eyes. It’s a trap, Petrina. And we fall into it every time. We think we’re breaking free but all we’re doing is readjusting the locks. We’re trapped, end of story.” Petrina had worked his own way up to fury now. “I don’t understand a word of that! Don’t spout poetry at me, goddamit! Speak plain!” “Let’s hang ourselves, you fool,” Irimiás sadly advised him: “At least it’s over quicker. It’s the same either way, whether we hang ourselves or not. So OK, let’s not hang ourselves.” “Look friend, I just can’t understand you! Stop it now before I burst into tears . . .” They walked on quietly for a while, but Petrina couldn’t let it rest. “You know what’s the matter with you, boss? You haven’t been christened. “That’s as may be.” They were on the old road by now, the “kid” eager for adventure scanning the terrain, but there were only the deep tracks left by cartwheels in the summer, nothing looked dangerous; overhead, an occasional flock of crows, then the rain coming down harder and the wind too seeming to pick up as they neared the town. “Well, and now?” asked Petrina. “What?” “What happens now?” “What do you mean what happens now?” Irimiás answered through gritted teeth. “From here on things get better. Till now other people have told you what to do, now you will tell them. It’s exactly the same thing. Word for word.” They lit cigarettes and gloomily blew out the smoke. It was getting dark by the time they reached southeastern part of town, marching down deserted streets where lights burned in windows and people sat silently in front of steaming plates of food. “Here,” Irimiás stopped when they reached The Scales. “We’ll stop here for a while.” They entered the smoky, airless bar that was already packed and, pushing their way past loudly guffawing or arguing groups of drivers, tax officials, workers and students, Irimiás made his way to the bar to join a long line. The barman, who recognized Irimiás as soon as he stepped through the door, skipped nimbly over to their end of the counter, remarking, “Well, well! Who do I see here! Greetings! Welcome, Lord of Misrule!” He leaned across the bar, extending his hand and quietly asked, “What can we do for you, gentlemen?” Irimiás ignored the proferred hand and answered coolly: “Two blended and a small spritzer.” “Right away gentlemen,” the barman answered a little taken aback, yanking his hand back. “Two measures of blended and a small spritzer. Coming right up.” He skipped back to his position at the center of the bar, poured the drinks and quickly served them. “You are my guests, gentlemen.” “Thank you,” replied Irimiás. “What’s new, Weisz?” The barman wiped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his shirt, glanced left and right and leant close to Irimiás. “The horses have escaped from the slaughter house . . .” he whispered excitedly. “Or so they say.” “The horses?” “Yes, the horses — I just heard that they still haven’t been able to catch them. A whole stable of horses, if you please, running amok in town, if you please. So they say.” Irimiás nodded, then, raising the glasses above his head, cut his way back through the crowd and, with some difficulty, reached Petrina and the “kid” who had made a small place for themselves. “Spritzer for you, kid.” “Thanks, I saw, he knows.” “Not hard to guess. So. To our health.” They threw back the drink, Petrina offered cigarettes round, and they lit up. “Ah, the famous prankster! Good evening! Is it you? How the devil did you get here! So pleased to see you!” A short, bald man with a beetroot-colored face came up and extended his hand, friendly fashion. “Greetings!” he said and turned to Petrina. “So how are things, Tóth?” Petrina asked. “Pretty well. OK as things go nowadays! And yourselves? Seriously, it must be at least two, no, three years since I last laid eyes on you. Was it something big?” Petrina nodded. “Possibly.” “Ah, that’s different . . .” the bald man acknowledged, embarrassed, and turned to Irimiás. “Have you heard? Szabó is done for.” “Uh uhm” grunted Irimiás and threw back what remained in his glass. “What’s new, Tóth?” The bald man leaned closer. “I got an apartment.” “You don’t say? Congratulations. Anything else?” “Well, life goes on, Tóth answered dully. “We’ve just had the local election. Any idea how many went to vote? Hm. You can guess. I can count them all, from one to one. They’re all here,” he said pointing to his own head. “Well that was big of you, Tóth,” Irimiás answered in a tired voice. “I see you don’t waste your time.” “Obvious isn’t it?” the bald man spread his hands. “There are things a man has to do. Am I right?” Petrina leaned forward. “Indeed you are, now will you join the line to bring us something?” The bald man was keen: “What would you like, gentlemen? Be my guests.” “Blended.” “Coming up. Back in a minute.” He was at the bar in a matter of moments, waved the barman over