Satantango (19 page)

Bless the Magyar, Lord we pray,
Nor in bounty fail him
Shield him in the bloody fray
When his foes assail him . . .

And now it was as if . . . there was a shout or something . . . Or not quite a shout . . . no, it was someone crying. “No, it’s some animal. . . .an animal whimpering. It must have broken its leg.” But however he looked this way and that it was total darkness either side of him now. It was impossible to see anything.

He whom ill luck long has cursed
Th
is year grant him pleasure . . .

‘We thought you’d changed your mind!” Kráner teased him once they spotted Futaki. “I recognized him by his walk,” Mrs. Kráner added. You can’t mistake it. He hobbles along like a lame cat.” Futaki put his suitcases down, slung off the straps and gave a sigh of relief. “You didn’t hear anything on the way?” he asked. “No, what was there to hear?” Schmidt wondered. “Just a strange noise.” Mrs. Halics sat down on a stone and rubbed her legs. “The only strange noise we heard was you coming up the road. We didn’t know who it was.” “Why, who would it be? Is there anyone else around here besides us? Thieves and robbers? . . . There’s not a bird to be seen, let alone a man.” The path they were standing on led to the main building and boxwood had been growing wild on either side for decades, surrounding the odd wide-trunked beech or fir, climbing above them with the same persistence as the wild ivy on the thick walls of the hall, so the whole “manor” (as they called it in these parts) had a silent, desperate feel to it, because though the higher reaches of the building were still uncovered, it was clear that within a few years it would surrender to the ruthless advance of the vegetation. The wide steps that once led to the enormous doorway used to have two female nude statues, one on either side; statues that had made a deep impression on Futaki when he first saw them years ago, and his first impulse was to search for them nearby but in vain — it was as if the earth had swallowed them. The company trod the steps awkwardly, speechless and wide-eyed, because the silent hulk towering barely visibly in the darkness above them — despite the stucco having almost completely fallen away from the walls, and the old tower now so unstable it was clear it wouldn’t withstand another major storm, not to mention the holes where the windows had been — still had a certain grandeur about it as well as an air of timeless vigilance, vigilance having been part of its original purpose. When they reached the top, Schmidt, without any hesitation, immediately stepped through the collapsed arch of the main door and reverentially, but without any fear, explored the house that rang with emptiness. His eyes quickly got used to the darkness and so, when he reached a small hall on the left-hand side, he could cleverly avoid the shattered ceramic tiles strewn on the floor as well as the rusty mechanisms and machine parts on the treacherously rotted floorboards and could stop in time before falling through the various gaps so clearly remembered by Futaki. The rest followed him some eight or nine steps behind and in this way they made a tour of the cold, deserted, and defunct “manor” with its chill drafts, stopping occasionally at a window space to look down on the dangerously overgrown park, then, ignoring their tiredness, to stare at the still undamaged though rotting, fancifully carved windowcases and the oddly stiff plaster figure on the ceilings above them, surveying all this with the help of flickering matches; but the thing that made the deepest impression on them was a beaten copper fireplace that had toppled onto its side, on which the now highly-animated Mrs. Halics counted precisely thirteen dragons’ heads. But they were roused from their silent admiration by the harsh voice of Mrs. Kráner in the middle of the hall standing on her firmly planted powerful legs and raising her arms to cry out in sheer wonder: “How could anyone afford to heat all this?!” And because the question implied an answer they could only grunt to signify their own astonishment before returning to the entrance hall, where after some argument (Schmidt was particularly opposed to Kráner’s suggestion, saying, “Right here? Here in this terrible draft? Yes, boss, brilliant idea, absolutely . . . ’) they agreed with Kráner that “it would be best to camp here for the night. True, it’s drafty like every other place here, but what happens if Irimiás arrives before first light? How the hell does he find us in this labyrinth?” They went out to their carts, in case the rain got really heavy during the night and the wind grew into a gale, to secure their luggage, and to take whatever they had brought with them — a sack, a blanket, an eiderdown — as a temporary bed. But once they settled down as best they could and their breathing had warmed them a little under their blankets they found they were too tired to sleep. “You know, I don’t really understand Irimiás,” sounded Kráner’s voice in the darkness: “Can anyone explain it to me . . . He used to be a simple man at heart, just like we are. He spoke like us too: it was just that his brain was sharper. And now? He’s like a lord, like a real big shot! . . . Am I wrong?” There was a long silence before Schmidt added, “To be honest, it was rather odd. Why