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. If things were different I’d make more fuss about it, but sine we have, I suppose, a long journey before us . . .” “Obviously. It’s worth it,” Futaki assured him then said goodbye and set off back to the engine house. The headmaster meanwhile — it was just as if he had been waiting for Futaki to turn his back — spat through the open doorway, picked up a brick and took aim at the kitchen window, and when Futaki, hearing the glass break, suddenly turned round, the headmaster dusted off his coat, and pretending not to have heard anything, he tried to look as though he were busying himself with the broken bits of wood that lay about him. Half an hour later they were all at the engine house ready to go, with the exception of Schmidt (he having drawn Futaki aside in attempt to explain whatever had happened, saying, “You know, friend, it would never have occurred to me to do that. It was just that a saucepan fell off the table and the rest just sort of followed.’) it was only the flushed faces and the eyes sparkling with satisfaction that betrayed the fact that, for the others, “the leave-taking had gone pretty well.” On top of the headmaster’s two suitcases, most of the Halicses possessions fitted easily on the Kráners’ small two-wheeled handcart and the Schmidts had their own cart, so there was no need to worry that the journey would be slowed down by the weight of luggage. So there they were, all ready to go, and they would have started, had there been anyone to give the word. Everyone was waiting for someone else, so they just stood about in silence, staring at the estate in increasing confusion, because now, on the point of departure, they all felt some proper “words of farewell” to be appropriate, a matter in which they were most likely to trust Futaki but he, having witnessed all those incomprehensible acts of destruction, struggled for words, and by the time he found some that might do for an “in some way ceremonial” address, Halics had got fed up of waiting, grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow and grunted, “Right!” Kráner was in front pulling the cart behind him, leading the parade, Mrs. Kráner and Mrs. Halics supported the luggage on either side to prevent a suitcase or shopping bag being shaken off and close behind them followed Halics, pushing his wheelbarrow, the rear being brought up by the Schmidts. They passed through the old main gate of the estate and for a good while only the creaking of the wheelbarrow and cart’s wheels could be heard, because, apart from Mrs. Kráner — who really couldn’t hold her tongue for long and made frequent remarks about whatever happened to be the state of the luggage piled on their cart — not one of them was up to breaking the silence, if only because it was hard getting used to the peculiar blend of excitement, enthusiasm, and tension about their unknown future, a blend that only deepened the anxiety about their ability, after two long sleepless nights, to withstand the hardships of a long journey. But none of this lasted very long because they were all reassured by the fact that the rain had been light for hours and that they didn’t expect the weather to take a turn for the worse, and because it became progressively more difficult not to give vent to their sense of relief and pride at their own heroic decision in words that anyone setting out on an adventure finds hard to contain. Kráner would happily have given a great whoop as soon as they hit the metalled road and set out in the direction away from town, leading to Almássy Manor, for the moment that the march got under way, the frustration of decades — only half an hour ago still oppressing him — utterly vanished and though the contemplative mood of his companions restrained him right until they reached the entrance to the Hochmeiss estate, his high spirits eventually got the better of him and he cried out in joy: “Damn those years of misery! We’ve done it! We’ve done it friends! My dear friends! We’ve finally done it!” He stopped his cart, turned round to face the others and slapping his hand against his thigh, cried out again: “See here, friends! The misery is over! Can you believe it?! Do you get it, woman?!” He leapt over to Mrs. Kráner, picked her up as he would a child and spun her round as fast as he could, as long as he had the breath, then let her down, fell into her arms, and kept saying over and over: “I told you! I told you!” But by that time “the tide of feeling” had burst in the others too: Halics was first, fluently cursing heaven and earth, before turning to face the estate to shake a threatening fist at it, then Futaki