Csardas (49 page)

Leo, at fifteen, had become incredibly tall and incredibly thin. The chubby little boy of infancy had entirely vanished into a willowy and rather frail-looking youth. He had shown an aptitude for languages but had missed his winter term at school and now was worried about catching up. Just after Christmas he had been ill: a cough, a temperature, pains in his chest. He had recovered but was left with the cough and a feeling of constant lassitude, and finally the doctor had recommended that he go into the mountains or the country for a couple of months.

He had been dispatched immediately to Eva and Adam and had spent the rest of the winter staying at their farm. A tutor in French and English had been employed to spend time conversing with him, but when he went back to school he was three months behind with his work. Now he lay awake at night worrying about his studies. He spent the daytime alternately dreaming and studying, and as the days grew hotter and the air balmier, he dreamed more and studied less and then spent the night worrying again. He had decided that he was a failure, both mentally and physically. His body couldn’t stand a normal bout of influenza, and his brain was unable to come to a decision about work and then persevere with it. He realized he would fail in practically everything he did and, in addition, he had spots.

He was too old to seek comfort from Malie, but nonetheless he felt happy when they were all together, the whole family, gossiping and drinking lemonade beneath the acacia trees. He felt safe but found he was unable to talk to any of them in case they realized what a disgusting mess he had made of his life. So he would listen, and roll and wrestle with little Karoly and Jacob on the ground, and feel miserable and happy all at the same time. That summer was a strange and disturbed one for him too. And it became even more disturbed.

He had driven Malie and the little boys over to Adam’s farm in the trap. There had been no special invitation, but one of Adam’s cows had just calved and they had suddenly decided that young Karoly should see the calf. They arrived in the morning, were taken by Adam to see the calf, and then sat on the veranda trying to decide whether to have a picnic or eat at home. Just below the veranda Eva had slung a hammock between two smallish trees, and she swayed to and fro, waving flies away with her handkerchief and saying that it was really too hot to go anywhere.

Leo, staring out at the distant fields, saw a ball of dust moving slowly towards the house. Idly he watched it grow bigger, then turn into two dust balls; a woman and a boy emerged. Suddenly, his body tense, he sat upright on his chair.

“Someone coming.” Eva yawned and then she too sat up, nearly tilting herself out of the hammock. “How extraordinary! Why has the woman come here?”

At the far end of the concrete path a peasant woman waited, by her side a boy, thin but fairly neatly dressed. Leo knew at once who the boy was.

They continued to wait, humbly knowing that it was not their place to cross the boundary that separated the farm from Mr. Adam’s home. Eva finally beckoned them forward. The woman hesitated, put her face forward and covered it with her hand, then shuffled up to stand a few feet away from the veranda.

“What do you want?”

“His excellency—if I could speak to your noble husband, madame? I am Edina, wife of Marton who works on your husband’s land. Before my marriage I was sewing girl here, in this house.” She paused. Her nervousness was still apparent, but the mention of being sewing girl seemed to give her a little confidence. “I beg forgiveness, madame. If I could just speak to his excellency?”

“Why do you not go to the yard with your husband? You know when it is possible to see the master.”

The woman stared at the ground. “My husband would beat me if he knew I wanted to speak to his excellency. It—it is private, madame. It is private from my husband.”

No one knew what to say or do. Never before had a peasant come to any of their houses begging requests for private audiences with their masters. It was unnerving and made them all feel uneasy. Through Eva’s mind flashed the absurd notion that Adam had been messing about with this woman. The thought made her giggle as soon as it came into her head; the woman was thin, old and unattractive. Brilliant blue eyes shone out of a face lined with work and leathered with too much sun and wind. The child also had blue eyes.

“Do you want your sewing job again?”

The woman raised her head, a spasm of hope crossed her features. “No, Madame Kaldy. I know you have a girl, a young girl. If you needed extra help I would work for you.” She bit her lip and looked down at the ground again. “I would like to speak to his excellency.”

