Satantango (2 page)

Vigilance!
sign among the disturbing riot of normally ordered flavors. Death, he felt, was only a kind of warning rather than a desperate and permanent end. “It’s not as if I’m asking for a gift,” Schmidt continued, growing tired: “It’s a loan. You understand? A loan. I’ll return every last cent of it in precisely a year.” They sat at the table, both of them worn out. Schmidt’s eyes were burning from exhaustion, Futaki was furiously studying the mysterious patterns of the stone tiling. He mustn’t show he is afraid, he thought, though he would have found it hard to explain what it was he was afraid of. “Just tell me this. How many times did I go out to Szikes, all by myself, in that intolerable heat where a man is scared to breathe the air in case it sets fire to his insides?! Who got hold of the wood? Who built that sheepfold?! I have contributed just as much as you, or Kráner, or Halics! And now you have the nerve to touch me for a loan. Oh yes, and it’ll all be returned next time I see you, eh?!” “In other words,” Schmidt replied, affronted, “you don’t trust me.” “Damn right!” Futaki snapped back. “You and Kráner meet up before dawn, planning to make off with all the money and then you expect me to trust you?! Do you take me for an idiot?” They sat silently together. The woman was clattering dishes by the stove. Schmidt looked defeated. Futaki’s hands trembled as he rolled a cigarette and got up from the table, limped over to the window, leaned on his stick with his left hand and watched rain billowing over the rooftops. The trees were leaning with the wind, their bare branches describing threatening arcs in the air. He thought of their roots, the life-giving sap, of the soaked earth and of the silence, of the unspoken feeling of completion he so dreaded. “In that case tell me. . . .!” he asked in a hesitant manner, “Why you came back, once . . .” “Why? why?!” Schmidt grumbled. “Because that’s what occurred to us — and before we could think better of it we were on the way home, and back . . . And then there was the woman . . . Would I have left her here? . . .” Futaki nodded understandingly. “What about the Kráners?” he asked after a while. “What’s your arrangement with them?” “They’re stuck here, like us. They want to head north. Mrs. Kráner heard there was an old neglected orchard or something there. We are to meet by the crossroads after dark. That’s what we arranged.” Futaki gave a sigh: “A long day ahead. What about the others? Like Halics? . . .” Schmidt rubbed his fingers together despondently: “How should I know? Halics will probably sleep the whole day. There was a big party yesterday at the Horgoses. His highness, the manager, can go to hell on the first bus! If there’s any trouble on his account, I’ll drown the sonofabitch in the next ditch, so relax, pal, relax.” They decided to wait in the kitchen till night fell. Futaki drew up a chair by the window so he could keep an eye on the houses opposite while Schmidt was overcome by sleep, slumped over the table, and began to snore. The woman brought the big iron-strapped military trunk out from behind the cupboards, wiped away the dust, inside and out, then wordlessly began packing their things. “It’s raining,” said Futaki. “I can hear,” replied the woman. The weak sunlight only just succeeded in penetrating a jumbled mass of clouds that was slowly proceeding eastwards: the light in the kitchen dimmed as if it were dusk and it was hard to know whether the gently vibrating patches on the wall were merely shadows or the symptoms of the despair underlying their faintly hopeful thoughts. “I’ll go south,” Futaki declared, gazing at the rain. “At least the winters are shorter there. I’ll rent a little land near some town that’s growing and spend the day dangling my feet in a bowl of hot water . . .” Raindrops were gently trickling down both sides of the window because of the finger-wide crack that ran all the way from the wooden beam to the window frame, slowly filling it up then pushing their way along the beam where they divided once more into drops that began to drip into Futaki’s lap, while he, being so absorbed in his visions of far away places that he couldn’t get back to reality, failed to notice that he was actually wet. “Or I might go and take a job as a night watchman in a chocolate factory . . . or perhaps as janitor in a girls’ boarding school . . . and I’ll try to forget everything, I’ll do nothing but soak my feet in a bowl of hot water each night, while this filthy life passes . . .” The rain that had been gently pouring till now suddenly turned into a veritable deluge, like a river breaking over a dam, drowning the already choking fields, the lowest lying of which were riddled with serpentine channels, and though it was impossible to see anything through