went up to the still grinning Schmidt and, in a voice trembling with emotion, simply said, “My dear friend . . . !’; meanwhile the headmaster was enthusiastically explaining things to Mrs. Schmidt (‘Didn’t I tell you we should never give up hope! We have to believe, I say, believe unto death! Where would doubt have brought us? Tell me where?’) while she, being just about capable of containing the tide of undiluted happiness welling up inside her but unwilling to draw attention to herself, forced an uncertain smile; and Mrs. Halics, tipped her head back, cast her eyes up to heaven and, in a hoarse, tremulous voice, kept repeating “Blessed be Thy name” at least until the rain falling on her face prevented her, and in any case she’d noticed by then that she couldn’t out-shout this “Godless crew.” “Hey people!” Mrs. Kráner bellowed “let’s drink to this!” and produced a bottle from one of her shopping bags. “God damn it! Well, you really have prepared for a new life!” Halics rejoiced and was quick to stand behind Kráner so that he might be first in the line, but the bottle followed a completely arbitrary path from mouth to mouth and, before he realized it, there was just a mouthful left at the bottom. “Don’t look so mournful, Lajos!” Mrs. Kráner whispered to him, even giving him a wink. “There’ll be more, you’ll see.” After this there was no coping with Halics: it was as if he’d grown immeasurably lighter, and he started wildly dashing back and forth with his wheelbarrow, only calming down a little once he caught the eye of Mrs. Kráner a few yards away, and she gave him back a look as if to say, “Not yet . . .” His great cheer naturally egged on the others and so, though they continually had to be adjusting now this bag, now that, piled on one or other of the carts, they made pretty good progress and soon they had left the little bridge of the old irrigation canal behind them and could see in the distance the great pylons carrying high-tension cables with the wires sagging and undulating between then. Futaki occasionally joined in the general chatter though it was he who found the march the most trying, since he had strapped his heavy suitcases — suitcases that, despite Kráner and Schidt’s best efforts, proved impossible to fit on any of the carts — to his shoulders which made it extra hard for him to keep up with the others, not to mention the trouble of his lame leg which cost him even more effort. “I wonder how they’ll cope,” he pondered. “Who?” Schmidt asked. “Well, Kerekes, for example.” “Kerekes!” Kráner shouted as he turned back. “Don’t go bothering your head on his account. Yesterday he went home, threw himself on his bed and, provided the bed hasn’t collapsed under him, I don’t suppose he’ll wake until tomorrow. He’ll grunt and grumble at the bar for a while then he’ll head off to Mrs. Horgos’s for a good time. They’re as like as two peas in a pod, those two.” “No doubt of that!” Halics interrupted. “They’ll get thoroughly smashed! You think they care about anything else? Mrs. Horgos had the mourning gear off the next day . . .” “I’ve just thought!” Mrs. Kráner butted in. “What happened to the great Kelemen? He vanished on the sly — I never saw him.” “Kelemen? My bosom buddy?” Kráner grinned back. “He skipped it yesterday, after lunch. He’s had a bad time, he-he-he! I got the better of him first, then he took on Irimiás, the idiot. Well, he took on a bit too much there because Irimiás didn’t stand for any of his nonsense, and told him to fuck off as soon as started moaning on about this, that and the other, telling Irimiás what should be done, that the whole bunch of us should be in the clink, and that he himself deserved something a little better than the rest, that kind of stuff! Then he grabbed his things and fucked off without another word. What really finished him off, I think, was when he waved his volunteer police armband at Irimiás, and Irimiás told him to, pardon me, go wipe his ass with it.” “I wouldn’t say I missed the bastard much,” Schmidt noted.. “But I could certainly do with his cart.” “I can well believe that. But how would we cope with him? That man would pick a quarrel with a shark!” Mrs. Kráner made a sudden stop. “Wait!” Kráner stopped the cart in fright. “Listen everyone! What are we thinking of?!” “Go on, tell us,” Kráner agitated: “What’s the problem?” “The doctor.” “What’s with the doctor!?” They fell quiet. “Well,” the woman began hesitantly, “well . . . I never said as much as a word to him! Surely! . . .” “Come on, woman!” Kráner turned on her: “I thought there was something really wrong? Why are you bothered about the doctor?” “I’m sure he would have come. He’ll starve to death by himself. I know him — how could I fail to know him after all these years? I know he’s just like a child — if I didn’t put food in front of him, he’d starve. Then there’s the
