They Were Divided (46 page)

He wondered what terrible times she had been through until she had finally ended up like this.

It was true that she showed no signs of degradation, no traces of the life she must have led unless, perhaps, it was to be seen in a faint cynical turn at the corner of her mouth, a little bitter smile that suggested that there was nothing and no one she did not despise, least of all herself. A wilful, stubborn line rose where her eyebrows met.

Then she was asking him all about Transylvania, about her old acquaintances, about the Alvinczys, the Laczoks, whom she referred to by their full names as if they were no relation to her and as if they had not all been her childhood friends and
playmates
. Obviously she wished to make it clear to him that she no longer belonged to that world, that she no longer deserved to and would not presume even to think so.

All this was said in a calm conversational and conventional matter as if they were talking about matters that did not really in any way concern them. After a while she fell silent.

Then in a deeper tone, very softly but with an underlying force of barely suppressed passion, she asked, ‘How … how is my son?’

It was difficult for Balint to find the right words with which to answer. If only she had still used the light, somewhat distant tones with which she had asked all her other questions he would probably have told her the cruel truth quite openly. He would have said that her son had turned into a depraved drunkard and was bankrupt. He would have told her in the baldest terms –
perhaps
out of anger, or resentment, or the desire for revenge – that
Laszlo’s tragic life had begun that day in his early childhood when he had been deserted by his mother. But Julie Ladossa had spoken to him in that passionate voice, that voice which came from somewhere deep inside her soul; that voice in which could be heard the echo of many years of guilt and remorse, of more than two decades of sorrow and humble acknowledgement of her own fault, and in those half-strangled tones he had recognized the force of her living tragedy.

Therefore he hesitated before answering her questions and, when he did, he did so with compassion. He told the truth, but he did it gently. He did not conceal Laszlo’s sad situation, how he had sold the house and land and now lived on a small pension in one of his former tenants’ houses at Kozard. He said that he had been ill but that Balint believed that he was now a little better, though it was some time since he had seen his cousin who had now broken off all relations with everyone he had known in the past.

‘He too!’ she whispered. ‘So it has happened to him too,’ and she stared ahead of her.

They did not speak for some minutes. Then she got up, saying: ‘From here we are going to St Petersburg. Then to Moscow, Odessa and Bucharest. We shall be in Budapest at the end of February … If you happen to be there … and wouldn’t mind seeing me again … you might perhaps have some news. I would be so grateful!’

‘Of course! I’ll see you with great pleasure!’

‘We shall probably be at the Hungaria, but I’m not sure because the agent arranges everything like that.’

Balint thought that Julie Ladossa would now put out her hand and leave; but she just stood there, without speaking, though she obviously had something on her mind. Her eyes were fixed far, far away and the vertical line on her forehead seemed even more deeply etched than before. Then, speaking swiftly and urgently, she looked at Abady and said, ‘Tell me! Tell me! Do you sometimes see Sandor Kendy, the one they call Crookface?’

‘Of course. Not often, but when I’m in Kolozsvar he sometimes comes to town.’

A strange, unexpected and cruel smile played across her lips. Then she straightened up so abruptly that she might have
suddenly
grown several inches taller. From under her thick lashes there flashed a look of uncontrollable hatred. ‘Well! If you see him again, tell him that we have met … and also what I’m doing now!’

Now she did put out her hand, and then, from the door, she spoke again, ‘Be sure to tell him that too … that too…’ and she laughed as she went out, a laugh that to Balint seemed filled with cruelty.

Balint stayed where he was, rooted to the spot.

What had she said? Why on earth should she want that of him?

And why did she ask after Crookface only now and not when she had enquired after all her other old friends? Why this
unexpected
commission … and, above all, why that demonic laughter?

How did it all fit together?

He tried to recall everything he had ever heard about Laszlo’s mother. He had never heard any mention of Sandor Kendy when people had talked about Julie Ladossa. Neither her
sister-in
-law, Princess Kollonich, nor even Aunt Lizinka who never left any piece of evil gossip unsaid, had ever mentioned him. It was true that no one had ever told him with whom she had eloped and it seemed that no one really knew, for Aunt Lizinka told many different stories, at one time saying it was with a hussar who
happened
to be riding by, or a waiter, or a tight-rope walker, but it was clear she was just improvising for she really knew nothing and her candidates for the culprit were always unknown men, never anyone they all knew like Sandor Kendy. Crookface was surely above suspicion.