the glass he did not turn away but stared at the worm-eaten wooden frame from which the putty had dropped out, when suddenly a vague form appeared at the window, one that eventually could be made out to be a human face, though he couldn’t tell at first whose it was, until he succeeded in picking out a pair of startled eyes, at which point he saw “his own careworn features” and recognized them with a shock like a stab of pain since he felt that what the rain was doing to his face was exactly what time would do. It would wash it away. There was in that reflection something enormous and alien, a kind of emptiness radiating from it, moving towards him, compounded of layers of shame, pride and fear. Suddenly he felt the sour taste in his mouth again and he remembered the bells tolling at dawn, the glass of water, the bed, the acacia bough, the cold flagstones in the kitchen and, thinking of it all, he made a bitter face. “A bowl of hot water! . . . Devil take it! . . . Don’t I bathe my feet every day . . . ?” he pouted. Somewhere behind him there was the sound of choked-off sobbing. “And what’s bugging you then?” Mrs. Schmidt did not answer him but turned away, her shoulders shaking with the sobs. “You hear me? What’s the matter with you?” The woman looked up at him then simply sat down on the nearby stool and blew her nose like someone for whom speech was pointless. “Why don’t you say something?” Futaki insisted: “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Where on earth can we go!” erupted Mrs. Schmidt: “The first town we come to some policeman is bound to stop us! Don’t you understand? They won’t even ask our names!” “What are you blathering about?” Futaki angrily retorted: “We will be loaded with money, and as for you . . .” “That’s exactly what I mean!” the woman interrupted him: “The money! You at least might have some sense! To go away with this rotten old trunk . . . like a band of beggars!” Futaki was furious. “That’s enough, now! Keep out of this. It has nothing to do with you. Your job is to shut up.” Mrs. Schmidt would not let it rest. “What?” she snapped: “What’s my job?” “Forget it,” Futaki answered quietly. “Keep it down or you’ll wake him up.” Time was passing very slowly and, luckily for them, the alarm clock had long ago stopped working so there wasn’t even the sound of ticking to remind them of time, yet nevertheless the woman gazed at the still hands as she gave the paprika stew the occasional stir while the two men sat wearily by the steaming plates in front of them, not touching their spoons despite Mrs. Schmidt’s constant badgering for them to get on with it (“What are you waiting for? Do you want to eat at night, soaked to the bone in the mud?”). They did not turn the light on although objects washed into each other during the agonizing wait, the pans by the wall coming to life along with the icons and it even seemed there was someone in the bed. They hoped to escape these hallucinatory visions by stealing glances at one another but all three faces radiated helplessness, and while they knew they couldn’t get started till nightfall (because they were sure that Mrs. Halics or the manager would be sitting at their windows watching the path to Szikes with even greater anxiety now that Schmidt and Kráner were almost half a day late), every so often Schmidt or the woman made a move as if to say, screw caution, let’s make a start. “They’re off to see a movie,” Futaki quietly declared. “Mrs. Halics, Mrs. Kráner and the manager, Halics.” “Mrs. Kráner?” Schmidt snapped: “Where?” And he rushed to the window. “He’s right. He’s damn right,” Mrs. Schmidt nodded. “Hush!” Schmidt turned on her: “Don’t be in such a hurry, sweetheart!” Futaki calmed him: “That’s a smart woman. We have to wait till dark anyway, don’t we? And this way no one gets suspicious, right?” Schmidt was edgy but sat back down at the table and buried his face in his hands. Futaki carried on despondently puffing smoke by the window. Mrs. Schmidt drew out a length of twine from the depths of the kitchen cupboard and, because the locks were too rusty to close, tied the trunk up with it and set it down by the door before sitting down next to her husband and clasping her hands. “What are we waiting for?” asked Futaki. “Let’s split up the money.” Schmidt stole a glance at his wife. “Don’t we have plenty of time for that, pal?” Futaki rose and joined them at the table. He spread his legs and, rubbing his stubbled chin, fixed his eyes on Schmidt: “I say we split it up.” Schmidt ran a hand over his brow. “What are you worried about? You’ll get your share when it’s time.” “Then what are you waiting for, pal?” “What’s with the fuss? Let’s wait till we get Kráner’s contribution.” Futaki smiled. “Look, it’s very simple. We just halve what you’ve got there. Then when we get what’s