Csardas (43 page)

As she watched Eva preparing for her wedding, sweeping herself into a frenzy of excitement where she could forget her misery over Felix, Amalia found a peace within herself. Karoly’s death no longer hurt, but the sweetness, the poignancy, the utter faith and sincerity of that first love still remained with her. Marrying Mr. Klein meant that she could keep that love inviolate. There would be no intrusion of passion into the memories of Karoly. Marriage to Mr. Klein—a sedate, calm, business-like arrangement where Mr. Klein got a young bride who was related to the nobility and she got a financial backer—meant that Karoly would be untouched. Eva, alas, was to know no such peace. Adam was young and in love with her. Felix was young and definitely not in love with her. Caught between the two, the one who did not want her and the one who did, she was in a state of nervous unbalance by the time her wedding day arrived.

The ceremony was smaller and more chic than the great pastoral Racs-Rassay feast of the year before. It was held in the house in town, the Bogozy silver and glass being once more removed from the vaults of the bank. The bridegroom was happier than the one at the previous wedding, and the bride far lovelier than poor Kati had been. Felix was just as excitable and charming, Kati just as nervous and unhappy (in some curious way they didn’t seem to be like a married couple; there was a lack of the bonding that even the most ill-matched couples acquire after a year of marriage). Madame Kaldy was angry but aristocratically controlled, showing her disdain for the match by wearing the same clothes that she had bought for Felix’s marriage: Adam, who in spite of orders to the contrary had insisted on marrying the little Bogozy trollop, did not deserve new clothes for his wedding.

And it was at the marriage of Eva and Adam that Mr. Klein acknowledged at last the unspoken arrangement between Malie and himself.

He was seated a little apart from everyone—legs elegantly crossed, one hand stretched casually across the back of his chair—and his dark, heavy-lidded eyes slid in amused contemplation from couple to couple, from coldly furious Madame Kaldy to Mama, who was excited, unbelievably happy, and a charming and delightful hostess. Malie found her eyes drawn repeatedly to him, and finally, because the secret smile annoyed her, she went across to him.

“How very strange, the mating habits of the young,” he murmured. “There is your poor little Racs-Rassay cousin—inconsequential, is she not?—married to the most attractive man in the room and obviously unimpressed. And now your sister—quite enchanting!—adored by that rather stolid young fellow and equally unimpressed.”

“Eva is very fond of Adam!” said Malie, nettled.

Mr. Klein turned his bland gaze upon her. “Come now, Amalia. You and I know very well that she cares little or nothing for her unfortunate bridegroom. But I think fate is with her. Unwittingly she has chosen the right husband. He is solid, a little dull perhaps, but he will be to her what your father has been to your mother.”

“Papa has not always been good to Mama,” she blurted out.

“No, perhaps not, but you see, your papa has many conflicts to overcome within himself. He has protected and guided your mama. She has never had to face reality—unlike the estimable Madame Kaldy over there—and in fact I believe she would not be able to face reality. Your papa has given her the things she needs most from life: loyalty, stability, financial security, and discipline. And perhaps, because it has not been easy for him to give her these things, a little surface emotion has been lost on the way.”

She was fascinated. Mr. Klein had never spoken to her like this before, not about people and their feelings towards one another. In a different way from Papa he too often seemed cold and dispassionate, but now here he was, discussing love and human relationships with her.

“Do you ever think about your origins, Amalia?” he asked suddenly.

“My origins?”

“The room is full of Bogozys, your mother’s charming and delightful family. Do you ever think about your father’s family?”

“There’s Aunt Gizi,” she said slowly. “And once, when I was very small, Papa took me to see an old man, my grandfather. Papa said the old man never forgave him for marrying Mama.”

“No,” Mr. Klein replied quietly. “He wouldn’t forgive that.”

“You reminded me of him a little—the old man, I mean.”

“I too, like your papa, have thrown away my origins. In Hungary it is necessary if a man is to make a special kind of impact. But I think, Amalia, I am not prepared to shout my betrayal from the rooftops. To slide gently away from one’s roots is possible without too much inner conflict, but to say aloud, ‘This is finished; now I am a new man with new manners and customs’—this I cannot do.”

