They Were Counted (69 page)

Now he had nobody, nobody in the entire world. He was
completely
, utterly alone, and there no longer seemed any reason for living.

It was a hot night and as the concrete terrace was not the best surface for dancing, it was only one o’clock when most of the young people settled down in chairs or on the grass to listen to the gypsy band who were playing old Hungarian songs and modern sentimental ballads, ‘swoon-music’ as these were beginning to be called.

Laszlo sat down with the other young people. From where Fanny was placed he was in profile, but she could see him well. He had pushed his chair slightly back from the group with which he was sitting and did not join in their chatter. Occasionally he would raise a hand to beat time with the music as if he were
enjoying
it, but Fanny noticed that when one of the waiters offered him a tray of large glasses filled with punch he waved the man away and did not drink. When Fanny saw this her heart missed a beat.

She knew, for she had watched him, just how much Laszlo usually drank and she had decided that once she had made him hers she would get him to give it up. There was something sinister and tragic in the fact that he did not now even try to find solace in wine.

It was as if he knew that that night he was faced with an
all-important
decision and must keep alive his sorrow so as to have enough strength to exercise judgment on himself. Apart from Fanny’s deep knowledge of men her love for Laszlo gave her an instinctive, almost telepathic understanding of what was going on in his mind. She knew that this night she must stay with him and watch over him.

Some of the older ladies were already beginning to nod with sleep when a few young couples started to demand a csardas. During the slight commotion this caused Fanny saw Gyeroffy get up and move, not in the direction of the dancing but towards the house. She realized he was about to leave and that she must somehow get near the door before he did. Slowly, so as not to
attract
notice, she rose and left the hostess’s circle and, as she was closer to the house than Laszlo was, she managed to get into the hall before him. When Laszlo came in from the garden she was
already
standing in front of a mirror apparently adjusting her stole. When he was close to her she turned and spoke to him: ‘Are you leaving, too?’

Laszlo started slightly: he had been too wrapped in his own thoughts to notice her presence.

‘Yes, I’ve had enough.’

‘Then would you help me find a carriage? There’s a hackney stand just close to the house.’

‘Of course!’

Wrapping her head and face in her lace shawl Fanny looked at the young man’s reflection in the mirror. He stood quite close but was looking, not at her, but at an arrangement of artificial flowers that stood on the table beneath the mirror. They were well-made and colourful, but old and dusty; for the Lubianskys had thought it hardly worth-while to spend money on renewing them when the hall was always left in semi-darkness.

‘Look at these! Look, they might be real. From a distance they look like flowers, but close to you can see what they really are:
paper
, nothing but torn paper!’ and he began to laugh, quietly and bitterly.

Fanny put her hand on his arm and squeezed it
sympathetically
. ‘Come, my dear, let’s leave now,’ She spoke with almost
sisterly
compassion.

They left the house and together walked slowly the short
distance
to Lovolde Square where there was a hackney carriage stand. The pavement was almost in darkness for the thick foliage of the horse-chestnut trees which lined the street cut out most of the light from the street-lamps. This pleased Fanny because it meant that no one would recognize her and when they reached the rank it was she who opened the door of the first carriage, got in and sat down.

‘Come on,’ she said to Laszlo, who obeyed without uttering a word. When he was seated and had closed the door she leant out of the window and called to the driver: ‘Museum Street!’

Laszlo made no sign that he had heard. As the one-horse
carriage
moved slowly along the dark twisting streets of the
Elisabeth
district on its way back to the centre of the city, Fanny’s hand searched for Laszlo’s in the darkness and held it gently as if she shared his suffering. It was the very lightest of contact, a mere touch of the fingertips. She said nothing until much later, when they had almost arrived at Laszlo’s lodgings, when she
murmured
: ‘I’ll stay with you tonight.’

The night porter opened the door sleepily and together, side by side as if they had been strolling in the Korso, they went up the three flights together.

They entered the apartment without a word. They did not put any lights on for the glow of the street-lighting below was enough for them.