stir the shit like that? I could see he was very much after something but how could anyone know how it would turn out . . . ? If I’d known from the start what he wanted I could have told him not to bother with all the heavy stuff . . .” The headmaster turned in his makeshift bed and stared uneasily into the darkness. “It really was a bit much, all that sinner stuff, I mean, and Esti this and Esti that! As if I had anything to do with that degenerate? I mean my blood boiled every time I heard her name. What’s this about “poor little Esti”? It’s pure farce, I tell you. The girl had a proper name, Erzsi, but she was spoiled. Her father was far too soft with her and ruined her! But me? What was I supposed to do? After all I did everything I could to help that girl stand on her own two feet! . . . I even told the old witch when she brought her home from special needs, that, as a matter of mutual business, I’d keep her in order if she sent her over to me every morning. But no, that wouldn’t do. That well-off hag wouldn’t spend a penny on the poor miserable thing! So I’m to blame! Pure farce, if you ask me!” “Pipe down a bit,” Mrs. Halics hissed at them. “My husband’s asleep. He’s used to silence.” Futaki ignored her. “What will be, will be. We’ll find out what Irimiás meant soon enough. It will all be clear tomorrow. Or even before then. Can you imagine?” “I can,” the headmaster answered. “Have you seen the outbuildings? There are at least five of them, I’m prepared to bet they’ll be turned into workshops.” “Workshops?” Kráner asked. “What kind of workshops?” “How should I know . . . I suppose they’re just workshops one way or another. What’s all the fuss about?” Mrs. Halics raised her voice again. “Can’t you both shut up? How’s a person supposed to get any rest!” “Aw, shut up yourself!” snapped Schmidt. “What’s wrong with people talking?” “No, I figure it’ll be the other way around,” Futaki continued: “Those workshops will become our houses and it’s this place that will be turned into workshops.” “You keep going on about workshops. . . .” Kráner objected. “What’s the matter with you lot? Do you all want to be engineers? I understand about Futaki, but you? What will you do? Are you going to be the works manager?” “Enough chatter,” the headmaster added coolly. “I don’t think this is the best time for stupid jokes! In any case what gives you the right to go offending people! I ask you!” “Ah, for God’s sake get some sleep!” Halics grunted. “I can’t sleep with you lot going on!” There was quiet for a few minutes but it didn’t last because one of them accidentally let off a fart. “Who was that?” Kráner laughed and dug his neighbor Schmidt in the ribs. “Leave me alone,” the other fumed as he turned over: “It wasn’t me!” But Kráner wouldn’t let it go. “Come on now, will no one own up to it!?” Halics was practically gasping with nerves, as he sat up. “Look, it was me,” he pleaded: “I confess it all. Now will you please shut up . . .” After this it finally did fall quiet and a few minutes later they were all fast asleep. Halics was being pursued by a hunchback with glass eyes and after a desperate chase he finally leapt into a river, but his position became even more hopeless because every time he came up for air the little hunchback hit him on the head with an enormously long stick, crying in a hoarse voice: “Now you’ll pay!” Mrs. Kráner heard a noise outside but couldn’t work out what it was. She slipped on her coat and started off in the direction of the engine room. She was almost at the metalled road when she suddenly had a really bad feeling. She turned round and saw the roof of their house licked by flames. “The kindling! I’ve left the kindling out! Merciful heavens!” she cried in terror. She rushed back because it was hopeless calling for help, everyone else seemed to have vanished into thin air, and dashed into the house to save what could be saved. Her first thought was the room and, quick as lightning, she grabbed the ready cash they kept hidden under the bed linen, then leapt over the flaming threshold into the kitchen where Kráner was sitting at the table calmly eating as if nothing had happened. “Jóska! Are you out of your mind? The house is on fire!” But Kráner never even flinched. Mrs. Kráner saw that the curtains were alight: “Escape, you fool! Can’t you see the whole place is about to collapse?!” She rushed out of the house and sat outside, her fear and trembling suddenly gone, almost enjoying the sight of the her possessions being reduced to ashes. She even pointed it out to Mrs. Halics who had appeared beside her. “Look, how lovely! I’ve never seen a more beautiful shade of red!” The earth was moving under Schmidt’s feet. It was as if he were walking across a swamp He reached a tree, climbed it, but felt it too was sinking . . . He was lying on the bed and was trying to pull the nightshirt off his wife but she started screaming as he leapt after her and the nightshirt got torn. Mrs. Schmidt turned to face him, cackled, and the nipples on her enormous breasts bloomed like two wonderful roses. It was horribly hot inside, the sweat was dripping off them He looked out the window: it was raining outside, Kráner was running home with a cardboard box in his hands but then the bottom of it flew open and the contents were strewn everywhere. Mrs. Kráner