owing we’ll split that up at the crossroads.” “All right,” Schmidt agreed. “Fetch the flashlight.” “I’ll get it,” the woman leapt up, agitated. Schmidt plunged his hand into his trench coat and brought out a package tied round with string, somewhat drenched through. “Wait,” cried Mrs. Schmidt and quickly wiped the table with a rag. “Now.” Schmidt shoved a piece of paper under Futaki’s nose. (“The document,” he said, “just so you see I am not trying to cheat you”) who tipped his head to one side and briefly took stock of it before pronouncing: “Let’s get counting.” He pressed the flashlight into the woman’s hand and watched the bank notes with shining eyes as they passed through Schmidt’s stubby fingers and slowly piled up at the far side of the table, and, as he watched, his anger slowly evaporated, because now he understood how “a man’s head might get so confused by the sight of so much cash that he’d risk a lot to possess it.” Suddenly he felt his stomach cramp up, his mouth filled with saliva and, as the sweat-spotted wad in Schmidt’s hand began to shrink and swell the piles on the other side of the table, the light from the flickering unsteady light in Mrs. Schmidt’s hand seemed to be shining in his eyes as if she were deliberately doing it to blind him and he felt dizzy and weak, recovering only when Schmidt’s cracked voice announced: “That’s the precise amount!” But just as he was reaching forward to take his half share somebody right by the window shouted: “Are you in, Mrs. Schmidt, darling?” Schmidt snatched the flashlight from his wife’s hand and snapped it off, pointing to the table, whispering: “Quick, hide it!” Mrs. Schmidt, lightning fast, swept it all together and stuffed the bills between her breasts, mouthing almost silently: “Miss-us Ha-lics!” Futaki sprang to conceal himself between the range and the cupboard, back tight against the wall, visible only as two phosphorescent points, as if he were a cat. “Go out and tell her to go to hell!” Schmidt whispered, escorting her as far as the door where she froze for an instant before giving a sigh and stepping out into the hall, clearing her throat as she did so. “All right, all right, I’m going!” “We’ll be fine providing she didn’t see the light!” Schmidt whispered to Futaki though he himself did not really believe that, and having hidden himself behind the door was so nervous he had a hard time standing still. “If she dares take a step in I’ll throttle her,” he thought in desperation and swallowed hard. Those early morning bells, Mrs. Halics’s unexpected appearance — it must be a conspiracy, there must be some significant connection, and as the slowly drifting smoke enveloped him it fired his imagination once more. “Maybe there’ll be life on the estate yet? They might bring new machines, new people might come, everything could start all over again. They could mend the walls, give the buildings a fresh coat of lime-wash and get the pump-house going. They might need a machinist, mightn’t they?” Mrs. Schmidt stood in the door, her face pale. “You can come out,” she said in a hoarse voice and turned on the light. Schmidt leapt over to her, blinking furiously. “What are you doing? Turn it off! They might see us!” Mrs. Schmidt shook her head. “Forget it. Everyone knows I’m at home, don’t they?” Schmidt was obliged to nod in acknowledgment as he grabbed her arm. “So what happened? Did she notice the light?” “Yes,” Mrs. Schmidt replied, “but I told her I was so nervous on account of you still not having returned that I fell asleep waiting and when I suddenly woke and turned the light on the bulb blew. I said I was just changing the bulb when she called out and that was why the flashlight was on . . .” Schmidt murmured in approval then grew anxious again: “What about us? What did she say . . . did she spot us?” “No, I’m certain she didn’t.” Schmidt breathed a sigh of relief. “Then what in God’s name did she want?” The woman looked blank. “She’s gone mad,” she replied quietly. “No surprise there,” Schmidt remarked. “She said . . . ,” Mrs. Schmidt added, her voice hesitant, looking now at Schmidt, now at the tensely attentive Futaki, “she said that Irimiás and Petrina were coming down the road . . . they’re on their way to the estate! And that they might already have arrived at the bar . . .” For a minute or so neither Futaki nor Schmidt were capable of saying anything. “Apparently the driver of the long-distance bus . . . he saw them in town . . . ,” the woman broke the silence and bit her lip. “And that he set out — they set out — for the estate in this filthy weather, worse than judgment day . . . The driver saw them as he turned off for Elek, that’s where he has his farmstead, as he was hurrying home.” Futaki sprang to his feet: “Irimiás? And Petrina?” Schmidt gave a laugh. “That woman.
