Iza's Ballad (7 page)

She went into the hall, opened the door and looked out at the yard. The rain was still pouring down but it felt milder than in the afternoon. Captain spotted her and leapt up the steps. Ten years before he had done just the same, just as cheekily, when he skipped through their open door for the first time. It was 1 May and they were standing on the threshold, watching the flowers strewn from aeroplanes and the flight of doves that signalled the end of the day’s festivities in the main square, as promised by the papers. Suddenly there was a knocking sound at the gate and a creature rather like a black rabbit, no bigger than someone’s fist, slipped in. ‘Here’s the dove,’ said Vince, laughing, ‘strutting like a captain. It’s just that it’s black.’

The memory was so fresh, so hauntingly alive that she couldn’t bear to bend down to the animal but turned round into the hall. The neighbour’s cockerel crowed and slowly people woke. The sky was black, a single dark mass. ‘Dawn,’ thought the old woman. ‘I wonder if he can see it?’

It was warm in the bedroom, too warm after the damp dawn breeze on the doorstep. She threw off the dressing gown and prepared to lie down next to Iza again. The girl turned but didn’t wake: fast asleep and dreaming, her very breath a form of sadness. Now that she was facing the wall she could clearly see the picture, the painting above her bed that watched over her dreams. There goes the little girl, her basket on her arm, treading a rickety old footbridge, under the bridge a foaming mountain stream, her basket full of strawberries. You could practically hear the water beating at the rocks below, almost sucking her in, sweeping away the little aproned figure, and yet you wouldn’t worry for her, because an angel was hovering over her, its sandal-shod feet steady in the air above the loose planks, its two arms extended in protection round the child who is carefree, chasing a butterfly over the rocky depths and the small, severe river.

5

THE ORDER OF
the next few days was determined by rural funeral customs. The mourners who came home with her were not too fussed about proprieties and stayed longer than the generally approved fifteen minutes though the old woman didn’t mind: she liked talking about Vince. She served liqueur to her guests because the weather was unusually cold again, as if March were at war with itself, bringing hard winter days to frustrate the promise of spring. Iza said it was a barbaric custom having crowds round before a burial. She hated guests and was never at home. But there was no alternative and there was so much to do. Iza spent one morning at the clinic with Dekker, arranging things with the trade union social services, organised the funeral and was constantly negotiating at the estate office since it was no simple matter selling the house.

Apart from one unexpected local council member and a young clerk of court who was a total stranger, there was no one who failed to speak of Iza as well as Vince. Iza’s reputation, her important job and the money she sent monthly, the regular supply of fuel she ordered for her parents, how she took them to the shoe shop, to the tailor’s and to the doctor, was a matter of constant street gossip. The idea that she was moving her mother to Budapest was no surprise to anyone. Iza couldn’t have done anything else; that was just the way she was. She was not only a brilliant doctor, a properly grateful child, but a good person. Mrs Szo
̋
cs must be so pleased with her. Old Vince had gone, of course, poor thing, but here was his daughter to take his place as protector. What delight it must be to move to Budapest, to leave sad memories behind and to enjoy a happy old age in new circumstances: it was not just to be free of cares and worries but to avoid loneliness at seventy-five and to give oneself over to peaceful reflection! Iza would look after her, she’d have nothing to worry about for the rest of her life.

Iza really did do everything for her mother, even tiny, insignificant-looking things. She cooked for her, made sure she ate, and when the doorbell rang and she happened to be at home she ran to answer it to make sure her mother didn’t have to rush. Her great head of hair floated after her as she made speed. Vince hadn’t been the same for ages and had to be excused various duties so all the responsibility was on the old woman’s shoulders, right down to apparently small and insignificant tasks like opening the gate, which could be a serious problem when it rained in the winter because of the mud. Now it was Iza who would run to answer in the heavy downpour in her black skirt and pullover, looking as young as she had when she lived in the house as a girl, or as a bride of two days.

There was plenty for her to do and not much time for crying or thinking.

