They Were Counted (68 page)

Laszlo stood behind her for a few moments and Klara knew it, every nerve in her body signalling that he was there, trembling with surprise, disappointment and indignation. She forced herself not to turn round and give him a smile of encouragement and consolation as if it were merely an unlucky chance that things had turned out; but she did not do so. Instead she slowly pulled off her long gloves and placed them carefully on the table beside her. But all her attention was fixed on listening until she was sure Laszlo was no longer there.

At last – it had seemed like eternity – she heard the young man’s footsteps as he moved away. Then she felt that something between them had been torn apart.

 

It was already daylight when the ball came to an end. Laszlo, by dint of his office, had to remain until all the guests had left, but Klara went home early. Filled with gloom, hatred and spite, Laszlo danced almost to breaking point, so as to tire himself out, and when dawn was breaking, drank a great deal to help him sleep – and indeed he did sleep, in a deep, dreamless slumber that lasted until the afternoon.

When he finally awoke he was filled with the sense of having suffered some great calamity. Slowly he went over in his mind all that had happened on the previous evening and then he was
suddenly
struck, as with a sledgehammer, by the realization that Klara had deliberately avoided him, coldly, icily, cruelly avoided him. She had intentionally broken the tacit agreement that they had had since the beginning of the Carnival season, that they should always sit together at supper; and now she had shown that she didn’t even want him at her side but preferred to sit by Warday, of all people. She had shown him that it was Warday she wanted near her, Warday! She had therefore broken the
understanding
that, though never put into words, had been such a strong link between them. Of course this had to mean that
everything
was finished, that it was all over!

 

After what seemed like hours of self-doubt, and while more and more demons of jealousy and speculation had chased themselves round and round in the darkening room, Laszlo got up and dressed and went to the Casino.

It was dinner-time when he arrived and he sat down at a crowded table between Arzenovics and Zalamery. When these two, after coffee and several glasses of liqueur, went straight up to the baccarat-room, he went with them.

This time Laszlo did not wait to be asked but sat down
immediately
at the table and joined the game. From the start he played very high indeed, for should his banks prove disastrous and his loses huge it would somehow be a vengeance on Klara for
breaking
this agreement. That he himself was breaking his solemn word never for a moment crossed his mind. Though Laszlo had had plenty of wine at dinner and had continued to drink steadily all evening, he felt completely sober, stone cold sober. The only
effect
the wine had had on him was to deepen his resentment until his body seemed aflame with it. Once again, at the card-table, he felt this same strange sixth sense which told him when to say ‘
Banco
!’ and when to pull out. He bet very high and, apparently, wildly, but his winnings piled up in front of him umtil he was
surrounded
by gleaming little walls of chips.

No one noticed the passing of time.

The Steward came round at one o’clock with the players’ signed chits. Some were settled at once in cash, others by the
return
of winning chips, while the big gamblers, if they were on a losing streak, had their debts added to their running accounts. The game went on undisturbed.

The boards on the landing outside the card-room creaked. Someone was coming up. Laszlo, who was sitting opposite the doorway, looked up: it was Louis Kollonich!

He came straight over to and stood with the onlookers directly in front of Laszlo. He stood there in silence, puffing at the Havana cigar that drooped from his mouth.

What does
he
want here, why has he come, he who was never seen in the gaming-room? Of course, it was obvious! He had come to spy, stalking Laszlo as if he were a rogue deer, sent probably by Aunt Agnes – or could it have been Klara? That idea filled Laszlo with dismay and horror. Could Klara really have gone so far as to involve her parents in the sacred pact between them, using her father to bear witness against him so that she would have cause and justification for abandoning him for Warday? Well, if that was what she wanted, here goes!

The pack reached Laszlo. With both hands he quickly pushed all his chips to the centre of the table, the carefully built piles of
iridescent
mother-of-pearl spilling in profusion over the baize cloth.

‘The bank is twenty thousand!’ he said. ‘
Faites
vos jeux
!’

