They Were Counted (88 page)

Gaszton Simo’s small eyes glinted suspiciously. Then he forced himself to look sad and said sorrowfully: ‘Indeed I’m sorry to say it’s perfectly true, though I do everything I can to protect our poor people, everything possible. I try to educate them, make them understand. What’s more I write all their contracts for them, but they are so stupid, they won’t be helped! They are their own worse enemies. You can have no idea, Mr Deputy, how
stupid
they are …’ and he went into lengthy tales of what he had tried to do, quoting names, dates, figures and this … and then that … He told how all his efforts were in vain because the
peasants
were so backward and helpless and also suspicious of ‘us gentlefolk’. And all the while he looked hard at Balint, trying to learn how much this pesky meddling aristocrat knew about his own part in the matter.

While this was going on Honey had seen to it that the horses had been fully loaded.

‘Goodbye, Mr Simo. We’ll talk about all this some other time, without fail!’ Balint said as menacingly as he could. Now in good humour, for he knew that he had thrown a good scare into that swaggering dishonest brute of a notary, Balint mounted swiftly and rode away.

 

The road they took was the same as when Balint had come in
February
. It led first to Gyalu Botira, and then along the crest of the mountains. How different it is now, thought Balint. The distant chains of mountains were barely visible through the haze produced by the heat and dust of an exceptionally dry summer. Nearer at hand were the meadows that Balint had only previously seen covered in a blanket of snow, and on them had been erected haystacks, each mounted on three wooden poles so that the
autumn
rains would run unimpeded beneath them. On the juniper trees the berries were already ripe, while the beech trees were turning red and yellow. Only the fir trees were the same, dark and unchanging. From the valleys below occasional wisps of fog rose gently as soon as they were reached by the rays of the
morning
sun.

‘There’ll be rain tonight,’ said Honey, turning back in his saddle. ‘We’ll be lucky if we make good enough time to erect a shelter.’

Now Balint could see that some order had been brought to the different stands of timber. Since the new engineer had taken charge, the licence system for felling had been abolished and now all those trees that were to be cut had been carefully marked.
Indiscriminate
felling by individuals had been prohibited. Of course this was easy to enforce in summer, because everyone was kept
occupied
in the fields cutting and making hay and harvesting the corn. In winter it would be more difficult, but Balint hoped that the Viennese firm to whom he had contracted the timber would start the systematic felling that would give steady work to the mountain people. It had been a strict article of the contract that local labour must be employed and only skilled foremen were to be brought in from elsewhere.

The effect of the new management could everywhere be seen. The road along the crest of the ridge bordered the stands of
timber
, and Balint now saw that every two hundred metres there had been placed numbered stakes that marked the boundaries of each hundred-acre stand that was ready to be felled. It was the same system that had been so highly developed on the Uzdy property, and Balint was pleased to see that at last a beginning had been made to modernize the exploitation of the Abady forests.

When they reached the summit of the crest they were joined by old Zsukuczo who, after the fashion of the mountain people, knelt briefly in front of Abady and kissed the hem of his coat
before
asking where they were going. When Balint told him that they were heading for the Prislop meadows the old man took the lead, for this was in his territory. At the crossroads near Toszerat, they found waiting for them Juanye Vomului, the forest guard for the next district who was wearing a giant sheepskin cap, a wide belt studded with nails and his most elaborate national dress to underline the fact that he owned his own land and was not a cotter, or tied worker, like the other
gornyiks.
Balint’s party had now increased to six, including the
Mariassa
himself. About
midday
they arrived at their destination on the Prislop. Here they made camp.

The spot chosen by Zutor was indeed beautiful. It was a rich meadow that sloped gently down between woods of mixed beech and fir trees to the valley of Feherviz – the White Water – behind which rose the mass of the Humpleu. Above that towered the summit of the Vortup. It was here, at the heart of the Abady
forests
, that he had decided to build a hunting lodge. Now he started to plan where it should be sited and when he had marked the spot and returned to camp with Honey in faithful attendance, the afternoon was already drawing in. Old Zsukuczo, whose function on this trip was to find water, then asked Abady if he would like to shoot a
kapre
de paduren
– a roebuck, telling him that he knew all their haunts in this part of the forest.

‘But I haven’t brought a gun!’ said Balint.

‘
Nu
bai
– it doesn’t matter!’ said Zsukuczo with an exaggerated wink from one of his red-rimmed eyes.
‘Tara
bun
–
look here!’ and he unslung his own Werdli rifle which, as an official forest guard, he was entitled always to carry. The old poacher had looked after his gun with loving care and had indeed himself
improved
it, filing down the sight at the barrel’s end so that a more accurate aim could be obtained. Balint agreed that he would very much like to kill a buck and, after sending Honey back to the camp, set off into the undergrowth with Zsukuczo leading the way.

