They Were Counted (14 page)

As Balint stepped into the library Uncle Ambrus was in full flood.

‘Oh, my God! What shall I do? I’ll bet one of you has a pair of these! Jesus! And the other’ll have these. You Alvinczys’ll skin me, I know it!’ and he leaned back, banged the table, struck his head and turned in mute appeal to Daniel Kendy who was sitting behind him already far gone in drink, and then, as if risking his all in mad despair, he pushed a pile of coins into the centre of the table, and cried: ‘Devil take it! Might as well lose the lot! Here, I’ll stake four hundred more and don’t you dare give it back!’

One of the Alvinczys threw his hand in at once. The others
followed
suit … and the game was over.

‘Don’t you want your revenge? I would! I’m terrified of you all Well, don’t you want to see what beat you?’ and, dealing out his hand, card by card, he showed a straight flush, better than anything the others could possibly have held. And he still pretend to be astonished that he’d won, though he’d known it ever since the cards had been dealt.

‘What luck! What fucking luck! Lucky at cards, unlucky in love! The girls don’t love me any more, poor old man that I am!’ And he reached out with his great hairy hands and scooped up all the money with a gesture of pure grief.

Balint remained standing near Ambrus’ table. He felt faintly disgusted by this shameless display of feigned disingenuousness and ashamed too of his own generation who drank too much and fawned on the old vulture with servile admiration.

Lost in these thoughts he did not notice that the dawn was breaking. The candles and lamps began to lose their brilliance and the library, which had been like a huge cavern lit only by pools of light, was now revealed in its true size. The carved pillars between the bookshelves and the golden-green columns of light cherry-wood, began to define themselves, and between them one could again make out the thousands of beautifully bound books that were arranged in no order but placed on the shelves
regardless
of size. They all had ribbed and gold-embossed spines. Some had been collected by the Vice-Chancellor Laczok when he had first transformed the medieval castle into a nobleman’s mansion. His were the thick volumes of
Compilatums
and
Tripartitums
,
law-books
bound in ivory-coloured vellum, and the volumes of the French
Encyclopédie
and the works of Voltaire. Most, however, had been collected by his grandson who had added the wings and the library. When Balint looked up at the shelves he saw there many rare architectural works of the late eighteenth century, huge volumes which included the whole of Palladio, whose reissue had so influenced the neo-classical movement, the
Ornamentism
e
  of Percier and Fontaine, and a complete collection of the Ecole de Rome competitions dating from the first decade of the
nineteenth
century.

How cultivated Transylvania had been in those days, reflected Balint, as he saw what had been collected on those shelves. He was just passing the next pair of columns when he found his way was blocked. Old Daniel Kendy was swaying from side to side, clutching at one of the pillars for support. He had an unfamiliar look in his watery old eyes, a look of nostalgic sorrow quite
different
from his usual air of cynical mockery.

‘
Mon p-p-prince!
Though he stuttered his pronunciation was
excellent
: ‘…
diese
sind w-wunderbare
w-Werke!
’
and going on in
English
, ‘Quite w-wonderful!’ He stroked the backs of those magnificent books, shining with golden blazons and embossed
lettering
. Perhaps he was reminded of his own golden youth when everyone thought him to be a young man who would go far,
before
he began to drink and had run through all his money, when he had travelled all over Europe and moved always in the highest circles. He reached out again to caress these magic symbols, as if reminded, by this treasure-house of learning, of lost memories and the great career he had himself destroyed. It was his last
gesture
, for as he put out his hand he collapsed and slid to the ground like a puppet without strings and half-sat, half-lay on the floor, with his legs stretched out in front of him, and immediately started to be sick. Wine and vomit poured from him without effort or retching, in jets, as from a water pistol, and spread in a pool over the parquet in front of him.

Everyone jumped up from the card-tables, and gathered round him, everyone except old Crookface, who said ‘Filthy old swine!’ several times before throwing down down his cards and stalking out of the room.

The poker players looked at the old man on the floor and just laughed. This was nothing unusual. Pityu and Gazsi edged
behind
him – as no one could go near in front – put their arms under his shoulders and dragged him like some huge wooden doll on to one of the sofas; and there they left him. No one could have
remained
in that dreadful sour-smelling room.

 

In the growing light of day many carriages had gathered in front of the castle entrance. Cocks were crowing in the village and the ball was drawing to a close. Already some of the mothers, tired and thankful, were coming down the steps with their dancing daughters in tow, huddled into silken wraps to hide their sweating faces from the daylight. Quickly they mounted the folding steps and disappeared into the dark interiors of the carriages. A few young men had come out to wave to the girls they had flirted with, and perhaps even to snatch a hasty hand-kiss.

