They Were Divided (42 page)

Old Juon aluj Maftye did not come because the notary Simo, afraid that he might blurt out the truth under cross-examination, had arranged a medical certificate for him. The old man was glad to stay at home because he was worried about the paper that the priest had made him sign, and yet knew he would never dare to revoke it and state it had been forced out of him. The other accusers were there in force, Gaszton Simo and the
popa
Timbus, the witnesses to Juon aluj Maftye’s disclaimer, and three others who had been brought in to bear witness to Kula’s
connection
with Zutor. These last were spending two nights in a shed at Nyiresy’s house so as to make sure they did not stray off
somewhere
else.

The priest Timbus and Gaszton Simo were dining merrily at Nyiresy’s table along with Simo’s chief protector, the Head Sheriff, the station-master and two lawyers, all important local notabilities and all good friends with Nyiresy and Simo. Beside them the
popa
was only small fry, but he was there as an essential witness at the following day’s trial.

The wine was flowing and a gypsy band playing for all its worth. The dinner had been lavish, as Simo had contributed a roebuck and at least thirty trout that he said he had confiscated from poachers.

‘Luckily I caught them just at the right moment!’ he said, winking at the Head Sheriff who knew all his little tricks.

‘What a rascal you are, Gaszton!’ he laughed back, even though these were things they never normally spoke about for the Sheriff liked to preserve his dignity.

Nyiresy owned a vineyard near Ermellek and the strong wines
they were drinking came from there. It had not taken long before tongues were loosened and now there was no longer any pretence of talking of the forthcoming trial with impartial earnestness. Now they talked loudly and arrogantly, spicing their talk with obscene jokes, and no one bothered to disguise his malice or his hatred of Count Abady, for it was not only the host who bore a grudge against Balint but all the others too. One or two resented the meddlesome aristocrat and were jealous of him, but most of them were only influenced by a feeling of solidarity with Nyiresy whom they regarded as a good fellow who liked his cards and wine and entertained them all so generously.

There were those who resented Balint because he had taken the Abady forests in hand and put an end to their poaching his game, but the main cause of their dislike was that they looked upon him as a trouble-maker. This epithet, in their eyes, meant anyone who made the lazy work, who pressed them into service for the new Co-operatives, who was always having officious
messages
sent to them from the county offices or the Prefect
demanding
speedy action, whose meddling sent them on tiresome and exhausting journeys connected with infringements of the forestry and game laws, and who was continually pressing for the Land Registry Office to keep its records accurate and up to date. In a word, he ‘made trouble’ – and now there was this unnecessary affair of the notary Simo which had entailed endless paper work. Scribble. Scribble. Scribble.

It was this last which had enraged the Chief Judge, who liked to think himself sovereign in such matters. So what happens, he demanded? Along comes this young Count putting his nose in affairs which do not concern him and who does not even live here but in the county of Torda-Aranyos miles away.

This judge was known as a hard man who liked his own way and before whom the whole county trembled. If he approved of someone, they flourished; but woe betide the man who crossed him. And now there had appeared this meddlesome aristocrat who had somehow stumbled in from an adjoining county and who dared denounce one of his own trusted notaries. Further he had seen fit to denounce him in the capital, thereby by-passing the Judge’s sacred authority. It was intolerable.

The host sat in the place of honour with his long-stemmed meerschaum pipe resting on the tablecloth in front of him. He was wreathed in smiles, delighted at the way everything seemed to be going. He did not say much but sat smiling under his huge
tobacco-stained white moustaches. When he did speak thick clouds of smoke coiled upwards from his mouth as from the
craters
of Etna; but with him the poisonous gases were replaced by words of venom.

On his right sat the Chief Judge, who was a broad-faced, thick-set man with a clipped moustache and greying hair cut to a short bristle. A vertical wrinkle separated his eyebrows, which everyone knew was the mark of a stern man. He too spoke seldom, but when he did, first slowly removing the leathery stump of a chewed cigar from his mouth, everyone else fell silent out of respect for his undoubted authority. His grey eyes were like ice, and when he smiled and showed a glint of white teeth, it seemed to stem not from merriment but only an intention to bite.