About twelve thousand was put on the table. Laszlo dealt deliberately, slowly. He looked at his own card with apparent calm: it was a five. ‘
Je
donne
!’ he said dryly. His opponent replied: ‘
Non
!’
Laszlo took a card, glanced at it, saw that it was a three, and spread his hand upon the table: eight! Picking up the
remaining
cards, Laszlo raked in his winnings with the small ivory rake and again uttered the cool, formal phrase: ‘
Faites
vos jeux
!’ All this was done with an absolutely straight face, without a flutter of the eyelids, wooden-faced, wooden-voiced, under control, as he had seen Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi do it so often. Since his Uncle Louis was so good as to come to the chemmy game and so descend to spying on him, he might at least be given his money’s worth!

Old Louis stood there for only a few minutes, looking quietly at the scene with his tiny pig-like eyes. Then he turned and walked slowly back to the doors. The stairs creaked as he went down. He had gone.

As this was happening Laszlo dealt another
coup
, which he lost. In correct order he paid each winner, for his sense of discipline never wavered, and then leaned back in his chair racked by a pain so terrible and implacable that he almost fainted from
dizziness
. It’s all over now: everything is finished! he said to himself. Suddenly a veil of cobwebs was spun over his eyes so that he could hardly see what was going on in front of him; everything, the
table
, the players’ faces, the room itself, disappeared into a fog of nothingness. For a long time he sat without moving until, when the pack returned to him, he pushed it away mechanically,
murmuring
: ‘
Passe
la
main
!’
Then he got up and left the table.

As Laszlo moved towards the door, reeling unsteadily, someone behind him said: ‘Gyeroffy’s drunk as a lord!’ but he himself heard nothing. Somehow he reached the stairs and, clinging for support to the banister rail, slowly managed to get down, carried by his feet alone, for he knew not what he did. At the bottom of the stairs someone helped him into his cloak and hat and from there he walked out into the night like a somnambulist, unconscious of what he was doing or where he was going. For hours he walked the streets aimlessly, walking, walking, walking. He felt like an empty husk … and inside the shell of his brain and body and
spirit
there was nothing, no thought, no feeling, no life, no pain.

At dawn he found himself wandering in the Nepliget, the
People
’s Park, with no idea how he came to be there. He was terribly tired, and his thin patent-leather evening shoes were filthy and split. After a while the first tram came rumbling by, its lamps still lit. Laszlo boarded it and went home. 

A
WEEK LATER
, to mark the end of the season, the Lubianskys gave an evening party in the garden of their villa.

This was carefully planned: firstly, so that no one could say that the Lubianskys did not return hospitality – for they and their family were always invited everywhere – and secondly, because it would not then cost so much in champagne and food as many people would have already left for the country not waiting for the last of the races. Everyone was invited, as they should be, whether known to be still in Budapest or not, but the cost to the host and hostess would be far less than if they had given their party earlier in the season.

Countess Beredy, contrary to her usual custom, arrived early and alone. Tonight she had left her usual court behind; indeed, she had ordered them not to attend, telling them that there was no reason for them to come as it would be too utterly boring. She had to go for manners’ sake, but said she wouldn’t be staying long, and so all of them, since they knew how to behave and were far too well bred not to take a hint when one was offered them, kept away. Not one of them therefore – not old Szelepcsenyi, nor Devereux, nor d’Orly, and especially not her pet poet Gyorgy Solimar, who hated parties anyway – offered to escort her. Fanny, as she had planned, came by herself.

She had a special reason.

That afternoon a telegram had arrived from Simonvasar from Warday announcing that he had asked Klara to marry him and that she had accepted. Fanny had suggested this to him when, five days before, she had brought their affair to an end.

 

Fanny had given Warday his marching orders in the kindest and most elegant fashion.

They had been in the young man’s bachelor apartment in
Dobrentey
Street. Fanny had just got dressed and, hat in hand, was almost ready to leave when she turned to Warday. He was
smoking
a cigarette on the rumpled bed, a silk dressing-gown partly covering his naked body as he lay on the silk cushions enjoying a well-earned rest.