and was immediately back with a handful of glasses. “To our meeting!” “Cheers,” said Irimiás. “Till the cows come home,” added Petrina. “So tell me what’s new? What news over there?’” asked Tóth, his eyes wide with anticipation. “Where?” Petrina wondered. “Just, you know, “there” . . . speaking generally.” “Ah. We have just witnessed a resurrection.” “The bald man flashed his yellow teeth. “You haven’t changed a bit, Petrina! Ha-ha-ha! We’ve just witnessed a resurrection! Very good! That’s you, all right!” “You don’t believe me?” Petrina sourly remarked. “You’ll see, you’ll come to a bad end. Don’t wear anything too warm once you’re at death’s door. It’s hot enough there, they say.” Tóth was shaking with laughter. “Wonderful, gentlemen!” he panted. “I’ll rejoin my associates. Will we meet again?” “That,” said Petrina with a sad smile, “is unavoidable.” They left The Scales
and started down the poplar-lined avenue that led to the center of town. The wind blew in their faces, the rain drove into their eyes, and because they had warmed up inside they were hunched and shivering now. They met not a single soul until they got to the church square, Petrina even remarking on it: “What is this? A curfew?” “No, it’s just autumn, the time of year,” Irimiás noted sadly: “People sit by their stoves and don’t get up till spring. They spend hours by the window until it grows dark. They eat, they drink, they cling to each other in bed under the eiderdown. There are moments when they feel everything is going wrong for them, so they give their kids a good beating or kick the cat, and in this way they get by a while longer. That’s how it goes, you idiot.” In the main square they were stopped by a crowd of people. “Have you seen anything?” asked a gangling man. “Nothing at all,” answered Irimiás. “If you do, tell us immediately. We’ll wait here for news. You’ll find us here.” “Fine. Ciao.” A few yards on Petrina asked, “I might be an idiot, but so what if they’re there? They were perfectly normal to look at. What were we supposed to have seen?” “Horses,” Irimiás replied. “Horses? What horses?” “The ones that escaped from the slaughterhouse.” They passed down the empty high street and took a turn towards the old Romanian quarter, Nagyrománváros. At the crossing of Eminescu Street and The Avenue they spotted them. There they were in the middle of Eminescu Street, some eight or ten horses, grazing. Their backs reflected the faint streetlights and they carried on peacefully chomping the grass until they noticed the group staring at them, then suddenly, it seemed in unison, they raised their heads, one neighed, and within a minute they had disappeared down the far end of the street. “Who are you cheering for?” asked the “kid’, grinning. “For myself,” Petrina nervously replied. There was hardly anyone in Steigerwald’s bar when they looked in and those who were there quickly left. Steigerwald himself was fiddling with the TV set in the corner. “Damn you, you useless bastard!” he cursed at the TV not having noticed the newcomers. “Good evening,” boomed Irimiás. Steigerwald quickly turned round. “Good Lord! It’s you!.” “No problem,” Petrina reassured him. No problem at all.” “That’s good. I thought . . .” the landlord muttered. “That rotten bastard there,” he pointed to the television in fury: “I’ve been trying for an hour to get a picture out of it but it’s gone and doesn’t want to come back.” “In that case, take a break. Get us two blended, and a spritzer for the young gentleman.” They sat down at a table, unbuttoned their coats and lit more cigarettes. “Listen kid,” said Irimiás. “Drink it up then go down to Páyer’s. You know where he lives? Good. You tell him I’m waiting for him here.” “OK,” answered the “kid” and buttoned his coat again. He took the glass from the landlord’s hand, threw back the contents, and was quickly out of the door. “Steigerwald,” Irimiás stopped the landlord who, having put their glasses down in front of them, was on his way back to the bar. “Ah, so there is trouble after all,” he groaned and planted his behemoth of a body on a chair beside them. “There’s no trouble,” Irimiás assured him. “We need a truck by tomorrow.” “When will you bring it back?” “Tomorrow night. And we sleep here tonight.” “All right,” nodded the relieved Steigerwald then struggled to his feet. “When are you paying?” “Right now.” “Pardon?” “You misheard,” the master corrected him: “Tomorrow.” The door opened and the “kid” rushed in. “He’ll be right here,” he announced and sat back in his chair. “Well done, sonny. Get yourself another spritzer. And tell the man to make us some bean soup.” “With pork trotters,” Petrina added with a grin. A few minutes later a heavily-built, fat, grey-haired man entered, umbrella in hand. He must have been ready for bed because he hadn’t even dressed properly but simply thrown a coat over his pajamas and