The Door (6 page)

But the memory of the christening bowl and the mulled wine goblet was still fresh, with all their associations. Of course one had to respect those animal-lovers who had watched without regret or protest as the sealed cattle-wagons rolled into the distance — the malicious rumours that there were people locked inside were so obviously lies. But I noted with a certain irony the enthusiasm with which she told stories of how geese, ducks and hens were drawn to her. It couldn't have been easy to take your intimate friends, whom you had tamed so swiftly they would take the grain from your own mouth and leap up trustingly beside you on the lovers' seat, and slit their throats when the time came to cook them.

For as long as I felt that Emerence's attachment to the dog was based on her passionate need to serve, it was all very pleasing, but when I realised that she had become his real mistress I was furious. The dog had quite different standards for each of us, behaving in three distinct ways. Towards me, he was familiar and friendly; with my husband he was quiet and almost correct; but the moment the old woman appeared he hurled himself at the door and greeted her with tears of joy. Emerence was forever explaining things to him, in a specially raised voice, with precise articulation, as if teaching an infant who was just beginning to speak. She made no secret of what she was teaching him; she repeated the same message over and over again, like a poem, and she didn't care in the least how we took it. "With your mistress, you can do whatever you like. You can jump on her, and lick her face and hands. You can sleep beside her on the sofa. Your mistress will let you do this because she loves you. The master is silent as water, and you don't know what lies beneath, so don't ever disturb the water, my dear little dog, don't ever annoy the master, because your place here is to serve. But you're in a good home, as good as any could be, for a dog in an apartment." As for herself, she never gave orders, the animal understood her wishes without the need for words. By this time she had even given him a name. She called him Viola. The fact that he was a male dog didn't bother Emerence. Occasionally she didn't so much teach as train. "Sit down, Viola. Until you sit, no sugar. Sit down, SIT DOWN!"

When I first realised how she was rewarding him I reminded her, rather sharply, that the vet had said dogs were not to be given sugar. "The vet's an idiot," she replied, patting Viola's shoulder firmly. "Sit, boy, sit. If he sits, he gets something nice, something sweet. Sugar, the animal gets sugar. Sit, Viola, sit." And Viola sat, at first for the sugar, later by conditioned reflex and for nothing, as soon as he heard the trigger word.

Occasionally the old woman would ask if she could take him to guard her house, as she'd be out all day clearing snow. My husband consented willingly; at least then the dog wouldn't be hurling himself about and barking. I asked if she wasn't worried about her cat, as I'd heard she had one in the flat, but she said she wasn't at all concerned. She'd teach him to get on with other animals without harming them. Viola could be taught to do anything. If the dog did anything naughty she beat him horribly, despite my express prohibition and her own overwhelming love for him. Not once in the fourteen years of his life did he receive a beating from me. But then Emerence was his real mistress.

I would love to have witnessed the creature's first moments in the old woman's domain, that empire never before revealed to anyone, but the bar to entry remained. I gathered from the fleas he brought home that he had met the cat, and that thenceforth we could expect the pleasure of their company too. The first encounter can't have been uneventful. There was a wound on his nose and a deep scratch on his ear, and his general demeanour indicated that there had indeed been a battle in which he was the loser. Emerence had used drastic means to instil in him that "we don't annoy the cat". He didn't take it as a tragedy. He came home with his chubby adolescent jowls pushing against Emerence's knee every step of the way. After that there seemed to be no trouble. Whenever I took him for a walk I couldn't help noticing his behaviour. As the stray cats fled under balconies for refuge, he gazed on benignly, without a hint of anger or dismay, clearly baffled by their reaction when he meant them no harm.

Viola guarded Emerence's home all through the winter. I put a stop to it only after a certain Saturday night, when he came home drunk. When she brought him home, I couldn't believe my eyes. The dog was reeling, his belly was like a barrel, he was panting heavily and rolling his eyes. I couldn't even pick him up because he kept toppling over. I crouched down to examine him. He hiccuped, and I smelt the beer. "Emerence, the dog's drunk!" I gasped.

"We had a little drink," she replied calmly. "It won't kill him. He was thirsty. It did him good."

I stood up. "You're out of your mind, and you're not to take him again. That's final. After all we did to save his life, we're not going to kill him by turning him into an alcoholic."

"Because a little bit of beer is going to kill him," she said, with a bitterness that surprised me. "Oh yes, I'm sure, I shared the roast duck and the beer with him because he begged me —
he
asked for it — what was I supposed to do? He can tell me everything — he almost spoke. He absolutely loved the food and drink. He isn't just any old dog. So he'll die, will he — because he had dinner with me, because he didn't, with the greatest respect, fancy the rubbish you people give him, diet food, to be eaten only at certain times, never in the dining room and never from your hand — though the only real food is what he takes from your hand, not from a bowl? I'm the one who's killing him, the one who brings him up, talks to him, teaches him right and wrong." She was speaking with deadly seriousness, like a teacher whose most sacred feelings had been wounded. "Or perhaps it was you who taught him to sit, and stand up, and run and fetch a ball, and say thank you. All you two do is hide yourselves away at home like a pair of statues. You don't even talk to each other, you bang away on your typewriters in separate rooms. Well, you keep Viola, then. You'll see how far you get."

