him, ready to leap, with the stern gaze of Irimiás, a gaze that seemed to be burning him up. As the pain in his nose faded he slowly became aware of other injuries: he had lost part of an incisor, the skin on his lower lip was broken. He could hardly hear the consoling words of the headmaster crushed up next to him — “You shouldn’t take it too much to heart. As you see, it has all turned out for the best . . .” — because his ears were ringing and the pain made him turn his head this way and that, not knowing where to spit the salty blood still left in his mouth, and he only started feeling a little better when he caught a flash of the deserted mill and the sagging roof of Halics’s house, but however he twisted and turned he still couldn’t see the engine house because by the time he had got into position the truck was passing the bar. He cast a sly look at the squatting figure of Schmidt then confessed to himself that, however strange it sounded, he felt absolutely no anger towards him; he knew the man well and had always known how quick his temper was, and so — before any thought of revenge could occur to him — having full heartedly forgiven him, he decided to reassure him at the earliest opportunity because he could guess his state of mind. He watched the trees rushing past him on either side of the road with a certain sadness, feeling that whatever had happened in the “manor” simply had had to happen. The noise, the whistling wind and the rain that from time to time hit them from the side eventually drew his attention away from Schmidt and from Irimiás too for a while. With great difficulty he dragged out a cigarette and, by leaning forward and covering the match with his palm, eventually succeeded in lighting it. They had left the estate and bar a long way behind now and he judged that they could be only a few hundred yards from the electric generator, and therefore only some half hour from town. He noted how proudly and enthusiastically the headmaster and Kráner, who was sitting immediately next to him, were turning their heads this way and that as if nothing had happened, as if all that had happened at the manor was hardly worth remembering and could rapidly be forgotten. He, on the other hand, was by no means sure that the arrival of Irimiás had solved all their problems. And while the sight of him standing in the doorway had changed everything for them while they were in despair, the whole mad scramble after it, and now this strange dash along a deserted highway, was not for Futaki any kind of proof that the rush was to some specific place; it seemed to him more like a kind of stampede, a “blind and uncertain rush into the unknown” that was somehow pointless: they had not the least idea what was waiting for them, that’s if they ever stopped. There was something ominous about having no clue what Irimiás was planning: he could not guess why they were in such a panic to leave the manor. For a brief moment he recalled a terrifying image he hadn’t been able to forget, not in all these years: once again he saw himself in his old tattered coat, leaning on his stick, hungry and infinitely disappointed, trudging down the metalled road, the estate fading into the dusk behind him, the horizon in front of him still far from clear . . . And now, numbed by the rattling truck, his premonition seemed to be coming true: penniless, hungry, and broken in body, here he was, sitting in the back of a truck that had turned up out of the blue, on a road that led God knows where, heading into the unknown, and should they come to a fork in that road, he couldn’t begin to decide which road to take because he was helpless, resigned to the fact that his fate was being decided elsewhere, by a noisy, rattling, ancient wreck of a truck over which he had absolutely no control. “It seems there’s no escape,” he reflected in apathy. “This way or that, I’m lost either way. Tomorrow I’ll wake in an unfamiliar room where I won’t know what’s waiting for me, and it will be as if I had set out on my own . . . I’ll put my minimal possessions out on the table by the bed, if there is one, and there I am, staring out of the window at dusk watching the light fade all over again . . .” It shocked him to realize that his faith in Irimiás had been shaken the moment he saw him at the “manor” entrance . . . “Maybe, if he hadn’t come back, there might still have been some hope. . . . But now?” Right back at the manor he had sensed the well-concealed disappointment behind the words, and saw, even as Irimiás was standing by the truck watching them loading up, how he was hanging his head, and that something was lost, lost forever! . . . Now suddenly everything was clear. Irimiás lacked the strength and energy he once had; he had finally lost “his old fire’; he too was just filling in time, driven along by habit; and, realizing this, Futaki now understood that the speech at the bar with its clumsy rhetorical tricks was simply a way of concealing from those who still believed in Irimiás the truth that he was as helpless as they were, that he no longer hoped to lend meaning to the power that was strangling him as much as it was them, that even he, Irimiás, could not free himself from it. His nose was pulsing with pain, his nausea refused to pass and even a cigarette did not help, so he threw it away without finishing it. They crossed the bridge over “the Stinker’, a water stagnant with weed and frogspawn, lying perfectly still, the roadside ever denser with acacia, and there were even one or two abandoned farm buildings in the