put a pair of fake-fur slippers on his feet. “I hear you’re back in town, squire,” he said sleepily and gently let himself down into the chair next to Irimiás. “I wouldn’t resist if you tried to shake my hand.” Irimiás was gazing mournfully into space but at Páyer’s words, snapped to attention and gave a smile of satisfaction. “My deepest respects. I hope I have not awoken you from your slumbers.” The smile did not wither on Irimiás’s lips. He crossed his legs, leaned back and slowly blew out smoke. “Let’s get down to business.” “Don’t go scaring me at the outset,” the newcomer held up his hand, but he spoke with confidence. “Go on, ask me for something now that you’ve dragged me from my bed.” “What will you have to drink?” “No, don’t ask me what I want to drink. They don’t have it here. I’ll have a plum
pálinka
.” He listened to Irimiás with his eyes closed as if asleep, and only raised his hand again to ask a question when the landlord arrived with the
pálinka
and he had thrown it all back at once. “Wait a minute! What’s the hurry? I haven’t been introduced to your esteemed colleagues . . .” Petrina leapt to his feet. “Petrina, at your command. I’m Petrina.” The “kid” did not move. “Horgos.” Páyer raised his lowered eyelids. “A well mannered young man,” he said and gave Irimiás a knowing look. “He has a bright future.” “I’m pleased my assistants are slowly gaining your sympathy, Mister Bang-bang.” Páyer raised his head as if by way of defense. “Spare me the nicknames. I’m not a gun obsessive as I believe you know. I just deal in guns. Let’s stick with Páyer.” “Fine,” smiled Irimiás and stubbed out his cigarette under the table. “The situation is this. I would be most grateful for certain . . . raw materials. The more kinds the better.” Páyer closed his eyes. “Is this a purely hypothetical inquiry or are you ready to back it up with a certain figure that might help me bear the indignity of simply being alive?” “Backed up, naturally.” The guest nodded in acknowledgment. “I can only repeat that, as a business associate, you are a gentleman through and through. It’s a pity that there are ever fewer well-mannered men of your profession to deal with.” “Will you join us for supper?” Irimiás inquired with the same unwearying smile when Steigerwald appeared at the table with plates of bean soup.” “What have you got to offer?” “Nothing,” the landlord grunted. “Do you mean that whatever you bring us is inedible?” asked Páyer in a tired voice. “Right.” “In that case I won’t have anything.” He got up, gave a slight bow and gave the “kid” a special nod. “Gentlemen, at your service. We’ll deal with the details later if I understand you correctly.” Irimiás too stood up and extended his hand. “Indeed. I’ll look you up at the weekend. Sleep well.” “Look, it is precisely twenty-six years since I last slept five and a half hours without waking: ever since then I’ve been tossing and turning, half asleep, half awake. But I thank you anyway.” He bowed again, then with slow steps and a sleepy look he left the bar. Once supper was over, Steigerwald prepared beds for them in a corner, grumbling all the while, and gave the non-functioning TV set a frustrated nudge with his elbow as he was about to leave them to it. “You don’t have a Bible by any chance?” Petrina called to him. Steigerwald slowed, stopped and turned round to face him. “A Bible? What do you need one of those for?” “I thought I’d read a little before I sleep. It always has a settling effect on me, you know.” “How can you even say that without blushing!” muttered Irimiás: “You were a child the last time you read a book, and even then you just looked at the pictures . . .” “Don’t listen to him!” Petrina protested, making an offended face: “He’s just jealous, that’s all.” Steigerwald scratched his head. “All I’ve got here are some decent detective stories. Do you want me to bring you one?” “Heaven forbid!” cried Petrina. “That won’t do at all!” Steigerwald looked sourly at him then vanished through a door to the yard. “That Steigerwald, what a miserable bastard . . . ,” Petrina mumbled. “I swear the starving bears I meet in my worst nightmares are friendlier than he is.” Irimiás had lain down in the place prepared for him and covered himself with the blanket. “Maybe. But he’ll survive us all.” The “kid” turned off the light and they fell quiet. The only thing to be heard for a while was the sound of Petrina mumbling as he tried to remember the words of a prayer he’d heard his grandmother say.
Our father . . . um, our father
which art there, art, art in the sky, er,
in heaven, let us praise, er..hallowed be
our lord Jesus Christ,
no . . . let them praise . . . no, let us praise
rather, let them praise Your name,
and give us this . . . what I mean is,
let everything be according to, er,
whatever you want.. in earth as
it is on earth . . . in heaven . . .
or in hell, amen..
