They Were Divided (40 page)

Everyone now crowded round Pityu, cheering and applauding him while the gypsy band struck up the well-known aria ‘The intriguer is no more!’ from the opera
Laszlo
Hunyady.
Old Daniel Kendy, oblivious of everything else, shuffled up to the toppled wooden jug, crouched down slowly and painfully and dipped his fingers in the spreading crimson stream. Then he licked his fingers twice and, with the air of a great connoisseur, said quietly to himself:

‘Kirsch! Kirsch!
Quel
dommage
–
what a pity! Such a noble kirsch!’

Accompanied by the town band, who were now playing a
selection
of joyful tunes, the guests walked slowly back to the house and crowded once more into the big dining-room. The villagers were taken round to the farmyard by the estate overseer and his assistants and there they found meat roasting on spits and
cauldrons
bubbling away. The local gypsies struck up and soon all the younger people were dancing. Wine flowed from a barrel that had been tapped in the entrance to the barn and they could all knock back as much as they wanted.

In the dining-room too there was a lavish collection of Rhenish and other fine wines, as well as an imposing array of locally produced wines, new and old, and all of them so potent that the executed Brandy would have hidden himself in shame. Soon the food was brought in, simple country food, filling but unsophisticated, cabbage with smoked pork, and sausages of many different varieties, for it was just after the first pig-killing of the winter. Everyone ate heartily and laughed and joked … and they all drank heavily.

In half an hour several of the guests were drunk, but none
more so than the noble host himself who was by now quite
cross-eyed
.

Otherwise the tipsiest of the older men, as might have been expected, was old Daniel and, among the younger ones, a
neighbouring
land-owner, Vince Himleos, an extremely polite young man whose widowed mother had impressed upon him what an honour it was to be invited by Count Peter Kendy and had made him promise to mind his manners and to introduce himself to everyone present, especially to the older men.

With this motherly advice ringing in his ears, he was obsessed with the thought that maybe he was not doing this properly. The more he drank the more convinced he became that perhaps he had not been doing all that he should; indeed, he decided, after much agonizing, that more was needed, something that would save him from the awful fault of not knowing how to behave in noble company.

Accordingly he got up and staggered to the head of the table where Farkas Alvinczy and Kamuthy were sitting, clicked his heels and announced:

‘I am Himleos!’

‘Servus
–
how do you do?’ they both responded politely, as did Uncle Ambrus, who was sitting next to them, for no one in such company minded a man being drunk and not fully in control of himself.

Then poor Himleos, whose old Hungarian name meant ‘
pox-ridden
’, reached old Dani, clicked his heels again and said his name once more.

As the older man did not turn round and answer, probably because he had not heard him, young Vince introduced himself again, more loudly and then, seeing that he still got no response, touched old Daniel’s shoulder and yelled in his ear, ‘I am Himleos!’ and put out his hand.

Old Dani still did not turn fully to face him but briefly looked him up and down and then peered into his proffered palm. Then, under Dani’s red nose, a wicked smile spread across his face and, stuttering badly as he always did when drunk, he said very slowly, ‘I hope you g-g-g-get well s-s-soon!’ and, chuckling to himself, turned back to his glass.

Young Vince staggered at this insult as if he had been struck. Though mild and inoffensive by nature the one thing he would never have accepted, even when sober, was that someone should make fun of his ancient family name … and now he was drunk.
He stepped back and swung back his arm to strike out. Luckily Uncle Ambrus sprang up in time to grasp him in a powerful
bear-hug
so that Himleos could do nothing more than scream out, ‘Monstrous! I protest … protest … I protest!’

The gypsy musicians fell silent and many of the younger men, Pityu among them, ran forward, surrounded the irate Himleos and dragged him to the other end of the room where they all,
especially
the two young Laczoks who knew him well, did their best to hush him up and calm him by telling him about old Dani. Others busied themselves with Daniel Kendy himself, who now rose to his feet and, swaying as if caught in a gale, started to bow repeatedly in every direction and, in elegant French, stammer out:

‘
A
v-v-votre
d-d-disposition
…
v-v-votre
d-d-dis
…’
but got no further for he was grasped by several strong arms and carried out into the garden, for it was well known what followed when Dani was in drink and started to bow to everyone present.

Abady took advantage of the general confusion to leave the room. With Kozma in tow he quickly found his chauffeur who was waiting for them just outside the main gates.

They drove swiftly through the village, which was now
completely
deserted because every man, woman and child was up at the Kendy manor house carousing and dancing to the gypsy music.