‘Why don’t you marry Klara Kollonich?’ she asked suddenly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

‘I? Marry Klara?’ said the young man, taken aback.

‘Yes, why not? It would be rather a clever move. She’s a very good catch, and she likes you. You seem to like her too, so why not?’

‘But, darling Fanny, I love you, really I do, and I don’t even think of anyone else!’

‘Not now, I know, but you didn’t think this thing between us would last for ever, did you, my sweet?’

Imre sat up.

‘But, darling Fanny …’

She walked over to him and lightly stroked his face until her fingers reached his chin and she gave him a little pinch as one does a child.

‘You’re very sweet and it’s been very good between us, but you see,’ and, she added, smiling down at him, ‘the rule is to stop eating when you’re still hungry. And as for young Klara, the right moment has come.’

Fanny’s wide-set eyes, as knowing and wise as a cat’s, narrowed until they seemed even longer than usual. She was thinking of the previous day when the always well-informed Devereux had told her that Laszlo’s affair with Klara had evidently come to an end, for Laszlo had been going round the town for days with a dark scowl on his face while the Kollonichs had left for the
country
unexpectedly early.

She did not know any more, but this was enough. If Gyeroffy’s love for Klara had met with a definite reverse, then that was the time for her to get rid of Warday. So, after a few moments, she started again: ‘If I were you I’d get out my car and drive over to Simonvasar tomorrow. It won’t look suspicious as it’s only slightly out of your way to Baranya. Arrive about midday and stay to lunch. Then you’ll see how the land lies.’

‘But, Fanny, I don’t know that … Of course she’s a nice girl and I like her all right, but does she like me?’

Fanny shrugged her shoulders and she rarely looked as
beautiful
as she did at that moment.

‘Men are such fools in these matters! Let me tell you. Do it now,
c
’
est
le
moment psychologique
‚’ and she went on in the same vein as she put on her hat, looked at her reflection in the mirror, and pulled on her gloves. Then, standing erect in the middle of the room, she offered him her beautiful mouth with its arched lips:

‘Kiss me,’ she said, ‘and we’ll remain good friends!’

 

Warday did exactly what she had suggested. The afternoon his
telegram
arrived Fanny realized at once that the Kollonichs would certainly have wired the news to the Lubianskys, as they were neighbours and intimate friends, and also, of course to Countess Szent-Gyorgyi who would be at the Lubianskys party that night with her daughter Magda. With so many people in the know it would soon become general knowledge, and Fanny wanted to be on the spot when Gyeroffy heard the news. Oh, yes, it was essential that she should be there. He was such a strange one, so hot-headed and unpredictable that … well, she certainly must be there.

This was why Fanny Beredy turned up at such an unusual hour at that evening’s garden party.

The Lubiansky villa was a substantial modern house in a newly fashionable quarter of Budapest. The front door was reached by mounting a shallow flight of steps which led directly from the street entrance and opened into the large entrance hall. Here Fanny took off her wraps. The hall ran right through the house and was dimly lit, perhaps so as to enhance the effect of the
brilliant
lanterns in the garden beyond.

As soon as Fanny greeted her host and hostess, they asked if she had heard of the engagement and at once began to discuss the
affair
in detail with her – not out of maliciousness, however, for Countess Beredy had always been so discreet, and had never shown herself in public with her lovers, that she had never been the victim of general gossip. The fact that Warday had been a regular guest at her Wednesday dinners had passed unnoticed and so had
provoked
no spiteful rumours. Fanny listened calmly, showing little interest in the news that the others found so engrossing.

‘It’s so unexpected, my dear; so surprising! No one noticed that he was paying any attention to her! And it isn’t as if Klara’s doing very well for herself, for her fiancé has only a very modest fortune and doesn’t come from a grand family at all. We all thought she’d marry Montorio, or someone like that from Vienna. It must be a love-match, it must be! There’s no other reason for Klara – who’s so pretty, rich and well born – to throw herself away on such a second-rate and dull young man!’