The Distance, as Approached from the Other Side
Quietly, continually, the rain fell and the inconsolable wind that died then was forever resurrected ruffled the still surfaces of puddles so lightly it failed to disturb the delicate dead skin that had covered them during the night so that instead of recovering the previous day’s tired glitter they increasingly and remorselessly absorbed the light that swam slowly out of the east. The trunks of the trees, the occasionally creaking branches, the sticky festering weeds, and even the “manor” — everything was sheathed in a refined but slimy gauze as though the elusive agents of darkness had marked them all out so that they might continue their work of corrosive, continual destruction the next night. When, far above the unbroken layers of cloud, the moon rolled unobserved down the western horizon and they peered blinking into the gaping hole that had once been the main entrance or through the high window cavities into the frozen light they slowly understood that something had changed, that something was not quite where it had been before dawn, and having understood this, they quickly realized that the thing they had secretly most feared had actually happened: that the dreams that had driven them forward the previous day were over, and it was time for the bitter awakening . . . Their first feelings of confusion gave way to a frightened acknowledgment of how stupid they had been to rush into “thing’; their departure having been the result not of sober calculation but of an evil impulse, and that because they had, in effect, burnt their bridges, there was no chance now of taking the sensible course and returning home. It was dawn, the most miserable of hours: their stiff limbs were still sore and there they were, shivering in the cold, their lips almost blue, foul smelling and hungry, struggling to their feet among the scraps of their possessions, forced to face the fact that the “manor” that only yesterday had seemed the fulfillment of their dreams, was today — in this pitiless light — simply a cold, relentless prison. Grumbling and ever more embittered, they roamed through the deserted halls of the moribund building, exploring in somber chaotic fashion the dismantled parts of rusted machinery and in the funereal silence the suspicion grew in them that they had been lured into a trap, that they were, all of them, naïve victims of a low plot to dump them there, homeless, deceived, robbed and humiliated. Mrs. Schmidt was the first that dawn to return to the miserable prospect of their makeshift beds; she sat down shivering on the crude bundles of their belongings and stared in disappointment at the light as it grew brighter. The eye make-up she had received from “him” as a present had smeared across her puffy face, her mouth was turned down in bitterness, her throat was dry, her stomach ached and she felt too weak even to attend to her tousled hair and crumpled clothes. Because it was all in vain: the memory of the few magical hours spent with “him” was not enough to allay her fear — especially now that it was plain that Irimiás had simply reneged on his promise — that all was lost now. . . . It wasn’t easy, but what else could she do: she tried to resign herself to the fact that Irimiás (“ . . . until this matter is finally closed . . . ’) would not be taking her away, and that her dream of disentangling herself from Schmidt’s “filthy paws” and taking her leave of this “stinking hole of a place” would have to be postponed for months, perhaps years (‘Good heavens, years! More years!’) but the terrible thought that even that might be a lie, that he was now over the fields and far away in search of new conquests, made her clench her fists. True, if she thought back to the previous night when she gave herself to Irimiás at the back of the storeroom, she had to admit that even now, at this most dreadful hour, it was no disappointment: those magnificent moments, those moments of extraordinary blissful satisfaction had to compensate for everything else; it was only the “betrayed love” and the crushing and besmirching of her “pure burning passion” that could never be forgiven! For after all, what could one expect when, despite the words whispered in secret at the moment of parting (‘Before dawn, for certain! . . . ’) it finally became clear that everything was “a filthy lie’!.. Without hope but still stubbornly longing, she gazed at the rain through the enormous gap where the main entrance had been, and her heart contracted, her entire body doubled up, and her tangled hair fell forward to cover her tortured face. But however she tried to concentrate on the thirst for revenge rather than on the agonizing sadness of resignation, it was the tender murmuring of Irimiás she kept hearing; it was his tall, broad, respect-demanding, solid body she kept seeing; the strong self-confident curve of his nose, the narrowing of his soft lips, the irresistible glow of his eyes, and time and again she felt his delicate fingers half-consciously playing with her hair, the warmth of his palms against her breasts and thighs, and every time she heard the slightest noise she imagined it might be him, so — when the others had returned and she saw the same bitter funereal expression on their faces as she felt on her own — the last weak barriers of her proud resistance were swept away by despair. “What will happen to me without him?! . . . For the love of God, . . . leave me if you must, but . . . but not now! Not yet! . . . Not just at this time! . . . An hour more! . . . A minute! . . . What do I care what he does to them, but. . . . Me! Not to me! . . . If nothing else make him allow me to be his lover! His handmaid! . . . His servant! What do I care! Let him kick me, beat me like a dog, just . . . this one time, let him come back just