Sunflower (5 page)

The Josephstadt church bells were ringing for the Advent mass. From beyond the garden wall came the coughing of kerchiefed old women bent into salt pretzel shapes.

The afternoon mail brought a letter.

Eveline at once recognized Kálmán's handwriting. The envelope contained a single frozen stem of rosemary.

“Please forgive my robbing your garden. I repent my transgression and herewith return your flower, for I have no right to keep it.”

The wilted flower revived in the warm room, raising its head like a frostbitten bird. A wonderful fresh icy scent pervaded Eveline's chamber, like a token of reviving life.

At Hideaway, the estate in Bujdos, even the snow fell in a different way.

A few days after the midnight visitation Miss Eveline packed up her whole household and traveled to her estate by the upper reaches of the River Tisza, as was her wont whenever the smoky ghostriders of depression descended on her house in the capital. By stealing away to her village residence she fled the grim faces of these unfriendly shades, nor did she dare open her eyes before reaching the signal box of the Bujdos station.

It was honest to goodness wintertime here. Snow every day, just like in the Alps. The marshy groves, the reeds and snaking rills were all snowed under, disappearing for the duration of the season like enraptured women lying sequestered with pagan lovers. The landscape lay bewitched, as in a dream. This was old Hungary, silent with the sleep of the blessed, the humble, the poor. At this time of year the tracks of the North-East railroad line lay under snow; telegraph poles now served only as signposts for vagabonds; the rime-frosted windows of the midnight train hid strange travelers, who could have been madmen, or the damned, heading for unknown destinations.

At Bujdos-Hideaway life stood stock-still like a snowman stuck in a corner of the yard.

But under the archways of the old manor house it was snug and toasty. The iron-barred windows, serene and secure, regarded the landscape. The clock's musical chimes invoked the tones of some ancient kinsman's resonant chant. The serving folk had served here all their long lives. They knew by name each flower and tree, each trail, each horse and dog—they were all members of the family at Bujdos-Hideaway. Even the crows were old acquaintances. The stone saint by the roadside was ready to speak out in response to the greetings of the village folk. Ghosts returned from the graveyard sure to find their old pipes still waiting on their customary rack.

This is where Eveline was born; this is where she felt herself truly content. Across the cast iron grill at the entrance of the family crypt she could see her parents' sandstone monuments. She greeted them and they spoke back to her. All creatures here —dogs, horses, humans—saluted her as their queen. And to pay his respects, Andor Álmos-Dreamer of Lower and Upper Álmos came on horseback from Álmos Isle across the frozen Tisza. Leaning from the saddle, he knocked on the dining room window, rapping on the exact same pane as his father and grandfather, dropping by to inquire what was cooking for dinner.

This particular Álmos-Dreamer was a village savant, around forty years of age, a wiry, hard-headed bachelor with gentle eyes. He lived in solitude on his island in the meandering river, where a stone wall sheltered his retreat from people and the spring floods. He spoke softly, and had not been heard to laugh aloud in years. His aspect was as calm as twilight in the country. He loved the winter silence. In the spring he liked to smoke a cigar and listen to passing raftsmen's songs. He was neither extravagant nor a maniac. He remained on his island with the utter tenacity of an otter—a scientist whose name had never seen the light of print. He was one of those bygone Hungarian gentlemen who, just to amuse themselves during long winter nights, learned French or English by perusing the tomes in their libraries. As septuagenarians they would take up the study of astronomy. They knew their Horace and
Berzsenyi
by heart. But they would not speak out at the county assembly because of their disdain of electioneering and politicians. Calfskin-bound, yellowing classics carried their ex libris. Surely bookmarks still remain at the pages they were reading on their deathbeds. And their beloved women were like potted plants. Back in those days the lady of the house was a fair, fragrant and calm being, who went about her days at a leisurely pace, with little noise; her voluptuous curves provided eveningtime pleasures. These were leisurely, Rubenesque, tender romancings, slow and endless like the village hours. They brought peaceful, wholesome dreams—and children who were precious fulfillments of a promise, like feast days vouchsafed by the calendar. Within the walls of these fortunate old-time manors, Don Quixote's amorous follies, Manon Lescaut's tortured miseries and even
the poet Kisfaludy
's melancholy lines set heads a-wagging in quiet amazement, as if they were tall tales told by a far-flung traveler.