Mrs. Halics really has gone mad this time. She’s been at her Bible too much. It’s gone to her head.” Mrs. Schmidt stood stock still. Then she spread out her helpless arms and ran over to the range and flung herself on the stool propping her head on her hand: “Should it be true . . .” Schmidt turned on her, impatient: “But they’re dead!” “If it should be true . . . ,” Futaki repeated quietly as if completing Mrs. Schmidt’s line of thought, “then the Horgos kid was simply lying . . .” Mrs. Schmidt suddenly raised her head to look at Futaki. “And we had only his word for it,” she said. “That’s right,” Futaki nodded and lit another cigarette, his hand trembling: “And do you remember? I said back then there was something not quite right about the story . . . there was something about it I didn’t like. But no one listened to me . . . and eventually I gave in and accepted it.” Mrs. Schmidt kept her eyes on Futaki as if she were trying to transfer her thoughts to him. “He lied. The kid simply lied. It’s not so hard to imagine. In fact it’s very easy to imagine . . .” Schmidt stared nervously, now at him, now at his wife. “It’s not Mrs. Halics who’s gone mad, it’s you two.” Neither Futaki nor Mrs. Schmidt ventured an answer but looked at each other. “Have you lost your mind?!” Schmidt burst out and took a step towards Futaki: “You, you old cripple!” But Futaki shook his head. “No, my friend. No . . . though you’re right, Mrs. Halics has not gone mad,” he told Schmidt, then turned to the woman, announcing: “I’m sure it’s true. I’m going down to the bar.” Schmidt closed his eyes and tried to govern his temper. “Eighteen months! Eighteen months they’ve been dead. Everyone knows that! People don’t joke about such things. Don’t fall for it. It’s just a trap! You understand? A trap!” But Futaki hadn’t even heard him, he was already buttoning his coat. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see,” he declared, and you could tell by the firmness of his voice that his mind was made up. “Irimiás,” he added, smiling and he put his hand on Schmidt’s shoulder, “is a great magician. He could turn a pile of cow shit into a mansion if he wanted to.” Schmidt lost his head entirely. He grabbed hold of Futaki’s coat and yanked him closer. “You’re the one who’s a pile of cow shit, buddy” he grimaced, “and that’s all you’ll ever be, let me tell you, a pile of shit. You think I’m going to let a pea-brain like you do me down? No, pal, no. You’re not going to get in my way!” Futaki calmly returned his gaze. “I’ve no intention of getting in your way, pal.” “Yes? And what will become of the money?” Futaki bowed his head. “You can split it with Kráner. You can pretend that nothing’s happened.” Schmidt sprang to the door and barred their way. “Idiots!” he screamed: “You’re idiots! Go fuck yourselves, the pair of you! But as for my money . . . ,” he raised his finger, “you will deposit that on the table.” He looked menacingly at the woman. “You hear me, you lousy . . . You’ll leave the money right here. Understand?!” Mrs. Schmidt made no move. A peculiar, unaccustomed light flashed in her eyes. She slowly rose and moved towards Schmidt. Every muscle of her face was tense, her lips had grown extraordinarily narrow and Schmidt found himself the object of such intense contempt and mockery that he was forced to step back and gaze at the woman in astonishment. “Don’t you go screaming at me, you moron,”” said Mrs. Schmidt quite quietly: “I’m going out. You can do what you like.” Futaki was picking his nose. “Look pal,” he added, his voice also quiet, “if they are really here you won’t be able to escape Irimiás anyway, you know that yourself. And what happens then? . . .” Schmidt felt his way over