The Angel Makers (17 page)

Ferenc touches the soft, smooth wood of the kitchen table to ground himself. He’s been away from the front for weeks now, but still he finds the silence frightening; it’s as if his ears have been packed with mud. It wasn’t silent in Budapest, except at night, and he found himself jerking awake again and again from dreams of the battlefield.

Sari has changed; that is beyond doubt. When he left, four years ago, she was hardly more than a little girl, and he had thought longingly of the woman that she would become. Now she is that woman, and he finds himself thinking longingly of the little girl, his mascot, his imaginary amulet that sustained him through the war. The woman he looks at now is still not beautiful, but there is something different about her, something perhaps better, or rarer – it’s almost an elegance, although he feels ridiculous calling an eighteen-year-old peasant girl with snarled hair elegant. He only realises now that he’s been used to feeling superior to her, but something is stopping him from doing that now. She has confidence, that’s what it is; she’s come to know her body, how to use it, and despite the awkwardness of the situation – and he doesn’t blame her for feeling awkward; it’s only to be expected – in some deeper, more fundamental way, she looks more comfortable than he’s ever seen her, arms lightly crossed, weight on one hip, head cocked to one side. She has always looked at people directly, but he notices the defensiveness that used to barb her gaze has gone. She’s still thinner than he would like, but there is swelling, a roundness under her clothes that wasn’t there when he left, and feels a sudden throb of desire, which does a lot to dispel his panic. At least he still has that. Although, at the moment, he can’t imagine what to do with it.

They look at each other for a long time, and Sari is the one who speaks first.

‘Welcome home, Ferenc,’ she says, relieved to find that her voice sounds passably sincere and, steeling herself, steps forward and gives him a kiss on the cheek. It’s not the trial that she expected it to be;
that’s a start
, she thinks,
and after all, we have time to get things right
.

‘I missed you, Sari,’ he says, huskily. ‘I missed you so much.’

‘You must be exhausted,’ she replies. ‘I’ve made up the bed upstairs. You should sleep.’

‘Will you stay?’

‘I – I can’t. I have work to do – I’ve been doing some nursing down at the prison camp.’ She thinks it’s best to tell him this straight away, but he doesn’t react.

‘Please, Sari. I won’t do anything, I promise. Only … just stay until I fall asleep, will you?’

She feels a surge of contempt at his display of weakness, and instantly hates herself for it. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘I’ll stay until you fall asleep, but after that I really do have work to do. And this evening I’ll cook at Judit’s house. You should come around six.’

He looks disappointed. ‘Can’t we eat here?’ he asks, but she shakes her head.

‘You know that wouldn’t be right,’ she says, taking unusual refuge in propriety. ‘Now, go upstairs to bed. I’ll be down here if you need anything, and I’ll check on you before I leave.’

It’s like walking through water. Sari makes her way to Judit’s house with an almost total unawareness of her body; it seems stupid, on some level, to be so badly shocked and affected by something that she has always known to be inevitable, but nevertheless, nevertheless …

She’s hardly got her foot on Judit’s front step before Anna is at her shoulder. ‘Sari,’ she says, her voice low and breathless, ‘I just heard that Ferenc is back. Are you – are you all right?’

‘Oh, come inside,’ Sari replies, weary. ‘I don’t want to tell you things and then have to repeat them straight away for that gossip-fiend in there.’

She’s expected a barrage of questions, and so is surprised that, once inside, both Judit and Anna just sit, silent and expectant, waiting for her to speak. She realises gradually that this is not down to any sort of reticence on their part (Judit and Anna reticent? The very idea is absurd), but due to their complete uncertainty as to her mood. Her confusion and distress about Ferenc’s homecoming has been roaring so loudly inside her that it seems incredible that it isn’t obvious to everyone around her, but her natural reserve, her constant mouthing of dutiful words about how lucky and grateful she is to be engaged to Ferenc, and that he’s coming back from the war, these things have
fooled
people, she realises. It’s astonishing, but Judit and Anna are genuinely unsure as to whether she is happy or sad, rejoicing or despairing.

‘How – how is he?’ Anna asks, tentative.