This was how Balint’s first thoughts took him; but then other memories came into his mind. There had been that evening he had spent at Crookface’s manor at Kis-Keresztur where he had seen the portrait of a lovely young woman he had taken to be Crookface’s deaf wife when young. It was quite a logical
assumption
because the picture had been exactly like Countess Kendy dressed for a costume ball, for her gown had been in the style of the eighties, old-fashioned now and covered with the frills of the past. He remembered that he had asked about this but had not been given an answer.

Now he also remembered that the picture seemed at one time to have been damaged. There had been signs of a repair to a
diagonal
gash that had once sliced the picture almost in two, right down to the little painted bouquets on the skirt. He had noticed it then but something in the gruff old man’s manner had prevented him from asking about it. Many years before he had heard that
when Julie Ladossa had bolted Mihaly Gyeroffy had slashed at her portrait and flung it out of the window. Could Crookface’s picture have been that portrait? And if it was, how had it got to Keresztur? And why?

Had Kendy married that gentle deaf girl who was not of his class just because she was so like that other who had flung out of his life with a peal of demonic laughter some thirty years before?

These were all unconnected fragments from an untold story. For a moment Balint felt almost ashamed of himself, prying into matters that did not concern him. Let it all pass into oblivion, he said to himself. Let nobody know. One shouldn’t rake up the past. If there was one thing in a man’s life that should remain strictly private, and which was no concern of anyone else’s, it was his innermost feelings. Those were one’s own: to others they should be taboo.

He thought of his own love for Adrienne, a love that had now lasted ten years, and he was filled with happiness and gratitude. They had never misunderstood each other no matter what storms had afflicted their lives. Now it seemed they had reached port at last.

Until death do us part.

B
ALINT NEVER GAVE JULIE LADOSSA’S MESSAGE
to Crookface Kendy. In fact he had never intended to, but his conversation with the ‘Contessa’ did have one other result.

When the former Countess Gyeroffy was asking him about her son, Balint felt ashamed that he could tell her nothing about Laszlo except for a few generalities and ashamed that he had not thought about his cousin and childhood friend for many months. It was true that this was not his fault but Laszlo’s, who had rebuffed every gesture made towards him. The latest rejection had come when Balint had sent him a telegram to let him know that Countess Roza had just died and to offer to send over a car so that Laszlo could attend the funeral. Laszlo had not replied, not even with a message of condolence, nothing. Balint had been so offended by this that at the time he had felt he would never be able to forgive the cousin who had once been such a close friend. Now, however, he decided to bury his resentment and go
over to see Laszlo and try once again to become friends with him.

As soon as he got home to Denestornya he drove over to Kozard. The weather, as so often in Transylvania at the
beginning
of December, was sunny and mild.

He arrived about midday at the little house in which he knew Laszlo was living. The door of wooden laths that led through the crumbling fence was open. It looked as if it was never closed. Balint walked straight into the house. The first room he entered was the kitchen, and through this could be seen a room in total disorder, an unmade plank bed at one side, a rough wooden table nearby, a country cape of rough cloth hung on one wall and under it lay an ancient pair of peasant’s boots. None of this, thought Balint, could have belonged to Laszlo, so he walked through to the next room.

This was not much better, though the pinewood furniture had at least been polished. It looked as if it had come originally from one of the servants’ rooms at the manor house. On the chest of drawers lay a gun-case of ornate brass-bound leather engraved with Laszlo’s name inaccurately spelt ‘Count Ladislas Gieroffy’. This room had been tidied, the floor properly scoured and the windows opened to let in the air.

Balint walked round the house hoping to find Laszlo sitting on the sunny side. He wasn’t there. There was no one there. Then Balint saw that there was a girl standing at the far end of the
garden
, an adolescent girl who was washing laundry in the stream. He walked down to where she stood on the bank dipping the clothes in the water, soaping them and then scrubbing what she held on a little wooden board.

The girl was astonishingly lovely, so beautiful that Balint was lost for words when he finally came face to face with her. She had large doe-like eyes fringed by dark lashes and her long eyebrows were so fine they might have been painted on with a brush. Her face was a perfect oval and her skin both pale and rose-coloured. Her red lips were full, as red as blood, and she was as slim as a reed. The sleeves of her dress were turned up to the elbow and her smooth satiny arms were as rosy as her face and neck. Only her hands were roughened by hard work. She wore a kerchief tied round her head like all the peasants of that region, but her clothes had been made to be worn in the city, even if now they were worn and patched. Her apron was in rags and her bare feet were slipped into an old pair of ladies’ button boots which would have reached to mid-calf if most of the buttons had not disappeared years before.
No matter how old and dirty her clothes the girl was so beautiful that one forgot everything but that.

