They Were Counted (93 page)

At once there was a general uproar, the chairman rose, closed the session and hurried off the platform. Everyone made for the exits, jostling each other in their hurry to get away.

Then through the lower door a stout uniformed officer stalked in. It was Colonel Fabritius. All those heading for that exit turned and rushed towards whatever other escape from the chamber they could find. As they did so the colonel mounted the podium and read out the royal decree of dissolution, but the only people to hear him were the journalists in the press gallery. As soon as he had finished the chamber was occupied by armed soldiers.

In the corridors the fleeing members found that soldiers had been posted everywhere. They were all from the National Guard of Budapest. It was a tragic and shameful sight – an armed
military
occupation of Parliament, the ancient citadel of Hungary’s independence. The soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder facing the entrances to the chamber, like a dark wall shutting out even the grey morning light from the windows behind them.

Balint, who scorned the idea of running away, was one of the last to leave the chamber. He walked slowly and sadly towards the main stairway but stopped when Bela Varju came running
towards
him.

‘They’ve closed the entrance. No one can get out that way!’ he called from a distance.

‘Perhaps we can go through the common rooms?’ suggested Abady, and together they quickly disappeared through one of the doors. Once inside Balint glanced back and saw that they had only just been in time, for he could already see the backs of
soldiers
lined up outside the wide glass doors through which they had just slipped.

Balint was quicker than Varju, who was now somewhat out of breath. He turned at the exit on the other side of the room and, for the first time seeing the comic side of it all, called back: ‘Hurry up, my friend, we don’t want to find our coats again in the Vienna prison-house!’

 

Balint’s train did not leave until two o’clock, so he went first to lunch at the Casino. There the atmosphere was one of unrelieved gloom. One or two people were conferring in low tones, but they fell silent if anyone came near them. Even at the long communal table the events of that morning were hardly mentioned. Shoulders were shrugged but everyone kept their opinions to themselves. Fredi Wuelffenstein, normally so ebullient, never once talked of how his Hungarian blood was boiling. It was the realization that no one knew any longer what the future would bring that deadened everyone’s spirits. Secretly there were many who began to wonder if they had not been wrong in making those demands about the army and the laws which had brought them into direct confrontation with the monarch.

 

Laszlo Gyeroffy was travelling on the same train. Though Balint and he greeted one another and sat together in the same
compartment
, Balint sensed at once that the warmth had gone out of their friendship.

‘Are you going home to Kozard?’ enquired Balint.

‘No, I’m getting off at Varad,’ To ward off any further
questioning
from his cousin, Laszlo added: ‘I have some business there.’ Then he turned away and pretended to look out of the window.

Neither of them spoke again for some time. Laszlo was thinking about the Carnival season which had just ended. Once again he had been named as
elotancos
and there had been no diminution in his position in society. On the contrary this year he had reached the pinnacle of social success at the archducal ball when he had dined at the same table as the King of Bulgaria, opened the ball with the Queen and spent the entire evening surrounded by
Imperial
and Royal Highnesses and their Majesties themselves.
Despite
all this public glory Laszlo himself sensed that this year his prestige had been somehow diminished. He was no longer
interested
in his job as leading dancer, and he neglected it. During the picnic dances at the Casino he would sometimes disappear for an hour or more, going up to the gaming tables and more than once returning drunk, and angry that his assistant had sent a
message
asking for him.

He knew that he had been remiss, but even so he had resented it when, three days before, one of the town’s great hostesses had asked Niki Kollonich and Gyuri Warday, Imre’s younger
brother
, to organize her ball rather than he, the official
elotancos.
Accordingly
he had thrown up the job, giving it out that he was obliged to return to Transylvania. This was the reason for his being on the same train as Balint. Of course, he reflected, it was just as well that he would no longer have to bear all those extra expenses. Neither could he continue to postpone settling the
question
of Fanny’s pearls. Somehow he had to find the money to
redeem
them, for he felt he could no longer bear the shame of being indebted to a woman. It was as bad as being kept!