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. And the cigarettes. The dirty clothes. Give it a week or two and the rats will have eaten him.” “Don’t play the Good Samaritan with us,” Schmidt angrily retorted. “If you’re so keen on him, go back! I don’t miss him! Not a bit! I think he’ll be happy as hell not to be seeing us . . .” Then Mrs. Halics joined in: “Quite right! We should praise the Lord that that particular slave of Satan has not come with us! He’s definitely one of Satan’s, I’ve known that a long time!” Everyone having stopped, Futaki lit a cigarette, and offered them round. “All the same, it’s strange,” he said. “Didn’t he notice anything?” Mrs. Schmidt, who hadn’t said a word till then, now came up and spoke. “That man is like a mole. No, worse than that! At least a mole puts his head up above ground now and then. But it’s like the doctor wanted to be buried alive. It’s weeks since I’ve seen him . . .” “For heaven’s sake!” Kráner exclaimed in delight. “He’s perfectly all right! Every day he gets nicely drunk and has a good snore because there’s nothing else for him to do. We needn’t feel sorry for him! I wouldn’t mind having his maternal inheritance in my pocket right now! And in any case, we’ve been standing round here long enough. Let’s get going or we’ll never get there!” But Futaki was still not satisfied. “He sits the whole day by the window. How couldn’t he have noticed?” he thought uneasily, and leaning on his stick, set off after Kráner. “He couldn’t have failed to hear that racket! And everyone milling about, all the carts, all the shouting. . . . Well, I suppose it’s possible he might have slept through it all. It was Mrs. Kráner who spoke to him last, the day before yesterday, and there was certainly no problem then. In any case, Kráner is right, everyone should mind their own business. If he wants to meet his maker there, that’s fine by me. But I’ll lay a bet on it that — in a day or two, when he hears what’s happened, and thinks it over — he’ll just pull himself together and follow the rest of us. He couldn’t exist without us there.” After half a mile or so the rain started to come down more heavily and they went on their way grumbling as the bare acacias on either side of the road thinned out: it was as if their life-supply was slowly vanishing. Further on there were still fewer trees remaining on the rain-sodden earth; then not a tree, not even a crow. The moon had risen in the sky, its pale disc just about visible as it filtered through a solemn mass of unmoving cloud. Another hour, they realized, and it would be dusk, then night would suddenly fall. But they couldn’t walk any faster, and when exhaustion hit them, it hit them hard. Passing the storm-ravaged tin figure of Christ at Csüd, Mrs. Halics suggested a brief rest (as well as a quick Our Father . . . ) and they angrily rejected the thought, convinced that, if they stopped now, they’d hardly have the strength to start again. It was in vain for Kráner to try to cheer them up with a few memorable incidents (‘You remember when the landlord’s wife broke her wooden spoon on her husband’s ass?” or “You remember how Petrina once salted that ginger cat’s, begging your pardon, asshole?’): rather than cheering up, they started cursing Kráner because he wouldn’t stop talking. “Anyway!” Schmidt fumed, “who told him he’s in charge around here? What’s he doing bossing me about? I’ll have a word with Irimiás and tell him to feed his balls to the sharks, he’s been so full of himself recently. . . .” And when Kráner wouldn’t give it up, and had another go at lightening their spirits (‘Let’s rest for a minute and have a drink. Every drop is pure gold and we didn’t get it from the landlord either!’), they grabbed at the bottle so impatiently it was as if Kráner had been trying to hide it from them. Futaki couldn’t resist joining in. “You’re full of cheer all right. I wonder if you’d be so damn cheerful if you were lame and had to drag these two suitcases around . . . ?” “You think this lousy cart is easy work?” Kráner threw back at him: “I’ve no idea what to do when it falls to pieces on the damn road!” Insulted, he fell silent and from that time on spoke to no one but dragged the cart along, keeping his eyes on the road at his feet. Mrs. Halics was silently cursing Mrs. Kráner because she was as sure as could be that she wasn’t doing anything useful on the other side of the cart; Halics cursed Kráner and Schmidt every time he thought of his aching hands