Csardas (37 page)

“Of course she won’t,” said Malie, speaking with a confidence she did not feel. “She did like Felix at one time, but over the last few months she has hardly seen him.” It was true. Since Horthy had ridden into Budapest and the land had returned to some kind of post-war settlement, Felix had been seen less and less in the town. He had spent most of the winter and early spring up on the farm because “his mother needed him.” And whatever she needed him for, it had finally culminated in this.

“You don’t blame me, do you, Malie? You and Eva, you will always be my friends, won’t you?”

“Of course, my darling. We’re family, aren’t we? How could we be anything else but your friends?”

She vowed she would do anything to make Eva gracious and kind to Kati in spite of the disappointment and misery she must be feeling. Every instinct she possessed told her that Kati was going to need friends in the years that lay ahead.

Eva still couldn’t believe it. She lay on her bed alternating between absolute and complete misery and the optimistic belief that it was all a mistake that would very soon be put right. He couldn’t possibly be going to marry Kati! Beautiful, handsome, smooth, charming Felix, tied in wedlock to lumpy old Kati? Why, it was disgusting! And whereas at one time she had despaired of ever coming close enough to Felix to believe he would share intimacies with her, since his revelations about the war all the formality and unnaturalness had vanished from their relationship. She reflected briefly on Felix’s confidences, a subject she forced herself never to dwell on too often. Felix had turned to her in shame and fear. Since that time he had turned to her again and again, seeking reassurance and sanity from her acceptance of his confession. She had watched him and helped him become normal and happy again. She had cheered him when he was depressed, flattered his declining confidence, and once held him in her arms when he cried. He had told her all the things he never told anyone else, and he had told her that he didn’t know what he would do without her. And now, this. It was a mistake! They couldn’t have spent all that time together, shared all those things if he hadn’t meant to marry her!

And in the midst of knowing it was a mistake, an error that Kati and Aunt Gizi had made between them, her confidence would plummet and other memories would force their way into her miserable heart. He had never asked her to marry him. In all that time, over a year, he had never actually said, “Marry me, Eva.”

He had said that she was the dearest friend he had in the whole world. He had told her he thought he would go mad if it wasn’t for her. But he had never, not once, actually mentioned the word marriage. She had hinted that it was all right to ask Papa, that there would be nothing but gratification from her family, and still, somehow, Felix had continued to call, to monopolize her time, without ever saying he wanted to marry her. And he had never, not once, tried—well, what other young men tried when no one was looking, the impertinent squeeze and caress, the kisses that were more than the kisses of friendship, the careless but calculated brushing of her body when walking or dancing. Felix had often held her hand and gazed into her eyes, and she had loved it because it was just like Felix to be so romantic. But why had he never tried to kiss her? There had been opportunity enough. Why had he never spoken of love but only of friendship?

Between tears and anger, between believing she would kill herself and believing she would kill him, she finally found a suspicion growing, the suspicion that Felix had used her and that he had never, at any time, had any idea of marrying other than for the very best and most advantageous of reasons.

In an interview later with Papa it seemed she was right. Papa, sad for her, humiliated for his family, told her something of Gizi’s revelations to him in the study. Madame Kaldy and Gizi between them had hatched up a monstrous plot to their mutual satisfaction. The details were not entirely known, but obviously an exchange had been arranged between money and good name. The idea had come from Madame Kaldy, and Gizi had been delighted to respond.

As she listened the misery in her heart turned to disgust and venomous dislike—not for Felix, surprisingly enough, but for Madame Kaldy. The old witch had used her, used her to cheer Felix and make him well again, and then when the need for the little Ferenc girl was over, she had forced him into a marriage she had chosen herself. Felix was weak and vacillating—oh, yes, she had learned that, and had discovered that it made no difference. She had still wanted him; she could have made him happy and herself too. But the old woman had taken him away, and the seed of resentment in her chest turned gradually to rancour and hatred.

Papa droned on, wanting to comfort his little girl and at the same time show the world that none of them had wanted Felix Kaldy.