Kadar the butler, alone this time, bustled about calling for one carriage after another and opening the doors with his left hand. His right hand was held in such a way that tips he seemed to find their way there as if by chance.

Balint found Laszlo Gyeroffy waiting in the hall. They arranged to go back to their hotel in Vasarhely together and so went into the guests’ cloakroom to find their bags and coats. The hall was filled with departing guests, but Balint could not see Adrienne among them. For a moment he thought of going back upstairs to say goodbye, but then thought better of it. What was the use of a few commonplace words in the sober light of day? He and Laszlo followed the stream of guests out into the courtyard, where several ladies stood shivering in the cold air, and started to search for their hired fiacre. Passed a waiting group they sensed that something unusual was happening. A wave of excitement flowed through the crowd and a booming stammer could be heard:

‘
M-m-mesdames,
m-m-messieurs!
Il
v-v-vostro
umilissimo
s-s-servitor
e!
g-g-gehorsamster
D
-D
-Diener!
’

Old Dani had somehow roused himself and stumbled out on to the terrace. He stood there, embracing one of the pillars, his shirt hanging out and covered in vomit-stains, his beard matted with wine. He bowed right and left, waving his free arm in a sort of semaphore. Some of the younger men jumped up and dragged him away; and the waiting ladies, pretending that they had
noticed
nothing, piled into their carriages.

Once old Kadar had shut a carriage’s doors, the coachman would whip the horses up into a brisk canter. They turned
towards
the inner door and swept through the outer courtyard which was lined with the stable-boys and peasant girls and other servants who had danced all night under the balcony. Now they stood in line to speed the parting guests and every now and again, without any apparent reason, a small girl or two would dash out and run screaming across the court in front of the cantering horses, and then burst into fits of laughter because they hadn’t been run over.

As the long line of carriages bowled down the drive the sun was already shining brightly. It was morning.

B
ACK IN THE HOTEL BALINT
 and Laszlo were only able to catch a couple of hours of sleep. The sun was shining through the slits in the torn curtains when they woke at eleven. They rang for the maid, but when she realized that all they wanted from her was hot water she went away sulking and kept them waiting so long that it was nearly midday before they were ready.

Balint was anxious to find out if his grandfather’s friend, the old actor Minya Gal, was still alive, so Laszlo and he went to look for him and discovered that although he was known to be still
living
in his old home no one seemed to know exactly where that was. Then they saw a notice on an old and dilapidated peasant’s dwelling. It read ‘
IZAK SCHWARTZ
: Fine Tailoring for Ladies and Gentlemen’ in big lettering. Underneath, in small letters, were the words, ‘Mending Done’.

‘Let’s ask here,’ said Laszlo, ‘these little Jewish shopkeepers know everyone.’

The man who did fine tailoring for ladies and gentlemen came to the door. He was a tiny dwarf of a fellow with a long grey beard and trousers so worn and tattered that they were no
advertisement
for his skills.

‘Yes, masters, if it is Mr Gal you vant, I know him vell. Ze third house it is, if it pleases my masters, down zere …’ and he came out and showed them the way. They thanked him and entered the little garden by the gate that he had pointed out.

The house was in the old Transylvanian style, broad and whitewashed, with a shingle roof and a portico in front. Three windows overlooked the street across a small flower garden. On the left were a cowshed and pigsties. Behind the house beyond a heap of manure were apple trees laden with ripening fruit. In the yard a barefoot young girl was cutting up vegetables for the pig swill.

‘Is Mr Mihaly Gal at home?’ asked Balint.

The girl looked at him suspiciously. ‘What do you want him for?’

‘We just came call.’

The girl still looked uncertain. ‘Are you selling something?’ she asked, her hostility unconcealed.

‘No!’ Balint smiled. ‘We’ve just come to see him.’ To dispel her suspicions, he gave their full names and titles. The girl did not seem at all impressed. She went on with her work, crouched over the pig pail and just indicated the direction of the apple trees with her chin. ‘Over there!’ she said without ceasing to chop at the giant marrows with her knife, the slices falling messily into the swill.

Behind the little orchard and a kitchen garden, an acre and a half of vineyard climbed the hillside behind. They found the old man digging in the deep loam at the foot of the hill, shovelling and scattering the loose earth. He still had the same tall straight figure that Balint recalled from the day of his grandfather’s
funeral
ten years before. Though now well over ninety his bristling moustaches were still pepper and salt, darkened with wax. He was working in his shirtsleeves, boots and well-worn trousers. Balint went up and waited until the old man saw him.