this one time! . . .” They sat by the wall, depressed, with humble packed meals in their laps, chewing away in the cold draft of ever brighter dawn. Outside, the shaggy pile that had once formed the bell tower of the chapel to the right of the “manor” — that’s when it still had a bell — gave a great creak and from within it came a suppressed rumbling sound, as if yet another floor had collapsed . . . There was no doubt about it now, they had to admit it was pointless to hang about any longer since Irimiás had promised to come “before daylight” and dawn was practically over. But not one of them dared break the silence or pronounce the appropriately grave words “We’ve been properly screwed over” because it was extraordinarily difficult to regard “our savior Irimiás” as “a filthy liar” and “a low thief’, not to mention the fact that what had happened was still something of a mystery . . . What if something unexpected had delayed him? . . . Maybe he was late because of the bad roads, because of the rain, or because . . . Kráner got up, went over to the gate, leaned against the damp wall, lit a cigarette and nervously scanned the path leading down from the metalled road, before furiously standing up and swiping at the air. He sat back in his place and spoke in an unexpectedly trembling voice. “Listen . . . I have a feeling . . . that. . . . we’ve been conned! . . .” Hearing this, even those who had been staring vacantly into space lowered their eyes. “I tell you, we’ve been conned!” Kráner repeated, raising his voice. Still nobody moved and his harsh words echoed menacingly in the frightened silence. “What’s the matter with you, are you all deaf?” screamed Kráner, quite beside himself, and leapt to his feet. “Nothing to say? Not a word?!” “I told you,” Schmidt cried out with a dark expression. “I told you right from the start!” His lips were trembling and he pointed an accusing finger at Futaki. “He promised,” Kráner ranted on, “he promised to build a new Eden! There! Have a good look! There’s our Eden! That’s what we’ve come to, damn the miserable scoundrel! He enticed us here, here to this waste land, while we . . . ! Fucking sheep! . . .” “While he,” Schmidt picked up the thread, “gleefully scuttles off in the opposite direction! Who knows where he is now? We could be looking for him the rest of our lives! . . .” “And who knows in which bar he’s gambling away our money?!” “A whole year’s work!” Schmidt continued, his voice shaking. “A whole year of miserable scrimping and saving! I’m back where I was, without a penny again!” Kráner started stalking up and down like an animal in a cage, his fists clenched, giving more occasional swipes in the air. “But he’ll regret it! He’ll be damn sorry, the bastard! Kráner is not the sort of man to let such things go! I’ll find him if I have to look in every nook and cranny! And I swear I’ll strangle him with my bare hands. With these!” He held his hands up. Futaki raised a nervous hand. “Not so fast! Not so fast with that threat! What if he appears in a couple of minutes! Where’s all this ranting going to get you then? Eh?!!” Schmidt sprang to his feet. “You dare to open your mouth?! You dare to say a word?! Where’s that going to get us?! It’s you I have to thank for being robbed! Who else but you?!” Kráner went up to Futaki and looked deep into his eyes. “Wait!” said Futaki and took a deep breath. “All right! We’ll wait two minutes! Two entire minutes! And then we’ll see . . . what will be will be!” Kráner pulled Schmidt along with him and they stood together at the threshold of the main entrance, Kráner spreading his feet and swaying back and forth. “Well! So now we’re ready! And there he is, just coming,” Schmidt mocked, turning to Futaki. “You hear?! Here comes your savior! You poor bastard!” “Shut up!” Kráner interrupted him and squeezed Schmidt’s arm. “Let’s wait the full two minutes! Then we’ll see what he has to say, him and his big mouth!” Futaki rested his head on his knees. There was absolute silence. Mrs. Schmidt sat huddled in the corner, terrified. Halics gave a great gulp then, because he had some vague idea of what might happen, almost inaudibly said, “It’s really awful . . . that even at a time . . . like this . . . I mean, each other . . . !” The headmaster rose. “Gentlemen,” he addressed Kráner, trying to calm him: “What’s all this?! This is no solution! Think it over and — ” “Shut up, you ass!” Kráner hissed at him and seeing his threatening look the headmaster quickly sat down again. “So, friend?” Schmidt asked dully with his back to Futaki, gazing down the path. “Is the two minutes up yet?” Futaki raised his head and hugged his knees. “Tell me, what’s the point of this performance. Do you really think I can do anything about it?” Schmidt grew beetroot red. “So who convinced me in the bar? Huh?” and he slowly moved towards Futaki: “Who kept telling me I should take it easy because this and that and the other will be all right, eh?” “Are you out of your mind, buddy?” Futaki replied raising his own voice, beginning to twitch nervously. “Have you gone mad?” But Schmidt was in front of him by then so he couldn’t get up. “Give me my money back,” Schmidt snarled, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “You heard what I said!? Give me back my money!” Futaki pressed his back against the wall. “There’s no point in asking me for your money! Come to your senses!” Schmidt closed his eyes. “I’m asking you for the last time, give me my money!” “Listen everyone,” Futaki cried. “Get him away from me, he’s really gone — !” but he couldn’t finish what he was saying because Schmidt, with all his strength, kicked him in the face. Futaki’s head snapped back and for a second he sat absolutely still, the blood starting to gush from his nose, then slowly slipped to one side. By that time the women, Halics, and