Before she left Pest she had taken a few days out of those due for her summer vacation and wanted to settle everything in that time – the funeral, discussions about the inheritance, the sale of now useless possessions, the moving and even the matter of the house. ‘I don’t want you to be involved in the removals,’ she told her mother, ‘you wouldn’t be able to stop helping me and you won’t be in top condition after the funeral. You’re going to take a couple of days off in Dorozs, mama, I’ll phone the sanatorium this evening. There you can relax, have a lie-in, look at the trees, read, sleep and buy a couple of sessions at the baths because it looks as though your bones need it. Once I’ve arranged everything I’ll come to fetch you. Dekker is going to Pest on the eleventh and can give us both a lift in his car.’

Dorozs was a nearby town some fifteen kilometres away and had a sulphur-iodine spa whose hot waters had been described three hundred years ago, though the spa-sanatorium in the park was only six years old. It was a place they had longed to go to and had several times decided to take a trip there but, though there was an hourly bus, something always got in the way so they never went, just as they had never made it to the seaside, or to a good many other places in the world that they had talked about and prepared for. The old woman looked down into her lap as she listened to Iza’s offer, then felt around for her handkerchief. It made her so happy to think how much Iza loved her and took care of her, but she had never been so sad in her life as when she finally went to Dorozs.

It was an enormous relief to her that she wouldn’t have to live by herself in a house bereft of Vince, but it was terrifying not to be present while Iza packed up ready for the removal men. ‘You’d only torture yourself,’ retorted Iza, ‘you have spent enough time crying. I know my flat, know where I am taking you, I know where things will fit and what will look best. I want you to be happy from now on.’ The thought that she would be looked after, that someone else would do her thinking for her, moved her again: her eyes filled with tears of gratitude. Iza was right, of course, she always was, it really would be awful if she herself had to pack Vince’s belongings, it might be quite beyond her to fold away his familiar old-fashioned clothes and his brightly coloured caps. Ever since he got older, Vince had refused to wear proper hats and always wore caps with visors. Let Iza get on with packing those, once they are up in Pest and she feels better, she can put them into some order and stow them in the wardrobe. It will be as though both of them had moved up to live with Iza and maybe she would even talk to Vince’s walking stick sometimes, or his heavy glass, his tin can, the one he used to warm shaving water in on the stove when the winter was extra cold. She secretly hoped that they could take everything to the city with them. Iza hadn’t received a proper trousseau when she got married and Vince in particular felt very ashamed that it was only their own belongings they could share. Now she could happily make a gift of the lot, let it all go to Pest. She watched the girl’s face in hope that she might like the idea of the gift but Iza shook her head and told her not to worry about things like that but to leave the job of moving to her. She calmly accepted: Iza always knew everything better than she did and no doubt she knew better now. Pity it seemed she couldn’t take everything. Well, no doubt the girl would choose what she thought they would need in the big city, and as for the rest . . .

It does no good to think about that, she thought, so she turned her mind elsewhere.

She had spent a lifetime with this furniture that had grown old and tired along with her, every piece with a history of its own. It hurt that she couldn’t take it all. It hurt that she couldn’t take the entire house and carry it with her to Budapest, because the house was only frightening if she had to be alone in it; if her daughter could be with her it would the most desirable of residences. But Iza had a freehold flat, why should they continue to pay tax on the house – if she wants to sell it, that’s what she should do. And who would buy it? Anyone – she wished them well of it. But it was a shame about the little things that would have to be left behind. Never mind, there was no way round it. When Vince was alive he arranged everything for her, now it would be Iza. Wasn’t it great that she wouldn’t have to negotiate with the property office!

The night before the funeral, on that wholly unexpected evening, just as Iza was struggling to prepare a fish in the unheated kitchen, Antal appeared again. It was she, for once, who let him in. Iza was frying fish in breadcrumbs and she shouted to her to open the gate as she had to attend to the meal. It was raining, as it had done constantly for days. Antal was bareheaded, and his hair and brow were dripping. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him in a hat; in winter his head was always covered in snow. Hearing his steps, Iza looked out of the kitchen. Seeing it was him, her face immediately froze into a polite smile. She excused herself, said she was cooking and asked if he fancied supper with them because there was enough. Antal thanked her and said he had already eaten. That clearly wasn’t true but it wasn’t something you could argue with.