The statement over — with matters of importance Emerence didn't say things, she made an announcement — she turned on her heel and left. Viola collapsed and began to snore. He was so drunk he didn't even notice that he'd been abandoned.

The problems didn't begin immediately, only the next morning, when Emerence failed to come for him. She had always served him his breakfast, given him his walk and then taken him away with her. He controlled himself and made no messes, but from six-fifteen he was whining so loudly I was forced to get up. It was a while before I realised there was no point in waiting for Emerence. She was like Jehovah: she punished for generations.

The whole shameful scene finally came to a head outside her flat, when the dog insisted on going in, as he did every morning. I had never understood why it was better for him to be shut up with her than at home with me, where he had so much more room to flop around in. Anyway, when he realised that hauling on the leash was getting him nowhere he became mutinous, tugged furiously and then bounded along, with me in tow. He was a strong dog, I a fearful pedestrian on an icy street. Mounds of snow covered the pavement, each a potential hazard. I was terrified of falling and breaking something, but I couldn't let go in case he ran under a car.

That morning I was given a lesson in where the two of them went for their walk. Viola ran me through Emerence's district. Half-blinded by the falling snow and gasping for breath, with Viola setting the pace, I was hauled to each of the eleven houses where she cleaned, hurtling from one to the next in a mindless Peer Gynt dash. Finally he tugged so hard he managed to pull me over. But we had reached his destination. We'd found the person he was looking for. Emerence was standing with her back to us, so he jumped up at her from behind, nearly knocking her over as well. However she was strong — ten times stronger than I have ever been. She turned, saw me kneeling there in the snow, and instantly realised what had happened. First she yanked the dog firmly by the stray end of the leash; then, whenever he started to whine, she hit him. I hauled myself to my feet, feeling thoroughly sorry for the animal.

"Sit, you wicked creature," she shouted, as if to another person. "This is not the way to behave, you scoundrel." Viola stared at her in amazement. Emerence looked him in the eye, like a lion tamer. "If you want your mistress to let you come again you will have to promise her that you won't get drunk, because your mistress is right, only she didn't stop to think that nobody celebrates my birthday, or that you are the only one who knows when it is, because you're the only one I've told. I haven't told my brother Józsi's boy, or Sutu, or Adélka, or Polett, and the Lieutenant Colonel has forgotten when it is. But that's not how we behave when we sober up — like hooligans. Instead, we ask permission. Now get up, Viola!"

So far the dog had been crouching on his stomach, weeping. He hadn't moved a muscle during the beating, or made the slightest attempt to escape. Now he picked himself up. "Say you're sorry!" I had no idea he knew how to take an oath, but it seems he did. He placed his left paw against his heart and with the right, like a patriotic statue, pointed to the sky. "Say it, Viola!" she directed, and Viola barked. "Again!" Again he barked, keeping his eyes fixed on his tamer to see how well he was doing. Instinct told him that his future depended on it. "Now promise that you'll be a good boy," I heard her say, and Viola put out his paw towards her. "Not to me, I already know; to your mistress." Viola turned to where I stood, and like those pictures of St Francis and the wolf, looking guilty and a little sly, he offered me his right front paw. I didn't take it, I was in so much pain from my knee, and so utterly furious with them both.

Seeing his entreaties were useless he tried a new ploy. Without instruction he saluted me, then again put his left paw on his heart. I gave up. Once again they had defeated me, and we all three knew it. "Don't worry about him," said Emerence. "Today he'll have lunch with me. I'll bring him home this evening. And wash your leg — it's bleeding. I hope you'll be all right."

The order came only through her eyes, and a slight movement of the head, but Viola understood. With clear articulation, he barked at me twice, thanking me. Emerence attached the lead to the fence and resumed her sweeping. I had been dismissed. Slowly I made my way home, alone, through the thickly falling snow.

With the addition of Viola to the family, our circle of acquaintances widened. Until then we had been in regular contact only with friends; now, if only superficially, we got to know the entire neighbourhood. Emerence walked the dog in the morning, at midday and in the evening, but there were times when she couldn't do the midday session because of some unexpected extra work, and then it was left to us. Either my husband saw to it or I did it myself, but Viola always led the way. He generally began by hauling his leash to Emerence's flat, where he would have to be taken right up to the door to make quite sure that she wasn't hiding inside. But his nose would soon tell him that she wasn't playing a trick, she really wasn't at home, and we were able to continue. Sometimes she was at home, but caught up in some task for which she had no need of his assistance. On these occasions we had to wait outside with the dog, shamefaced, until his whining and scratching finally produced her, muttering curses and ordering him not to pester her. Sometimes she wouldn't just smack him, she told him off like an over-insistent guest, shouting things like: "Why are you dragging me out? We were together this morning and we'll see each other again tonight!" Or she would pat him on the neck a few times, stuff something sweet in his mouth, play out the whole performance with him to its end, and only then chase him back into the street.