‘Don’t you recognize me, Uncle Minya? It’s Balint Abady, from Denestornya.’

The patriarchal figure looked at him with eyes grown pale with age. After a brief struggle with half-forgotten memories, he seemed to recognize the grandchild of his oldest friend.

‘So you are little Balint! How you’ve grown!’ He stuck his spade in the soft earth, wiped his hands on the threadbare
trousers
, and clasped the young man by the shoulders. ‘How nice of you to come and see an old man! Let’s go inside.

Balint introduced his cousin and they walked slowly back towards the house, slowly but strongly, for the old man moved with assurance and held himself erect. As they passed the yard he called to the girl: ‘Julis, my dear! Bring plum brandy and glasses for the gentlemen!’

‘At once, Uncle!’ she replied and ran indoors.

‘She is my sister’s great-granddaughter,’ Minya explained, and made his visitors go before him into the living-room. It was a wide cool place whose door gave onto the portico and which was lit by the three windows overlooking the road and the flower-
garden
. The walls were whitewashed and it was sparsely furnished with an old rocking chair near one of the windows, a long, painted chest against one wall and in the centre of the room there was a pine-wood table with an oil lamp on it and two wooden chairs. There were simple bookshelves in one corner, with a thick black Bible among twenty or thirty tattered volumes. At the other end the bed was piled high with pillows covered in homespun cloth. The walls were bare except for an old violin, darkened with age, hanging on a nail near the foot of the bed, its bow threaded through the strings. Over a chair hung a single print in a narrow gilt frame showing a Roman knight in full armour who seemed to be making a speech.

Minya showed his guests to the table, where they sat down, and then pointed to the picture.

‘That was me,’ he said. ‘Miklos Barabas made the drawing from life. It was my last appearance.’

Balint read the inscription, ‘
MIHALY GAL
, illustrious member of the National Theatre, Kolozsvar, in the role of Manlius Sinister, 17 May, 1862’

‘Where did you go, after your last performance?’

‘Nowhere. I realized I couldn’t do it any more so I retired. I was no longer any good, and one shouldn’t try to force something one can’t do properly. That’s when I bought this house. I didn’t spend all my money like most actors. Perhaps if I had been more like them I’d have been better. As it was I was rotten! So I took to gardening and tending the vineyards. This I do well! Julis!’ he called to his young niece, who had just put the plum brandy on the table, ‘Bring some bunches of the ripe Burgundy grapes, you know – the ones on the left!’ Julis bustled out, and the old actor went on:

‘Anyone who tries to do what he can’t do is mad!’ Balint caught a bitter note he had never heard before. To change the subject Laszlo asked about the violin. He had noticed it as soon as they came in.

‘That old fiddle?’ answered Minya. ‘I only keep it as a
souvenir
. It was His Excellency Count Abady, your grandfather,’ he said, looking at Balint, ‘who gave it to me, oh, so many years ago. It must have been ’37 or ’38 – I think it was ’37. He asked me me look after it for him; but later, whenever I tried to give it back he refused. He never played again’.

Balint was astonished. He had never known that Count Peter even liked music, let alone could play. He had never spoken of it.

‘Oh, yes!’ said Minya, ‘he played beautifully. Not light stuff or gypsy music. He played Bach, Mozart and suchlike … and all from the music. He could read beautifully.’

Laszlo asked if he might look at the instrument.

‘May I take it down?’ he asked.

‘Of course!’

‘But this is a marvellous violin! It’s beautiful! Look what noble lines it has!’ He brought it to the table to inspect it more closely.

‘Yes, that is the Count’s violin. He really did play very well. He started when still at school, and I sang. I was a baritone. Oh, Lord, where did it all go? He must have studied very hard; he was a real artist. I remember when I got back to Kolozsvar – in ’37 it was because I was with Szerdahelyi then. Yes, that’s when it was. Every evening that winter, when there wasn’t a party or something, he always went to – oh, she was so lovely – he went quite secretly, and sometimes they asked me to join them, no one else, mark you, just me. They knew they could trust me not to tell.’

The old man said nothing for a moment. He bent forward, his open shirt showing the grey hairs thick as moss on his powerful chest. He reached a gnarled hand towards the violin and caressed it lightly.

Balint longed to know more about his grandfather’s past, but somehow it seemed indiscreet to ask. However Laszlo went on: ‘Did he play with a piano accompaniment?’