Next to him was the station-master and, across the table, Simo’s lawyer, Dr Todor Farkas, who was known in
Banffy– Hunyad
, though not to his face, as ‘Dr That-is-to-say’, as he used this phrase at every opportunity. Beside him was Simo and then another local lawyer, Balazs Toth. Finally there was the director of the Land Registry Office, then the Sheriff and the
popa
Gyula Timbus.

Of course they talked of nothing but the case and the news that Dr That-is-to-say had brought, namely that Abady himself had come forward as a witness for the defence. Simo’s lawyer had heard the news that morning in Kolozsvar and now it was being eagerly mulled over. The news was so exciting, and so unexpected, that the gypsies played in vain. Nobody listened to a note.

Everyone had something to say, but Nyiresy summed up all their thoughts in one phrase: ‘What the hell is that rotten bastard up to now?’

Only Simo found it disconcerting. He felt it would have been better if the case had been heard without Abady, who was a Member of Parliament, putting his oar in and interfering. What the Devil did he want? It was extremely disquieting. Anything could happen. He had always been against involving Abady … and now? It was a bad business, he thought, but he was careful not to show his anxiety but laughed broadly and roared out, ‘Well, let him appear! We’ll push him around a bit!’

‘I expect he just wants to pour some whitewash on that rascally forester of his, Andras Zutor,’ said Balazs Toth.

‘It won’t be easy … that is to say … Kula Lung was induced to bear false witness either by Zutor or by the Count himself. Nothing else is possible. Anyhow no one is going to believe that
an ignorant mountain lad could hire a lawyer in Kolozsvar all on his own.’ And Dr Farkas went on to declare that he for one had always been sure that Abady was behind the whole thing: ‘… that is to say … there is no doubt that the Count is the real culprit. I was only in favour of leaving him out of the accusation because he is a Member of Parliament and, if we were out to get him, we’d have to wait ages while we had him unseated; and not only that but, well, that is to say, our friend Gaszton always said he wanted the case heard quickly. But there is nothing to worry about, indeed it is all for the best … that is to say … tomorrow I’ll get him in a high old muddle when I question him. Then either he’ll have to deny everything, which will mean his friends Kula and Zutor will be found guilty, or else it’ll be clear to all to see that he himself was behind it all, and then we’ll indict him too.’ Dr That-is-to-say spoke with smug malice.

Huge puffs of smoke came from beneath Nyiresy’s great
moustaches
and he said, ‘That’s talking, that is! Send the Noble Lord to gaol, eh? We’ll all drink to that!’ And he laughed loudly as he raised his glass high and touched all the others within reach. The gypsies, though not understanding what it was all about, played a flourish.

General hubbub broke out and when it subsided a little the Head Sheriff turned to Simo and, speaking very slowly, asked, ‘You’re sure that Abady doesn’t have anything concrete, some other paper, perhaps? It’d mean trouble if matters were to take another turn, you know.’

‘Of course not; what could he have?’ said Simo quickly.

Then the lawyer interrupted, saying, ‘It is quite impossible that he should come up with something else, quite impossible … that is to say … supposing – just supposing, mind you, not
conceding
– that the Count tried to bring in other facts, things that had nothing to do with this case, the judge would refuse to hear them. The law does not permit it. Our evidence is clear, and we have written statements to prove it. These are quite
straightforward
. They cover the whole case and cannot be gainsaid. I ought to know; after all I drafted them myself. Faced with our evidence there can be no argument. In court tomorrow there will only be one issue and that is the degree of responsibility of the accused. Nothing else!’

‘Why is that?’ asked the station-master, just for something to say.

