The Door (21 page)

She was right of course, but that was little comfort. The one favour she had asked, that after her death I dispose of her little zoo, I would have done for anyone, though in my heart of hearts I hoped that when the time came the whole menagerie would have dwindled away, or been got rid of, and that she wouldn't be mad enough to take in any more. The existing nine were terrifying enough. It certainly wasn't an easy task, but there was nothing else for it. I had to accept that she had set the terms of our relationship, and the thermostat she had installed was an economical, rational one. We kept in touch with various diplomatic couples in the same polite way. Before each encounter, we would repeat the unwritten paragraph of the foreign service code: feelings are to be kept under control; every three years diplomats are sent elsewhere; they cannot allow themselves to form lifelong relationships with the natives; we too must ration out our fellow feeling in this measured way, but we should enjoy their presence while they are here as it's so good to be in their company, and enjoy the mutual exchange of sympathies.

To this diplomatic convention only the three of us subscribed. The fourth member of the family, Viola, did not. Once, in a rage, he bit the old woman, and received such a beating with the shovel that it broke a rib. Despite his howling he submitted to the attentions of the vet. The old woman held him while he was being treated, explaining all the while, "You asked for that, you village bull. Don't tell me it's the mating season. And don't you sulk. You're a disgrace, you got exactly what you deserved. Now, open your ugly mug." His reward, a piece of pastry, instantly disappeared between his brave, gleaming teeth. Emerence made it a condition that if you loved her, she should be the leading figure in your life. Of all those around her whom she considered really important, only the dog took that as natural and accepted it — even as he bit her.

As a rule, relations with her were at their most harmonious when one of us was in some sort of difficulty. There was no shortage of such times. Both my husband and I were in generally poor health during those years and were often ill. Either our bodies failed to fight off an attack, or our nervous systems told us the game wasn't being played fairly against us. In times of crisis, Emerence stood by us in ways that could really be felt. Her gnarled fingers brought relief and healing. There was nothing more blissfully restorative after a serious illness than when she washed us all over, gave us a thorough massage, and dusted us down with some fragrant talcum powder sent by little Eva Grossman. My husband once suggested that we should live with one foot permanently in the grave, or sink into some bottomless pool from which she could pull us out — then she would be thoroughly content and satisfied. If we ever achieved lasting success or relative security in our lives, she would lose interest. The moment she could no longer help, she would see no justification for her existence.

One thing we never got used to was that, although she never read anything, all the bad news on the literary front that was turning our lives upside down seemed nonetheless to reach her. She always made us aware that she knew about it, and assured us that she was making it her business to inform everyone in the street who mattered — if they hadn't discovered it for themselves — that the conspirators were on the move again. From the members of her private circle she required declarations of solidarity and denunciations of our enemies.

Thus, as the years flew by, our relationship continued to strengthen. Emerence was one of us, as far as she would allow. She continued to receive me outside on her porch, like any other visitor, and she never again allowed me into her flat. Otherwise there was no change in her habits. She continued to carry out all the various jobs she had undertaken, though it was clear she no longer did so with the same fresh energy. She didn't even stop clearing the snow. I tried occasionally to establish just how much her fortune was worth. I had my suspicions that, as well as the crypt, Józsi's boy might well be able to build an owner-occupied building for his entire family. Emerence made precise distinctions in the way she rewarded each of us. The Lieutenant Colonel was given high respect, Viola had her heart, my husband her impeccable work (and he also greatly appreciated her keeping my rustic amiability within acceptable bounds through her own restrained behaviour); to me she entrusted her instructions on the approaching, and critical, final moments of her life. She also demanded of me that, in my art, it should be real passion and not machinery that moved the branches. That was a major gift, the greatest of her bequests.