‘Yes, of course, with a piano, always with a piano.’

‘Who played for him?’

The dignified old actor lifted his hand in protest. He would not reveal the lady’s name then, or ever, the gesture seemed to say. Then he started to reminisce in half sentences and broken phrases, as if his tired mind and faded eyes could only catch glimpses of the past in uncertain fragments. Following his
memory
’s lead he was talking more to himself than to his listeners. Everything he said was confused and mixed up, complicated by a thousand seemingly irrelevant, and to the young men,
incomprehensible
details. He talked of other old actors, of plays and dates and though most of it meant nothing to Laszlo and Balint, it was clear that to old Minya it was all still as real as if everyone he mentioned were still alive. Throughout the scattered monologue, they sensed that he was recalling a personal drama which had nothing to do with the theatre, a real-life drama that had taken place seven decades before. But however alive this memory was, the old man never once spoke the name of the woman who had meant so much to his friend, nor even a hint as to whether she were an aristocrat or an actress. Though everyone he spoke of had been dead for many years, he still guarded the secret
entrusted
to him so long ago.

As he spoke they felt that he was getting near to the climax. His voice was very low:

‘How beautiful they both were! And how young – she was even younger than he, so young, so young. And then it ended. There was a concert in the Assembly Rooms … Beethoven, Chopin …  Was it the music? What was it? I can see them now, they were so beautiful, a wonderful shining couple. Everybody felt it, everybody saw it! Through their playing, you could tell they belonged together. The trouble was that, everyone saw it, everyone …’ The old man frowned, ‘And, three days later it was over. I was given a letter for him – a goodbye note, though I didn’t know it then – and I had to give it to my best friend, me – of all people.’

He was silent. Laszlo had listened politely, untouched by the rambling tale, but Balint had been deeply moved. Mysterious though it all was, a memory had been stirred by the incoherent story. Once, sitting beside his grandfather’s writing desk, he had seen a tiny ancient pair of lady’s dancing slippers inside an open drawer. They were old-fashioned party shoes of white satin and, though old, they looked almost new; even the little satin ribbons which tied like the strings on Greek sandals, were smooth and fresh. The tiny heel-less slippers were shaped like ladies-finger
biscuits
and were thin as paper. When Balint asked his grandfather about them the old Count had taken them out of the drawer and shown him how worn the soles were. ‘Look,’ he had said, smiling, ‘see how much that little charmer danced!’ and he had tied the ribbons together again and dropped the slippers back into the drawer where he had kept them for so many years.

Only now, as the memory of old Count Peter came back to him, did Balint understand the regret and nostalgia that lay
behind
his grandfather’s always kind and welcoming smile. Was the heroine of old Minya’s story the owner of the little dancing shoes?

‘What happened then?’ asked Balint, with a catch in his throat.

‘Count Peter went abroad. He didn’t come back for a long time, not for years. He travelled to countries few people visited then; perhaps few go today. He once wrote to me from Spain just a brief word, and later from Portugal. Once he went on a walking tour in Scotland, just as I did as an itinerant actor. He wrote to me then that there were many lakes and the country was wild and bare, just like the hills of Mezöses …’

Balint had known nothing about all this. Old Abady had never mentioned his travels. Looking back, Balint realized, though he had never given it a thought at the time, that no matter what part of Europe was mentioned, his grandfather had known it well. Had he been impelled to travel by sorrow, or had there been some other reason, some irrepressible wanderlust? Now, hearing the old story that revealed so much and yet kept its essential secret, Balint looked once more at the old violin on the table. How
beautiful
if was, lying there on the bare planks. What melodies still slept behind the myriad golden lights reflected in the dark patina of its varnish? What enchanting melodies and ancient passions? And would those melodies, poured forth by two young people alive only to their love and to their music, ever be heard again, or would the old violin be forever silent, the tomb of their secret love?

 

Young Julis brought in the grapes and, as she put them down, a cart, drawn by an old horse with harness tinkling with bells, drew up in front of the house. The girl looked out of the window.

‘Look! Uncle Minya, Andras has arrived!’ She ran out,
beaming
with pleasure.

Steps were heard outside and in a moment the door was opened and Andras Jopal came in. He seemed disconcerted to see who the old man’s visitors were, but made them a stiff formal bow. Then he turned to Minya and started whispering to him. The old man looked up at Jopal’s face, murmured something, shook his head and then slowly took a ten-crown note from his wallet and handed it to the newcomer. Jopal went out, and they could hear the cart drive into the yard.