Laszlo still did not speak. He might have been alone. He sat down on the shabby divan near the wall and buried his face in his hands. Overcome by fatigue, he stayed there without moving for some time, his heart beating so slowly that he felt that at any
moment
it would stop – and how wonderful it would be if it did!

Laszlo noticed nothing of what was going on around him. Time went by; he had no idea how much, and all at once he felt two cool arms round his neck, a soft woman’s body pressed against his hot lips covering his neck with fluttering, comforting kisses. Then silky hands caressed his head and pulled it down to naked velvety shoulders, a mouth searched for his, a tiny tongue inserted itself between his lips, and scented breath perfumed his own breathing. Slowly the purple darkness of desire wiped out the pain, dulling his misery like that legendary potion which makes a man
oblivious
to everything but love and passion …

 

At the first light of dawn Fanny awoke to find herself kissing the hand of the young man beside her. Dazed with gratitude she kept her eyes closed, happy to feel that his other hand was gently
caressing
her relaxed body, moving with delicate care over the skin of her thighs, arms, breasts. After a while she looked up at him. He was half-lying, half-sitting on the bed beside her, the upper part of his body raised against the pillows and his head was held high and turned towards the window. Laszlo was gazing out into the dim grey of early morning, his eyes, filled with despair, were wide open and his mouth was contorted with pain. And though his hand was stroking Fanny’s body, his movements were automatic, unconscious. His spirit was not there. It was far, far away … at Simonvasar.

T
HE CASTLE STOOD
on the edge of the Keresztes grasslands A which form the principal plateau of central Transylvania. It was sited on a small eminence seventy feet or so above the
Aranyos
plain, the first of a group of small hills which rise gradually to the south, eventually becoming the low mountain chain which runs from Torda to Kocsard. The original fortress must have been constructed about the time of Bela III, for the lowest vaults, like those of the church nearby, date from the twelfth century. Whoever chose this site chose well. The low rise on which the
castle
stood was made of smooth-surfaced clay soil enriched with layers of marl. The eastern face was steep, that to the north sloped gently downwards, as did the western side where the village had grown up under the protection of the fortress above it. When the castle was first built it must have been almost inaccessible due to the marshlands created by the flooding of the river below. Over the centuries, however, the flooding had receded, for now the land was covered in a rich layer of fertile soil. The top of the little hill was entirely covered by the castle. The only open approach was from the south but here there had been dug a deep moat which was once protected by palings and outer fortifications, the outline of whose foundations, since covered over, were now visible only when looked down on from the hills behind.

Over the years the original outer ramparts had all disappeared, leaving only the main building to which had been added, at
different
times and in different styles, a series of later wings. The long rectangle of the main building was closed at each corner by massive stone towers which presumably had been added as a
defence
against the first cannon. Where the outer walls had stood, later Abadys, freed from the threat of siege, had planted
flower-beds
and lawns.

The last of the medieval defensive outworks, the tower over the gatehouse, had stood as late as the eighteenth century when the father of that Abady who had become Governor of
Transylvania
, pulled it down because the arch and drawbridge below had not been wide enough to allow his imposing new coach to pass. At first they tried to widen the narrow gateway, but in so doing the structure was weakened, dangerous cracks appeared in its masonry and the whole structure had to be demolished,
leaving
an empty space where once the great gatehouse had marked the entrance from the moat to the castle’s defended outer courts.

Here Count Denes Abady built a horseshoe shaped forecourt, on the right of which he erected stables for thirty-two horses, while on the left there was a covered riding-school. In the apex of the horseshoe curve that joined these two buildings was an
imposing
gateway to the inner court through which could pass the
largest
carriages with all the parade of outriders and postillions. Over the doorway gigantic titans of carved stone lifted boulders menacingly as if they were always ready to hurl these down on anyone bold enough to venture that way; while towering above these giants was the figure of Atlas bearing the globe upon his back. On each side of the new great entrance were
carriage-houses
, tack-rooms, baking ovens to make enough bread for a hundred persons, a laundry furnished with a cauldron large enough to hold the dirty linen of a small town, and apartments for the equerries, footmen, coachmen, porters, grooms and
huntsmen
. The horseshoe court was built in rococo style between the years from 1748 and 1751, as an inscription over the door arch tells all those who pass below. The parapet, which half-hid the low curving roofs, was decorated on the outer side by large
ornamental
vases while on the inside, five metres apart, were placed statues of ancient gods and mythological figures, each with their traditional attributes and all writhing and twisting as if in
ceaseless
movement.