‘I can’t really tell, to be honest. He seems … all right, I suppose. His leg is healing quite well, but he’s shocked, I think, to be back here, after four years of fighting. I don’t think he quite knows what to do with himself. I feel – I feel sorry for him, more than anything else.’ She pauses for a moment, but concludes that there’s no easy or pleasant way to say it. ‘I don’t remember, but – was he always so
ordinary
?’

Anna and Judit exchange glances, but don’t answer – who can comment on the ordinariness, or otherwise, of someone’s fiancè? And Sari knows that any answer would be meaningless; she’s already condemned him in her own heart. She shrugs, self-deprecating.

‘I knew that I should never have gone down to that camp,’ she says. ‘It was always going to end like this, with me being dissatisfied with things here. I knew that. I just thought – oh, this just couldn’t be worse, could it? I thought that the war would be over, and Marco and all of the others would go home, and I would have time to adapt, to get used to the idea of Ferenc, without Marco in the way, before he came home. And now – God, I just saw Marco yesterday.’

She doesn’t say it, but Anna and Judit exchange glances again, and Sari knows that they understand Ferenc’s inadequacy, at least from Sari’s point of view, in comparison to Marco.

‘So what are you going to do?’ Anna asks.

Sari laughs, a dry, brittle sound. ‘What can I do? I am engaged. Marco is married. From what I hear, the war will be over soon. Marco will be going home to his wife, and I will be left here with Ferenc. I have to make the best of things. Ferenc is a good man, and he will be a good husband. I just need to get used to the idea again.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Sleeping. He looked tired. I’ll go back to see him when I get back from the camp.’

Anna’s eyebrows shoot up so high that they are nearly lost in her hair. ‘You’re going to the camp?’ she asks, shrilly.

Sari is impatient. ‘Well, yes. Not to see Marco, but, you know, Paolo still has that fever, and Umberto that rash, and I’m not going to stop going down there just because Ferenc’s come back. I’m not doing anything improper.’

Judit gives a disbelieving laugh, and Sari turns on her.

‘I’m
not
! It would be far too risky. It’s over. I don’t have any choice.’

True to her word, Sari is back from the camp in an hour, having briskly doled out medicines and advice, and chopping potatoes for dinner, having warned Judit that she must be on her best behaviour tonight because of Ferenc’s presence. She knows that Ferenc already fears her slightly, and she doesn’t want to run the risk of Judit alarming him so much that he refuses to let them work together any more. That would be unbearable.

‘So, did you see him today?’ Judit asks.

For a perverse moment, Sari considers asking Judit who she’s talking about, but then capitulates. ‘No. He was out by the time I’d arrived. I think he was avoiding me, but I don’t know whether it’s because he doesn’t want to see me, or because he doesn’t want to put me in an awkward position.’

Judit doesn’t say anything more for a moment, just stumps around the kitchen, looking thoughtful. Then: ‘What you said before, Sari.’

‘
What
, what I said before?’

‘About not having a choice. It’s not true. You do have a choice. You always do.’

Sari sighs, irritated. ‘It’s all very well to say that, Judit, but—’

Judit holds up a hand, cutting her off. Her face is stern, and Sari understands that this is not a question of goodnatured teasing, or needling Sari just for the sake of the challenge: this time, Judit means business.

‘Don’t tell me I don’t understand. Maybe I don’t know what it’s like to be you, right now, but credit me with a little knowledge of human nature. There is
always
a choice, Sari, always. If you fool yourself into believing there’s not, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. Sometimes all your options look pretty nasty, but remember they’re there.’

Sari swallows. ‘Judit—’ but Judit is shaking her head.

‘I’m not going to talk about it any more, and I’m not going to question the choice you make. I just wanted to be sure that you know that you’re making one.’

He’s been home for a week now, and in that time he’s been out of Sari’s father’s house once, the first night he was home, to Judit’s house for dinner. It was intolerable. Every step he took, everywhere he looked, the differences slapped him in the face. The way Judit’s face has aged over four years; the degree to which Sari is at home in Judit’s house, in her role as domestic and professional assistant; the way the village looks, stripped of its men (and those strange looking men, one or two, that he’d glimpsed skulking in doorways – he cannot bear to think about them, the enemy, the marks of their feet on his village, the touch of their hands in his house); the changes, each as sharp as a gunshot, as wounding as a bayonet blow, and a personal affront, directed at Ferenc alone. It is
intolerable
.