was shouting for him to hurry so he couldn’t pick up the half of the stuff that had rolled away and he decided to come back for it the next day Suddenly a dog darted at him and he cried out in fright kicking the creature in the face and it yelped once and collapsed, remaining there on the ground. He couldn’t help himself: he kicked it again The dog’s belly was soft The headmaster, deeply embarrassed, was trying with some difficulty, to persuade a little man in a patched suit to accompany him to a little frequented place. The man seemed incapable of saying no and the headmaster could barely contain himself, and as soon as they reached the deserted park he even gave the man a push so that they might reach a stone bench that was densely overgrown with bushes where he laid the little man down and threw himself on him, kissing his neck, but at that moment some white-gowned doctors appeared on the path that was strewn with white shingle and he waved ashamedly to them to indicate that he too was just passing by though he went on to explain to the doctors that they really had nowhere else to go so really they should understand and that they should certainly take this into account and he began to abuse the embarrassed little man because by now he felt nothing but a deep disgust for him but whichever way he looked it made no difference the doctors stared at him with contempt then made a tired gesture as though there was nothing he could do about it Mrs. Halics was washing Mrs. Schmidt’s back the rosary beads hung on the edge of the bath slid into the water a young scoundrel’s face appeared glaring at the window Mrs. Schmidt said she’d had enough her skin was beginning to burn with all the scrubbing but Mrs. Halics pushed her back in the bath and carried on scrubbing because she was ever more fearful that Mrs. Schmidt was annoyed with her then she cried out angrily I hope the viper bites you and sat down at the edge of the bath and the young scoundrel was still glaring at the window Mrs. Schmidt was a bird happily flying through the milk of theclouds seeing someonedownthere wavingather soshedes cendeda littleand could hear Mrs.Schmidtbawling whyisntshecooking youscoundrelcomedownim mediatelybutshe flewoverher andshechir ruppedyou won’tdieof hun gerbeforetommorrow shefeltthe warmsunonher backsudden lySchmidtwas therebesideherStopit immediatelybutshe paid noattention anddescendedfurther shedhavelikedtocatchaninsect theywerebeatingfutakisback withanironrod Hecouldntmove hehadbeenboundwithropestoatree tenselyshefelthow theropewasstraining alongopenwoundacrosshisback shelookedawayshesouldntbearit shewassittingonanexcavator thatwasdigginganenormousditch amancameover andsaidhurry becauseyourenotgetting anymorefuel howevermuchyoubegmeforit shedugtheditcheverdeeper itkeptcollapsing she tri tr triedagain butinvainandshecried asshewassittingattheengineroomwindow andhadnoideawhatwashappening itwasdawnandgettinglighter oreveningandgrowingdarker andshedidntwantitall evertocometoanend shejustsatandhadnoideawhatwashappening nothingchangedoutside itwasneithermorningnoreveningitjust carriedondawnortwilightwhichever . . .

Heavenly Vision? Hallucination?

As soon as they rounded the bend and lost sight of the people waving and hanging around by the bar, his heavy-as-lead sense of exhaustion vanished and he no longer felt any of the agonizing sleepiness that had practically glued him to the chair by the oil stove, because ever since Irimiás had told him something he had never even dared to dream of (‘All right, go and talk it over with your mother. You can come with me if you like . . . ’) he couldn’t bear to close his eyes, and spent the whole night turning over and over in his bed with his clothes on so as not to miss the arranged dawn meeting; and now, when, through mist and half-light, he saw the road ahead arrowing into infinity his strength was redoubled and at last he felt “the whole world opening up before him’, and he knew that whatever happened he would stay the course. And however great the desire in him to give voice somehow to his enthusiasm he controlled it and unconsciously measured his steps in a more disciplined fashion, following his master even while burning with the fever of his election, since he knew he could only carry out the mission granted him if he responded not as a snotty-nosed kid but as a man — not to mention the fact that if he did speak without thinking the constantly irritable Petrina was bound to come out with some new mocking remark and he couldn’t bear to be humiliated before Irimiás, not even once. It was perfectly clear to him that his own best option was faithfully to copy Irimiás in every small detail because this way he was sure not to get a nasty surprise; first he watched his characteristic movements, his long easy stride, his proud bearing and raised head, the now challenging, now threatening movements of his raised right forefinger the moment before he made a significant remark and, most difficult, the falling cadence of his voice and the heavy silence between the distinct elements of his speech, noting the control of his resonant proclamations, and trying to capture something of the undoubted confidence that so generously permitted Irimiás to articulate his thoughts with such precision. Not for a moment did his eyes