the headmaster had leapt over, twisted Schmidt’s arm behind his back, and then with great difficulty, not without a violent struggle, dragged him away. Kráner grinned nervously in the entrance, his arms crossed, then started moving towards Schmidt. Mrs. Schmidt, Mrs. Kráner and Mrs. Halics were screaming and fussing in terror around the unconscious Futaki, until Mrs. Schmidt pulled herself together, took a rag, ran out to the terrace, dipped it in a puddle and ran back with it. She knelt down by Futaki and started wiping his face, then turned on the weeping Mrs. Halics, shouting, “Instead of blubbering you could do something useful like fetching another rag, a bigger one, to soak up the blood!” . . . Futaki was slowly regaining consciousness and opened his eyes to stare blankly first at the sky, then at Mrs. Schmidt’s anxious face as she leaned over him. Feeling a sharp pain, he tried to sit up. “For heaven’s sake, don’t do anything, just lie still!” Mrs. Kráner shouted at him. “You’re still bleeding!” They laid him down again on the blanket and Mrs. Kráner tried to wash the blood off his clothes while Mrs. Halics knelt beside Futaki, quietly praying. “Get that witch away from me!” groaned Futaki. “I’m still alive . . .” Schmidt was gasping for breath in another corner, clearly confused, pressing his fists into his groin as if that were the only way he could keep himself from moving. “Really!” the headmaster shook his head as he stood together with Halics with his back to Schmidt to block his way in case he tried to attack Futaki again. “Really, I can’t believe what I’m seeing! You’re a grown man! What are you thinking of? You just go and assault someone? You know what I call it? I call it bullying, that’s what I call it!” “Leave me alone,” Schmidt answered through gritted teeth. “That’s right!” Kráner said, stepping closer: “This has nothing to do with you! Why are you so determined to poke your nose in everywhere? In any case the clown deserved it! . . .” “You shut up, you low life!” the headmaster snapped back: “You . . . you were the one who encouraged him to do it! You think I can’t hear? You’d better keep quiet!” “What I suggest, pal . . . ,” hissed Kráner with a dark look, seizing the headmaster, “What I suggest is that you get out of here while the going is good! . . . I don’t advise you to pick a quarrel with — ” At that moment a resonant, severe, self-confident voice cut across them: “What’s going on here?!” Everyone turned around to the threshold. Mrs. Halics gave a fearful cry, Schmidt leapt to his feet and Kráner took an involuntary step back. Irimiás stood there. His seal-gray raincoat was buttoned up to the chin, his hat drawn far down his brow. He stuck his hands deep into his pockets and surveyed the scene with piercing eyes. A cigarette dangled from his lips. There was stony silence. Even Futaki sat up, then tried to stand, swaying
a little, but hid the rag behind his back, the blood still dribbling from his nose. Mrs. Halics crossed herself in astonishment then quickly lowered her hands because Halics was signaling to her to stop it immediately. “I asked what’s going on?” Irimiás repeated threateningly. He spat out the cigarette and stuck a new one in the corner of his mouth. The estate stood before him, their heads hung low. “We thought you weren’t coming . . .” Mrs. Kráner wavered and gave a forced smile. Irimiás looked at his watch and angrily tapped the glass. “It says six-forty-three. The watch is accurate.” Barely audible Mrs. Kráner replied, “Yes, but . . . but you said you’d come at night . . .” Irimiás furrowed his brow. “What do you think I am, a taxi driver? I work my fingers to the bone for you, I don’t sleep for three days, I walk for hours in the rain, I rush from one meeting to another to overcome various obstacles, while you . . . ?!” He took a step toward them, cast an eye at their makeshift beds then stopped in front of Futaki. “What happened to you?” Futaki hung his head in shame. “I got a nosebleed.” “I can see that. But how?” Futaki made no answer. “See here, . . .” Irimiás gave a sigh, “this isn’t what I expected of you, friends. From any of you!” he continued, turning to the others. “If this is how you start what do you think you are going to do next? Stabbing each other? Shut up . . . ,” he waved away Kráner who wanted to say something, “I’m not interested in the details! I’ve seen quite enough. It’s sad, I can tell you, pretty damn sad!” He walked up and down in front of them with a grave face then, when he had returned to his original spot at the entrance, he turned around to face them again. “Look, I have no idea what exactly happened here. Nor do I want to know because time is too precious to spend it dealing with such piddling matters. But I won’t forget. Least of all you, Futaki, my friend, I’ll not forget you. But I will overlook it this time, on one condition, that it never happens again! Is that clear?!” He waited a moment, ran his hand across his brow and with a careworn expression continued: “All right, let’s get down to business!” he drew deeply on the tiny remnant of his cigarette then threw it down and stamped on it. I have some important news.” It was as if they were just now emerging from some evil spell. They were sober at a stroke but they simply couldn’t understand what had happened to them in the last few hours: What demonic power had taken possession of them, stifling every sane and rational impulse? What was it that had driven them to lose their heads and attack each other “like filthy pigs when the swill is late’? What made it possible for people like them — people who had finally managed to emerge from years of apparently terminal hopelessness to breathe the dizzying air of freedom — to rush around in senseless despair, like prisoners in a cage so that even their vision