From Sari’s father’s house, all he can see is the woods, and the woods haven’t changed. They are a comfort. The house hasn’t changed, either, except for the absence of Jan and child-Sari, and it is easy to conjure up their memories.
Too
easy, perhaps; he has found that when adult-Sari comes in through the door, there’s often a moment of vertigo, as if he’s looking forward in time. He has to remind himself that this is the present.

Sari. She didn’t say anything, but she must have noticed his reaction, that first night he was home, and so she no longer asks him to have dinner at Judit’s house. Instead, she cooks there, and after she and Judit have eaten, she brings him a panful of whatever she has made, sitting with him while he eats it. She is often silent, but that doesn’t disturb him; she was always like that, and now, he is often silent himself.

She will not stay the night.

He knows that it’s proper for her to refuse, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting her, a soul-deep longing that is painful and bitter. There’s no answering longing in her eyes, however much he tries to deceive himself, and that hurts, but brings about a steely certainty. It doesn’t matter; her desire will come, and even if it doesn’t, it still doesn’t matter. They are engaged, they will marry, and then she will be his. She will be just the tonic that he needs, to build up his strength, to make him brave enough to leave the house, to reclaim his life again. It’s different, everything is different now, but she’s still his. She is still his.

Sari is just waiting for the day that she gets used to things. So far, it hasn’t come. She sees Ferenc every day, brings him food, does his washing, and tends his wound. During the day she feels nothing but pity and slight repulsion for him, with his collection of nervous ticks, his paranoid rituals, and his intermittent illness – a fever, he says, picked up on the battlefield that has never quite disappeared; but Sari interprets things differently and sees the stomach pains that he complains of, as a sign of a troubled heart and mind. At night, however, when he is not there and so unable to inspire sympathy, thoughts of him frighten her, and he seems somehow emotionally vast and uncontrollable. This is no way for a woman to think of her fiancè, but she can’t seem to stop herself.

He talks of marriage after the war is over – he expects it to be soon, soon enough that he is prepared to wait, for marriage while the war is still going on would be an affront to decency, he thinks. It gives her a little respite, a little time to accustom herself to the idea. She makes herself imagine living with him, and that is bearable; cooking for him, cleaning, these things she does already. Sleeping with him, though … she forces herself to think of it because she knows she must, but she still cannot see how she’s going to make herself go through with it. She knows he wants to fuck her – she’s learnt that from being in close company with men for the past couple of years. He hasn’t asked yet, he’s too shy and too jumpy to build up the necessary confidence, but every day that she sees him, he seems to relax further in her presence, and she knows that it’s just a matter of time. She could refuse, of course; he would find that acceptable, even admirable, though frustrating, behaviour; but refusal will only get her as far as the wedding, and after that she will have no power to refuse. There’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing to worry about, she tells herself, and waiting until they are married will just give her more time to build up reserves of dread. She decides that she had better sleep with him as soon as he musters the courage to ask.

What is it that she finds so horrifying about this idea, she wonders? She realises that the problem is not just that Ferenc isn’t Marco, but something inherent to Ferenc himself. His wounded leg doesn’t help, but Sari’s never been squeamish, and if everything else were in place that would fail to put her off. She doesn’t care for the pale pink of his skin, or the insipid blue eyes and fair hair, equating them with childishness; she doesn’t like his slow, lumbering mind, or his deliberate and ponderous way of speaking – but it’s not these things that bring out a cold sheen of sweat on her skin when she thinks about being naked in front of him. It’s the way he looks at her, hungry and desperate. She remembers this from before she went away, and she had always found it obscurely flattering that she could see how much he wanted her. Now, it’s just alarming. Whether the war has added an edge to him, or whether she’s just learnt more about love, the fact remains that there is nothing tender in those eyes, he does not look at her with pleasure or pride or fondness, but with gaping need, and a desire to possess.