leave his master’s slightly stooped back and narrow brimmed hat pulled firmly down so as to prevent the rain beating against his face; and seeing that his master paid no attention whatsoever to him because his mind was clearly intent on something else, he too walked on in silence with an earnestly wrinkled brow, because by concentrating his attention like this he liked to think that he was helping Irimiás’s own thoughts reach their goal more quickly. Petrina scratched his ear in agony because, seeing the tense expression on his companion’s face, he himself did not dare break the silence, so, however he tried to give the kid a look to indicate that he should keep mum (‘Not a peep out of you! He’s thinking!’) he too felt constrained and was so desperate to ask questions he could only breathe with difficulty, making first whistling, then dry hoarse sounds as he did so, until eventually it became plain even to Irimiás that the heroic figure holding his tongue beside him was practically choking, so he made a face and took pity on him. “Go on, out with it! What do you want?” Petrina gave a great sigh, licked his cracked lips and started blinking rapidly. “Master! I am shitting myself here! How are we going to get out of this?!” “I must say I’d be pretty surprised if you weren’t shitting yourself,” Irimiás replied, annoyed .‘Would you like some paper to wipe yourself with?” Petrina shook his head. “It’s no joke. I’d be lying if I told you my sides were splitting with laughter . . .” “In that case shut your mouth.” Irimiás gazed haughtily down the road fading in the distance up ahead. He stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lit it without breaking step. “If I were to tell you that this was precisely the opportunity we had been waiting for,” he confidently declared, looking deep into Petrina’s eyes, “would that reassure you?” His companion flinched a little under his gaze then bent his head, stopped and thought a little, and by the time he had caught up with Irimiás again he was so nervous he could hardly get the words out. “Wha . . . wha . . . what are you thinking?” Irimiás made no reply but continued gazing mysteriously down the road. Petrina was so tortured by anxieties that he tried to seek some explanation for the profoundly meaningful silence and so — despite knowing the effort to be vain — tried to delay the inevitable disaster. “Listen to me! I have stood by you all this time, through good times and bad times. I swear, if I do nothing else with my miserable life, that I will flatten anyone who dares to be disrespectful to you! But . . . don’t do anything crazy! Listen to me just this once! Listen to good old Petrina! Let’s forget it, forget it now, immediately! Let’s hop on the first train and get out! These people will lynch us the moment they discover the dirty trick we’ve pulled on them!” “No chance,” Irimiás mocked him. “We are taking up the demanding, indeed hopeless, cause of human dignity. . . .” He raised his famous forefinger and warned Petrina, “Listen, jackass! This is our moment!” “God help us then,” groaned Petrina, seeing his worst nightmares realized. “I’ve always known it! I trusted . . . I believed . . . I hoped . . . and here we are! This is how it ends!” “You must be joking!” the “kid” behind them butted in: “Can’t you take things seriously for once?” “Me?!” squealed Petrina, “me, I’m happy as a pig in shit, you can practically see me drooling. . . .” Grinding his teeth he looked up to the heavens and shook his head in despair. “Be honest with me! What have I done to deserve this? Have I ever hurt anyone? Have I spoken out of turn? I beg you boss, have some regard, if for nothing else, for these old bones! Take pity on these gray hairs!” But Irimiás was not to be swayed: his partner’s words went in one ear and out of the other. He just smiled mysteriously and said, “The network, jackass. . . .” Hearing the word, Petrina immediately perked up. “Do you understand now?” They stopped and faced each other, Irimiás slightly leaning forward. “It’s the network, that enormous spiderweb, as woven and patented by me, Irimiás . . . Am I getting this through your thick head? Has a light come on there? Anywhere?” Life began to seep back into Petrina, first as the faint shadow of a smile flickering across his face, then as a distinct sparkle in his beady eyes, his ears reddening with excitement until his whole being was visibly moved. “Somewhere . . . wait. . . . Something rings a bell . . . I think I’m getting it now . . .” he whispered hoarsely. “It would be fantastic if . . . how shall I put it . . .” “You see,” Irimiás gave a cool nod. “Think first, whine later.” The “kid” was following at a respectful distance behind them but his keen ears helped him pick up their conversation: he hadn’t missed a word and because he had not the slightest idea of what they were talking about he quickly repeated it all to himself so he shouldn’t forget it. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it and, like Irimiás, slowly and deliberately pursed his lips and blew out the smoke in a faint straight line. He did not try to catch up but followed, as he had done, some eight or ten steps behind because he felt ever more hurt that his master had not chosen to “let him into the secret’, though he should have known that he — unlike the constantly complaining Petrina — would have given his soul to be part of the plan: he had, after all, promised to be unconditionally faithful to the end. The tortures of jealousy seemed infinite, the bitterness in his soul growing ever more bitter since he was obliged to see that Irimiás thought him unworthy of a single remark, not one! His master ignored him altogether, as if “he simply wasn’t there’, as if the idea, “Sándor Horgos, who is not after all a nobody, has offered his services” meant absolutely nothing to him . . . He was so upset he accidentally scratched an ugly acne spot on his face and once they reached the fork at Póstelel he could bear it no longer but rushed to catch up with them, looked Irimiás in the eyes and, trembling with fury, cried: “I’m not going on with you like this!” Irimiás regarded him with incomprehension. “What was that?” “If you have any problems with me tell now, please! Tell me you don’t trust me and I’ll get lost right now!” “What’s up with you?” Petrina snapped. “Nothing in the world is wrong with me! Just tell me whether you want me with you or no! You haven’t said a single word to me ever since we set out, it was always just Petrina, Petrina, Petrina! If you’re so fond of him, why invite me along?!” “Now hold on a second,” Irimiás calmly stopped him. “I think I understand now. Listen hard to what I tell you because there won’t be time for this later . . . I invited you because I need a capable young man like you. But only if you can do the following: One, you only speak when I address you. Two, if I entrust you with anything you’ll do your best to get it done. Three, get used to the idea of not giving me lip. For the time being it is up to me to decide what I tell you and what I don’t. Is that clear? . . .” The “kid” lowered his eyes in embarrassment. “Yes, I just . . .” “No “I just”. Act like a man. In any case, I know what you’re capable of, my boy and I don’t think you’ll let me down . . . But enough now. Let’s get going!” Petrina gave the “kid” a friendly slap on the back but then forgot to remove his hand and propelled him along. “See here, you little piece of shit, when I was your age, I didn’t dare open my mouth when there were adults present! I fell silent, silent as the grave, if an adult was anywhere near! Because in those days there was no back talk. Not like today! What would you know about . . .” He suddenly stopped. “What was that?” “What was what?” “That . . . that noise . . .” “I don’t hear anything,” the “kid” said, puzzled. “What you mean you don’t hear anything! Not even now?” They listened, holding their breath: a few steps ahead of them Irimiás stood stock-still too, listening. They were at the Póstelek fork, the rain gently pattering, not a soul to be seen anywhere, only a few crows circling in the distance. It seemed to Petrina that the noise was coming from somewhere above him, and he silently pointed to the sky but Irimiás shook his head. “From there, rather . . .” he pointed towards the town. “A car? . . .” “Maybe,” his master answered, clearly troubled. They did not move. The humming neither strengthened nor weakened. “Some kind of plane, perhaps . . . ,” the “kid” tentatively suggested. “No, not likely . . . ,” said Irimiás. “But in any case we’ll take the shorter route. We’ll go down the Póstelek road as far as Wenkheim Manor, then we’ll take the older road. We may even gain for or five hours that way . . .” “Have you any idea how muddy that road is?!” Petrina protested in fury. “I know. But I don’t like this sound. It would be better for us to choose the other road. There were are sure not to meet anyone.” “Meet who?” “What do I know? Let’s get going.” They left the metalled road, and set off toward Póstelek. Petrina was continually looking back over his shoulder, nervously scanning the landscape, but didn’t see anything. By now he could have sworn that the noise was coming from somewhere above them. “But it’s not a plane . . . It’s more like a church organ . . . ah, that’s crazy!” He stopped, went down on hands and knees and put an ear to the ground. “No. Definitely not. It’s crazy!” The low hum continued, no nearer, no further away. However he searched his memory the humming wasn’t like anything he had ever heard before. It wasn’t the roar of a car or a plane or of distant thunder. . . . He had a bad feeling about it. He swiveled his head left and right, sensing danger in every bush, in every scraggy tree, even in the narrow wayside ditch covered in frogspawn. The most terrifying thing was that he couldn’t even decide whether the menace, whatever it was, was close at hand or at a distance. He turned a suspicious eye on the “kid.” “Look here! Have you eaten today? It’s not your stomach rumbling?” “Don’t be an idiot, Petrina,” Irimiás remarked over his shoulder. “And get a move on!” . . . They were some quarter of a mile from the fork now, when they noticed something else beside the worryingly continuous humming. It was Petrina who first became aware of it: incapable even of saying a word, it was only through his eyes he could register the shock. His dull eyes started from their sockets, gazing at the sky, indicating the source. To the right of them above the marshy lifeless ground, a white transparent veil was billowing in a particularly dignified fashion. They hardly