had clouded over? What explanation could there be for them to “have eyes” only for the ruinous, stinking, desolate aspect of their future home, and completely lose track of the promise that “what had fallen should rise again’! It was like waking from a nightmare. They formed a humble circle around Irimiás, more ashamed than relieved, because, in their unforgivable impatience, they had all doubted the one man who could save them, a man who, even if he had been delayed a few brief hours, had after all kept his promise, and to whom they had every reason to be grateful; and the agonizing sense of shame was only increased by the knowledge that he had not the least idea how far they had doubted him and taken his name in vain, accusing him of all kinds of crimes, he who had “risked his life” for them and who now was standing among them as living proof of the falseness of their allegations. And so, with this extra load on their conscience, they listened to him with a greater and still more unshakable confidence, and were enthusiastically nodding even before they knew what he was talking about, especially Kráner and Schmidt who were particularly aware of the gravity of their sins, although the “changed, less favorable circumstances” Irimiás now referred to might well have soured their mood, since it turned out that “our plans for Almássy Manor have to be suspended for an indefinite period” because certain groups “wouldn’t take” to a project with an “as yet unclear purpose” being established here, and had objected particularly, as they learned from Irimiás, to the considerable distance between the manor and the town that made getting to the “manor” all but impractical for them, which in turn reduced the prospect of regular inspections to less than the required bare minimum . . . “Given this situation,” Irimiás continued, sweating a little but still resonant, “the only possibility of bringing our plans to a successful conclusion, the only possible way forward, is for us to disperse into various parts of the country until these gentlemen entirely lose track of us, at which point we can return here and set about realizing our original objectives.” . . . They acknowledged their “particular importance in the scheme of things” with a growing sense of pride, especially prizing their privilege in being considered “the chosen few” while appreciating the recognition of their qualities of steadfastness, industry and increasing vigilance that were considered, apparently, quite indispensable. And if some aspects of the scheme lay beyond them (especially phrases like “our goal points to something beyond itself’) it was immediately clear to them that their dispersal was just “a strategic ploy” and that even if they were to have no contact with each other for a while they would continue to be in lively, continual communication with Irimiás . . . “Not that anyone should think,” the master raised his voice, “that we can just sit and wait for things to improve by themselves during this time!” They registered, with an astonishment that quickly passed, that their task was to be the unceasing, vigilant observation of their immediate surroundings, meaning that they should rigorously note down all opinions, rumors and events which “from the perspective of our agreement might be of the utmost importance” and that they should all develop the indispensable skill of distinguishing between favorable and unfavorable signs, or, to put it in plain language, “knowing the good from the bad”, because he — Irimiás — sincerely hoped that no one would seriously think it possible to take a single step forward down the path he had revealed to them in such painstaking detail without it . . . So when Schmidt asked “And what will we live on in the meanwhile?” and Irimiás assured them, “Relax, everyone, relax: it’s all planned, all thought through, you will all have jobs, and to begin with you will be able to draw on basic survival funds out of mutual, accumulated funds,” the last traces of their early morning panic vanished at a stroke and all that remained for them was to pack up their belongings and take them down to the end of the path where an idling truck was waiting for them on the metalled road . . . So they did pack up again in a feverish hurry and, after a little awkwardness, started chatting to each other as if nothing had happened, Halics setting the best example who, with a bag or suitcase in his hand would follow now the bear-like Kráner, now the striding, manly figure of his wife, sneaking behind them like a monkey, imitating them, and who, once he had finished his own packing, carried the luggage of the uncertainly swaying Futaki over to the road, remarking only that “a friend in need is a friend indeed . . .” By the time they had succeeding in bringing everything down to the side of the road, the “kid” had managed to turn the truck around (Irimiás had, after long pleadings, relented and allowed him a go at the wheel), so there was nothing left after that than to take a brief silent look of farewell at the “manor” that was to be their future, and to take their places on the open truck. “So, my dear companions,” Petrina stuck his head through the passenger’s window. “Please arrange yourselves so that this dizzyingly fast miracle of transport might get us to our destination in at least two hours! Button your coats, on with your hoods and hats, hold on tight, and feel free to turn your back on the great hope of your future because if you don’t you’ll get the full force of this filthy rain in your faces . . .” The baggage took up a good half of the open truck so the only way they could all fit in was by huddling close to each other in two rows, and it was no surprise that, when Irimiás revved the engine and the truck juddered and started back towards the town, they felt the just the same