They Were Divided (39 page)

When Balint questioned his mother, Countess Abady merely said that she had been sleeping badly which was why she had decided to stay in bed that morning. She seemed in very good spirits and talked animatedly to Aron Kosma. She had put on the silk dress she kept for special occasions, perhaps because it was Sunday or perhaps it was because young Kosma was there, for his father had been a childhood playmate of hers, though she had not seen him for more than forty years. On this day she was at her most vivacious and, though her manner always held something of condescension in it, it was with all her old charm that she talked of horses and their breeding and of the hunts of long ago. Balint felt reassured.

After lunch he sent a telegram to Winkler at the forestry
headquarters
on the Beles, telling him to send Zutor to Denestornya. Then, leaving Ganyi behind, he and Kozma got into his car and were driven away. That Zutor would find only his secretary there he did not mention. It was better that way.

As Balint got into his car Countess Roza came out on the
balcony
and continued to wave goodbye until the motor glided out of sight through the massive gateway in the castle’s outer court.

Later Balint often thought of this moment and always in later years this was how he remembered her best, a diminutive figure standing very straight behind the carved stone balustrade,
waving
goodbye with her chubby little hand …

T
HE TOUR OF THE CO-OPERATIVE CENTRES
in the south-eastern counties that Balint took with Aron Kozma
lasted ten days. Their last stop was at Kis-Kukullo in a small
village
called Kis-Fuzes a mile or two from Dicso-Szentmarton.

All through the meeting, during the reading of reports and the checking of the books – and even more so during the voting which then followed – Balint and Kosma both noticed that
everyone
seemed to be in a great hurry to bring the meeting to a close. They whispered among themselves and glanced repeatedly at the clock on the wall. When asked the question that
everywhere
else had loosed a flood of suggestions and endless discussion – ‘Are there any complaints or special requests?’ – everyone at once had said ‘No, nothing! … Everything’s fine! … Nothing at all! … no, nothing!’ and looked eagerly towards the door.

Neither Abady nor Kozma could make out what could be going on. They were both sure that there was no dark secret about the book-keeping that had to be kept from them, so they assumed that the village people were merely anxious to go
somewhere
else and were afraid that any prolongation of the
Co-operative
meeting might mean their missing the fun.

The general air of gloom and dismay that had seemed to mark the meeting vanished immediately when, about midday, Balint brought the discussion to an end and headed for his car. Then it was as if a heavy load had been lifted from everyone’s shoulders and, wreathed in smiles and merrily shaking hands with the visitors, they escorted Balint and Kozma to their motor, happily closed the car doors upon them and waved goodbye with such enthusiasm it was as if they were calling out with one voice, ‘Now it’s time to go! Go! Go now!’

In the Kukullo valley the villages were so close together that it seemed that each one started where the last left off. The next on their route was Gyalfalva where the manor house belonged to Pityu Kendy. They reached it after a drive that took only a few minutes despite the fact that the road was crowded with
pedestrians
, many of them young men, girls and children and all of them from Kis-Fuzes, who were hurrying along as merrily as if they were on their way to a country market or a travelling circus.

The village street of Gyalfalva was no less crowded and
everyone
smiled and waved at the car’s passengers, assuming, no doubt, that they were all bound for the same festive destination. Held up by this happy crowd Balint’s car crept along until it was nearly opposite the entrance to Pityu’s house. Here, in the curve of the wooden palisade that flanked the gates to the Kendy manor, the crowd was so thick that they were forced to a halt.
The chauffeur sounded his horn and the crowd at once gave way, but not along the road, only towards the Kendy gates. The drive started to explain that they were on their way to Dicso only to be faced by Pityu Kendy himself, dressed in a leather jacket and fur cap, who ran to the car, and shook hands with Balint and Kozma, crying, ‘You can’t shame me by passing my door and not coming in!’ and went on to explain what was happening.

What he said was far from clear. Today, he declared, was a great day, an important day, which was why he had invited so many people. In fact he had invited everyone he knew, including Balint and Kozma. Hadn’t they had his letter, he asked, and then answered himself saying that of course they had not been at home, but that he had written. Balint enquired what it was all about, and Pityu explained that it had all been in the letter. He had, he said eagerly, condemned Brandy to death and today was the great day when the Court would pronounce sentence; now, in a quarter of an hour, the Court would be in session. They were only waiting for Balint’s arrival, and that was why he had been at the gates, because he had heard they were in the district and was on the look-out for them.

Brandy? Court? Pronounce sentence? Balint and Kozma were still as much in the dark as if Pityu had never launched into his breathless attempt at explanation. All the same it was now clearly impossible to continue on their way without stopping, all the more so because at that moment some of the other guests came crowding out of the gates, among them the two young Laczoks and Zoltan Alvinczy, who at once launched into further
explanation
telling all over again how Pityu had sentenced Brandy to death, while from the steps of the portico inside old Uncle Ambrus bellowed out, ‘Stop fooling around out there and drive that spittoon of yours in!’

Balint was in no mood for any sort of party, for his tour of the village Co-operatives had been exceptionally exhausting,
involving
as it had daily discussions lasting from morning till night. By the time he had got to bed in the evening he had still not had time to read the daily papers, and with the continuing Balkan
crisis
to worry him – for though it had recently calmed down
somewhat
, it was still menacing enough – all he wanted to do now was to get home. The idea of this jolly celebration appalled him; but it would have been churlish just to drive on and, besides, Balint had no desire to cause offence.

And so, with his companions, Balint got out of the car and walked up to the house.

The large dining room in the centre of the house was packed with guests. There were the three Kendys, old Daniel, Uncle Ambrus and Joska; Farkas Alvinczy, Kamuthy, and several neighbours including Todorka Racz, all drinking cronies of Pityu’s.

Everyone was in a happy party mood, which had been
reinforced
by copious draughts of wine and brandy. The dining table was littered with empty and half-empty glasses.

Everyone, too, knew what this feast was about, for Pityu had taken care to explain the joke in detail and in his letters of
invitations
he had slipped a paper listing the crimes for which Brandy was to be arraigned and sentenced. Pityu clearly thought it was all a huge joke, of which he was proud to be the instigator, and now, in typical Transylvanian fashion, all his guests were
drinking
and laughing and teasing each other and their host.

Soon the great moment arrived.

Pityu Kendy called out, ‘Guards! Do your duty!’

The two young Laczoks, Dezso and Erno, stepped forward wearing ancient military shakos, which Pityu had found in some drawer, and hung around with rusted sabres and dilapidated
sabretaches
. Both men were short and stocky with markedly Tartar features. They were as alike as twins. Standing strictly at
attention
they made an impressive pair with their gold-fringed
headgear
, even though this was somewhat moth-eaten.

Then came the command, ‘Bring the accused up before the house!’

The two Laczoks clattered away and the guests followed them out onto the long stone terrace in front of the house. There they settled down in a semi-circle, on chairs that the footman and maid brought out from the dining-room. The chairs wobbled a little on the uneven paving stones, but the guests were in no state to notice. The sun was shining, the lovely pale sun of the
beginning
of winter, and everyone was eager for the fun to begin.

As the gentry settled themselves in their chairs, two gypsy bands took up their positions, one on each side, holding their instruments at the ready, and the village folk crowded together on the lawn in front of the house, all in festive clothes, young and old alike, the girls in their most elaborate finery. Among them a swarm of children tumbled about, sometimes running up close to
the terrace and having to be dragged back before they reached the terrace steps for they were too young to know their place.

Balint saw that among the crowd were all the men who had seemed so eager to get away from the Co-operative meeting.

Everywhere there was an air of expectancy and excitement, especially down on the lawn for they all knew that later there was to be a barbecue in the farmyard, with quantities of wine and gypsy music.

Now the gentlemen gaolers brought up the accused. It was a large wooden five-litre wine jug and they were carrying it by two handles that looked like arms. The belly of the jug was painted with flowers of all colours and the dome-shaped lid represented a face with wide slanting eyes and a huge moustache made of some kind of fur.