The Count Abady who created all this grandeur and fantasy had clearly been a great builder, for it was he who had also
created
the great stair with its stone treads, carved marble
balustrade
and stuccoed ceiling. And it was he who had also replaced the simple conical roofs of the four stone towers with elaborate double cupolas.

When the gatehouse had been removed the two long wings which had formed the side of the original inner court of the
medieval
castle had been left like legs attached to a seated body. Fifty odd years after the rococo court had been built these two wings were re-faced in the neo-classical style of the Empire period, while, even more recently, Balint Abady’s maternal grandfather had added a Gothic Revival veranda to the western side of the medieval walls from which he could enjoy the truly majestic view across the Keresztes grasslands, up to the big cleft above Torda and finally to where, high in the sky, hung the snow-clad peaks of the Carpathian Mountains.

So, with time, the great house grew and was transformed and spread itself with new shapes and new outlines that were swiftly clothed with the patina of years, so that when one looked at it from afar, from the valley of the Aranyos or from the hills even further away, the old castle with its long façades, cupola-capped towers and spreading wings and outbuildings, seemed to have sprung naturally from the promontory on which it stood, to have grown of itself from the clay below, unhelped by the touch of human hand. All around it, on the rising hills behind and in the spreading
parkland
in front, vast groves of trees, some standing on their own while others spread like great forests, seemed like soft green cushions on which the castle of Denestornya reclined at its ease, as if it had sat there for all eternity and could never have been otherwise.

 

Balint Abady did not return home until the first days of June. After leaving Budapest he had gone straight to Kolozsvar and
remained
there to attend to his estate business, even though nearly everyone he knew there had already left the town for the country. After his prolonged absence in the capital there was a great deal that needed Balint’s attention.

First of all there was much that had to be discussed with his mother. Then there were consultations with Azbej and with the new forestry manager, with whom he had to make a contract
before
the man went up to the mountains. The first problem to be settled was where the new manager should be based and, though in all the discussions in Countess Roza’s presence Azbej
supported
Balint’s ideas with enthusiasm – and his zeal was not faked because he was determined to keep Balint so embroiled in the management of the mountain forests that he would have no time to investigate matters nearer home – a new complication arose since the old forest superintendent, Nyiresy, adopted a policy of passive resistance and non-cooperation. As a result, matters were so delayed that it was ten days before Balint could send his new manager to the mountains and himself follow his mother to Denestornya, arriving late at night in pouring rain.

The next day Balint awoke soon after sunrise to find that it was a beautiful morning. The windows of his room in one of the round towers faced east and through the louvred shutters
horizontal
rays of sunlight filtered through the room’s semi-darkness and picked out the gilded bronzes on the commode opposite as might the glow of firelight. Outside a nightingale sang in almost crazed ecstasy.

Balint jumped out of bed and went to the window. With one movement he flung open both shutters and the sunlight was so brilliant that for a moment he stepped back, reeling.

The sun was already high above the farthest hilltops beyond the Maros. These hills looked so ethereal that they might have been formed only of vapour and mist, that same pale cobalt-blue mist that rose from the river valley and spread over the
surrounding
countryside, softening the outlines of the poplar plantations, and rising until even the lines of the far horizon were blurred and uncertain. The river Maros itself could not be seen; it was too far away and its banks too thickly wooded. In the far distance the silver-grey leaves of the poplars shone with a creamy whiteness in the early morning sun while nearer to the house the Canadian variety, giant trees whose trunks glowed pale lilac, cast long
shadows
over the cropped grassland of the park and over the
newly-mown
lawns. These shadows held none of the harsh shade of the forest but were dim, hazy and bluish in colour, hardly darker than the grass beneath.