“I’m not quite sure—”

“I am saying, Amalia, that I do not think I can bring myself to marry you before a priest. For our children—yes—I can watch them at the altar even as your papa watches Eva, but my blood is not yet sufficiently diluted to accept the cross as the authority for our marriage.”

“We could not be married by a rabbi!” she cried, suddenly alarmed. “I am not—I do not... no! It would be terrible!” Mr. Klein raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Really, Amalia, how very foolish you can be sometimes. Do you think I would even contemplate such a thing? No, we shall be married in a civil ceremony. And I would suggest that we go to Budapest. I shall hire a suite in a hotel and we shall give a very smart and graceful party. I am told that to be married in a hotel is considered the very latest fashion!”

She liked the idea. He was being a little patronizing, a little arrogant, but unwittingly he had selected the right way to do things. There would be no thoughts of Karoly, no “might have been” in a smart civil ceremony in a Budapest hotel. It would be the symbol of their entire... arrangement: in good taste, undemanding, civilized, pleasant.

“That seems to me admirable,” she said calmly, and he smiled, the warm, affectionate smile that she had seen only rarely on his face. He reached for her hand and held it for a few seconds.

“Amalia,” he whispered, “do not forget your origins entirely. Remember the old man sometimes.”

There was confusion in her breast, a stirring of unease, and then as the warmth of his hand communicated itself to her, the sense of affinity overcame her again and she felt at peace—secure, safe, and at peace.

“I think we shall be very... comfortable,” she said, and Mr. Klein nodded.

It was some time later that she realized they had both accepted the fact that no proposal had been necessary. All they had done was to confirm the engagement.

And it was also some time before she realized her physical aversion to Mr. Klein had vanished some months ago.

Mama was dreadfully upset. Her face blanched when she was told and it was several moments before she could speak. She managed to smile and murmur, “How surprising. David and my little girl, my last little girl. All my children leaving me,” and then she had put her hand to her mouth and left the room. The three of them, Malie, Mr. Klein, and Papa, had been left in uncomfortable silence.

“She is overwrought,” said Papa finally. “The wedding tired her; she grows too excited with these affairs. And she relies on Amalia. I think she hoped that Amalia would stay with her for some time yet.”

“Of course.” Mr. Klein was frowning.

“And she has to face the fact that you will take Amalia away from the town. You will live in Budapest for much of the time and Marta will not be able to see her too often.”

“We shall come here many times,” said Mr. Klein, still frowning. “I have invested greatly in the town, as you know, Zsigmond. We shall live in Budapest, yes, but there will be many, many business visits here. And in the summer we shall be together up in the mountains.”

“I think I will go and speak to her,” Malie said, rising from her chair. “I’m sure it was just that she had no idea.... Eva has always confided in Mama, whereas I—she had no idea at all, you see. I will go and speak to her.”

“Yes, Amalia. That would be wise.” Soberly they watched her leave the room. She was aware of their silence long after she had left them.

When she reached Mama’s room she listened and heard the distressing sound of Mama crying. She knocked, and when there was no answer she went in. Mama was lying across the bed with a handkerchief clamped to her eyes.

“Oh, Mama! You mustn’t be upset! I’m not going away forever!”

“He’s far too old for you!” Mama sobbed. “And he’s... he’s not suitable for you! You’re not suitable for him! He has no right to marry a girl!”

“Mama, I’m not a girl any longer. I’m twenty-five. I’m nearly an old maid!”

“You’re too young for him!” Mama cried. “He needs an older woman, a mature woman who knows the world and could entertain him, amuse him, someone who would appreciate his presents and his manners and his—oh, everything!”

“I appreciate him, Mama,” she said slowly.

“No! No, you don’t. You’re too young to appreciate a man like that. Why, you even threw his roses away. Eva told me. And you can’t talk the way—other women can talk. You’re too serious!” She sat up and flung one arm out into the air, trying to say with a gesture what she could not say with words. “Oh! You’re just too
young
for him, Malie!”

She couldn’t answer. She just stared at Mama, her face growing white. Mama burst into tears again and flung her arms round Malie.

“Darling! I love you and I want you to be happy. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You are lovely. Karoly—he thought you were lovely and you are, my dearest, you are! But—oh, no, not David. You cannot marry David, Amalia!”