If we didn't find her at home, we had to look for her outside one of her houses. If she was found, the entire front porch ritual would be played out in the open air, and more than once Emerence took Viola through the performance with my husband or myself as the reluctant focus. This way we made the acquaintance of several of our neighbours whom we would not otherwise have met.

Whenever Emerence had company — this was only in good weather, at those times of the year when she put benches outside her door and it was possible to sit and chat — Viola would be ordered to find his food and water bowls, which the old woman hid in different places, while the guests watched his tricks in amazement. I was often struck by how readily everyone accepted her declaration of a Forbidden City, where they could be received only on the porch. Local acquaintances, close friends and even blood relations such as her brother Józsi's boy, all found that the closed-door rule applied equally to them.

The reception area to which access was permitted was rectangular in shape and quite spacious, with the doors of the larder, shower and lumber room opening on to it. As it was clearly a sacred place, the Forbidden City, I guessed, must have been grandly furnished with the Grossman family's belongings. The porch itself was always spotlessly clean. So long as the season permitted, the old woman washed the stone floor twice a day. There, if she had a free hour or two during the day, she would play the hostess at a table placed between two benches. I often saw her, either through the hedge as I walked past or from my window, serving tea or coffee to guests of varying ages and social classes. She would pour out refreshments into fine porcelain cups, with the smooth, confident actions of someone who had done it a thousand times, and who had learned how to conduct herself at table from someone of importance. I remember attending the opening night of Shaw's
Man and Superman,
in which a famous actress played Blanche. Throughout the performance I kept wondering who the lovely young artiste had reminded me of in the tea-serving scene. Then I realised. It was Emerence, entertaining guests at the entrance to her forbidden domain.

At one time a number of prominent people lived in the neighbourhood, and a policeman would regularly walk our street. Later the politicians moved away, or died, and as they disappeared so too, one by one, did the surveillance men. By the time Emerence came to work for us the only person in uniform appearing with any regularity on our street was the Lieutenant Colonel. For many years I puzzled over their relationship, and why it didn't bother the friendly officer that entry was denied him, when she might be hiding anything in her home. Later I discovered that he had been inside, and knew its secrets. In addition to the accusations of pigeon poisoning and desecration of graves, politically-motivated and totally libellous "information" had been received. The police had to see, if only once, what needed to be hidden and kept secret, and was of such value that no human eye might ever gaze upon it. Emerence, grumbling and muttering, opened up her entire premises to the Lieutenant Colonel — then still a Second Lieutenant — when he dutifully called with his canine assistant, but all they found was an unshapely cat (the third she had owned since moving in) who, as soon as he saw the dog, fled to the top of the kitchen cupboard. There was no secret transmitter, no escaped convict, no stolen goods, only a dazzlingly clean dining area and a room fitted out with a stunningly beautiful set of furniture under covers, in which no-one appeared to be living, since there were no personal belongings to be seen. And in fact the friendship between Emerence and the officer began with an argument. As soon as she had shut the door behind them she started shouting. Was there a law that stated that she had to open her home to everybody who happened to be passing, and let them in if they felt like ringing the bell? Why didn't they go and look instead for the bandit who kept filing reports about her? In fact the real insult was the honour of regular visits by the police. First it was the dead pigeons, then the business of the dead cat, now they were looking for weapons or the source of an epidemic. She'd had all she could take of the police. Enough was enough. The force had by now assumed a defensive, conciliatory stance. The Second Lieutenant was deploying all his eloquence to calm her down, but Emerence's voice rose louder and louder. She told him that the politicians who lived locally carried guns. They had nothing better to do so they shot crows. The police, sure enough, gave them every protection, and then came to snoop around her place with a dog. She hoped the sky would fall on the lot of them! On them, mind you, not on the poor dog. It wasn't his fault if he was misused. She wasn't angry with the dog, just the Second Lieutenant. And then the force's cup of bitter humiliation was filled to overflowing. Instead of digging up a second corpse or any other incriminating object buried in the garden, the officiating dog, in breach of every regulation, allowed Emerence to stroke his head, wagged his tail anxiously, and then — the climax of shame — abandoned duty to gaze up at her with baffled, loving eyes. The whine he let out was a coded plea to his superior, begging forgiveness and explaining that he couldn't help it, a will stronger than any other had forced him to the feet of this strange woman. The Second Lieutenant roared with laughter. Emerence's face of thunder slowly began to clear, and she stopped shouting. Somehow, for the first time, they became aware of each other. The police officer rarely went into homes where people were so totally unafraid of him, and it was the first time Emerence had met a public official with a private sense of humour and a positive attitude. So each made a note of the other. The investigator apologised and left, but later returned with his wife. Their rare and beautiful friendship held strong even after the young woman unexpectedly died. The Lieutenant Colonel told me subsequently that Emerence had helped him through a very difficult time.