distance, surrounded by trees. The rain had stopped but the wind was buffeting them ever more violently and they were worried in case baggage was blown off the top of the pile. For the time being there was neither sight nor sound of humanity and to their astonishment they met no one at all, not even when turning off at the Elek fork on the road leading into town. “What’s with this place?” yelled Kráner. “They got rabies?” It reassured them to see two figures in raincoats swaying with their arms around each other by the entrance of The Scales, then they turned down the road leading to the main square, their eyes thirstily drinking in the low level houses, the drawn blinds, the fancy drains and the carved wooden entrances: it was like leaving prison. By now, of course, time was simply rushing by and before they could take it all in the truck braked right in the middle of the wide square in front of the station. “OK, folks!” Petrina stuck his head out of the cabin window and shouted. “End of the sightseeing tour!” “Wait!” Irimiás stopped them as they were preparing to get off, and left the driver’s seat. “Just the Schmidts. Then the Kráners and the Halicses. Get your things together! You, Futaki, and you, Mr Headmaster, wait here!” He led them with firm decisive steps, the herd after him struggling with their baggage. They entered the waiting room, piled the baggage in a corner and stood round Irimiás. “There’s time enough to talk things over calmly. Are you very frozen?” “We’ll be snoring tonight like nobody’s business,” sniggered Mrs. Kráner. “Is there a pub round here? I could do with a drink!” “Sure there is,” Irimiás answered and looked at his watch. “Come with me.” The waiting room was practically empty except for a railwayman leaning on a rickety counter. “Schmidt!” Irimiás spoke up once they’d downed a glass of
pálinka
. “You and your wife are going to Elek.” He brought out his wallet and found a piece of paper that he pressed into Schmidt’s hand. “It’s all written down there, who you look for, what street, what number and so on. Tell them I sent you. Is that clear?” “It’s clear,” nodded Schmidt. “Tell them I’ll be along in a few days to check up. In the meanwhile they are to give you work, food and rooms. Understand?” “I understand. But who is this person? What’s the deal?” “The man’s a butcher,” said Irimiás pointing to the paper. “There’s plenty of work there. You, Mrs. Schmidt, you’ll be on the counter, serving. And you Schmidt, you’re there to help generally. I trust you can manage this.” “You bet your life we can,” Schmidt enthused. “Fine. The train comes in at, let’s see . . .” and he looked at his watch again, “yes, in about twenty minutes.” He turned to the Kráners. “You’ll find work at Keresztúr. I haven’t written it all down so make sure it’s engraved on your memory. The man you want is called Kálmár, István Kálmár. I don’t know the name of the street but go to the Catholic church — there’s only one so you can’t miss it — and to the right of the church there is a street . . . are you remembering all this? You go down that street until you see a sign on your right saying Women’s Tailoring. That’s Kálmár’s place. Tell them Dönci sent you, and make sure you remember that because they might not remember my usual name. Tell them you need work, accommodation and food. Immediately. There is a laundry room at the back where you are to sleep. Got that?” “Got it,” clucked Mrs. Kráner brightly. “Church, road on right, look for sign. No problem.” “I like that,” smiled Irimiás and turned to the Halicses. “You two will get on the bus to Postelek: the stop is in front of the station in the square. Once in Postelek you find the Evangelical rectory and look for Dean Gyivicsan. You won’t forget?” “Gyivicsan,” Mrs. Halics enthusiastically repeated. “Correct. You tell him I sent you. He’s been after me for years to get him two people, and I can’t think of anyone better than you. There’s plenty of room there, you can take your pick, and there’s consecrated wine as well, Halics. As for you, Mrs. Halics, you will clean the church, cook for three and look after the housekeeping.” The Halicses were quite overcome with joy. “How can we possibly thank you?” Mrs. Halics declared, her eyes filling with tears. “You’ve done everything for us!” “Come, come,” Irimiás waved her away. “There’ll be time enough to be grateful. Now all of you, listen to me. To start with, before things settle down, you’ll get a thousand
forints
each from the communal chest. Look after it well, don’t waste it! Don’t forget what it is that binds us! Never forget, not for one minute, what it is you’re there to do. You must observe everything carefully in Elek, in Postelek and in Keresztur, because without that we won’t get anywhere! In a few days I will visit all three places and look you up. Then we’ll go into proper detail. Any questions?” Kráner cleared his throat: “I think we understand everything. But might I formally . . . I mean . . . in other words . . . we’d like to thank you for . . . everything you’ve done . . . for us, since . . .” Irimiás raised his hand. “No, friends. No gratitude. It’s my duty. And now,” he stood up, “it’s time for us to part. I have a thousand things to do . . . Important negotiations . . .” Halics, deeply moved, leapt over and shook his hand. “Look after yourself,” he muttered: “You know we care about you! We want you hale and hearty!” “Don’t worry about me,” smiled Irimiás, moving toward the exit: “You look after yourselves, and don’t forget: constant vigilance!” He stepped through