She didn’t reply. There was nothing she could say. She sat feeling pity for Mama but, as well as pity, an emotion verging on dislike.

“How could he!” Mama sobbed. “Humiliating me this way, marrying my daughter. We are practically the same age, Malie! Do you realize that?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“He will be my son-in-law!”

She sat by the bed and watched Mama sob and rage and finally quieten. She went and fetched smelling salts and coffee, and she closed the blinds and left Mama to sleep her distress away. Later Mama tried to put it right. She explained that she wanted Malie to be happy and have a young, energetic husband. She didn’t want Malie to marry an older man just because she didn’t think a young one would come along. But of course, if Malie had set her heart on it, then Mama would give her blessing, her fond and loving blessing. She got up and bathed her face and dressed with great care. And by the time she came down to dinner she was nearly back to normal. She laughed and flirted with David and said how very naughty he was, stealing her daughter from under her nose. She said a great many gay and foolish things, like telling him he must call her Mama and pay great respect to her. Mr. Klein didn’t laugh. He was very serious, and he stared at Mama with a small frown on his forehead.

By the time dinner was over everything was natural again and they began to talk about the wedding, and whether Mr. Klein and Malie should have a new apartment in Budapest or use Mr. Klein’s present one. Mama was charming and gracious, and everyone relaxed, everyone except Malie.

That night, overwhelmed with a sense of complete isolation, with the knowledge that she was, in spite of all her rationalization, marrying a man who was a stranger, she cried for Karoly for the very last time.

The boy, Janos, accepted without question the manner of his living, which was, with a few gradations, a few varying niceties of very poor, poor, and not quite so poor, the manner of living of those all about him.

His home was a room in a single-storied hut made of sun-baked brick. Between this room and the room at the other end of the hut was a kitchen containing two stoves. One was his mother’s, the other that of Mrs. Boros. Between the Boros family and the Martons was a strong social distinction which was the sum of several factors. In the Boros room slept Mrs. Boros, her eight children, her mother, and her sister whose husband had been killed in the war. Mr. Boros, who was a carter, slept in the ox stables. There was nothing strange about that. Mostly the men did sleep outside in the stables, away from crying children and old women’s snores. In contrast to Mrs. Boros’s room, which was noisy and disorganized, Janos’s home was luxurious and contained evidence of education and culture. There were lace curtains at the window. The earth floor was brushed into patterns, and on the walls were pinned two pictures which had been cut from magazines. One was a fashion plate of ladies and gentlemen dancing together; the gentlemen wore gloves and the ladies had feathers in their hair. The other picture, the one Janos liked better, was of a stag drinking from a stream in the Bukk Mountains. When he was very small he would lie in the bed he shared with his mother and grandmother and stare up at the stag. It wasn’t just the animal that intrigued him, it was the great misty background of hills and forest. He had never been away from the farm and, although on clear days one could see the mountains, he had no first-hand experience of the landscape shown in the picture. Janos’s mother had acquired the picture when working as a sewing girl in the Kaldy farmhouse before her marriage. She had never forgotten the things she had learned there or the things she had read, for there were books in the Kaldy house and she had, in stolen moments, sampled them all. The curtains, her most treasured and valued possessions, had been given to her by Madame Kaldy and represented all that she wanted for her family. They were not new, and a close inspection revealed delicate repairs, but to Janos’s mother they were a symbol of how she must strive never to descend to the level of the Boros family. Mrs. Boros had no curtains, no pictures, and the floor of her room was sometimes never swept at all. Also, Mr. Boros frequently beat Mrs. Boros, one time so badly that Mrs. Boros broke the glass of her window in order to alarm the neighbours, an unprecedented and incredibly expensive alert signal that so shocked Mr. Boros he immediately stopped.

When Janos’s father had first returned from the war he had tried to beat his wife too. Unlike Mrs. Boros, Edina Marton had not screamed or tried to defend herself. She had remained quite still, taking the blows across her face and shoulders with silent fortitude and staring—her blue eyes wide and brilliant—straight into her husband’s face so that finally his hand fell and his fury abated. He mumbled something awkward and ineffectual and then stumbled, ashamed, out of the room. After that he beat her only very rarely.