had the time to take it in before they were startled to see the veil vanish as soon as it touched the ground. “Pinch me!” groaned Petrina shaking his head in disbelief. The “kid” stood there open mouthed with wonder, then, seeing that neither Irimiás nor Petrina were incapable of speech, firmly remarked. “What’s up? Never seen fog before?” “You call this fog?!” Petrina snapped nervously back. “Jackass! I swear it was a kind of . . . a wedding veil . . . Boss, I have a bad feeling about this . . .” Irimiás was staring puzzled at the place the veil had disappeared. “It’s a joke. Pull yourself together Petrina and say something sensible.” “Over there!” cried “the kid. And not far from the last sighting of the veil, there was a new veil slowly drifting in the air. They stared mesmerized as it too touched down and then, as if it really were fog, disappeared . . . “Let’s get out of here, boss!” Petrina urged, his voice shaking. “The way I see it, it’ll be raining frogs next . . .” “I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for this,” Irimiás firmly declared. “I just wish I knew what the devil it was! . . . We can’t all three have gone mad at once!” “If only Mrs. Halics was here,” remarked the “kid” grimacing. “She’d soon tell us!” Irimiás suddenly raised his head. “What’s that?” Suddenly it was quiet. The “kid” closed his eyes in confusion. “I’m just saying . . .” “Do you know something?!” Petrina demanded in fright. “Me?’, grimaced the “kid.” “Course I don’t. I was just saying it as a joke . . .” They walked on in silence and it occurred, not only to Petrina but to Irimiás too, that it might be wiser for them to turn back
immediately, but neither of them was up to making the decision if only because they couldn’t be sure that retracing their steps would be any less dangerous. They started to hurry and this time not even Petrina complained, quite the opposite in fact: if it was up to him they’d have broken into a run, and so, when they saw the ruins of Weinkheim ahead and Irimiás suggested a brief rest (‘My legs have completely gone to sleep . . . We’ll build a fire, eat something, dry out, then go on . . . ’) Petrina cried out in despair, “No, I couldn’t bear it! You don’t imagine I want to stay in this place a moment longer than I need to? After what’s just happened?” “No need to panic,” Irimiás reassured him. “We’re exhausted. We have hardly slept in two days. We need a rest. We have a long way to go.” “OK, but you go ahead!” Petrina demanded, and gathering up what courage he had left followed some ten paces behind the other two, his heart in his mouth, not even prepared to respond to the teasing of the “kid” who, seeing Irimiás calm, relaxed a little and aspired to be regarded as “one of the brave” . . . Petrina waited till the first two turned down the path leading to the manor then, carefully, anxiously glancing left and right, scurried after them, but as he came face to face with the main entrance of the ruined building all his strength left him — and he saw in vain how Irimiás and the “kid” had quickly ducked behind a bush — he himself was incapable of moving. “I’m going to go mad. I can feel it.” He was so frightened his brow was covered in sweat. “Hell and damnation! What have we got ourselves into?” He held his breath and, with muscles tense to the point of snapping, he finally succeeded in sidling — literally sideways — behind another bush. The sound of something like sniggering grew louder again: it was like a cheerful bunch of people having a lark nearby, it being perfectly natural for such a jolly crew to seek out this particular deserted spot, and to spend their time carousing here in the wind, rain and cold . . . And that sniggering — such a strange noise. Cold shivers ran down his back. He peeped out to the path, then, when he judged the moment to be opportune, set off like a lunatic and bolted over to Irimiás the way a soldier might leap, under enemy fire and at risk of his life, from trench to trench during battle. “Here pal . . . ,” he whispered in a choking voice as he settled by the squatting figure of Irimiás. “What’s going on here?” “I can’t see anything at the moment,” the other answered, his voice quiet and steady, in full control of himself, never taking his eyes off what used to be the manor gardens, “but I expect we’ll find out soon.” “No,” grunted Petrina: “I don’t want to find out!” “It’s like they’re having a proper party . . . ,” said the “kid’, excited, breathlessly impatient for his master to entrust him with something. “Here!” squealed Petrina: “In the rain? . . . In the middle of nowhere? . . . Boss, let’s run now before it’s too late!” “Shut your mouth, I can’t hear anything!” “I can hear! I can hear! That’s why I say we — ” “Quiet!” Irimiás thundered at him. There was no sign of movement in the park where the oaks, the walnuts, the boxwood and flowerbeds were all densely overgrown with weed so Irimiás decided, since he could only see a small part of it, that they should carefully creep forward. He grabbed Petrina’s wildy waving arm and dragging him behind him they slowly made their way to the main entrance, then tiptoed along the wall to the right, Irimiás at the head, but when he reached the corner of the building and warily looked towards the back of the park, he stopped dead in his tracks for a