Balint greeted her and then said, ‘I’m looking for Laszlo Gyeroffy. Do you know where I can find him?’

The girl looked at him with a scornful expression on her
beautiful
face.

‘What do you want of him? Why are you looking for him?’ she asked sullenly.

‘I am his cousin, Balint Abady.’

The girl made a little curtsy, as good manners demanded.

‘I am Regina Bischitz.’ Then she added, ‘My father owns the village shop.’

‘Well, now we know each other,’ said Balint with a light laugh, ‘perhaps you could tell me where Laszlo is?’

Regina shrugged.

‘He’s not here. They took him to Szamos-Ujvar.’

‘They took him?’

‘Yes. That Fabian, he took him …’ and grabbing a shirt that was both filthy and torn, she held it up for a moment before her and then plunged it into the stream, wrung it out and started to rub it with soap.

‘Fabian? Who is this Fabian?’

‘Ugh!’ said the girl. ‘He is a bad man, that Fabian! He always takes him with him … and there he makes him drink, and … and carouse … and it is so bad for him. He’s a worthless
scoundrel
, that Fabian!’

‘If I knew where he was at Szamos-Ujvar I’d drive in and find him.’

‘You can’t go there, not there! It’s terrible!’ cried Regina, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘That Fabian, he takes him to see bad women, wicked women … that’s how he’s ruining him. The Count is so ill, so very ill and that’s why … and he makes him drink and drink … and …’

She stopped without saying the last word but balled up her hand into a fist and made as if she were hitting someone with it. Then she picked up the shirt again and started to rub it with such fury that if it had been the hated Fabian it would have been as if she were doing her best to choke all life out of what she held in her hands.

She turned away from Balint and, as she did so, she bent
forward
and huge tears fell from her face like a rain of large
diamonds
on the wet cloth she was holding so fiercely.

There was a fallen tree-trunk facing the girl. Balint sat down on it and waited for quite a long time. Finally the girl finished her work and stood there panting in front of him. Then he asked again when Laszlo would be back.

‘It’s no use waiting for him,’ said the girl. ‘Even if he does come soon he’ll be in a dreadful state, dreadful. He’ll mess up the room again … and I scrubbed it this morning early. Oh, I can do it! I do everything, the washing-up, the scrubbing, the airing, everything!’

She seemed overcome with sorrow. Then she sat down on the edge of a little bench, with her back very straight and her head inclined, staring at nothing.

‘Doesn’t he have any other servant?’

‘I am not his servant, I … I do it because I want to. I can’t bear to see … to see a gentleman like the Count … such a great gentleman … to see him … so uncared-for …’

‘Didn’t he have an old man called Marton looking after him? What happened to him?’

The girl waved her hand in the air.

‘He’s useless. He just cooks and cleans the Count’s boots,
nothing
else. He’s gone off again now, probably to lay snares in the woods. It’s the only thing that interests him. I do everything here because I can’t bear to see the filth he’d live in if I didn’t. No one knows I do it. It has to be in secret. I can only come when my father isn’t around and can’t see me leaving the shop. I can work here today because he’s gone to Kolozsvar. Most times I can only do it at night, or very early in the morning, because if he catches me I get a beating.’

She stopped and again looked straight ahead of her.

The kerchief fell from her head and her long Titian hair
fluttered
in the slight breeze. Sitting on the bench she was like a
statue
with her firm breasts straining the thin cloth of her blouse. She was very beautiful, a rose of Sharon not yet fully open but no longer a bud. Tears brimmed under her long lashes and then again rolled down her cheeks.

‘How old are you, child?’ asked Balint, trying to distract her from whatever she was thinking.

‘Fifteen,’ she muttered, but still went on staring in front of her. Then suddenly she broke out in a wail of complaint, though Balint could not tell whether she had sensed the sympathy in him or whether she was so filled with sorrow that she could not keep it to herself.

She spoke in broken phrases, with no words directly connected.

From her poured the story of how, some five years before, when Laszlo had been confined to his bed with pneumonia, she had watched by his bedside and nursed him back to health. Since then she had done everything for him, even stealing brandy when his credit at her father’s shop had been exhausted. Soap too, and paraffin.

She did everything. Always more and more, but always in vain, quite in vain.

‘In vain? What do you mean, in vain?’ asked Balint in astonishment.