‘These are the facts. Juon Lung aluj Maftye has made a legally
valid declaration that he was misled by his grandson and that our friend Gaszton Simo has always behaved most correctly towards him. Therefore the author of the false accusation is Juon’s grandson Kula. Now, what we wish to prove is that this Kula did not himself think up the idea but was pushed into
criminal
behaviour by Andras Zutor. Kula Lung, as the first accused, will certainly be found guilty, and most probably Zutor as well … that is to say … for Zutor was cognizant of, and indeed behind, everything that Kula did. What sentence these two get, light or heavy, will depend on whether we can show the Count to have inspired the whole malicious proceeding. If we can, then Zutor’s guilt will be to some extent mitigated because he is the Count’s employee, as will Kula’s to a lesser degree, and the court will not be slow to appreciate the moral pressure that someone like the Count can apply if he wishes. There is one possible
outcome
, but only if we can get the Count to admit his part in the matter. Personally I don’t think we will, that is to say, Count Abady cannot be such a fool as to fall into that little trap. But the alternative is much more certain. Abady will, of course, try to show that Zutor is not to blame. That is where I come in, that is to say, I know for a fact that it was Abady who enlisted the defence lawyer and who gave him old Juon’s Power of Attorney. But I won’t bring that up at tomorrow’s hearing: all I will do is force him to declare that he had no part in the matter. It will be enough for the moment … that is to say … Kula and Zutor will naturally be found guilty and our friend Gaszton will
immediately
be vindicated, which is the most important thing.’

‘Well,’ interrupted Nyiresy furiously, ‘and what happens to that high-born brat? Does he walk away free then? Nothing more?’

Dr That-is-to-say leaned back in his chair and waved a finger in the air with pompous self-righteousness. ‘Didn’t I say that was where I came in? On the following day we will accuse Abady of perjury, and won’t that be a lovely thing to see? Eh?’

The host erupted in cheers and Simo’s little shoe-button eyes sparkled with glee.

Now the Chief Judge decided to intervene.

‘I wouldn’t go as far as that – not that I want to see him go free, oh no! – but there are political considerations. If the two accused are condemned that will be shame enough for our noble Count. No one will ever speak to him again in those mountain
villages
. He won’t be able to stick his oar in any more or worry
about things which do not concern him. We’ll be free of him and that’ll be enough. I’d hold on to that perjury charge for a while. With that in our pockets we’ll have got him where we want him … for years to come; and if he ever again starts up his little tricks we’ll let him know what we’ve got on him.’

‘You old rogue!’ cried Nyiresy as he exploded with laughter and slapped his neighbour on the back. ‘Treat him like that pack of notaries you’ve got, eh? First catch’em out in some fault, and then keep it dangling over their heads!’

Between the Judge’s thin lips his teeth gleamed.

‘Exactly. That has always been my method.’

‘But you can’t seriously want me to abandon my plan?’ cried Dr Farkas, outraged. ‘Fail to catch Abady for perjury when he’s practically thrown himself into our clutches? Oh no! Nobody can wish that!’

He was at once backed up by the other lawyer, Balazs Toth, and so went on, ‘Is that what you want? In my client’s best
interests
I forego the pleasure of calling the Count as a witness, even though I always knew what a God-given opportunity it would be to start criminal proceedings which would have made me famous … that is to say, how did Karoly Eotvos make his name? With the Eszlar case! And Polonyi and other famous lawyers? Always through some great criminal proceedings. I’ve denied myself this until now because professional ethics make the client’s best interests paramount and I will always be faithful to that. I will stick to that and get this Kula found guilty, but once that’s done, it’s time to do myself some good. Why, even the petition to Parliament to have Abady unseated so he can stand trial for
perjury
like anyone else – why, that will be advertisement enough. The press will be full of it! Then the case itself. Every word will be printed in the papers. There’ll be reporters, interviews, a
magnificent
speech for the prosecution which will be printed in full … and at last the verdict. To bring an MP, who is also an aristocrat, to trial, sentence and prison, to stand before the world as the champion of honour and justice …! I will never give that up, never! I’ll see it through to the end … and the end will be magnificent!’

He was so worked up and shouted with so much enthusiasm and sublime ambition that everyone started to cheer and the Judge called across the table, ‘All right, I don’t mind! Put him in prison then. Put him in prison!’

B
ALINT SPENT THE EVENING
in his own rooms in Kolozsvar. He had arrived in the late afternoon and as soon as he got out of his car the hall porter told him that some man unknown to him had already called twice, asking for Count Abady, and had left a card.

It was just a little piece of cardboard on which was written
Koriolan
Tim
bus.

‘He said, your Lordship, that it was very important and that he’d come again in the evening.’

