They Were Counted (34 page)

T
HE SLEIGH BELLS TINKLED MERRILY
as they drove Up through the pine forests to the ridge of Csonka-Havas which formed the watershed that had to be crossed before they could reach the little settlement of Beles. Andras Zutor, known as ‘Honey’, the forest ranger who had come to Kolozsvar, and the coachman, ‘Clever’ Janos Rigo, sat huddled together in the
driver
’s seat. Both wore jackets made of thick flannel embroidered in patterns of red, blue and green. Over these they had old worn sleeveless sheepskin waistcoats, for no one wore new clothes to go to the mountains in the winter. These too were elaborately embroidered with flowers and traditional Hungarian symbols. Both jackets and waistcoats were short and when their wearers bent forward they showed a line of bare tanned skin between them and the tops of their trousers: all Kalotaszeg folk wore short shirts and jackets, for it was said that they did not feel the cold as other mortals did. Both men were of similar build, stocky and so wide of shoulder that there was only just room for the two of them on the narrow driver’s seat of the sleigh.

As they turned a bend in the road Andras Zutor turned to Balint. ‘That’s Beles in front of us now,’ he said. On the floor of the valley below, Balint could see a huddle of little shingle-roofed huts where the foresters and workers in the sawmill were lodged. From a distance they looked like rows of blackened wooden
coffins
. Beyond them could be seen the canteen, the houses of the sawmill manager and clerks and, still farther on, the larger roofs of the sawmill itself surrounded by huge piles of uncut tree-trunks, neat mountains of cut planks and heaps of greying sawdust.

The little settlement was ringed with mountains, the Gyalu Boulini side of the Funcinyeli range, and these, shrouded in
greyish
mist darkened by wisps of smoke rising from the houses and the sawmill, effectively obscured any more distant view.

The noon siren sounded as they drove between the houses. Here the snow had been trodden into mud. All this, explained Andras, was part of the Abady estate. They passed a group of workers, some of whom raised their hats. Once through the
settlement
the sleigh turned once towards the mountains passing
between
snow-covered meadows, bare and white between dark plantations of fir trees. Here and there a rock stood out above the snow. As they passed an old willow tree that leaned over the edge of a deep canyon Andras turned again to Balint and explained that this marked the boundary of the Count’s property. Even though the road now started to climb steeply the horses increased their speed knowing that they would soon be home. Behind a fence stood a row of ash trees laden now with bunches of
red-brown
berries, and behind these again stood the little house of the forest manager. The sleigh turned in through an open gate and drew up before the front door where Kalman Nyiresy, he who had made such a bad impression on Balint when he had come to Denestornya, stood waiting on the steps, pipe in mouth and cap in hand.

‘Welcome, your Lordship, welcome!’ he cried, taking the meerschaum from his lips and shaking hands heartily. ‘I must say I never thought you’d really come in the winter! Come in and have a little something to warm the heart after such a long cold ride. And something to eat too! I’m afraid lunch won’t be until two; we never thought you’d get here so soon!’

‘I shall not be staying to lunch. I want to arrive before dark so as to set up camp,’ replied Balint coldly.

Old Nyiresy was stunned. ‘You won’t stay? You won’t honour my house? But I have invited guests to meet your Lordship; two of my best friends, the notary Gaszton Simo from Gyurkuca and the manager of the State forests. They’re fine men both of them, especially Simo who’s of a very good family from Bud-
Szent-Katolnay
. Why his uncle … If your Lordship’s really set on going up there you could start tomorrow morning.’

Balint made a gesture to indicate that none of that would be possible, and they moved into the combined living and
diningroom
of the forest manager’s house. In the middle of the room stood a large square oak table of the style known in the eighties as
Altdeutsch
, and in one corner was a sofa and two armchairs.

They sat down, and in came two young Romanian
servant-girls
dressed in fine starched linen skirts and cotton blouses, one carrying a tray with glasses and the brandy bottle, the other a plate of biscuits. These they placed on the table, then they made a curtsy to Balint, and said in Romanian: ‘
Poftyic
Mariassa
– at your Lordship’s command!’ and left the room winking at Balint as they went.

Without thinking Balint looked up at them.