But I still felt it wasn't enough, that I wanted something more. For example I would have loved to give her the sort of hug I had shared with my mother, and to tell her things I would tell no-one else, things my mother understood not with her intellect or as the result of her education, but through the subtler antennae of love. But Emerence didn't want me in that complete way. At least that was what I thought; that I wasn't essential to her. Long after all trace of Emerence and her home had disappeared, the handyman's wife, seeing the cut flowers from the garden in my arms and realising I was on my way to the cemetery, threw her arms around my neck. "You were the light of her life," she said, "her daughter. Ask anyone who lives round here how she described you. 'My little girl.' What do you think? Who did she talk about non-stop — when the poor thing actually sat down for a rest? She talked about you. But all you ever saw was how she lured the dog away and kept him from you. What you never noticed was that she'd become to you what Viola was to her."

Emerence accompanied our lives for something like twenty years. During that time we spent countless weeks, even months, abroad, while she looked after the apartment, dealt with the mail and the phone, and took delivery of what money came in. Though he squealed loudly, she never took Viola to her flat, not even for an hour, so that our home would never be empty in our absence. Once, on our return from a Book Week in Frankfurt, we brought her a portable TV. We knew of old that she didn't accept gifts, but we thought it might bring the wider world into the Forbidden City. At the time, such things weren't available in Hungary — it was almost the only one in the whole country — and, since she seemed to aim for exclusivity in her emotional life, we thought this time she might react differently. She would be the only one in the street to have one of these small-screen sets.

We got back in time for the holiday. It was Christmas again, just as when we had found Viola. In those years, there were far fewer religious programmes on TV. Instead they showed folk dramas, with children in fur coats and boots, singing and chanting. But after dinner there was to be a sweetly sentimental film, set during the Second World War. We imagined that Emerence, who was serving our meal, would be delighted. But she gave no sign of pleasure; she looked at me with her mysterious, solemn eyes, as if she could tell us something if she chose, but wasn't going to. I was in a state of total euphoria, since she had actually accepted the present. She thanked us, wished us a merry Christmas and left. That year Christmas was particularly good, like those in the lacquered cards of my childhood. Outside, huge, soft, feathery snowflakes circled down. All my life winter has been my favourite season. I stood at the window, looking out. I was enchanted, full of the spirit of Christmas and home, and my seasonal thoughts mingled with thoughts of Emerence, the proud owner of a television, sitting in her room celebrating.

I think that everything that happened later followed from what took place that evening. It was as if Heaven itself had thrown the present back in our faces, or as if Emerence's God — whom she had always scorned and denied, but who was there watching every step she took — stirred, and gave me one last chance to see, rather than look. We were standing at the window, above the streetlight, whose rays flooded in even in the wildest snowstorms, gazing in wonder at the winter and the feathery flakes dancing, when suddenly the image of Emerence swam into our picture of the street. She was sweeping. Her headscarf, her shoulders and her back were turning white under a thick veil of snow. She was sweeping, on Christmas Eve, because the pavement couldn't be left uncleared.

The blood rushed into my face. From above, she looked like the straw man in
The Wizard of Oz
. Sweet, kind Jesus, newly born, what sort of gift had I brought this old woman? How often would she be able to sit at home in peace, with her chores tugging at her from one breakfast time to the next? That was why she had given us that special, wounded look. If the fabric of her emotional life hadn't been woven with a finer thread, and more sensitive strands, than mine, she might have refused the set; or asked us if we'd sweep the snow off the streets for her, or do her duty in the laundry, since by the time she'd be able to sit herself down on the lovers' seat, Budapest would have stopped transmitting.

We didn't dare say a word to each other. My husband had come to the same realisation. We were too ashamed to continue looking, and turned our backs on Emerence and her broom. Viola scratched at the door to the balcony, wanting to go out, but I didn't let him. Neither of us spoke, and why should we? The need was for action, not words. But we went back to our own television. Even now I cannot forgive myself when I am reminded of what I ought to have done, but went no further than the thought.

I've always been good at philosophising, and I wasn't ashamed to admit that I had done wrong. But what didn't occur to me was that, compared to her, I was still young and strong. And yet I didn't go out and sweep the snow. I didn't send her home to watch the film, though I could have handled the broom perfectly well. As a girl in the country I had danced with one often enough. I was the one who kept the front of the house clear in those days. But I didn't go down. I stayed right where I was. It was Christmas, and I too exchanged my usual taste for savoury and bitter things for something sweet — for that sweet, sad, lovely film, after all those grotesque, existentialist productions.