the station doors, went over to the truck and gestured to the headmaster, “Listen! We’ll drop you at Streber Street. Go and sit in The Ipar and I’ll come back for you in about an hour. We’ll talk more then. Where’s Futaki?” Here I am,” Futaki replied, stepping out from the other side of the vehicle. “You . . .” Futaki raised a hand. “Don’t bother with me.” Irimiás looked shocked. “What’s wrong with you?” “With me? Nothing at all. But I know where to go. Someone is bound to offer me a job as a night watchman.” Irimiás was irritated. “You’re always so stubborn. There are better places for you, but fine, do what you want. Go to Nagyrománváros, the old Romanian quarter, and there next to The Golden Triangle — you know where that is? — there’s a building. They’re looking for a night watchman there — they’ll give you a room too. Here is a thousand
forints
to be getting on with. Get yourself some dinner. I suggest the Steigerwald, it’s within spitting distance. They have food there.” “Thank you. You like the idea of spitting?” Irimiás made a face: “It’s impossible to talk to you at the moment. Get your stuff. Be at the Steigerwald tonight. All right?” He extended his hand. Futaki accepted it uncertainly, gripped the money with his other hand, took his stick and set off towards Csokos Street, leaving Irimiás standing by the truck without a word. “Your baggage!” Petrina shouted after him from the driver’s cab, then leapt out and helped Futaki get his lugage on his back. “Isn’t that heavy?” the headmaster asked, feeling awkward, then quickly put out his hand. “Not too bad,” Futaki quietly answered: “See you.” He set off again with Irimiás, Petrina, the headmaster and “the kid” staring puzzled after him, but then they got back in the truck, the headmaster in the back and started back into the town center. Futaki was making halting progress, feeling close to collapse under the weight of his cases, and when he reached the first crossroad he dropped them, loosened the straps and, after a little thought, threw one of them into the ditch and went on with the other. He wandered aimlessly down street after street, from time to time putting his suitcase down so as to get his wind back, then off he went again with a bitter feeling . . . If he met anyone he would hang his head because he felt that if he looked into the stranger’s eyes his own misfortune would seem even worse. He was after all a lost cause . . . “And how stupid! How steadfast, how full of hope I was yesterday! And now look at me! Here I am stumbling down the street with a broken nose, cracked teeth, a cut on my lip, muddied and bloody as if this was the price I had to pay for my stupidity . . . But then . . . there’s no justice in anything . . . no justice . . .” he kept repeating in a perpetual melancholy that remained with him that evening when he turned on the light in one of the sheds of the building next to The Golden Triangle, and noted his distorted image in the glass of a dirty window. He had a vacant look. “That Futaki is the biggest idiot I’ve ever met,” Petrina noted as they drove up the street leading to the town center. “What’s got into him? Did he think this was the Promised Land? What the devil does he think he’s doing?! Did you see the face he made? With that swollen nose?!” “Shut up, Petrina,” grumbled Irimiás. “You keep talking like that you’ll get a swollen nose too.” The “kid” behind them whooped with laughter, “What’s up Petrina, has the cat got your tongue?” “Me?!’, Petrina snarled back. “You think I’m scared of anyone?!” “Shut up, Petrina,” Irimiás repeated in irritation: “Don’t mumble at me. If you have anything to say spit it out.” Petrina grinned and scratched his head. “Well boss, if you’re asking . . . ,” he started cautiously. “It’s not that I have any doubts, believe me, but why do we need Páyer?” Irimiás bit his lip, slowed down, allowed an old woman to cross the road then stepped on the gas. “Stay out of grown-up business,” he grunted. “I’d just like to know. Why do we need him? . . .” Furious, Irimiás looked straight ahead. “We just do!” “I know boss, but guns and explosives . . . really?! . . .” “We just do!” Irimiás shouted at him. “You really want to blow up the world and us with it . . . ?” Petrina spluttered with a terrified look: “You just want rid of things, don’t you?” Irimiás didn’t answer. He braked. They had stopped in Streber Street, The headmaster jumped off the back of the truck, waved goodbye to the driver’s cab, then, with firm steps, crossed the road and opened the doors of The Ipar. “It’s after eight-thirty. What will they say?” the “kid” wondered. Petrina waved him away. “The damn Captain can go to hell! What does it mean to be late? “Late” means nothing to me! He should be pleased we are seeing him at all! It’s an honour when Petrina comes to call! Understand, kid? Remember that because I won’t say it again!” “Ha ha!” the “kid” mocked him and blew smoke in Petrina’s fac:. “What a joke!” “Get it into your thick head that jokes are just like life,” Petrina grandly declared: “Things that begin badly, end badly. Everything’s fine in the middle, it’s the end you need to worry about.” Irimiás was looking up the road, not saying anything. He felt no pride now that it was all settled. His eyes stared dully ahead, his face was gray. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, a vein was pounding in his temple. He saw the neat houses on either side of the street. The gardens. The crooked gates. The chimneys belching smoke. He felt neither hate nor disgust. His head was clear.