“I consider, Eva, that the young man has behaved abominably. He has abused our hospitality and hurt us all. But there is no way that we can avoid him; he is marrying Kati and we shall be forced to include him in our family gatherings. For that reason, my dear child, you must try to hide your disappointment; you must try to show him that you care nothing for his bad manners and treachery. In time you will come to care nothing for him and we shall perhaps be able to forgive him. But until that time, you must remember you are my daughter, a Ference, and behave with pride and independence.”

Papa paused and took her hand in his.

“We don’t need anyone, Eva. We are Ferencs.” He paused again and continued haltingly. “I... I have been rejected in various ways throughout my life, Eva. And I was enabled to bear my rejections because of pride, and that pride finally carried me to a point where I no longer needed the friendship and approval of others. It is possible to stand alone, if you are a Ferenc.”

She supposed it was meant to help her, but she didn’t understand at all. She knew Papa intended to comfort her, and she smiled and said, “Yes, Papa,” and then went to bed. And on the way she reflected that as well as being a Ferenc she was a Bogozy, and that was why Madame Kaldy hated her. And so she would go on being a Bogozy, and she would continue to make Madame Kaldy hate her. It was a decision made coldly and with finality. But decisions regarding the emotions are difficult to keep, and later the hatred drowned in a welter of loneliness and despair, and like any other discarded girl she cried herself to sleep.

When the summer of 1920 came Papa said they would have to hire a coach to take them to the farm. They still had the carriage and the pony cart, but Sultan had been sold. (The boys had remained silent for several days afterwards and Leo, particularly, wouldn’t go into the stables at all.)

They hadn’t been to the farm since the spring of 1919 when Uncle Sandor was killed, and Malie found the thought of the journey there a depressing prospect. Uncle Sandor’s body had been removed and buried properly in the graveyard, but the spot where everything had happened still had to be passed for the first time.

At the eleventh hour they were saved, from the hired coach at least. Mr. Klein sent word from Budapest that he would like to see their country property and offered to drive them up himself. The invitation was graciously accepted. And when Mr. Klein arrived at the house they found they were not being taken in a carriage. Mr. Klein had a motorcar!

He said there wouldn’t be room for all of them in the vehicle, so Papa, who had business to conduct in town, said he would follow in a day or two. And as Papa was constantly tired and worried these days, Eva offered to stay with him for company. In truth she was not looking forward to the country this summer, a country swarming with Kaldy and Racs-Rassay relatives all preparing for the wedding. She was relieved to delay her departure for a few days, and Papa’s preoccupation was a selfless and noble excuse.

Mama, Amalia, and the boys climbed nervously into the motorcar. It was huge and had brown leather upholstery and polished brass fittings. The boys were awed for a short while, and then the novelty, the speed, and the anticipated envy of their schoolfellows drove everything else out of their minds. They sped along the road, out of the town, with passers-by standing gawping at them. Leo and Jozsef were blatantly boastful, waving and grinning out of the windows and finally even Malie felt herself smiling, wanting to laugh at the grandeur and foolishness of it all. Mama was hysterical with excitement and floods of reminiscences poured forth: how she had raced her brother’s coach against one of Vienna’s leading horsemen, how she had once ridden all night after a party in order to reach Baden for breakfast, how she had staked a large sum of money at the races and had fainted from excitement as her horse passed the winning post. Her eyes sparkled, and her face glowed. She had, during the last two years, begun to look older; the small heart-shaped face had become pinched and the black hair was streaked with white. But now she was young again. She looked like Eva.

Malie, uncertain and nervous of Mr. Klein, nonetheless felt gratitude for the help he was unwittingly giving them. The place where Uncle Sandor was killed grew closer. Mama and Jozsef didn’t appear to be noticing, so lost were they in the rush of wind, but Leo was suddenly quiet and Malie put her hand over his and squeezed it. Before they had a chance to be unhappy the place had vanished, obliterated by the speed of the motorcar. Mr. Klein had certainly proved useful.

Once they had left the good roads, Mr. Klein had to drive much slower and they bumped and slid over the dirt surfaces, but even so it was far, far smoother than riding in a coach. They turned into the acacia woods, and for the first time Malie couldn’t smell the flowers around them or the delicate blossoms in the air; everything was subordinated to the smell of petrol and machinery. It was a new and rather exotic experience.