because “Of course it’s easy for them to be chatting away . . .” But it was Mrs. Schmidt who was the particular bugbear for everyone because now — if not before — it seemed obvious to them that she had been strangely silent ever since they set out, and what’s more — “Hang on! when I think back,” the same thought flashed through both Mrs. Kráner and Schmidt, “she has hardly said a word since Irimiás arrived . . .” and then, “There’s something shady going on,” thought Mrs. Kráner. “Is something bothering her? Is she ill? Surely not! Ah, no — she knows what she’s doing. Irimiás must have said something to her when he called her into the storeroom last night . . . But what would he have wanted from her? After all, everyone knows what went on between them last time . . . But that was ages ago! How many years back?” “She thinks of nothing but Irimiás,” Schmidt uneasily continued: “The look she gave me when Mrs. Halics brought the news!.. Her look went straight through me! There can’t have been a way . . . ah, no. She’s not going to lose her head at this age. Yes, but . . . what if? She must know I’d wring her neck, just like that! No, she wouldn’t do it. In any case, she can’t possibly imagine that Irimiás fancies her now, her of all people! You’ve got to laugh. However much cologne she splashes on during the day she still smells like a pig. Oh yes, she’s just Irimiás’s type! He has more women than he can shake a stick at, each more gorgeous than the last, he’s not going to be lusting after a country goose like her. Ah, no . . . But then why are her eyes sparkling like that? Those two great cow’s eyes of her? . . . And how the hell does she have the gall to be making up to Irimiás, God blast her?! Well, of course, she makes up to anyone, it doesn’t matter who, as long he’s wearing trousers . . . Well, I’ll beat that out of her! If she didn’t learn last time, I don’t mind giving her another lesson. I’ll make her come to her senses, don’t you worry about that! May her tits dry up, the whore, and all the whores on this shithouse of a planet!” Futaki found the pace ever harder, the straps of his cases had rubbed his shoulders so raw they were bleeding. His bones seemed to be made of fire and when his bad leg got painful again he fell a long way behind the others though they didn’t even notice until Schmidt turned round and shouted at him (‘What’s up with you? We’re going slow enough as it is without you dragging us down’) because he was growing increasingly furious with Kráner for “playing the big chief’, and so he grunted at Mrs. Schmidt to keep up, while he himself began to scurry ahead on his tiny legs. He quickly caught up with Kráner’s cart and stood at the head of the procession. “Go on then, rush ahead!” Kráner silently raged: “We’ll soon see who can last!” “For heaven’s sake, friends . . . Don’t be in such a hurry! These blasted boots are playing havoc with my heels, every step is agony!” “Don’t go sniveling,” Mrs. Halics hissed at him, What’s there to blub about? Why don’t you show them what a real man you are, right here instead of just in the pub!” Hearing this, Halics clenched his teeth, and tried to keep step with Kráner who was now in a private race with Schmidt, the two bitterly competing, first one then the other leading the procession. And so Futaki got ever more left behind and once the distance had increased to two hundred yards or so he simply stopped trying to keep up. He tried more and more ways of carrying the load of his ever-heavier cases, but however he adjusted the straps the pain wouldn’t go away. So he decided not to torture himself any further and when he spotted an acacia with a broader trunk he turned off the road and, just as he was, baggage and all, he collapsed in the mud. He leaned against the trunk and spent the next few minutes painfully gasping for air before removing the straps and stretching his legs. He reached into his pocket for a light but suddenly sleep overcame him. He woke needing to piss, so he struggled to his feet but his legs were numb and he immediately collapsed again, and was only successful on the second attempt of rising and staying on his feet. “What idiots we are . . .” he grumbled aloud, and having relieved himself, sat back down on one of the suitcases. “We should have listened to Irimiás. He told us to wait, and what did we do? We had to move right away! That very evening! Now here I am sitting in the mud, dog tired . . . As if it made any difference whether we started today, tomorrow or in a week’s time . . . Irimiás might have got hold of a truck by then! But no, that’s not what we do, oh no! Do it right now! . . . Right away! . . . Its chiefly Kráner’s