Andor Álmos-Dreamer never declared his love for Miss Eveline. Their affinity had always been taken for granted like a childhood friendship that survives throughout a lifetime, serene, questioned by no one. It was as natural as the mating of birds, the springtime rut of domestic animals and the white blossoms of an orchard, as easy as the East wind that heralds spring and sets the reeds in motion, dries up the floods and caresses the grass with a benevolent hand.

“Are you feeling miserable again?” asked the horseman, having dismounted, brushed the snow from his shoulder, and kissed the girl's cool forehead.

Teardrops showed in Eveline's eyes as she fixed her placid gaze on Andor, as on a trustworthy elder brother.

“I've been thinking of him again...that creep.”

Andor's handwave was gruff:

“You should winter here. Stay the whole year even. Hideaway will cure you. Poor girl, you seem so miserable. This is the only place where you can find your former self. I won't even ask what happened. I'm sure something must weigh heavily on your mind if you left the city in the middle of the season. Please understand...I'm not interested in hearing about young Master Kálmán or any other man about town. I just won't let you leave before you are fully healed.”

Eveline's smile was hopeful, evoking childhood Christmas bells and carolers. It was wintertime. They would go sledding...and skating in the bright high noon sun on the frozen Tisza flats...and there would be a pig-sticking...The mailman would deliver books still smelling of snow, frozen magazines and Christmas supplements somewhat the worse for the wear after the long journey, and together they would browse through these...They could look over the scrawled accounts kept by her bailiff...Talk about their dead parents, and old friends who had passed on, women who had danced away their lives, and the mysteries of the City. The watchdogs would bark nonstop—perhaps it is the Grim Reaper himself flying above the landscape, passing over the blizzard-wrapped old manor house where pillows exude the faint scent of floral cachets and the dream book offers the right solution to one's dreams. Check the calendar, what day is it? The fragrance of Yuletide and New Year's season creates those reveries of an ever-hopeful childhood, when faded schoolbooks that we had practically absorbed by heart, and stern old schoolmasters who seem menacing even when viewed through the spectacles of dream still provided us with a gossamer film of happy expectation...that had absolutely nothing to do with the life to come.

Eveline grasped her friend's bony hand:

“Too often you've let me go like a child sent off to a distant land. Will you please not do that again? Who knows if I'd ever come back...”

Andor Álmos-Dreamer caressed the girl's hair.

“You are a dear creature, and I know you haven't a mean bone in your body. I've always felt easy about you even when I didn't see you for a long time. Your heart is noble because you never had to deal with demeaning, low things. Your soul is pristine because you were never troubled by woeful need, dream-depriving cares, or sinful thoughts whispered by poverty in your ear. You are gracious and peaceable, like a young woman who at eveningtime kneels in front of the fireplace and sinks into reverie lulled by the swirl of snowflakes. But those dream chevaliers, lovers mounted on steeds, soaring over rooftops on swallows' wings, they all vanish without a trace when the lamps are lit. The morning and daylight are sober, serene and delightful like fresh water. The winter sky hereabouts is mostly gray, just like our lives. But it also happens to be as warm as rabbit fur. I'm not worried about you, my sweet angel. You'll always come back here because this is where you find everything worth living for. Your home, your grave, your sky and the land that nurtures you. Eveline, you are a village miss at heart, home-grown rosemary, even if you like to think of yourself as a cosmopolitan lady. Your world is really made of falling snow, autumn leaves in the wind blowing free and springtime greens on the river bank. In the depressing city you are only a hotel guest, rather bored by the hustle and bustle of humanity, and spend your time yawning in the monotony of your room although even its musty air seemed exciting on first arrival. What would you want from those total strangers?”

“I don't really like them and yet they fascinate me like travel descriptions of distant continents. For me to be alive means coming across ever new acquaintances, new voices, new names, new faces. Even each handshake can be so different. And people's lies make the most beautiful fairy tales. Everybody tells such lies.” Meanwhile the bachelor made himself at home in her dining room. He opened the cupboard, found the bottle of plum brandy, cut himself a slice of ham, sniffed the aroma of the bread loaf, and proceeded to have himself a leisurely and self-indulgent snack.