enthusiasm for the warmth of “the unbreakable bond between them” as had sweetened their memorable journey the day before. Kráner and Schmidt were particularly loud in their determination never again to give vent to idiotic rages and to declare that, if there should be any future disagreement, they would be the first to put an immediate stop to it. Schmidt — who had tried in the midst of all this merry badinage, to signal to Futaki to indicate that “he deeply regretted what he had done” (partly because he had somehow failed to “bump into him” along the path, but partly because he lacked the necessary courage) — had only now decided to offer him “at least a cigarette” but found himself jammed in between Halics and Mrs. Kráner, both of whom were immovable. “Never mind,” he reassured himself, “I’ll get around to it when we get off this damn wreck . . . we can’t part in anger like this!” Mrs. Schmidt’s face was flushed, her eyes sparkling, as she watched the rapidly receding manor, that enormous building covered in weeds and rampant ivy, its four miserable towers extending at the corners, while the metalled road, billowing with ridges behind them, vanished into infinity, and her relief at the return of her “darling” so excited her that she didn’t notice the wind and rain beating her face, though she had no protection against any of it however she pulled the hood over her head, because in the great confusing mêlée she found herself at the end of the rear row. There could be no doubt, nor did she feel any; nothing now could shake her faith in Irimiás. It was not like before because here, on the back of the speeding truck, she understood her future: that she would follow him like a strange dreamlike shadow, now as his lover, now as his maid, in absolute poverty if necessary, and in this way she would be reborn time after time; she would learn his every movement, the secret meaning of each distinct modulation of his voice, would interpret his dreams and should — God forbid! — any harm befall him, hers would be the lap in which he would lay his head . . . And she would learn to be patient and wait, to prepare herself for any ordeal, and if fate decreed that Irimiás left her for good one day — for what else could he do? — she would spend her remaining days quietly, knit her shroud and go to her grave with pride knowing that it had once been given her to have “a great man, a real man” as her lover . . . Not were there any bounds to the good cheer of Halics, who was squashed up beside her: not rain, not wind, not the bumpy ride, no discomfort of any kind could deflate him: his corn-hardened feet were flat and frozen in his boots, the water on top of the driver’s cabin occasionally slopped down the back of his neck and powerful gusts of wind from the side of the truck brought out tears, but he was cheered, not only by the return of Irimiás, but by the sheer delight of traveling for, as he had said often enough in the past, “he could never resist the intoxicating pleasure of speed’, and here was his big chance to enjoy it, now, while Irimiás, ignoring all the dangerous potholes and ditches along the road, had his foot on the gas right down to the floor, so whenever he was able to open his eyes, even if ever so slightly, he was thrilled to see the landscape rushing by at dizzying speed, and he quickly formed a plan, because it wasn’t too late, in fact it was a very good time, to make one of his long-cherished dreams come true, and already he was seeking the right words to convince Irimiás to help him realize it, when suddenly it occurred to him that the driver was obliged to reject opportunities that he — alas! — “granted his old age” found irresistible . . . So he decided simply to enjoy the pleasures of the journey as far as he could so that later, over a friendly glass, he could conjure every detail to his prospective new friends, because simply imagining it as he had so far was “as nothing to the real experience . . .” Mrs. Halics was the only one who found nothing to enjoy in “this insane rush” since, unlike her husband, she was firmly set against any kind of new foolishness, and because she was pretty sure that if they carried on this way they would all break their necks, and so she closed her hands, praying fearfully to the Good Lord to protect them all and not to desert them at this hour of danger, but however hard she tried to convince the others to do the same (‘In the name of Our Savior, Jesus Christ please tell this lunatic to slow down just a little!’) they didn’t “give a hoot” either about the wild speed or her terrified mutterings, on the contrary, they “seemed to find pleasure in the danger!.”. The Kráners, and even the headmaster, were childishly exhilarated, proudly braced against the back of the truck squinting like lords at the barren landscape flying past them. It was exactly as they had imagined the journey, as fast as the wind, at mind numbing speed, passing every obstacle — utterly invincible! They were proud to see the landscape vanish in a haze, proud that they could leave it behind, not like miserable beggars but — behold! — with heads held high, full of confidence, on a triumphant note. . . .Their only regret, as they rumbled past the old estate and reached the road-mender’s house on the long bend, was that in their hurry they didn’t get a glimpse of the Horgos familu, or of blind Kerekes or of the landlord, his face purple with jealousy . . . Futaki carefully tapped his swollen nose and considered himself lucky to have “got away” with nothing worse, not having dared to touch it at all until the sharp pain had completely gone, so he couldn’t know whether it was broken or not. He was still not quite in control of his senses, and felt dizzy and faintly nauseous. His mind confused images of Schmidt’s twisted scarlet face and Kráner behind