Eva, puzzled, interested, turned swiftly to Leo.

“Go and fetch him, Leo. He’s still with the calf, I expect.”

He stood up and tried to move quickly down the steps, but his ungainly legs got tangled in the chair and he stumbled and arrived at the bottom awkwardly. The boy was staring at him and he wanted to get away from the watching blue eyes. He hurried round the house to the farm buildings, already trying to decide whether he would return with Adam or whether he would stay out of sight until Janos Marton and his mother had retreated.

During the winter months he had spent with Eva and Adam, he had seen the child twice. Every morning Adam had to fetch the post from the village and, once Leo had recovered a little, he had taken this task upon himself. Riding on one of the farm horses across the morning snow had become one of his greatest pleasures. He looked forward to it from his first waking moment: the crisp snow, the clean morning air with his breath blowing out in a cloud before him, above all the solitude, the delicious pure solitude when he was no longer aware of comparisons with other boys and his spots were temporarily forgotten.

When the weather was bad the farm children didn’t go to school. It was three miles to the village, only a few of them had boots, and those who did were usually told not to waste them on travelling to school. But one morning—going to fetch the post earlier than usual—he had overtaken a figure trudging through the snow. As he grew near he saw that the boy had no boots, just pieces of old grain sack wrapped round his feet. He reined in his horse and was confronted by the blue eyes he remembered from Kati’s wedding.

When he had stopped he had fully intended to offer the child a ride to the village school, but faced with that thin, passionate body, and with the confused memories—Uncle Sandor and the killer lying drunk on the ground, the boy defending the killer, sobbing, his feet, always the wretched child’s feet, covered in scabs and sores—his words had died in his throat. The boy stared at him—how could a child hate anyone that much?—and finally, too embarrassed to put his offer into words, he had ridden on, the morning ride spoilt by his own guilty conscience.

A week later he had seen the boy again, but this time he was being carried on his mother’s back. His feet were still wrapped but there had been thick falls of snow in the night, too thick even for several layers of grain sack. He hesitated, wanting to help, hating to see the woman trudging three miles carrying her son. Without waiting to think what he would say, he galloped up to them. “I’ll take the child to school,” he shouted, but he saw that he had frightened them both. Perhaps the child didn’t hate him; perhaps it was fear? She had shrunk away, and he had a swift image of how it would look in her eyes—her son riding on the young master’s horse, accepting favours from one of the people who should be feared and respected. She shook her head violently, and the motion was reflected in the young face that looked over her shoulder. He had ridden away and after that he took the longer route to the village, a route which was never used by anyone in the winter.

He told Adam that the woman was here to see him, then reluctantly stayed with him, impelled by curiosity and a kind of misery. When they arrived at the front of the house the woman was sitting on the bottom step talking to Amalia about little Jacob. She seemed easier talking to another woman about her baby, and Leo guessed at once that Malie had told the woman to sit and had found a subject that would put her at ease.

“Mrs. Marton?”

She rose instantly.

“Why do you want to see me?”

Misery crumpled her face as she stared at Eva, Amalia, Leo, and the baby boys. Malie stood up and handed Jacob to Eva. “Time to make the little ones rest, Eva. Come now, you can help me find a place inside that will comfort them.” She herded them indoors, as though it were her house, not Eva’s, and silenced them both when they began to speculate on the extraordinary behaviour of Mrs. Marton.

“You will know soon enough. And in the meantime remember that everything we say can be heard outside.”

They fidgeted and peered between the shutters. Adam was reading something given to him by Mrs. Marton. She was talking, explaining and drawing her son forward to face Adam. When she and the boy finally left, Adam was still holding the piece of paper in his hand.

“I cannot believe it,” he murmured, after they had hurried out to join him. “She has asked me to speak to the director of the school in town. She wants him to allocate a free place to her son!”

They were all so shocked they couldn’t speak. Then Eva began to laugh.

“She brought letters for me to see, one from the priest, another from Feher in the village.”

“Why didn’t she ask them to find a place?” giggled Eva.