Fanny listened to these effusions with an air of mild boredom. She carefully refrained from uttering a word in defence of her
former
lover. Instead she nodded, smiled, agreed with everything that was said, ate ice-cream and fanned herself; but out of the corner of her eye she kept watch on the wide steps down which more and more guests were entering the brilliantly-lit gardens. Time went by and just as Fanny was beginning to worry that Gyeroffy might not be coming, he suddenly appeared at the door.

The moment she saw him she was sure that he had already heard the news. There was a strange light in his wide-set eyes and his mouth was drawn and set as if he were clenching his teeth. With his head held high and standing very straight in his
impeccably
-cut evening clothes, he walked slowly and somewhat
mechanically
towards the circle surrounding his hostess and, bowing ceremoniously, kissed the ladies’ hands in greeting.

One of the guests immediately said: ‘Have you heard about Klara’s engagement?’

‘Of course! She’s my cousin!’ replied Gyeroffy, trying hard to make his smile seem spontaneous. ‘I got a wire this afternoon.’ He then bowed and went to the other end of the terrace where the young people were dancing.

Fanny did not follow, though her eyes never left him. That is good, she thought, let him dance. She would stay where he was, near the buffet, with the older ladies. If Gyeroffy was dancing, no harm could come to him and she would not have to worry until the time came for him to leave. That was when she would have to contrive to be at hand. In the meantime she leaned back in the comfortable garden chair she had chosen, the very picture of a lazy, beautiful society woman, slightly sleepy and apparently
giving
all her attention to the conversation that was going on around her. No one looking at her half-closed eyes could have guessed how intently she was watching what was happening at the other end of the terrace.

 

After the uncertainty of waiting for death, the certainty of death itself – that is what Laszlo felt when he that afternoon received Klara’s telegram: ‘
AT NOON TODAY I BECAME ENGAGED
TO WARDAY. KLARA
.’ That was all, and was Klara’s only
answer
to the letter he had sent to Simonvasar four days before. It had been a bad letter, long and rambling, full of awkward,
confused
attempts at explaining and excusing himself. It was full of such phrases as ‘I didn’t think it was so serious … please don’t judge me until you know everything … please think about it … after all, it isn’t such a big thing when everything’s considered …’ and full, too, of half-expressed suspicions that Klara had been removed to the country against her will. He used far too many unnecessary words, begging and beseeching her, which, though they might have had their effect if used face to face when she would have been convinced by his sincerity and despair, on paper seemed no more than empty phrases. Had he written simply, just a few words expressing deep humility from the depths of his heart, it might have had some effect. But nothing is more difficult than to write what one does not know how to say; and Laszlo could not even put his feelings into words. To cap it all he made a further mistake. Having no writing paper at home he wrote on National Casino club paper, and the letter heading, itself symbolizing to Klara his gambling and broken promises, screamed up at her
before
she even began to read.

Laszlo never knew what had really happened; nor did anyone else. On the morning that Papa Louis told his daughter that Laszlo had been gambling before his own eyes – apparently
recklessly
and for huge sums – Klara begged that they should leave at once for the country. She did this for her own sake so as to have no chance of ever again setting eyes on the man who had so
deceived
her. Never ever again! She was now prepared to believe him capable of the vilest deception, even of having betrayed her with Countess Beredy – for that story was surely no more than the truth, and no doubt the two of them had discussed her and even laughed about her. No! She never wanted to see him again and decided to raise such a wall between them that a meeting would become impossible.

Laszlo knew none of this, but he sensed most of it, and now the engagement to Warday was the last straw on his load of
bitterness
and self-reproach. If Klara had married Montorio it would have been bad enough, but at least she would have chosen a famous name and a great fortune, neither of which Laszlo could have provided. But this? Warday? Warday was no better than himself either financially or socially; and so, even if Klara had only accepted him out of anger and disappointment, the fact that the Kollonich clan had approved meant that if he, Laszlo, had not been so stupid and weak, they would in time have accepted him too. He himself, he realized, had been the cause of his own downfall, for he had gambled away his only chance of happiness and, in the midst of all his other reasons for misery, this thought was the most painful.