moment then quickly drew back his head. “What’s there?!” Petrina whispered: “Shall we run?” “You see that little shack?” Irimiás asked, his voice tense. “We’ll make for it. One by one. I go first, then you, Petrina, and you last, kid. Is that clear?” No sooner had he said it than he was off in the direction of the old summerhouse, running, keeping low. “I’m not going!” muttered Petrina, clearly confused: “That’s at least twenty yards. We’ll be shot full of holes by the time we reach it!” The “kid” pushed him roughly forward — “Get going!” — and Petrina, not expecting to be pushed, lost his balance after a few steps and lay sprawled in the mud. He immediately got up but then within a few yards threw himself face down again and only reached the summerhouse by crawling on his belly like a snake. He was so scared he didn’t even dare to look up for a while, covering his eyes with his hands, lying perfectly still on the ground, then, once he had realized that “thanks to God’s mercy” he was still alive, he plucked up his courage, sat up and peeked at the park through a gap. His already wrecked nerves were not up to the sight. “Down!” he screamed, and once again threw himself flat on the ground. “Don’t scream, you idiot!” Irimiás snapped at him. “If I hear another peep out of you I’ll wring your neck!” At the back of the park, in front of three enormous naked oaks, in a clearing, wrapped in a series of transparent veils, lay a small body. They might have been no more that thirty yards from it, so they could even make out the face, at least the part not covered by a veil; and if all three of them hadn’t thought it impossible, or if they hadn’t all helped place the body in the crude coffin Kráner had constructed, they could have sworn it was the kid’s sister lying there, her face ashen white, her hair in ginger ringlets, in peaceful slumber. From time to time the wind lifted the ends of the veil, the rain quietly washing the corpse, and the three ancient oaks creaked and groaned as if about to fall . . . But there was not a soul anywhere near the body, just that sweet, bell-like laughter everywhere, a kind of carefree, cheerful music. The “kid” stared at the clearing, mesmerized, not knowing what he should most fear, the sight of his sister, dripping, stiff, clad in white as pure as snow, or the thought of her suddenly getting up and walking toward him; his legs trembled, everything went dark, the trees, the manor, the park, the sky, leaving only her, glowing painfully bright, ever more distinct, in the middle of the clearing. And in that sudden silence, in the total lack of any sound, when even the raindrops broke silently as they fell, and they could well have thought they’d gone deaf, since they could feel the wind but couldn’t hear it humming, and were impervious to the strange breeze lightly playing about them, he nevertheless thought he heard that continuous hum and tinkling laughter suddenly give way to frightening yelps and grunts, and as he looked up he saw them moving towards him. He covered his face with his arms and started sobbing. “You see that?” Irimiás whispered, frozen, squeezing Petrina’s arm so hard his knuckles turned white. A wind had sprung up around the body and in complete silence the blindingly white corpse began uncertainly to rise . . . then, having reached the top of the oaks, it suddenly rocked and, bobbling slightly, started its descent to the ground again, to the precise spot it had occupied before. At that moment the disembodied voices set to a fury of complaint like a dissatisfied chorus that had had to resign itself to failure once again. Petrina was gasping. “Can you believe that?” “I am trying to believe it,” replied Irimiás, now deathly pale. “I wonder how long they have been trying? The child has been dead almost two days now. Petrina, perhaps for the first time in my life I am really frightened.” “My friend . . . can I ask you something?” “Go ahead.” “What do you think . . . ?” “Think?” “Do you think . . . um . . . that Hell exists?” Irimiás gave a great gulp. “Who knows. It might.” Suddenly all was quiet again. There was only the humming, a little louder perhaps. The corpse started to rise again, and then some six feet above the clearing it trembled, then with incredible speed it rose and flew off, soon to be lost among the still, solemn clouds. Wind swept the park, the oaks shook as did the ruined old summer house, then the tinkling-chiming voices reached a triumphant crescendo above their heads before slowly fading away, leaving nothing behind except a few scraps of veil drifting down, the sound of rattling tiles on the fallen-in roof of the manor, and the frightening knockings of the broken tin gutters against the wall. For minutes on end they stood frozen staring at the clearing, then because nothing else happened they slowly came to their senses. “I think it’s over,” whispered Irimiás, then gave a deep hiccup. “I really hope so,” whispered Petrina. “Let’s rouse the kid.” They took the still trembling child under the arms and helped stand him up. “Now come on, pull yourself together,” Petrina encouraged him while just about managing to stand himself. “Leave me alone,” the “kid” sobbed. “Let go of me! “It’s all right. There’s nothing to be scared of now!” “Leave me here! I’m not going anywhere!” “Of course you’re