‘Tasty morsels, eh? Look! If your Lordship will stay I’ll send one of them to your bed tonight … or both if you think you can handle them!’ The old man chuckled and then added, with a leer: ‘I sample ‘em myself from time to time!’ and he twisted his
moustache
with a swagger.

Abady replied coldly: ‘No, I’ll not be staying. I’ll be off just as soon as the horses are ready.’

‘Pity! Pity! It’s my loss!’ The old man gave a great puff of smoke between each exclamation. He was deeply offended that the oriental welcome he had planned to soften up the unwelcome guest had been spurned.

They sat for a few minutes in hostile silence. Then Balint said stiffly: ‘Be so good as to give me the estate maps. I want to
compare
them with the military surveys.’

‘No idea where they are!’ said the old man gruffly. ‘I put them away years ago. I’ve got no need of such things, it’s all in here!’ He tapped his head and continued to pull on his pipe in proud,
offended
immobility.

Outside the house the dogs began barking and firm steps could be heard crossing the wooden veranda. The door was flung open and a tall, rawboned man walked in. He was dressed in a short jacket and corduroy riding breeches cut in the fashion that
country
tailors thought to be English, box-calf boots, and carried a hunting crop. He did not remove his hat, into which were stuck three large boar bristles, but stood in the doorway with extended hand.

‘I’m Gaszton Simo!’ He spoke proudly as if everyone should tremble at the sound of his name.

Balint disliked him at once. He appeared not to notice the
outstretched
hand, and spoke condescendingly: ‘Please be seated, Mr … er … Notary.’

Old Nyiresy was deeply hurt. Although he knew that the house and most things in it belonged to the estate, and that he himself was no more than an employee, his pride had suffered a severe blow from the young count’s refusal to accept him on equal terms and the disdain shown for their efforts to entertain him. He boiled inwardly that this aristocratic brat should lord it over him in his own house, even to playing the host when Nyiresy’s friends
appeared
. It was too much!

To make up for Balint’s coldness he greeted the newcomer with extra warmth. ‘How are you, my boy? Come in! Come in! Have a little brandy!’ he went on, as he helped the newcomer off with his coat, put hat and whip on the table, and ushered him to an armchair.

‘His Lordship won’t be staying for lunch,’ he complained. ‘He’s starting at once for the mountains!’

Simo turned towards Balint enquiringly. What a bandit, thought Balint, now that he could see his face properly. Why, he looks like a medieval mercenary who would go anywhere, serve no matter who, kill anyone, so long sas he was properly paid. Gaszton Simo had a hard, resolute face under short hair which grew so low on his forehead that it almost touched his thick black brows. He had small shrewd button-like eyes, and thick black moustaches which joined equally thick black whiskers. He looked both forceful and cunning.

‘Madness, going up there in the winter!’ growled old Nyiresy. However Simo did not back him up as he had hoped.

‘Why not? The weather’s beautiful now, even if the nights are cold. This time last year I went shooting with my uncle, the Chamberlain. We went to the foot of the Humpleu and camped on the Prislop. Wonderful weather we had!’ He turned to Balint. ‘Have you got everything you need, sleeping bags, fur rugs, watertight tent, kettles …? If you need anything I’d be glad to lend it. If you like I could go with you and take care of everything.’

This did not fit in with Balint’s plans.

‘Thank you, I have all I need. The horses are being loaded up now.’

‘When do you return? I’ll have a roe-buck for you.’

‘A roe-buck? In February?’

‘There’re no restrictions in the mountains,’ laughed Simo scornfully. ‘It’s better if I order it shot than let it be taken by some common poacher. I just have to say the word!’

Balint was too outraged to reply at once and just as he was about to speak Andras Zutor came in. He clicked his heels to Abady and announced that the horses were ready whenever his Lordship wished to leave.

Balint got up at once and went out. He shook hands on the
veranda
with Nyiresy, and this time also with Gaszton Simo. Then he ordered Janos Rigo, who was waiting at the foot of the steps, to have the sleigh ready for him in three days’ time at Szkrind in the Retyicel Valley as he would not return to Hunyad the way he came but planned to return by way of Mereggyo.