The culprit was carried up with stiff formality, in a most
soldier
-like manner, and placed on a bench that a footman hastily slid under it.

The arrival was greeted with cheers and, strangely enough, squatting there on the bench between two guards, who stood erect with drawn swords, the accused had an air of knowing
malice
, seeming to challenge everyone present, guards, judges and spectators alike with a look of pride in his own wickedness.

The trial started, not in the usual way for Pityu himself was to be prosecutor, witness and judge and also, as everyone could see, executioner too, for strapped to his waist was his officer’s revolver in its leather holster.

Pityu rose to his feet and, to a flourish from the gypsy bands, waved in the air the prosecution’s crime-sheet.

‘You vile scoundrel!’ cried Pityu, and after this unflattering start proceeded to enumerate the crimes of which Brandy was accused: that he made men unsteady on their feet, that he caused dreadful headache, that he made noses swollen and empurpled and, finally, made men drunk so swiftly that there was no joy in it.

After these generalities Pityu turned to more personal charges, himself appearing as chief witness.

‘I shall now testify,’ read out Pityu, ‘how many crimes have been committed against myself, how many times you have muddled my brains while I have been at cards and made me stake my all on a single ace. Time and time again you have encouraged me in foolhardy bids so that I have lost money. More than that you have so fuddled my wits that I have insulted my friends to the point that I have had to fight duels with them,
slashing away with sabres for no good reason. And each time I have begged to be left free of you and so commit no more idiocies. Right up to this very day you have kept up this evil course. This summer, when I was a guest in the high mountains, I was thrown out in shame because you had furtively crept back and insinuated yourself once again into my confidence. Well, that was the last drop, I mean your last drop, and you deserve the penalty of death! Does everyone agree?’

‘Death! Death! Death to the horrid criminal!’ cried the guests on the terrace; and from down below, amid guffaws of laughter, the crowd echoed, ‘Death!’

‘And so, you horrible scoundrel, you see your last hour has come. But, so that no one can say you had no chance to defend yourself, I now invite you to offer your excuses. If you have
anything
to say, speak now!’

Pityu’s manner of shouting at the accused was so stern and
convincing
that everyone was struck dumb and waited expectantly for the jug to reply. They listened in vain.

Then Pityu spoke again. ‘Nothing to say? All right. Then I will proceed to sentence. Brandy is hereby condemned to death by firing squad for the manifold crimes he has committed against honest Peter Kendy, who from henceforth will only drink wine!’

Great jubilation. Cheers, hand-clapping, hats thrown in the air and another flourish from the gypsy bands. Then above the hubbub came another shout from Pityu:

‘To the scaffold with him!’

A procession formed up. First went the gypsy band from the village, immediately followed by Pityu’s footman and valet
pushing
a small cart in which they had placed the condemned Brandy on a bed of straw. On each side walked the young Laczoks with drawn sabres and behind it, proudly erect, stalked Pityu, who in turn was followed by the chief guests, the gypsy band from the county town and the older generation of farmers. The boys and children ran forwards on both sides, eager to be first at the place of execution.

The procession rounded the house to the strains of a funeral march, and then wended its way up the sloping garden until it reached a giant oak-tree standing close to the surrounding wall. This was the appointed place.

The music stopped and the jug was lifted up and placed against the tree-trunk. The spectators formed a semi-circle with the two Laczoks at each end. Pityu stepped forward until he was about
five paces away from the condemned. Then he took out his revolved, released the safety-catch, and called out, ‘Now I shall send your guilty soul to Hell!’

Uncle Ambrus, who, the older he got, liked less and less for anyone else to steal the limelight, tried to spoil the effect by
muttering
, ‘What rubbish! How can a jug have a soul?’

Pityu laughed back, ‘But it can … the spirit of cherries!’ and fired straight at the wooden jug.

The force of the bullet made the jug wobble twice on its little wooden legs before falling forwards on its belly. From beneath it spread streams of red liquid which collected in little puddles
between
the massive roots of the old tree.