They Were Divided Read online

  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 qu
een 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.

  There were few of Countess Roza’s retainers who did not feel a wave of relief as they regained the great stone stairway and could steal away.

  Chapter Three

  IN THE NEW YEAR, AT THE END OF FEBRUARY, the affair which had led to the formal denunciation of Gaszton Simo by old Juon aluj Maftye, of Pejkoja in the mountains, took a new turn.

  To recall what had led to this we should remember that in the spring of the previous year – 1912 – old Juon had received a tax demand which claimed the payment of some 286 crowns for arrears dating back to 1909. At this point he was not unduly worried. A year and a half before, he had received a similar reminder which had not been followed up since old Juon had at once complained to the local notary Gaszton Simo, to whom, when the demands had first come in, he had paid the tax money and from whom he had received a receipt. The notary had expressed himself outraged that the tax office should be in such a muddle and promised to go himself to the county offices in Banffy-Hunyad and see that the misunderstanding was cleared up. When no further demands had been delivered by the village policeman the old man assumed that Simo had been as good as his word. For eighteen months there was official silence until in that fateful spring of the previous year there had come a new demand for the same arrears, and in August this had been followed by an order for the seizure and sale of all Juon aluj Maftye’s possessions.

  At that time old Juon’s affairs had been looked after by his grandson, Kula, who had at once taken the papers to Honey Andras Zutor, Abady’s trusted chief forester, to ask his advice. In his turn Honey had reported the matter to Balint because he knew that for several years past his master, knowing how Simo had exploited the simple people in the mountain villages and extorted everything he could from them, had already once tried to have the notary removed from office. Now Balint had acted again. He had got young Kula to obtain from his grandfather a blank Power of Attorney, which had been delivered to Count Abady together with the notary’s original receipt.

  Balint had then found a lawyer in Kolozsvar who was willing to handle the matter, had the power of attorney vested in him, and arranged for Simo to be denounced for embezzlement and false pretences at the appropriate office of the Ministry of Finance. And so the matter took an official turn.

  However, wheels grind slowly and the enquiry by the tax inspectors became more and more strung out. The ball was thrown from court to court – but each time only after another long delay. Five weeks would pass before a letter received any reply. Then the men in the Ministry wrote to the county tax office which passed the letter on to the Sheriff. The Sheriff eventually returned the papers to the tax office saying that it was their responsibility, not his. The tax authorities wrote once more to the provincial county office stating that this matter came under their jurisdiction, not that of the tax office, since there was nothing on Simo’s receipt to say that it concerned anything to do with taxes. The finance office therefore disclaimed all responsibility in its turn, as in their opinion this was either a disciplinary matter for the county’s administrators or else a case to be heard in the criminal courts. The papers were then sent once more to the County Sheriff to determine whose responsibility it all was. In the meantime Gaszton Simo offered himself for a disciplinary inspection, but cunningly sent this offer to the wrong office. He did not approach the Under-Sheriff as he should have, but instead approached the association of local notaries of which he himself was president.

  The notaries’ association refused Simo’s request to be investigated saying that it had authority only in internal disciplinary matters, not in anything that concerned members of the public. At the same time they held a special meeting and unanimously passed a vote of confidence in Simo’s probity: thereby making it clear to Balint that Simo had somehow manipulated the whole cadre of county notaries into taking his side.

  This had been the situation at the beginning of March. Until then, though nothing definite had transpired, it had seemed as if Damocles’s sword was suspended over Simo’s head. But then matters took a very different turn.

  Gaszton Simo himself filed a complaint for false accusation, denouncing in his turn old Juon’s grandson, Kula, and accusing Honey Zutor not only of complicity but also of having instigated a plot against him.

  For proof he offered a declaration from old Juon that his grandson had deceived him, that being unable to read or write he had had no idea that the paper on which Kula had forced him to put his mark had been a Power of Attorney, that he had only recently learned this and wished at once to disclaim any such intention, that the receipt from Simo that the boy had taken from him did not apply to anything to do with tax payments but only to an old debt that he had repaid and furthermore that he had never said anything against the notary Simo whom he held in the greatest esteem and respect. He ended by begging forgiveness, saying that his grandson had abused his trust, and that he was nothing but a simple helpless old man who had known nothing of what was happening.

  It was a good document, well-written, clear and wonderfully precise. And not only precise but also very much to the point, for every accusation against the notary had been logically disposed of and refuted in advance. The declaration had been countersigned by two witnesses, Timbus, the parish priest of Gyurkuca, and one of the church-wardens. In a postscript the old man stated that he had dictated the declaration to the priest, and this too was countersigned by two witnesses, the same church-warden and the village school-teacher. Nothing could have been seen to be better nor more seemingly in order.

  The news of Simo’s counter-action reached Denestornya without delay in a letter from Kalman Nyiresy, the pensioned-off forestry director of the Abady estates, who wrote a fulsome and repetitious account of what had happened. It was clear from the letter what joy Nyiresy took in passing on the bad news, despite the terms of flattery and simulated homage in which it was phrased.

  Nyiresy had never forgiven Balint for having enforced his retirement, even though he had been presented with a large house at Banffy-Hunyad with a garden that reached down to the river Koros, and a pension amounting to half his former salary. The reason was that for more than thirty years he had been able to lord it up in the mountains, doing no work but living well at his employer’s expense. He still lived well at Banffy-Hunyad, giving parties and entertaining his friends as if he were a country gentleman. But this was nothing compared to his life up on the Beles where he had been overlord of sixteen thousand acres, where he could shoot what he liked, eat as much venison as he wished, fish for trout in and out of season, and use the meadows for his own grazing; for, until Balint himself took an interest, no one had ever asked him to account for his stewardship.

  In sombre mood Balint read Nyiresy’s letter. He was disgusted by it, for he could almost see the outrageous old man with his white beard, sitting at his desk and pulling at a long pipe, smiling wickedly under his huge tobacco-stained moustaches as he contemplate
d with what displeasure his former master would read what he had to tell. He was certain that the news came direct from Simo, for the two had been friends for many years; and indeed it was more than probable that they had composed the letter together, chuckling with joy as they poured out more wine and champagne and drank toasts to the notary’s certain triumph.

  Throwing down the letter Balint tried hard to banish this disagreeable picture from his mind lest it should cloud his judgement.

  The Juon aluj Maftye affair had now become serious. That Simo had embezzled the old man’s money was certain, and would remain so; but that the young Kula, with this new evidence, would be found guilty seemed equally certain. What else could the County Court do? And Zutor too might well suffer.

  Balint knew that he could never let this happen. He could never sit idly by, doing nothing, while simple people who had trusted him and acted on his orders found themselves in trouble because of him. That was unthinkable.

  And yet, what could he do?

  There was only one thing, and that was to insist upon appearing as witness for the defence. In this way he could tell the whole truth and shoulder any blame that might come his way. If he went into the witness box he could tell the world everything he knew about the criminal alliance between Simo and the popa Timbus, and how for years they had extorted everything they could from the mountain people. It was true that he could prove nothing, but what did that matter? He would also make it clear that the denunciation of Simo had been his idea, and that he had organized it from the start. Let them condemn him if they wished. It did not matter so long as Kula and Zutor went free, for they had only acted on his orders.