Yes, I'm sure that's when it all started to unravel. At some point towards the end of February Emerence caught the flu virus that had been on the rampage since the autumn. Of course she took it in her stride and ignored it. That year the winter brought exceptional snow, and she turned all her attention to keeping the street in order, though her cough was almost choking her, as everyone could hear. Sutu and Adélka rushed around, bringing her hot tea laced with spiced wine. Emerence would throw the sugary alcohol down her throat, and stop from time to time to lean on her broom for protracted fits of coughing. Adélka fussed over her until she too collapsed and was so ill she was hospitalised. Emerence was visibly relieved when she no longer saw her constantly popping up. Sutu was more discreet in her support, but Adélka's big mouth didn't stop working for a moment. Emerence found it highly distasteful to have the whole street echoing with: that old woman doesn't go to bed for days on end; the godforsaken snow keeps coming; sick as she is, she skates around from one house to the next — there are so many — and then has to start all over again. The former classmate who first told me about Emerence suggested one day that I should speak to the old woman and tell her to go to a doctor, and above all, to take a break from clearing the snow and lie down or she'd be in real trouble. She had heard her coughing, and in her opinion it was no longer flu that was plaguing her, it was pneumonia. When I took Emerence's arm to make her stand still and pay attention, she was gasping for breath. She shouted at me to leave her alone. If I was so eager to help I should see to myself and my husband, and do the cleaning and cooking. As long as the cursed snow kept falling she couldn't move from the street, and she certainly didn't want a rest — what a stupid idea, that she should go to bed when I knew perfectly well she didn't even have one, and anyway how could she possibly lie down when absolutely anyone could ring for her at any time? — the tenants had their own keys but the authorities might pitch up, some official she didn't know and wasn't expecting — and it was better for her to sit up at night, it was less painful for her back; so would I please stop worrying about her, she'd had quite enough, it wasn't anyone else's business whether she lay down or not; she'd never asked me why an old woman like me had so many cosmetics in her bathroom; my classmate and the doctor could take to their beds, and any other troublemaker who wanted to order her about should stay in theirs.

Fury — and fever — blazed rose-red in her face, and she resumed her sweeping with even greater violence, as if she had a personal vendetta with the snow, which she alone could settle. Sutu and the handyman's wife, she shouted after me, were bringing her food, enough for the whole street, so there was nothing for me to worry about. She hated being spied on; she'd never in her life gone in for hysterics, but if we nagged her enough she might experiment to see it was like. Her words were drowned by choking, followed by a fit of coughing, then she turned away. Those days she never had Viola with her. She said she didn't have time to run around with him, and it wasn't good for a dog to stay still; so I should take him home, into the warmth. There was no need for him to catch a cold as well.

In every way, it was a most unusual year, and this applied to us too. In the period after the Christmas when we gave Emerence the television, my life began to open out. From the very first day of the new year, it was as if an invisible hand were turning the mysterious tap from which good and bad flowed into people's lives, sometimes off, and sometimes on. Just then, the tap was in full flow. It wasn't spectacular, but it was distinctly perceptible. I had never before had so many things to organise and to do, and I didn't understand the reason until almost the very end. For so many years I'd been held down by outside forces, inside an invisible but almost palpable circle. It took some time for me to grasp that somewhere a decision had been taken, that the barrier which had always been down was being raised, the door on which we hadn't knocked for years had opened of itself, and I could enter if I chose. At first I didn't even attempt to interpret the signs. Emerence swept, and coughed; I did the shopping, and cooked. I kept the rooms in order, fed and walked the dog, and wracked my brains as to why this organisation or that was pressing me with such insistent demands; and all the while Emerence's condition cried out for her to speak, even once, to a doctor, but whenever I raised the subject she shouted at me to get out of her way — everyone had the right to cough; as long as the snow fell she had work to do on the street; it was enough if I looked after our home until she came back to work; but I needn't pester her about medicines and doctors, I was wasting my time.