Antal didn’t beat about the bush. He asked how much it was for the house. Last time Iza was at the clinic she mentioned it was for sale. He himself was looking to move and would be pleased to buy it if they could agree a price.

She stared at Antal in astonishment. She hadn’t thought of him as someone who would ever buy a house.

‘If you cared to leave some furniture behind, mama,’ said Antal, ‘I would be happy to take that off your hands too.’

She looked so delighted, she hadn’t felt as happy since just before Dekker’s diagnosis three months before. She still didn’t know what Iza wanted to keep or sell, but she was already sorry for such items as fell into other hands; it was as if they were endowed with life, with voices and feelings, that they were beings who, having enjoyed long-term security, were now obliged to go into exile and spend the night in strange people’s houses, sighing for home. Antal, it is true, had abandoned them, but in some ways he did belong here.

But, having heard this, she had to call in Iza now.

Iza smelled of fish and oil, and this made her unrecognisable in some way. Iza was always so clean, so cool, it was as if she wanted to distance her body from the grime and grease of housekeeping, so she was quite shocked to see her flushed with cooking. There was something in Iza that didn’t resist this time: she was about more important business so she let the kitchen get the better of her. ‘It’s a matter of care and necessity,’ the girl had explained once. ‘A person can be in possession of herself, even in a kitchen.’ She was not in possession now: cooking and its ingredients had overcome her composure. Iza was less bothered with herself this evening. What was she bothered with?

She stood and listened to the reason for his visit. Later the old woman would be puzzled to explain the peculiar look on her face. For some reason she did not seem to welcome Antal’s offer. She was inwardly praying that her daughter, whatever her reasons, would not reject it. If they couldn’t be here at least let Antal remain. She didn’t dare say anything since all her life it was someone else who arranged things, but deep inside her she would have been willing to let the house go at any price Antal offered, provided the dragon spout was looked after and Antal was conscientious about watering Vince’s flowers. Antal had always helped Vince chop wood and knew that the trunk they used to cut on had its own pet name, Dagi.

‘Do you really want to settle here?’ asked Iza.

Her voice was calm and so controlled that even the old woman noticed it was costing her a great deal of effort to hold something back, that there was an unspoken question lurking somewhere in the background. Antal didn’t answer but looked for his cigarettes while Iza just stood there. The old woman muttered something, feeling Iza wouldn’t mind if on this one occasion she broke the agreement not to leave them together by themselves. Yesterday, or the day before yesterday, they had after all been obliged to speak to each other when Iza was at the clinic thanking Dekker and that nurse for their kindness. She whispered something about supper and sneaked out. The oil was simmering on the cooker though Iza had taken the pan off the flame. Suddenly she felt she couldn’t eat a mouthful: the oily half of the fish was glimmering as if it were alive.

She sat out there a good while till eventually Iza raised her voice to tell her Antal was leaving.

‘Have you agreed?’ she asked in hope.

He was setting off but the old woman didn’t want to let him go out unescorted so she saw him out. Antal hesitated in the doorway for a moment, as though he wanted to say something conciliatory or reassuring but said nothing in the end, simply kissed her, turned up his collar and went off into the rain. She gazed after him until he was gone, though it wasn’t Antal she wanted to see but the image, to hold on to it as long as possible, the gentle curve of the street, the lights in the windows, Kolman’s crude but proudly lit shop display. People squelched their way through the water, the tops of their umbrellas flashing in the light. The wind was southerly again, the clouds, the moonless sky, squatting on the low roofs. It was the first time in her life she felt the earth was round, not flat; that it was slowly but unmistakably turning under her feet. How could Vince’s tiny and ever more wasted body represent such security for her? She stood there, leaning against the gatepost that hadn’t seemed quite real to her for days, as if Vince had taken the reality of the stones and planks away with him and left only a ball of white noise, a mere fog behind. Under the teeming March evening and the cloudburst sky she felt once more, as for the last time, the close physical presence of Vince, his grey hair floating around the street lamp at the bend of the road. Fog was settling, a spring mist, and in the distance she could hear the swish of wheels cutting through standing water in the rain-drenched main road.