The day, begun so well, continued with surprises. When they drove into the yard of the farm, geese and ducks flapping away from the noisy machine, there was an old man, a cripple, with two crutches and a leg severed just above the knee, waiting at the bottom of the steps. They stared politely at him, wondering what function he was fulfilling around the yard and house. Roza came out and stood beside him.

“He has come back to me!” she whispered tremulously. “My Zoltan has come back.”

They looked at the old man who smiled and nodded and said, “Madame Ferenc, children, it is good to see you. And it is so good to be home again!” His face was phlegmatic but the eyes were pleading and sad: Recognize me! Show me I have not changed!

Mama swept forward—she was always so good on this kind of occasion—and placed her hand on Uncle Zoltan’s cheek. “Zoltan, old friend! How we have missed you! And how the farm has missed you!”

Malie kissed him, but the boys were shy and embarrassed. They had only the dimmest memories of Uncle Zoltan, and this dried-up old cripple bore no resemblance at all to the large farmer of distant time. Their withdrawal was swallowed up in Roza’s explanations.

“All these years in a Russian prison camp! And three days ago I received a letter telling me that my Zoltan was alive and would be sent home again, and hardly have I finished reading the letter when there is a cart in the yard, and I look, and there”—her face twisted with renewed emotion—“there is my Zoltan!”

They sat round the kitchen table, just like old times, and Zoltan told them all the things that had happened to him: the prison camp, and getting his leg shot while trying to escape, and how the Bolsheviks had not told them when the war had ended but how they had somehow known, and finally how the Russians had turned the prisoners loose at the frontier.

He was a sad old man now. He had come back to a wife grown unrecognizably old like himself and to the knowledge that one of his sons was dead. But even so, the return of Uncle Zoltan was a contribution towards the reinstatement of the past, the past that meant stability and a return of the old world.

Malie realized, after several moments had passed, that Mr. Klein had gracefully vanished from the domestic scene as soon as they had arrived. When she went to the door and looked out into the yard she saw him standing by his motorcar, gazing round at the farm and woods and land in a contemplative way. She began to walk towards him, then changed her mind and went to fetch Mama so that he could be shown to his room.

When they had first known Mr. Klein would be coming to the farm, Malie had tried to imagine how he would fit in, but her imagination bad failed. At the farm they lived casually, simply. There was no grand entertaining and everyone behaved and dressed in a relaxed and informal way. The thought of Mr. Klein with his smooth well-cut city suits and his sad sophisticated manners adapting himself to country life was completely incongruous.

Indeed, when he came to breakfast on the first morning he did look wrong, but not as wrong as she had expected. He was wearing riding breeches and boots, as expensive as everything else he wore. They looked wrong because there were no horses for riding any more, only the poor old things left from the war that pulled the carts around the farm. But Mr. Klein obviously didn’t expect to ride. He walked round the farm, studying the fields and animals, and in the afternoons he changed into a cream tussore suit and took everyone for drives in the motorcar. Once he suggested a picnic.

“We could go up to the Meadow, Malie!” Jozsef said eagerly. “We haven’t been to the Meadow for years!”

“No!”

“Oh, Malie, why not?”

But Leo remembered. He remembered the golden afternoons with Karoly and the times they had fallen in the brook. He didn’t want to go there either, any more than he wanted to go down to the river, to the place where Uncle Sandor had taken them that first time.

‘“I don’t want to go either,” he said stoutly.

Mr. Klein gazed upon them, each in turn, a reflective gaze, studying their faces, thinking.

“So,” he said at last. “Then we shall not go.”

Malie found Mr. Klein something of a strain at first. She couldn’t say what was the matter except that he was always there. Sometimes—most times—Mama was there too, on other occasions the boys were present, but Malie always felt that she must be the one to entertain, to listen, to talk, to see that Mr. Klein was not bored. But gradually she came to realize that Mr. Klein was quite happy not to be entertained. Walking through the acacia woods, driving in the motorcar, watching the hay being cut, he was content to remain silent and have her silent also.