Timbus? Surely it couldn’t be the priest from Gyurkuca, for his name was Gyula. But if not, who could it be? Was it perhaps his son?

‘What sort of a man was he? Young? Slim?’

‘Yes, your Lordship, very skinny and didn’t look at all well.’

Then it must be the priest’s son, that fanatic young agitator with his head filled with irredentist pro-Romanian ideals. He was a sickly youth whom Balint had only seen twice; once lying on a couch at his father’s house with hatred in his eyes, and then again at the railway station at Balazsfalva when he had surreptitiously handed some paper to the Romanian lawyer Timisan. It seemed most unlikely, thought Balint, that he would voluntarily come to see him, but then who else could it be?

‘Very well then,’ said Balint. ‘Send him up when he comes.’

It would not really matter if the young man took up some of his time, for Balint had no plans to go out that evening.

Later, in his study, Balint paced up and down going over and over what he would say in court the following morning and how he would say it. Firstly it was necessary to put his thoughts in order and make a list of the points he wanted to make, saying what had prompted him to arrange for the notary to be denounced and making it quite clear that in his own mind he was working only for the public good. As he worked out what he would say he realized more and more how thin, from the legal point of view, was his evidence. It was more than possible that the court would not even listen to him, but if he was heard then it was at least certain that Kula and Zutor would go free. And then he’d have to bear the blame himself. That no longer mattered.
He had to go through with it and accept whatever came his way. He could accept anything, even shame, ignominy and the destruction of his good name, rather than allow two men to be punished whose only fault was trusting him and carrying out his orders. The way ahead was clear; there was no way out.

He was so deep in these dismal thoughts that for a moment, when Timbus was announced, he had forgotten that he was expecting a visitor.

The door opened and a very thin, narrow-chested young man came in. A few sparse tufts of beard grew on his emaciated face and his long black hair stood up untamed and rebellious. Two red spots glowed on his cheekbones.

He came forwards very slowly to where Abady was standing by his desk, and when he stood before him he bowed stiffly but ignored Balint’s outstretched hand. Then he sat down in one of the chairs placed beside the desk.

Abady followed his example and then asked, ‘What can I do for you?’

The young man cleared his throat twice, hesitated, and then in a rush of words like a sudden flood, he croaked out, ‘I … I … came about tomorrow, about tomorrow’s case… about the trial of Kula …’

‘About the case?’

‘Yes, the case. I’ve thought about it for a long time because what will happen all depends on me. Do you understand? On me, only on me!’

‘I must confess I don’t understand.’

‘Yes. On me, only on me!’

Timbus’s burning eyes were full of hatred, but they never left Balint’s face and it was obvious that he was having a battle with himself and had to make up his mind about something before he could go on. Then suddenly it all came out in a torrent of words that seemingly tumbled over one another.

‘Yes, on me, for I have the old man’s disclaimer, written by that scoundrel Simo, and Simo’s letter, the one he sent to my father. He wrote it to my father and my father tore it up and threw it away, but that was afterwards, after he came back from Pejkoja, from seeing Juon aluj Maftye. Then he threw it away, but I found it. I read it. I read them both and I wish I hadn’t. Understand? And since then I can’t sleep, because it is a dreadful thing. Do you understand? A dreadful evil thing.’

He stared at Abady with a look that might have been taken
for menace. For a moment he paused and then he went on, ‘Yes, a dreadful, evil thing. Do you understand me? My father on one side and on the other young Kula, a poor simple Romanian. And the truth? Either I betray my own father … or I suppress the truth … and you are on the side of the truth and so I have to save you, even you, of all people!’

He looked aggressively again at Abady and then added, almost to himself, ‘I thought about it all night long, until dawn, but I can’t do anything else. So I came.’

He reached in his inside pocket, took out a folded wad of paper and threw it on the desk.

‘Here it is!’

By now Timbus was very short of breath and after panting out the last words he leaned back in his chair, exhausted.

Balint had listened carefully to what the young man had to say. Now he was filled with pity for him, for the internal battle which still raged within him sounded in every word he uttered with such passion and effort that Balint barely noticed his rude manner and obvious hostility.