“Men aren't worth a pipeful of tobacco, mark my words. You are twenty-two now. You love travel and travelers, fair-grounds and market women, stylish overcoats and flashy lights. You'll go back a few more times for a taste of that sorry masked ball. You'll need life's disappointments and storms to find the path to happiness. Yes, go on and step out, have a good time and laugh a lot, dazzle and dance on. Sooner or later you'll have your fill of the masquerade. I'll be here waiting for you, I won't go anywhere. But bear in mind that if you decided not to come back one year...I'd be very sad ever after.” So spoke Andor Álmos-Dreamer.

He said his good-byes and set out. The horseman's snow-laden figure soon disappeared into the white night.

Three days later on his island he received a letter from Eveline, requesting Mr. Álmos-Dreamer's presence at once, for she had important things to tell him. And so the recluse again abandoned his tame otters to find Eveline sitting by her stove, as pale as one afflicted with an ailment of the heart.

“I seem to have become quite a coward. At night I keep hearing footsteps around the house. I wake up and stare at the door as if somebody were here, who won't let me sleep. I fear the bell-jar silence of the winter night, the noiseless dying of the embers, the shadows of antique furniture, this treacherous provincial house with its lazy hounds and indolent servants. I could be murdered in my sleep, for all they care.”

Andor Álmos-Dreamer growled in response.

“You'll get used to the quiet. Soon you won't mind the moaning of the wind. Part of you is still in the big city.”

“Mademoiselle Montmorency, my paid companion, sleeps as soundly as an aged nun, while my aunt enjoys happy dreams about the gallants of her youth. My maids scribble love letters to Budapest. The bailiff gets drunk every night. I am all alone here, and I am afraid. Someone is lurking around my house. Maybe a vagabond or a highwayman, or else a...”

Mr. Álmos-Dreamer smiled. “A lover...Just leave it to me, I'll take care of it. I'll come back at night and patrol the neighborhood on horseback.”

That night the moon shone as radiant as a carnival clown. The snow-covered landscape sparkled with built-in stars. The groves stood immobile in their shrouds. It was a blessed winter night, the crowing of the rooster still a long way off. Time to die a hundred deaths until then. A mounted figure resembling a highwayman passed in front of the house and surveyed the moonlit landscape. His horse snorted smoky clouds into the bitter cold air. There came the windowpane-shattering report of a firearm.

Eveline, trembling from head to foot, opened her shutters and called out.

“Is that you, Mr. Álmos-Dreamer?”

“Yes, it's me,” his hoarse voice replied. “You can sleep without fear, my angel. The ghost is laid to rest.”

“Give me your hand, my good sir.”

Andor reached in through the cast-iron bars of the window.

Eveline slowly pulled off the fur glove and bestowed a lingering fervent kiss on his hand.

“I thank you,” she whispered.

The warmth emanating from her nightgown, the gentle nestling caress of her kiss, the fervid grasp of her hand, the fragrance of the night befuddled the middle-aged knight errant. Leaning from his saddle, he regarded the young woman with shining eyes.

“My angel,” he mumbled, blushing, and caressed the girl's exposed neck.

Uttering a quick oath, he snatched back his hand and spurred his long-maned little horse. Enormous wolfhounds mutely sped through the swirling snow in his wake like the hounds of night.

Eveline's insomnia proved to be of long duration.

If you are sleepless in the big city you may gain some consolation from street noises that tell you there are others who find no relief in the night. But in the village the midnight hours can drive you to distraction, their slow passage as sluggish as the creaking of the deathwatch beetle. You may well imagine yourself a portrait of an antique ancestor hanging on the wall, whose wide-open eyes must contemplate one generation after another. The years whiz by with the wind and the rain, the rumbling storms, the migrating birds, the unctuous words of the priest and the mourners' bent heads by the open grave, stallions collapsing in a heap and fine old watchdogs laid low to rest, serving maids who were once young and fair, and tumbledown fences, desolate wishing wells and overgrown gardens... One after another, the years whoosh by. Only the insomniac looks on with open eyes, like a cadaver who forgot to die. A fine dust descends from the moldering ceiling to cover everything: bright faces and haymaking hips, merry neighbors, springtime smiles, flashing white teeth. Transience squats by the foot of the bed like a moribund, faithful old servitor. And the hand reaches less often for the thirst-quenching goblet.