Balint stood at the window watching the light spreading slowly between the groves of trees, lighting up the paler leaves of a shrub, catching the white glow of a may-tree’s blossom which was like the lace of a girl’s summer dress, bringing colour to the lilac flowers, and delving eagerly and inexorably to uncover the secrets of the forest undergrowth. As the sunlight grew stronger so the carmine of the Japanese cherry-trees flamed into glowing colour until it was as if the whole of nature blushed with joy and love, quivering with delight at the sweet secrets of spring. It was there in the song of the nightingales and the antiphonal chorus of all the other song-birds who called triumphantly from the clumps of jasmine, from the ivy-coloured walls, from the pastel fronds of the little groups of trimmed thuja and, above all, from the great horse-chestnut trees whose branches were now richly covered with white and pink flowers.

Balint dressed quickly and went out, stopping for a moment on the north terrace to take a new look at the parkland in front of him before starting down the hill to follow the avenue of tall
Hungarian
oaks whose stately branches were almost as dense as those of cypresses. On both sides the grass was filled with crowsfoot and dotted with the golden stars of buttercups. All the way down the slope from the castle’s corner tower to the avenue below there were thickets of lilac bushes, now so heavy with scented flower
panicles
that hardly any leaves were to be seen. And everywhere the nightingales were singing, only falling silent for a moment as Balint passed the bushes in which they were concealed and then starting up again as if unable to contain their joy.

The young man reached the bank of the millstream near where the outer wooden palisades had once stood. He crossed over what was still called the Painted Bridge, even though every vestige of colour had long since disappeared, to the place where the wide path divided and led either to the left or the right, while ahead the view stretched across the park interrupted only by the clumps of poplars, limes or horse-chestnuts. In this part of the park the grass was quite tall, thick and heavy with dew. It was filled with the feathery white heads of seeding dandelions, with golden
cowslips
, bluebells, waving stalks of wild oats and the trembling sprays of meadow-grass, each bearing at its extremity a dew drop that sparkled in the sun. So heavy was the dew that the
grasslands
, as far as the eye could see, were covered with a delicate shining liquid haze.

For Balint this pageant of wild flowers was something new since, during his long years at school, at the university and later when he was always abroad serving as a diplomat, he had never managed to get home before the end of June and so had never
before
seen the ancient park in all the bloom of early summer. The radiance of this early morning, when spring was just merging into summer, was so inviting that Balint left the path and started to walk across the meadow. The grass was high and so wet that it was almost like walking through a stream, and each time that his knees touched the spears of grass and wild oats a tiny shower would fall before the blades straightened up as if proud that they had been brushed by the legs of the master.

After a while Balint, soaked to the knees, reached the avenue of lime trees which bordered the far side of the meadow and was immediately filled with memories of his childhood. This was where he had been taught to ride when very young, in the old avenue that had been planted so long ago. It was almost two
hundred
years since the Abady of those times had laid out three wide
allées
which fanned out, star-shaped, from where the predecessor of the Painted Bridge crossed the millstream a little higher up than the later bridge and thus directly in front of the castle façade. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, when the fashion for informal ‘English’ gardens was spreading all over
Europe
, Balint’s grandfather had had the central avenue cut down so as to plant the lawns directly below where the castle stood. He wanted to have the view from the terrace as open and informal as possible, with a wide view to the distant plantations; for it was well understood that in English landscaping all straight lines were forbidden. Even so, the avenue that remained was still between five and six hundred metres long and, as the earth between the lines of trees was a soft loam, it was there that the Groom of the Stables, as the castle’s head
é
cuyer
was called, would put the boy on his tiny pony and gallop him up and down, ten, twenty, thirty times until he no longer fell off.