‘Just that! In vain. He doesn’t speak to me … except when I bring him brandy. Then he just says “You’re a good little girl, Regina!” or “I’m glad you came, Regina!” But it’s not praise for me. It’s all he says, ever … and it’s only for the brandy, not for me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure all right. He accepts everything I do, but I never get a word of thanks. To him it’s nothing more than his due, nothing out of the ordinary that I should clean for him, tidy him up when he’s dead drunk, rub his arms and his legs with that horrid black ointment he has to have for that … that trouble he caught in Szamos-Ujvar.’

Now, at last, she jumped up, full with rebellion. ‘But me? Why, he doesn’t even pat my cheek!’

Balint wanted to reassure her and said, ‘I am sure that’s only because he thinks you’re still barely more than a child, Regina. He’s probably very fond of you in his own way.’

‘Do you really think so?’ she asked eagerly as she sat down again. Then, a shy smile came into her face and she said, ‘Yes, I suppose so, in his way. To him I’m just a sort of household pet who’s useful to him. I am the only person he talks to. He tells me – oh, so much about his life … and to me it is some little reward because he tells me about such wonderful things, and in such beautiful words.’ For a moment she seemed lost in thought, and then added sadly, ‘But since he’s got so thin he doesn’t talk much any more.’

Taken by surprise Abady said: ‘He’s got very thin? Since when?’

‘Just in the last few weeks. Of course he hardly eats at all. It’s hard for him to keep it down!’

Now Balint started to question the girl as to whether Laszlo
was seeing a doctor and what were his symptoms? Did he, for example, have little patches of red on his cheekbones? Regina answered all his questions quite intelligently. The doctor, she said, came every week. The Count coughed a lot, but not more than before. Those red spots? Yes, they did appear if he had drunk a lot… but otherwise? Maybe yes, at other times too.

Balint did not speak for a few moments. Then he said, ‘We ought to get him into a sanatorium. I could see that he was taken good care of… and he’d get trained nursing.’

‘Take him away? Away from here? cried Regina, distracted with fear, with terror lest they should take him away from her so that she would never see him again, never ever again. No, not that! Never that, her heart would break.

Regina now sensed that she had said too much and that she’d somehow endangered the man who had become her only reason for living. Now, at once, she had to cover up the truth for
otherwise
they would take Laszlo away from her; and so the words poured out of her, swiftly trying to take the sting out of anything serious she might have said: the doctor had praised her nursing and said it was quite adequate, and not only the doctor from Iklod who saw Laszlo every week, but also the chief consultant from Szamos-Ujvar who came over from time to time; also there was somebody else who saw to it that the Count was properly looked after. Dr Simay he was called, the same man who sent her father twenty florins every week for Laszlo’s food and who also paid the chemist’s bills.

‘Who is this Dr Simay?’

‘He’s a lawyer at Szamos-Ujvar. My father writes to him whenever … whenever something is needed.’

‘So he really is being properly looked after? All the time?’

‘Oh, yes! Ever since he was ill with pneumonia,’ insisted Regina.

Until then she had stuck fairly closely to the truth, but now she felt impelled to lie. Resolutely she then said, ‘All the doctors think he’s getting on very well and … and soon will be quite
himself
again.’

Abady was surprised.

‘But only just now you said he was losing weight and couldn’t keep his food down and you were afraid he’d soon die?’

Regina smiled.

‘Well, yes, I did say that, but I didn’t really mean it like that.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I … I … was upset that he’d gone … gone there again… for that… and so I said more than I meant. But it really isn’t as bad as that, really it isn’t.’

Young Regina played her chosen part so well that Balint believed her when she made out she had exaggerated everything out of jealousy and anger. Still, he did not want to leave without establishing some sort of contact with his old friend.

‘Look, my dear,’ he said as he took some money and a visiting card from his wallet, ‘I won’t wait for Laszlo this time, but I’m going to leave these two hundred crowns with you because I know I can trust you to use it for Laszlo if something happens and then you’ll be able to buy whatever he needs. And here is my address. If he does take a turn for the worse, or if I can be of help in any way whatever, please send me a telegram at once. You will, won’t you?’

‘Of course!’ she cried. ‘Of course I will; at once. I’ll send for you at once!’ and, as she spoke the words, inwardly she swore to herself, Never! Never! Never! Just so that you can take him away from me? Never that! Never ever that!

They shook hands near the stream. Balint had barely turned away when she was already back at work at her washing. Nevertheless she glanced covertly back at him several times,
fearing
that he might change his mind and wait for his cousin after all.

If he did that he would certainly take him away from her,
especially
if Laszlo came back dead drunk, for then it would be obvious that everything she had said about his getting better had been a lie.

She looked many times in the direction of the road until the engine had been started and the car driven swiftly away towards Kolozsvar. Only then did she relax.