As they sat face to face in the railway carriage, Balint was
closely
studying his cousin’s face. It had grown hard, with a bitter line to the mouth, and he had developed a vertical furrow where his eyebrows met. Laszlo’s eyes were both watery and inflamed and Balint knew at once that he must have been sitting up late and presumably gambling as heavily as before. Well, he thought, I’ll try and make him see reason. So, as tactfully as he could he
introduced
the subjects. Laszlo shrugged his shoulders and his
replies
were barely polite. This made Balint so angry that he began to say openly everything that was in his mind. His words were cruel and wounding. Finally, enraged, he said: ‘You’re quite mad! If you go on like this you’ll end up bankrupt and dishonoured!’

Gyeroffy got up, the bitter line of his mouth even more marked than before: ‘I am already bankrupt and dishonoured!’ he said quietly. Then he left the compartment.

Laszlo did not return until the train reached Nagy-Varad. While his bags were being collected he came over to his cousin and said: ‘Thank you for caring what becomes of me. But don’t bother any more. I’m a hopeless case!’

Before Balint could reply, Laszlo had disappeared.

 

When he arrived in Kolozsvar Balint went straight to his
apartment
in his mother’s house in Farkas Street. It was already late in the evening. He found waiting for him a note from Adrienne:
‘
Come
to
tea
tomorrow
at
half-past
four.
Turn
up
unexpectedly.
There
will
be
several
people
there.
I’ll
tell y
ou
more
later.
’

Adrienne wrote in English and the word ‘unexpectedly’ was underlined.

Balint arrived the next day at five. In Adrienne’s big drawing-room he found a number of men grouped round each woman present. Judith was in one corner with three young men talking to her, and Margit was at the other end of the room with two of the Alvinczys. The two Laczok girls were there, also
surrounded
by young men, and Adrienne was near the fireplace, not this time sitting on the pile of cushions on the floor but in an
armchair
, with Adam Alvinczy on one side and Pityu Kendy on the other. Balint went over to join them. Everybody wanted to hear about the marvels of the Riviera and Kamuthy demanded the latest news from Budapest. While dutifully telling everyone what they wanted to hear Balint was straining every nerve, searching for some sign which would explain why Adrienne had called him home. He looked carefully at everyone in turn but he could see nothing out of the ordinary, either in their faces or in their
bearing
. Everyone looked exactly as they always did and though he fancied that he caught a flash of hostility in Judith’s eyes when he shook hands with her, it disappeared immediately and she went on chatting with her friends. All this continued for some little time.

When the lamps were brought in Adrienne got up so that the servant could reach the pedestal behind her chair. She moved over to the french window which overlooked the Szamos and gazed out into the twilight. Balint stood beside her.

‘Look hard at that bridge!’ murmured Addy softly without turning towards him. She pointed with her chin towards it and then rejoined the others in the room.

Balint stayed where he was studying the little wooden bridge which spanned the river about ten paces from the house. On the garden side, there was a flimsy gate made of canes which was
obviously
nailed into place. A few planks were missing from the bridge and the wooden parapet was broken in several places. It was clear that it had not been in use for many years. Across the bridge there was a path through the park which followed the banks of the river.

When Balint rejoined the others Adrienne turned to him and said: ‘I nearly forgot! I’ve still got a book of yours. It was most interesting, thank you so much.’ And she picked up a little
paperback
Tauchnitz volume from her desk and handed it to him. Balint glanced at the title. The book certainly wasn’t his; he had never even heard of it.

He put it in his pocket and, as he did so, realized that
something
had been slipped between the leaves. A letter? Though filled with excitement, his reply was cool and blandly devoid of emotion:

‘It’s good, isn’t it? Nothing out of the ordinary, but very well written, I thought. I’m glad you liked it.’

‘Oh, yes. A good read …’

Abady continued to make conversation for a little while longer. Then he took his leave and hurried home. Only when he had reached his own room and closed the door behind him did he take out the book and find Adrienne’s letter.