slanting back eyes and wide cheekbones. His hair, too grew from a widow’s peak which was now visible as he had pushed back from his forehead the little fur-trimmed cap he always wore. This cap was from Asia, a Kirgiz cap as worn by the Gobi tribesmen in the Altai mountains, and its fur lining stood up in twin
triangles
on each side of his head. He was tall, though not so thin and spindly as his nephew, and he had wide muscular shoulders.

Abady was fascinated to see him. He had heard that twenty years before, during the ’80s, Miklos Absolon had travelled widely in the more remote parts of Central Asia. He had had many
adventures
and seen many strange things, and would talk endlessly and wittily about them; though he had never written down his
experiences
or made any effort to publish them. As a result many people assumed that he had made it all up and that he was an habitual mythomaniac whose tales were all lies and so, though they would egg him on to recount his ‘adventures’, it was all nothing more than a tease and they would mock him behind his back. Balint had always thought it was probable that Absolon was telling the truth, and this feeling had been reinforced when he had met an old Russian in Stockholm who had travelled with Prsevalskij and who had asked Balint how Absolon was and if he had ever
published
the story of his time in Tibet. The old man had said that what Absolon had to tell would have been of world interest, and he told Balint how Absolon, when trying to escape from Lhasa, which he had entered disguised as a pilgrim, had been caught at the Tibetan frontier and had his leg broken, and how his eventual escape had been a miracle of cunning and endurance.

In Transylvania, however, no one believed a word of these old stories and so, as soon as the old traveller had seated himself at Barra’s table on the Vasarhely sidewalk, someone asked, with an innocent face: ‘Is your leg hurting you?’

‘Naturally. Hasn’t the political weather changed?’ replied the Absolon with a short rasping laugh.

‘Thinth when are you wounded?’ lisped young Kamuthy.

The older man looked up sharply: he knew well he was being mocked but, in his turn, he laughed at those who tried to make fun of him, knowing, as they did not, that everything he said was true.

‘When visiting the Dalai Lama!’ he replied. This was just the sort of answer for which they had hoped. Some of his listeners laughed and others nudged each other in satisfied appreciation.

The old traveller looked around and saw Abady whom he did not immediately recognize. ‘Who are you?’ he called out.
Someone
explained: ‘Ah, Tamas’s son! He was a good friend of mine. I’m pleased to see you!’ Then he turned to the lawyer and said: