They Were Counted (9 page)

One of those armchair politicians was the elderly Count Bartokfay who, at Var-Siklod that afternoon, had ensconced himself
comfortably
close to the wine table.

‘That wicked old Master Tisza wouldn’t have got away with it if I’d still been in the House,’ said Bartokfay in his old fashioned country drawl. ‘I’d have had him impeached for breaking the law!’

‘What law? You can’t say he broke any law.’ The prefect Kis was always on the side of authority.

‘He collected taxes that hadn’t been voted!’

‘Come, come! Voluntary contributions aren’t taxes,’ said the notary, who was also known for supporting the government. ‘No one had to pay. Those aren’t taxes!’

But nothing would stop Bartokfay. ‘I’ll keep off the army
question
then. Maybe that was necessary. But the government started discussing international commercial contracts – and that is a
constitutional
offence! Yes, a con-sti-tu-tional offence! Even
according
to the Compromise!’

‘I beg your pardon!’ parried the Prefect, ‘but there’s nothing
illegal
about discussion. The matter had to be discussed and they were free to do so. Now I agree that a settlement would have to have been stopped … I say it myself, but…’

‘Then all discussion is pointless! Absurd!’

‘All
this
discussion is absurd!’ shouted Peter Kis, completely
losing
his temper.

For a moment there was silence. Then a rich deep baritone voice, with melodious depths to it like organ notes, spoke up from the background: it was Zsigmond Boros, the lawyer whom
everyone
respected.

‘You must excuse me, Prefect, but our old friend is quite right. Allow me to clarify the problem …’

The lawyer’s calm and lucid explanation smoothed down the rising tempers of the others. He paused for an instant and then the puffy young Isti Kamuthy spoke up, his lisp all the more
pronounced
as he tried to get his word in before anyone else.

‘Thatth just what I thought, at home in Burgozthd. Then I thought I was thtupid. Now I thee I am not tho thtupid!’

‘You were right the first time, in Burgozthd!’ Old Crookface shouted. Everyone laughed, even young Isti, though he did not know why.

Then, as the laughter died down and everyone seemed calmer, the banker Weissfeld started again. Balint rose quietly, touched Gyeroffy on the shoulder and unobtrusively moved out from
under
the tree. All this narrow-minded, prejudiced, dogmatic talk got on his nerves. Even the prefect, whom he admired, brought only clichés and worn-out legalistic quibbles to the discussion. Laszlo joined him as they walked away.

 

Slowly they made their way back to the terrace. It was growing dark. Between the small corner tower and the library a small door opened onto steps that led down to the rose garden. They went this way but did not speak until they had left the terrace. It was as if they both felt the need for the quiet privacy of the garden
before
starting to talk, so many months had passed since their last meeting. Balint still felt dazed by the useless clamour of the
politicians
and he reflected ruefully on the very different experiences he had had while abroad on mission. He thought of the methodic logical work that had gone into the preparations for the
commercial
treaty with Italy, and of the barely disguised contempt
expressed
by foreigners, especially by the Austrians and Germans, for the fuss that Hungary was making about Austrian control of the united armies. To them the security of the Dual Monarchy depended on the unification of the armed forces, and this was being foolishly undermined by the Hungarians. In the context of world politics the Hungarian attitude was short-sighted and meaningless. Of course foreigners knew nothing of Hungary’s past and they could not understand why the Hungarians loathed and resented the integration of their army with that of Austria. Balint’s ardent national feelings had been outraged every time he had heard his countrymen laughed at and misunderstood.

Laszlo’s thoughts were very different. He had barely listened to the argument under the lime tree. Politics were not for him, and in any case his mind was far away, on matters more
important
to him.

The meeting with all these friends and relations today at the races, and again at Var-Siklod, had reawakened in Laszlo that old feeling of being an outsider. It was odd how even in
Transylvania
he did not feel a part of the group. This sense of not
belonging
went everywhere with him. Here, as at his aunt’s place in Budapest, everywhere, it was the same. The grown man still
carried
with him the aura of his orphaned childhood. He was alien, a foreigner; politely welcomed perhaps, but never completely accepted.

How he yearned to be loved – and loved for himself, not just for what he could do to amuse and entertain, not for his excellent dancing, not because he could play the piano so well, providing waltzes and foxtrots that all could dance to; not because he was a good shot and an excellent fourth at tennis. When he visited his Kollonich or Szent-Gyorgyi relations in West Hungary, all his cousins seemed overjoyed when he came, tried to make him
prolong
his stay and were sad when he left. But still Laszlo sensed that it was only for these superficial reasons and not because they really understood and liked him.

Of all these cousins there was only Klara, who was about his own age – and she was not really a cousin at all as she was the daughter of Prince Kollonich’s first marriage – who seemed to see more in him than the others. Only she was interested in what he thought rather than what he did. Even when they were still very young they would pair off in team games, the two of them against the others. Klara was different; but her half-brother, his aunt’s sons, and the two Szent-Gyorgyi boys? He doubted very much if they saw anything more in him than an amusing cousin who was good at tennis.

This was why he was so pleased to see Balint again, why he had squeezed his arm in friendly greeting when Balint had sat down next to him under the lime tree. Since they had both been young, since as long as he could remember, Balint had been his only true friend, who understood him and from whom he hid nothing, and so when, as the twentieth century approached, they talked of their futures it was only to Balint that Laszlo confessed his determination to be a musician.

To Balint he poured out his seemingly fantastic hopes of
writing
great operas and symphonies that would seduce the whole world. And to Balint too he had recounted all his difficulties with his Uncle Staniszlo Gyeroffy who the court had appointed to be his legal guardian until he came of age. Uncle Staniszlo, who was no real uncle but only a distant relation, had absolutely vetoed Laszlo’s musical studies and forced him instead into the law school. There had been a stormy scene between them when he had left school, and Laszlo had then recounted to Balint his deep resentment when the old man had said: ‘While I am your
guardian
I won’t allow anything so idiotic. When you’re of age you can do any foolishness you like!’ Laszlo was recalling all this as he stepped down into the rose garden. Balint turned to him, as if in answer to his thoughts, and asked:

‘You came of age last March. What are you going to do?’

‘I’m entering the Academy of Music in Budapest. I’m going back in a few days.’

‘And the university exams?’

Laszlo laughed. ‘Devil take them! What do I care? I’m going to do what I want at long last. I only came here to take over the estate. And that’s a nasty business I can tell you … and very complicated if you have to deal with old Carrots …’ This was Laszlo’s nickname for his guardian who always wore an obvious red-blond wig.

‘Why complicated?’

‘Oh, Lord! He says he’s invested a lot of his own money in the property and he wants to be paid back before he’ll hand it over! Not that I’ve got any money … none at all. All I’ve got is debts! Don’t worry. I’ll sort it out somehow,’ said Laszlo, laughing …

‘Debts?’

‘Not many. A few thousand crowns … to a money-lender, of course. I couldn’t live on what old Carrots allowed me.’

‘Well, you’ll have to settle them. There’s nothing worse than owing money.’

‘Oh, I will. Somehow. Everything would be quite simple if I could sell the wood from my part of the Gyeroffy forests. The
problem
is that I only have a one-third share with Uncle Staniszlo … and he’s got other plans, some sort of industrial project he’s dead keen on, the stubborn old fool! Oh! For heaven’s sake let’s not talk about anything so boring! I’m so glad to see you, Balint!

And taking him by the arm, he started to tell him how he had been received by the music professors, what they thought about his playing and what they had said about his compositions, some of which Balint had heard. Carried away by his enthusiasm Laszlo talked and talked as they walked up and down between the long-stemmed roses. It was almost dark. Only in the western sky was there still a rose-red glow, while in the east the moon rose, so full and bright that deep shadows were cast by the castle walls, enveloping the garden where they talked.

As Laszlo and Balint passed the entrance to the castle they met a group of guests descending the steps. They were already dressed for the evening, the women in low-cut gowns and the men in stiff shirts which shone white in the moonlight like shooting
targets
. Though they were silhouetted against the sunset Balint saw at once that among them was Adrienne Miloth. Her face was in shadow, but he could not fail to recognize her Diana-like stride and the outline of her head with the wavy dark hair weaving wild arabesques around the perfect oval of her face. She had her two sisters with her and they were accompanied by two young men.

Balint’s first reaction was to move away, to avoid them – an
inexplicable
subconscious reflex that lasted but a moment. Adrienne came calmly towards him, without quickening her pace, her beautifully formed mouth in a wide and generous smile. She put out her hand, saying:

‘How marvellous to find you here, AB!’ This was what he had always been called in Transylvania: ‘Look! I’ve dwindled into a chaperon! I’m responsible for these two now!’ and she put her arms round the shoulders of her two younger sisters, who were both extremely pretty and slightly shorter than Adrienne.

The two young men came up to join them. One was Akos, the youngest Alvinczy boy. Balint did not know the other, who turned to him and clicked his heels in a formal soldierly manner.

‘Egon Wickwitz,’ he said, and bowed. He was the unknown man Balint had seen in the Miloths’ carriage. Shaking hands, Balint looked him over, trying rapidly to assess him.

Baron Wickwitz was tall and good-looking, with the wide shoulders and narrow hips of an athlete. The impression of an
inverted
triangle was emphasized by the line of the stiff white dress shirt and outlined by the sloping lapels of his black tailcoat. He was dressed with meticulous care, as if he were not entirely at ease in such garb. Balint did not like this, and though he could not deny that Wickwitz was a handsome man, he did not like his face either. He had sad brown eyes, a long, narrow jaw and black hair that grew low on his forehead.

For a few moments they exchanged polite courtesies and then started to walk along the paths between the rose beds. Balint was in front with Adrienne, behind them Margit Miloth with Alvinczy and finally Judith with Laszlo and the Austrian.

‘Who is this nitwit?’ Balint asked Adrienne. She laughed.

‘It’s funny you should call him that. Everyone does, though you can’t have heard it anywhere. It’s very apt,’ and she added seriously, ‘but it shows how good-natured he is because he never seems to mind.’

‘Well then, who is this good-natured gentleman?’

‘He’s really very nice. Amateur rider – good all-round
sportsman
– an
Oberleutnant
in the Hussars and stationed at Brasso.’

‘Shouldn’t he be in uniform?’ Balint could not help sounding somewhat hostile.

‘He’s on long leave.’

As they walked on in silence Balint found himself more and more in the same groundless, aggressive mood that he had felt each time he had met Adrienne since her marriage.

‘And he’s your latest flirt, is he?’ he asked offensively.

‘Not actually mine … though they do say he’s paying a lot of attention to your old flame, the pretty Dinora!’

Coming from Adrienne this was most unexpected. In the old days she had never given any sign that she even knew of his
passion
for the little Countess Abonyi. Balint veered away from the subject.

‘He seems to speak Hungarian quite well.’

‘That’s because his mother came from Hungary; from Bihar, I fancy.’

‘He’s got cow’s eyes!’

Adrienne laughed again, lightly.

‘Does it matter? He’s not overburdened with brains!’

Suddenly the peace of the garden was shattered by a shrill peal of bells from inside the castle. Cling! Clang! Clang! Cling-Clang! The rhythmic carillon announced that dinner would be served in half-an-hour’s time. Balint and Laszlo ran, because they still had to change. The others walked slowly towards the house.