to the table and slumped in a chair. “The dead resurrected!” he muttered to himself. “And these two happy to take the bait . . . Ha ha ha. I can’t help laughing!” He brought his fist down on the table. “Can’t you see what the game is?! They must have suspected something and now they want to lure us out . . . Futaki, old man, you at least should have a drop of sense in you . . .” But Futaki wasn’t listening; he was standing by the window, his hands locked together. “Do you remember?” he said. “The time the rent was nine days late, while he . . .” Mrs. Schmidt brusquely cut him off: “He always got us out a mess.” “Filthy traitors. I might have guessed,” Schmidt mumbled. Futaki moved away from the window and stood behind him. “If you are really so skeptical,” he advised Schmidt, “let’s send your wife on ahead . . . She can say she is looking for you . . . and so on . . .” “But you can bet your life on it — it’s true,” the woman added. The money remained in Mrs. Schmidt’s bosom since Schmidt himself was quite convinced that was the best place for it though he insisted he would far rather it were secured there with a piece of string and they had to work hard to persuade him to sit down again because he was off somewhere to look for something. “All right, I’m going,” said Mrs. Schmidt and was immediately in her coat, pulling on her boots and was off running, soon disappearing into the darkness through the ditches surrounding the carriageway leading to the bar, avoiding the deeper puddles, not once turning back to look at them, leaving them there, two faces by the window, the rain washing over them. Futaki rolled a cigarette and blew out smoke, happy and hopeful, all tension gone, the weight lifted from him, dreamily contemplating the ceiling; he was thinking of the machine hall in the pump-house, already hearing the cough, the splutter, the painful but successful sound of machines long silent starting up again, and it was as though he could smell the freshly lime-washed walls . . . when they heard the outside door open and Schmidt had just enough time to leap to his feet before Mrs. Kráner was announcing: “They’re here! Have you heard?!” Futaki stood and nodded and put his hat on. Schmidt had collapsed at the table. “My husband,” Mrs. Kráner gabbled, “he has already started and just sent me across to tell you if you didn’t know already though I’m sure you know, we could see through our window that Mrs. Halics had dropped by, but I’ve got to go, I don’t want to bother you, and as for the money, my husband said, forget it, it’s not for the likes of us, he said and . . . he’s right because why hide and run, with never a moment of peace, who wants that, and Irimiás, well you’ll see, and Petrina, I knew that it couldn’t be true, any of it, so help me, I never trusted that sneaky Horgos kid, you can tell from his eyes, you can see for yourselves how he made it all up and kept it up till we believed him, I tell you, I knew from the start . . .” Schmidt examined her suspiciously. “So you’re in on it,” he said and gave a short bitter laugh. Mrs. Kráner raised her eyebrows at that and disappeared through the door in confusion. “Are you coming, buddy?” Futaki inquired after a while and suddenly they were both at the door. Schmidt led with Futaki hobbling behind with his stick, the wind snapping at the edges of his coat as he held on to his hat to prevent it flying away into the mud and tapped his blind way in the darkness, while the rain poured pitilessly down washing away both Schmidt’s curses and his own words of encouragement that eventually resolved into a repeated phrase: “Don’t go regretting anything, old man! You’ll see. It’ll be cushy for us. Pure gold. A real golden age!”