Balint left with a bitter taste in his mouth for it had been some time since he had attended drunken revels of that kind. At the mock trial and execution he had laughed with the others at the humour of it all, but now, as they drove through the darkening afternoon, he looked back with concern and bitterness at the waste of talent and energy that had been lavished on such a lark. Now, he thought, they would talk of nothing else unless it was equally trivial. It was as if none of those people could ever for a moment be serious, even when the country was threatened by something as potentially dangerous as the Balkan crisis. Not a word had been uttered about that, not a single word. And it had been the same all through Balint’s tour, during which he had met all sorts of people, officials and men of all different stations and standing in towns, villages and country districts. And these were people who professed, in their own fashion, an interest in politics and world events …

Kozma sat beside him, silent and apparently so wrapped in thought that Balint wondered if he was thinking the same.

On reaching Dicso-Szentmarton they drove straight to the
hotel where they had intended to spend the night before visiting three more villages the next day; but Kozma had to continue the tour alone. At the hotel a telegram was waiting for Balint which the porter explained had come from Denestornya at midday.

Balint’s heart constricted with anxiety as he opened it and all his fears were confirmed for Countess Roza had suffered a stroke that morning.

Balint returned at once to the car, hardly pausing to say
goodbye
to Aron.

‘Denestornya!’ he said. ‘As fast as you can!’ and the car sped off into the coal-black night.

Days passed without change. Winter set in and soon it was Christmas, the first Christmas in four years that Balint and his mother had spent at Denestornya and not at Abbazia.

Outwardly the festivities were conducted as they always had been.

Roza Abady sat in the centre of the great hall on the first floor of the castle facing the stairs. The dining-table had been extended to its full length and on it had been placed a huge tree decorated with angels’-hair, paper garlands, golden stars and a host of tiny candles. All around it were stacked high piles of winter clothes which Countess Roza and her two housekeepers had been knitting during the previous twelve months. These were for the children in the village and would not be distributed until after church on the following day. They were displayed now because Countess Abady somehow felt they were not really Christmas gifts unless they had first been placed round the symbolic tree.

Also on the table were a quantity of parcels all labelled with a name. These were her gifts for everyone of her household staff and their families, and consisted of shawls, dress materials, warm vests, coats and jackets without sleeves … and a lot of children’s boots.

As had been the custom throughout Countess Roza’s time, each recipient came in from the staircase where they had been waiting, in a rigid order of precedence, the children accompanied by their parents. ‘Enter the hall, bow to the Gracious Countess, receive your present, kiss her hand and then leave quickly so as to make room for those who are waiting!’

This immutable ceremony proceeded as it always had. The two housekeepers, Mrs Tothy and Mrs Baczo, stood on each side of their mistress, pushed forward the children when they had to,
and handed up the appropriate presents. The butler stood by the door to see that the right people came in, and also that they went out again.

Only one thing was different – the role played by the countess herself. In previous years she had personally given out each
present
; now Balint did this instead, for the old lady’s right side was paralysed.

This year, too, she no longer spoke a few friendly words to each of her dependants as they stood bowing before her. Now she just nodded to them, for she did not want them to hear the few almost unintelligible words that were all she could utter, and offered them her left hand to kiss for she could no longer raise her leaden right arm. Even so, she still sat upright with her back like a ramrod, propped up by cushions. Now she sat in the wheelchair in which she had been propelled from her own rooms, for it would have been too awkward to lift her into the throne-like
armchair
she had always used before. The wheelchair had been pushed forwards just in front of the tree so that she had the light behind her, casting shadows so that no one should see her distorted face. To make quite sure of this she wore a lace bonnet that was tied with extra-wide ribbons. This helped to support her chin.

Countess Roza had ordered all these arrangements herself, explaining to her maid and to the housekeepers, in the babble of sound that only they had learned to understand, when they had dressed her for the feast. Even so her eyes sparkled angrily for a moment when she fancied they had not fully understood what she wanted, for to her it was of the utmost importance that nobody should be shocked by her appearance nor for a moment feel sorry for her; no one, not even her own faithful servants. While she was still living she must remain what she had always been, a great lady with her head held high, a sovereign queen in her own right, wrapped in indomitable pride like a robe of purple and ermine.

And so, outwardly at least, all was as it always had been on every Christmas Eve at Denestornya for the last forty years. But the myriad candles in the great chandeliers and in the sconces, and all those tiny flames that covered the tree and which were reflected in cascades of polished crystal, sparkled in vain. The Shadow of Death lurked in the immense hall and everyone who stepped inside that resplendent room could feel his presence. Perhaps he was lurking in the gilded display cabinets or in the deep window embrasures, or even in the next room, in the
darkness
of the neighbouring drawing-room which could just be
glimpsed through the tall glazed doors. Wherever he was he was there, waiting; and at any moment he might step forward. Even now, or in a few moments, there would be a faint tinkle from the glass doors and he would be there before them … Everyone felt it: while coming forward, bowing and kissing their mistress’s hand, they would send covert frightened glances to the far end of the hall where the white doorway and the black squares of glass hid something frightening and unknown.