The old forest manager muttered something into his beard but said nothing more to retain the young man who had made so light of the welcome he had planned for him.

In front of the house, standing about in the snow, were eight horses of which three were saddled: two, for Balint and Andras Zutor, with wooden Hungarian saddles covered with sheepskins, while the third, a much more impressive animal, had a military saddle and well-oiled bridle and reins. This was the notary’s horse, a fine dapple-grey, sleek and well cared-for. All the others were skinny mountain ponies with shaggy winter coats.

In the centre of the group stood Honey, who had discarded the old hat he had been wearing and replaced it with a splendid affair of sheepskin which he wore only on special occasions. Slung round his shoulders was a Werndl sporting gun and at his side he carried a bulging knapsack on which was displayed a brass plaque engraved with the Abady arms, the symbol of his official status as a
Foleskudt
man, someone who had taken the oath of
loyalty
and was therefore respected as an officer of the State. With his reddish beard trimmed like the monarch’s, erect stance and commanding glance, he had the air and presence of a
sergeant-major
, and was accorded the same respect.

Around him stood the five
gornyiks
– forest guards – who had been summoned by Andras Zutor. These were Todor Paven, a tall Albanian who had charge of the Intreape forest; Krisan Gyorgye, a big man with a black moustache and huge hands from Toszerat; the overweight Juanye Vomului, who, with new clothes, a vast sheepskin hat and a copper-studded belt with
copious
pockets, and who was not an Abady employee but was an independent smallholder from Gyurkuca and liked to underline his special status by the elegance of his appearance; Vaszi Lung from Valea Corbului, known as Zsukuczo or ‘Tipstaff’ because as a young man he had been the bailiff’s runner. He was a small
elderly
man, blond and chubby with inflamed red eyes who, from having once been a noted poacher was now such an efficient keeper that no one dared set traps or wander with a gun in his part of the forest. Lastly, there was Stefan Lung from Vale Szaka, the
youngest
of the band, tall and slim, who had inherited his job from his father. Young Stefan was no relation to Vaszi; they bore the same name simply because nearly all the families of the Retyicel
district
were descended from two brothers who had settled there a hundred and fifty years before. All five guards carried a
long-handled
axe and knapsacks bearing brass plaques with the Abady arms as symbols of their authority in their respective districts.

Abady mounted swiftly and, as Zutor was adjusting his
stirrups
, Gaszton Simo, who had been whispering something to old Nyiresy, came up and asked if he could ride some of the way with him.

‘I thought that you were going to have lunch with Nyiresy?’ said Balint, who was not at all eager for the notary’s company.

‘I’ll be back in time. I would like to ask the Count’s opinion on something … something political, nothing to do with the
estate
.’ As Balint hesitated, he jumped on his horse and was soon riding beside him.

The little caravan got underway with Andras Zutor in the lead, sitting sideways as if kneeling in the saddle but still in full control of his mount. In the rear came the
gornyiks
in single file with the pack animals; and in between rode Balint and the notary.

When they had ridden only about a hundred paces Simo began to talk about the recent elections. Who would have thought that things would have turned out like this with the old ruling party now in the minority? How could it have happened? What would happen next? How would it affect the 1867 Compromise? What did the monarch think? Who would be the next prime minister? With all these questions he was trying to show this little aristocrat who played at politics that he too, Gaszton Simo, was no simple ink-licking notary from the backwoods but an informed man-
of-the
-world who deserved proper consideration. With each query he looked at Balint, hoping for an answer. The latter was silent for some time, and finally said: ‘It’s really too early to say
definitely
, but maybe the only constitutional solution will be a coalition.’

‘Hm!’ said Simo. ‘A coalition? Could that possibly work?’ He did not speak for a few moments and seemed worried. Then he went on talking in roundabout terms about how those loyal to the King had had to stand up to the machinations of revolutionary demagogues and finally arrived at what Balint realized was the purpose of this whole conversation. Perhaps, hinted Simo, the new party in power might now seek vengeance on those who had been loyal to the previous government? Did his Lordship believe that those who had given good service to the State in recent years might now find themselves in trouble? It was clear to Balint that the notary was scared that his own skin might be in danger.
Reassuringly
he said: