They Were Divided (27 page)

On the same day another death occurred, that of old Adam Alvinczy. He was found dead in his bed in the morning, and this news and the social excitement it provoked drew everyone’s attention away from Gazsi’s suicide.

Since Count Alvinczy had been a prominent man there had to be an important funeral. A long line of carriages and cars
followed
the cortege to the family vault.

The following day the lawyer read the dead man’s will in the presence of his sons, of his daughter-in-law Margit, and of Stanislo Gyeroffy who had been made executor. It proved to be a harsh and comfortless document. The old landowner had
carefully
recorded all the money he had had to pay out to settle his
sons’ debts and on the basis of these figures he had drawn up the inheritances of three of them in three separate columns – three because Adam had been given his share two years before when he had got married. It was a shattering experience for those who were left: Farkas was to receive only the house at Magyarokerek, with just eight hundred acres and three small forest holdings; and Zoltan the meadows near Magyar-Tohat and the house in Kolozsvar. All had been heavily mortgaged. The youngest
brother
, Akos, got nothing because only two months previously his father had settled debts that already exceeded his share of the family property. ‘
I
regret
having
to
do
this
,’
wrote the old man, ‘
but
I
cannot
deprive
my
other
sons
just
because
of him
’.

This came as a mortifying shock to the three brothers, and most of all to Akos who, as soon as the lawyer had left the house, stammered out the confession that on the night of the charity ball he had lost sixteen thousand crowns at the gaming table and the winners had only given him an extra two weeks to pay up because of his father’s death. He now had only thirteen days’ grace. Thirteen days, that was all. If he couldn’t pay then he would be finished!

There followed a terrible argument, long and utterly fruitless. There was no possibility of help. Farkas’s and Zoltan’s shares were both mortgaged up to the hilt, in addition to which they would somehow have to find money to pay the inheritance tax. They could do nothing. The only hope was that Adam would pay for the youngest.

This, from the goodness of his heart, he would have been
willing
to do, but Margit vetoed the idea at once. They had a child to think about, she said, so Adam’s own small inheritance could not be squandered in this way. What would be the purpose of such a sacrifice, she asked? It would only be throwing money away, and in fact would not really help Akos, who would still have nothing and who could not live on thin air! He himself would not want to live for ever on his brothers’ charity, an eternal guest! It would be far more sensible, she went on, if he were to go away somewhere and start a new life. The family could, at some sacrifice, manage to raise just enough to pay for his ticket; but to cough up money just for gambling debts? No! Never!

Margit was at once attacked by Farkas and Zoltan. They said that she was mercenary and without pity and, of course, as they too were deeply in debt, they felt that they could have been as magnanimous as they liked as any help for Akos would have to be
paid for by Adam who, because of their insistence, was for once coming close to rebelling against his capable young wife. It was lucky for her that she was supported by Stanislo; and this settled the matter.

So they started to discuss where Akos could go. First, as a
matter
of course, they spoke of America. Then it was the turn of Java and, following that, of South Africa. But at each suggestion the same problem arose: what would he do when he arrived? Work as a shoe-shine boy? Get a job hoeing the earth on some plantation? The trouble was that he had no qualifications for earning his own living. Of course he could become a soldier, and indeed had been quite good at it when doing his voluntary service in the army; but where would he be needed?

It was this last suggestion that led to the decision that he should join the French Foreign Legion.

Akos agreed at once, and almost seemed pleased at the idea; but though at last everyone was of one opinion, no one knew how one went about it. What did one do? How did one get there?

Then someone thought of Tamas Laczok, he who had taken their father home after his attack at the ball. They had had a long talk with him after the old man had been found dead, and he had been the last of his acquaintance to see him alive. He had seemed full of good will and the Legion had been mentioned more than once when he had been telling them about his time in North Africa and how he had had to nurse sick soldiers in the desert. He would know what should be done, but who could find out for them without explaining why they wanted to know? The Alvinczy brothers refused at once. They would have nothing to do with making such embarrassing enquiries, not them! Neither would they lift a finger in such a matter; it would have to be
someone
else. Stanislo Gyeroffy also demurred, murmuring
contemptuously
, though in an elegant drawl: ‘I really hardly know the man.’

The plan was on the point of being abandoned when Margit spoke up.

‘I’ll find out!’ she said. By what means she did not reveal and the others did not ask. It was unlikely that she would have told them if they had. At most she might just have answered ‘Somehow!’, for she was a person of few words who did not take kindly to being cross-questioned about anything.

Margit had immediately thought of Balint Abady who was clever
and discreet and who was on good terms with Tamas Laczok.

That very afternoon Balint took a horse-cab and was driven out to Bretfu. The coachman, who knew the area well, drove him to the foot of the hill that led to the village and stopped there because the horse would not have been able to manage the steep road that was now covered with melting snow.

‘It’s the little house you can see up there, your Lordship, the one below the vineyard,’ said the coachman, pointing the way with his whip.