Adam stared at her. “She did. Feher, of course, has no influence at all. The priest told her to take the boy to the Catholic
Gymnasium.
She did, but they wouldn’t give him a place.”

“Of course not!” snapped Eva. “How can a peasant’s child go to secondary school? It is unheard of.”

“No, Eva. Remember the child on Grandfather Bogozy’s estate? The priest found a place for him.”

Eva shrugged. “Oh, him! Everyone knew it was because Grandfather Bogozy was his father. He looked so like Grandfather it was embarrassing. They were all pleased when the child went away.”

“It was her courage,” Adam said slowly. “She was so frightened. She was terrified that I might dismiss her husband because of her request. She was shaking and said he would beat her if he knew—and how will he not know when the servants here begin to talk?”

“I just can’t believe it! Where did she get the idea that her son should go to secondary school?”

Adam held the letters out. “Feher says the child is outstanding considering the limitations of his background. Apparently he excels at almost every subject and is brilliant at mathematics. The priest is even more impressed.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I would consider the matter.”

“You must be mad! What will happen if you find a place for this child? Every peasant on the estate will come shuffling up here asking for favours. They will all expect their children to go to secondary school!”

“No.” Adam’s gaze wandered out over the land, the lush, well-cultivated land, the harvest just about to be brought in, the trees heavy with fruit, the maize stalks standing high and green. “No. This child will be different. This child is the grandson of old Marton. He was with me in ’14; he stayed to help the retreat over the San; he died there. I shall let it be known that any privileges reaped by this child are the result of his grandfather’s loyalty and courage.”

Eva frowned. She was always uneasy on the rare occasions when Adam mentioned the war. It was bound up with a memory she had pushed to the back of her mind, a memory of Felix, mad and dishevelled, confiding his miseries of Serbia to her. She tried never to think of those revelations, and neither did she want to hear of Adam’s war.

“Oh, well.” She shrugged, apparently losing interest. “As you please. I suppose it might be quite interesting to see what happens.”

Leo remained silent. What would he do if by some horrible freak Janos Marton was sent to his school? There were free places at his school, usually filled by sons of smallholders who were little better off than the farm peasants. The free boys were alien, despised creatures; they spoke differently, dressed differently, and were alternately obsequious and belligerent. How could he cope if Janos Marton was in the bottom class of his own school? The burden of yet another worry pressed down on him and he wanted to cry. As he went into the house for lunch he felt another spot breaking out on the back of his neck.

All summer she was aware of something happening between Felix and herself. The heat emphasized it. In sleeveless, low-necked dresses, with bare legs turning brown in the sun, she was conscious not only of her own body but also of Felix’s. They seemed to collide much more than usual when they were playing tennis, to hold each other a little too long, a little too close when dancing; their kisses of greeting and farewell were quick but intense. Sometimes, after an evening when the danger—delicious danger too heady to avoid—threatened to explode betweeen them, she would go to bed with her body so tense she was unable to sleep. Lying beside Adam she would dig her fingers into her own flesh, wanting to scream with frustration but afraid to move in case she roused Adam. The work on the farm during the summer was so hard that he usually slept without being aware of her tension, but when he did wake she couldn’t bear it. Invariably he would reach out for her, his square hands and body claiming her patiently but doggedly. And with the memory of Felix’s slim, smooth, sensitive hands still with her, it was as much as she could do not to shudder and push him away.

Before this summer she wouldn’t have hesitated to have pushed him away, but now she dare not, for Adam appeared to be completely oblivious of what was happening between her and Felix and she wanted to do nothing that would alter that condition. He watched them laughing and flirting together and dismissed it as boring nonsense, just the way he had always done. But it wasn’t that way any more. Night after night she thought of Felix, lying in his own room, untouched and untouching. When Adam demanded her body she felt disloyal to Felix. If he had managed to remain faithful to her, why couldn’t she do the same? But acquiescence to Adam was the price she must pay if he was to remain ignorant.