There was no road or trail, not even a track, but the old
poacher
marched on without for an instant pausing, and found such an easy way through the dense thickets that Balint scarcely had to brush away branches in front of his face or step over a fallen log. Sometimes it seemed that the young growth of fir trees was so thick that they would not be able to go any farther, but the old man, by turning this way or that, always got through without
difficulty
: and, whether he was walking over moss or on a carpet of dry beech leaves, which of all substances crackled the most when walked upon, his tread was always silent and twigs never snapped under his feet though he wore hobnailed boots as large as boats.

They went on slowly and cautiously until they reached an
ancient
white fir. Here Zsukuczo stopped, checked the direction of the wind, and then bent down and swept clean a small patch of pine-needles. Then he knelt down facing the trunk of the old tree and, bowing his head to the ground, murmured something that sounded like a prayer. Then he traced a cross on the earth where his master was to sit, and also on the bark against which he would lean his back. When this ceremony was over he whispered:
‘Poftyic
Mariassa!
’
and crawled behind the tree.

Balint was fascinated and amused by these antics. Even if no game were conjured up it would have been worth coming all this way merely to watch Zsukuczo’s peasant magic at work. He doubted if any deer would come near them here in the depth of the woods, for surely there would have been more hope of game if they had stopped at the edge of a clearing, or on some jutting rock which overlooked the sort of open space where deer liked to graze, rather than here where one could not see further than twenty paces. This was all quite ridiculous, he thought. All the same he sat down obediently so as not to offend the pride of the old
gornyik.
Behind the tree Zsukuczo was muttering some prayer or
incantation
and the murmuring sound was continued for about half an hour. Then a soft rustling could be heard – tip tip tip – and then a more confident step, and suddenly a doe slipped out of the thicket of low branches of fir and ground elder. She came cautiously but calmly, two fawns at her heels. She looked directly at the hunter seated under the tree, her large gentle eyes unblinking and
confident
, stamped twice with her forefeet and then, as he did not move, herself moved slowly forward confidently grazing all the while, her two offspring still behind her. They passed by, barely three yards from Balint, and disappeared into the undergrowth on the other side of the clearing.

Zsukuczo emerged from behind the tree looking puzzled. He seemed almost angry, demanding why the
Mariassa
had not lifted his gun for the kill. ‘Why? Why? The game was here, here!’ Abady explained that only buck could be shot and it was
forbidden
to shoot does, especially when followed by their young.
‘A
se!
A
se!’
muttered the old man, nodding his head in apparent agreement while thinking to himself that these noble lords were strange animals and that you could never know what odd quirks they had in their heads. However, since Balint rewarded him with a five-crown piece, he regained his good humour at once and swiftly guided his
Mariassa
through the dark woods and back to their camp.

 

Abady remained three days more on the Prislop, though the rain predicted by Honey started that very evening.

Even the rain seemed different. The clouds settled low over the valleys completely shrouding the mountain tops. Here, where Balint camped, one could not always see the tops of the trees and when one could the clouds formed a dense impenetrable blanket of fog only a few feet higher. The rain fell so heavily that it looked like ropes falling from the sky. Everything was soaked and even Balint’s thick Austrian rain-coat was soon like a sponge. Because the expedition had been decided upon so suddenly he had only one change of clothes and two pairs of boots, one
hobnailed
, the other with rubber soles, and all these were drenched with water by the end of the second day. In the tent, too, though a deep ditch had been dug all round it, water flowed everywhere. By the second evening Balint had to strip to the skin and dine wrapped in a damp blanket, while his clothes were hung up near the fire in the shelter built by the
gornyiks.
He hoped they would be dry by morning. It was like a Kneipp cure, he said to himself as he huddled down into the steaming wool and laughed out loud because he was so happy. The daylight hours were spent walking, walking, walking until he exhausted himself. With Honey as his guide Balint climbed over all the neighbouring mountains,
checking
on the improvements made by the new forestry manager. When the whole area of the Prislop had been covered, they moved camp to the head of the Vale Saka at the base of the
Vle
gyasza
. Here Balint stayed another three days. The rain never stopped.

O
N HIS LAST EVENING
in the mountains Balint returned to camp in the evening to discover four men waiting to see him. They, too, came from the Retyicel district but their little
settlement
, Pejkoja by name, had been built in a remote corner at the northern boundary of the Abady properties, some six or seven kilometres from the village. They came to see Count Abady.

The news that the
Mariassa
had refused to enter the
domnu
direc
tor’s
house, despite the fact that the great judge and the
all-powerful
notary had been there, had spread through the mountains like wildfire. It was everywhere told that this was not all but that the Lord had also interrupted the great man’s feast, removed two of the
gornyiks
who were serving them and had then, to their great shame, camped barely five hundred paces away. This fascinating and important news had naturally become much embellished in the telling. It was related with great relish how the
Grofu
– the Count – had publicly upbraided the hated notary and turned his back on the judge. What sort of mighty nobleman could he be, they asked themselves, who would dare act like this with such powerful and important people? And they told how even the arrogant notary himself had risen at dawn and despite the manner in which he had been insulted the night before, waited outside his tent until the
Mariassa
should awake. Not only this but, when the Count had emerged, the notary had humbled himself in full sight of all the others. Oh, it must be a mighty Lord indeed who could perform such wonders!