coming! Enough of this pitiful blubbing! In any case there’s nothing there anymore.” The “kid” went over to the gap and looked over to the clearing. “Where . . . where has it gone?” “It vanished like the fog,” Petrina answered, hanging on to a projecting brick. “Like the . . . fog?” “Like the fog.” “Then I was right,” the “kid” remarked uncertainly. “Absolutely,” said Irimiás once he finally managed to stop his hiccupping. “I have to admit you were right.” “But you . . . what . . . what did you see?” “Me? I only saw the fog,” Petrina said, staring straight ahead and bitterly shaking his head. “Nothing but fog, fog all over the place.” The “kid” gave Irimiás an uneasy glance. “But then . . . what was it?” “’A hallucination,” Irimiás answered, his face chalk-white, his voice so faint that the “kid” instinctively leaned towards him. “We’re exhausted. Chiefly you. And that’s hardly surprising.” “Not in the least,” Petrina agreed. “People are likely to see all kinds of things in that condition. When I was serving at the front there’d be nights when a thousand witches would pursue me on broomsticks. Seriously.” They walked the length of the path, then for a long time down the road to Postelek without speaking, avoiding the ankle-deep puddles, and the closer they approached the old road that led straight as a die to the southeastern corner of town, the more Petrina worried about Irimiás’s condition. The master was all but snapping with tension, his knee buckling now and then, and often it seemed that one more step and he’d collapse. His face was pale, his features had dropped, his eyes were staring glassily at nothing in particular. Fortunately the “kid” spotted nothing of this partly because he had been calmed by the exchange between Irimiás and Petrina. (‘Of course! What else could it be? A hallucination. I must pull myself together if I don’t want them to laugh at me!. . . .’), and partly because he was quite excited by the idea that Petrina had acknowledged his role in the discovery of the vision so he could now march along at the head of the procession. Suddenly Irimiás stopped. Petrina leapt to his side in terror, to help if he could. But Irimiás shoved his arm away, turned to him and bellowed, “You creep!!! Why don’t you just fuck off?! I’ve had enough of you! Understand!!?” Petrina quickly lowered his eyes. Seeing that, Irimiás grabbed him by the collar, tried to lift him, and failing gave him a great push so Petrina lost his balance and, having scrambled a few steps, finished on his face in the mud. “My friend . . .” he pitifully pleaded, “Don’t lose your — ” “You still talking back?!” Irimiás bawled at him, then sprang over, and with all his strength, punched him in the face. They stood facing each other, Petrina desolate and in despair, but suddenly sober again, utterly exhausted and quite empty, feeling only the mortal pressure of despair like a trapped animal that discovers there is no escape. “Master . . .” Petrina stuttered: “I . . . I am not angry . . .” Irimiás hung his head. “Don’t be angry, you idiot . . .” They set off again, Petrina turning to the “kid” who seemed to have been turned to stone and waving him on as to say, “Come on, no problem, that’s done with now,” sighing from time to time and scratching his ear. “Listen, I’m an evangelist . . .” “Don’t you mean an Evangelical?” Irimiás corrected him. “Yeh, yeh, that’s right! That’s what I meant to say . . .” Petrina quickly answered and gave a relieved sigh on seeing his partner was over the worst.” “And you?” “Me? They never even christened me. I expect they knew it wouldn’t change anything . . .” “Hush!” Petrina waved his arms in panic, pointing to the sky. “Not so loud!” “Come on, you big dope . . .” Irimiás growled. “What does it matter now . . .” “It may not matter to you, but it does for me! Whenever I think of that blazing comet thing I can hardly breathe!” “Don’t think of it like that,” Irimiás replied after a long silence. “It doesn’t matter what we saw just now, it still means nothing. Heaven? Hell? The afterlife? All nonsense. Just a waste of time. The imagination never stops working but we’re not one jot nearer the truth.” Petrina finally relaxed. He knew now that “everything was all right” and also what he should say so his companion might be his old self again. “OK, just don’t shout so loud!” he whispered: “Haven’t we enough troubles as it is?” “God is not made manifest in language, you dope. He’s not manifest in anything. He doesn’t exist.” “Well, I believe in God!” Petrina cut in outraged. “Have some consideration for me at least, you damn atheist!” “God was a mistake. I’ve long understood there is zero difference between me and a bug, or a bug and a river, or a river and voice shouting above it. There’s no sense or meaning in anything. It’s nothing but a network of dependency under enormous fluctuating pressure. It’s only our imaginations, not our senses, that continually confront us with failure and the false belief that we can raise ourselves by our own bootstraps from the miserable pulp of decay. There’s no escaping that, stupid.” “But how can you say this now, after what we’ve just seen?” Petrina protested. Irimiás made a wry face. “That’s precisely why I say we are trapped forever. We’re properly doomed. It’s best not to try either, best not believe your