‘Well then? Read it! Why don’t you read it, that’s what I brought it for?’ he shouted and, leaning forwards, pushed the papers towards Balint with thin dry fingers as if they were
garbage
he was reluctant to touch.

Balint opened the packet.

Inside were two papers, one a long double sheet, the other a short private letter.

Both had been torn and screwed up and one of them was held together only by a centimetre or two that had remained untorn. At the top corner of the larger sheet were printed the name and professional address of Dr Todor Farkas and below were some hand-written words which started
‘
I
,
Juon
Lung
aluj
Maftye,
declare
…’ It was the draft text of the declaration said to have been dictated by the old man to the priest in Pejkoja and was written in precise legal terms.

The smaller sheet was in Gaszton Simo’s writing, and read:

As he read these words Balint was filled with joy and relief. Salvation at the last moment, salvation from the mess he had got himself into. More, it meant that Kula and Zutor would be freed of all blame. All the worries of the past weeks fell away like a heavy weight taken from him. He looked up at Timbus and, filled with gratitude, he held out his hand, saying, ‘I don’t know how to thank you!’

The young man’s reaction was the same as before: he just looked back as if he had never seen Balint’s proffered hand. Then, venomously, he said, ‘You needn’t bother. I’ll take no thanks from you, not from you!’

‘And why not?’ replied Balint smiling. ‘The mere fact that you’ve done this today shows that good intentions will come together somehow and will always prove stronger than hatred … even that hatred you so obviously feel for me.’

‘That’s just it! Try as I may I have to admit that for years you’ve tried to help my people. I’ve seen it for a long time. But why do you do it? What is behind it? What are you up to? It’s all just some trick, I know.’

‘Oh, come! You don’t really believe that, do you?’

Timbus’s face darkened. Speaking almost as if to himself, he said, ‘N-no, but I wish I did!’ Then he went on angrily, ‘It is absurd, ridiculous. For a Hungarian lord to help our people, why it’s the very opposite of all I’ve been taught to believe. It
contradicts
everything I’ve ever learned and what I want to believe, everything I’ve worked for, everything I believe to be true. It’s absurd … just absurd!’

‘Not at all. Why, old Juon himself, Kula’s grandfather, told me that there was a time when all the mountain people had the
greatest faith and trust in
my
grandfather. You must have been told of this too. I myself remember, though I was only a child then, how often so many of your people came to him with their problems asking for his advice or getting him to settle their
disputes
. He acted as a sort of judge for them, and they always had faith in his judgement.’

‘That’s just what the old people say: but they’re stupid,
credulous
. They understand nothing and they’ve forgotten that they were nothing but serfs, slaves who were forced to work and flogged if they didn’t. And who exploited them? You did, you powerful Hungarian lords!’

‘They were never slaves! All right, let’s talk about the serfs. They themselves were all equal whether they were Romanian or Hungarian. They hung together, like everyone of the same
station
in life. It was the same all over Europe and no one then thought of it in racial or nationalistic terms. And it’s pure legend that any landowner would exploit his own serfs. It would have been dead against his own best interests. What a landowner wanted was to have contented people working for him. In times of war the lords would fight with other lords and then they destroyed each others’ lands, and your opponents’ serfs would
suffer
too. But not your own, never!’

Timbus tried to answer Balint’s words in a flood of exasperated argument, going over the whole hotly debated question of the ancient Dacians and their descendants, the Romanians, who had occupied that land since the times of the Romans. He quoted Sinka, Anonymus, Hasdeu and Xenophon. In broken phrases which poured out in confusion, new ones starting before the last was finished, he tried to evoke all those multifarious tomes of ancient political theory which had been written to prove what he had so eagerly absorbed, namely that a Latin civilization had flourished in Transylvania long before the arrival of the
conquering
Hungarian hordes. He spoke with such passion that he was soon shouting at his host.

He was stopped by a fit of coughing, a dreadful racking cough which seemed to break him in two, as he crouched in his chair with a handkerchief pressed to his mouth. It was a dry gasping fit which seemed to tear his lungs apart. When, at long last, it abated and he was able to straighten up again, he leaned back in his chair in total exhaustion.