It was hard work trudging up the hill through mud and slush, and it was nearly a quarter of an hour later before Balint found himself in front of the house. It was a modest little building which must have been either a small summerhouse or else a room for pressing the grapes, before being converted into a one-room dwelling with a kitchen. Lamplight glowed through the window. Balint knocked and from inside a voice cried, ‘
Entrez
!
’

Tamas Laczok was sitting on an upturned packing-case. He was in his shirtsleeves doing calculations beside a drawing board that was supported on two trestles. He welcomed Balint with a smile of pleasure saying, ‘
Quelle
charmante
visite,
cher
ami
–
how
kind of you to come to see me!’ and he got up, cleared the only chair of his jacket, necktie and collar, threw them on the floor, gestured to Abady to sit down and, having guessed that the visit must have some purpose, at once asked, ‘How can I be of service to you, my dear friend?’

Balint saw no reason to beat about the bush.

‘How does one enlist in the Foreign Legion?’ he asked.

His eyebrows slanting up even more dramatically than usual, Tamas winked at his visitor. Though he said nothing to show that he had guessed at once that Abady was enquiring on behalf of one of the Alvinczy boys, he answered in a matter-of-fact way as if it had been the most natural question in the world.

‘The Foreign Legion? Oh, that’s very simple!’ And he at once gave Abady all the most important facts, namely that the
candidate
just presented himself at the recruiting office. No documents were necessary and no questions were asked. It was just like becoming a Carthusian friar. One could use any name one liked; the Legion did not care and indeed nearly all the men serving in it went under false names. There was a medical examination and once that was passed the candidate was offered a five-year
contract
. Promotion to corporal was fairly swift providing a man behaved himself, and it was by no means unknown for officers to
be promoted from the ranks. After five years a man could leave the Legion or sign on for a further period.

‘I know of several men who have quit after their years of
service
, bought a small farm out there in Algeria and now live
happily
at their ease. Of course the discipline is hard, very hard; but it has to be as the men are a pretty wild bunch, tough fellows, and rough too, though reliable comrades when the fighting gets grim and the patrols are ambushed. There is an iron tradition that no one lets down a comrade, ever. The climate’s not too bad: it’s healthy, even if it does get hot in the summer.’

As always Laczok spoke in French, and he went on to relate many things from his own experience when he had been building the railway in the high Atlas and when he and his men had been protected by the Legion’s vigilance. Laczok had been an
exceptionally
perceptive observer. Suddenly he stopped reminiscing and said, ‘But I haven’t offered you anything! Wouldn’t you like some coffee? I’m always ready for a cup!’ and without waiting for a reply he leaned back his strong, pillar-like torso, and called out in Hungarian, ‘Rara! Rara! Where the Devil are you, you
little
beast?’ and, turning back to Abady, he explained, ‘Her real name is Esmeralda, but I call her Rara for short. Perhaps it’s a bit sugary, but you’ll see it suits her!’

The door opened quietly behind him and a very young, very slim and very beautiful gypsy girl came into the room. She wore a red dress as bright as a fireman’s tunic, which set off her
coal-black
hair. Her brown skin seemed almost to have a greenish glow and it was with pouting lips and a languorous glance filled with sensual invitation that, in a throaty voice that suggested that she was in fact offering herself, she asked, ‘You wanted me?’

‘Coffee! For both of us!’

‘It’s on the stove; I’ll bring some straight away!’

She went noiselessly from the room and a few moments later returned just as silently. Her bare feet did not make the smallest sound on the floor, for she walked on tiptoe like a young deer; and she moved slowly just as if she were performing some ancient ritual dance to a melody only she could hear. As she put down the tray she looked again at Tamas’s guest and, in her long eyes and in the smile on her now widely parted lips, the invitation was unmistakable.

If Count Tamas had noticed this he showed no sign but went on with his tales of the Legion. ‘I should think it’s probably a good moment to join, for they’ll be wanting recruits just now;
more and more of them from what my old friends write to me from time to time. I see from the Paris papers – though they always write in such guarded terms – that France has got great plans for Morocco too these days. You can always tell what the French mean when they start complaining about this and that and talking about the security of their borders and the necessity to safeguard their economic interests. It just means that one of these days they’ll march in; and once there everyone else will be squeezed out! You mark my words!’

‘But at the Algeciras Conference, and when the
Franco-German
agreement was signed two years ago, the French again confirmed their open-door policy as regards Morocco, just as they guaranteed the independence and authority of the Sultan. France’s influence is surely limited to political matters.’

‘Pouf! The French don’t bother about little things like that! I’ll bet you anything you like that something is about to break there; and all the more so since they’ve sent in Lyautey from Algeria. I knew him when he was a mere captain, and I can tell you he’s a tough one!’

Old Tamas then went on to talk about North Africa and all its problems. He talked well because he knew his subject. No
matter
how complicated the issue Laczok understood it and knew the real facts. Abady listened fascinated as his host unravelled the involved politics of Algeria and Morocco with the same clarity as a few days earlier he had talked about Albania.