fault! . . . But never mind . . . it’s too late to be sorry. We’re not that far away now.” He pulled out a cigarette and took a first deep lungful. He was already feeling better though still a little dizzy and had a dull constant headache. He stretched his stiff limbs again, rubbed his numb legs, then started scratching the ground in front of him with his stick. It was growing towards dusk. The road was barely visible now but Futaki felt calm: you couldn’t lose your way since the road went precisely as far as Almássy Manor and in any case over the years he had often made this journey because he had acted as a kind of funeral director for redundant machine parts, it being his task, among others, to remove ruined, no longer usable components and deposit them in the building that even then was in poor condition. “And when you think about it,” he suddenly thought, “there is something else very strange about all this. I mean take this manor for a start. No doubt back in the count’s time, it must have looked pretty good. But now? The last time I saw it the rooms were covered in weeds, the wind had blown the tiles off the tower, there wasn’t a window or door intact, and even the floor was missing in places so you could see through to the cellar. . . . Best not to interfere, of course. . . . Irimiás is the boss, and he’ll know why he picked the manor! Perhaps it’s the very fact that it’s so isolated that makes it the best place . . . because, after all, there isn’t even a farm nearby, nothing. . . . Who knows? It might be because of that.” He didn’t want to risk using a match since it would be hard to light in the damp weather so he lit the new cigarette using the still glowing end of the old one but he didn’t throw the stub away yet, holding it between cramped fingers for a while because the slight warmth it gave out felt good. And then this whole thing . . . that business yesterday . . . “However I try, I still don’t understand it . . . Because he’d be confident that we knew him well enough. So why all the clowning? Talking like an evangelist preacher . . . You could see he was suffering as much as we were . . . I don’t understand. He would have known what we wanted! And he’d have known the only reason we went along with all that nonsense about the idiot child was because we wanted him to say, “OK, enough of all this! Here I am, boys and girls. What’s all this moaning and groaning about? Let’s pick ourselves up and do something clever for once. Any good ideas out there? . . .” But no. It was all “ladies and gentlemen” this and “ladies and gentlemen” that, and you are all miserable sinners . . . I mean, it’s beyond belief! And who knows whether he’s doing this in earnest or just messing around? There was no way of telling him to stop either. . . . And all that stuff about the retard. . . . So she ate a lot of rat poison, so what? It was probably the best thing for the sad creature, at least she’s spared more suffering. But what’s all that to do with me!? There’s her mother: it was her job to care for her! And then . . . all that frantic searching through bog and brake, the whole day in awful weather, combing every inch of the place till we find the miserable little thing! . . . It should have been that old witch, her mother, doing the searching. But that’s how it is. Who can understand Irimiás? No one! It’s just that . . . he wouldn’t have done this back then . . . I mean I didn’t know where to look, I was so surprised . . . He has certainly changed a lot, that’s for sure. Of course we don’t know what he’s been through in the last few years. But his hooknose, his checkered jacket and his red tie — that’s exactly the same! Everything’s OK.” He gave a relieved sigh, got up, picked up his bags, adjusted the straps on his shoulders then, leaning on his stick, set off down the road again. So that time might pass more quickly and to distract himself from the pain of the straps biting into his flesh, and lastly, because he was a little scared to be all alone here at the end of the world on a desolate road, he started singing, “How lovely thou art, our dear Hungary” but he had forgotten everything after the second line and so, because nothing else occurred to him he sang the national anthem. But the singing only left him feeling more lonely so he quickly stopped and held his breath. He seemed to hear a noise to his right . . . He began to walk more quickly, as far as that was possible given his bad leg. But then there was the sound of something cracking on the other side. . . .’What the hell is it . . . ?” He thought he’d better resume his singing after all. There wasn’t such a long way to go. And it would fill the time . . .