All this news had reached the men of Pejkoja within
twenty-four
hours and at once the men of the village met together to
discuss
what they should do, for they were in great trouble. The problem was this. The money-lender, Rusz Pantyilimon, had
taken
the village to court and sent the bailiffs in to collect a debt he claimed from them. If they did not pay up, all they possessed would be sold by public auction. Everyone in the village had a share in this debt, which had somehow inexplicably grown to an astronomical sum out of a simple loan made to two villagers four years previously. The story went that the men had borrowed two hundred crowns but, simple, illiterate peasants that they were, somehow they had signed for four hundred. In six months the sum had mounted to seven hundred and, as the debt grew and grew, so the other villagers had come forward to give their
guarantees
for its repayment, for everything they owned was held in common and was so entered into the land registry – sixty-seven Hungarian acres of grazing land, sixteen houses and a small
sawmill
. All the village families therefore were forced to band
together
to defend their community inheritance, and this is why they were all now involved. By the time Balint came to the
mountains
the money lender was claiming some three thousand crowns. To repay such a sum would mean that everything they owned would have to be sold and all the families made homeless … And all this for a paltry loan of two hundred crowns. It was the grossest injustice.

For five days the men of the village met and talked and finally decided to do what the village elder, Juon Lung aluj Maftye, advised. Juon, who was now well over sixty, had known well Balint’s maternal grandfather, the elder Count Tamas, and for many years had managed all the communal property of the
village
, always going to Denestornya for advice as Count Abady, to whom they had formerly owed allegiance as serfs, still took a fatherly interest in everyone who lived and worked on his
properties
. Besides, he was also the county court judge. Old Juon Maftye therefore proposed that they should now go to the young
Mariassa,
ask his help and tell him of their complaints, for there was no doubt that, just like his grandfather before him, he was a mighty man who would put all to rights.

After much discussion this proposal was accepted, though by no means unanimously. There were those among them who merely complained without themselves offering a solution; there were others who were swayed by the much respected head man and who put their faith in an approach to the young count; and there were those who declared that this was not the right way to go about it and that the only final solution was to be found ‘one night’! What was to be done on that night was not specified, but everyone understood what was meant by that little phrase –
la
noptye
– namely that ‘one night’ people should go to Rusz Pantyilimon’s house … but what they should do there – burn the records, beat the rascal to death or merely give him a good scare – was never said: such things were better not discussed.

After all the talk, however, they took Juon Maftye’s advice and it was agreed that the old man himself, with two others, should seek out the
Mariassa
at his camp and tell him of their troubles. The other two men who sent with him were Nikolaj Lung, who was nicknamed ‘Cselmnyik’ – Tiny, because he was so huge, and the headman’s grandson, Kula, who had somehow scrambled himself into a little education. This last was scarcely more than a boy, but he came along not only to help his
grandfather
but also because he had met the
Mariassa
on his visit the previous February. On their way to Balint’s camp they had been joined by a fourth man, who was ironically called ‘Turturika’ – Little Dove. It was he who had so strongly urged
la
noptye.

It was these four men whom Balint found seated round the camp-fire. He at once offered them slices of bacon and draughts of mountain brandy and asked them to come to his tent, which stood a little way apart from the gornyiks’ shelter, as soon as they had eaten. He did this because they would be able to speak more freely away from the men who came from other districts. Balint made one exception: he told Honey to be present, not only
because
the men of Pejkoja respected him but also because Balint, though his Romanian had greatly improved, felt it would be
better
to have someone by him who could translate if necessary.

The old man presented the villages’ case. He spoke at length, but cogently with much detail and, after Balint had posed several questions and received their answers, Maftye explained exactly what they wanted him to do. In short, the petition to their lord was that he should intervene, summon the wicked money-lender to his presence and forbid him to do any further harm to the
respectable
people of Pejkoja. In exchange they offered the sum of eight hundred crowns to Rusz to settle the debt. This great sum they had managed to scrape up but further they could not go, not now or ever. Balint tried in vain to explain that in these times he no longer possessed such powers as they attributed to him and that there was no way he could force Pantyilimon to anything he did not wish. The old man did not believe him. For him the
Mariassa
was all-powerful and if he did not do something it was because he did not wish it. The
Excellenciasa
Abady, his
grandfather
, said the old man with dignity, would not have let them down;
he
would have stood by them in their trouble! Balint was touched by their faith and in the end agreed that he would do what he could. In saying this he was swayed by the fact that the Little Dove, who had hitherto remained silent, suddenly broke angrily into the discussions, saying: ‘Didn’t I tell you this wouldn’t be any use? There’s only one answer –
la
noptye
!’

What an evil face that man has, thought Balint, looking hard at the bearded Turturika. I certainly wouldn’t want to be at his mercy!

In the end everyone went to sleep, and long before dawn the men from Pejkoja had disappeared back into the forest from which they came.

 

Abady broke camp at first light, and long before the bells of the little wooden church at Retyicel had rung their noonday peal
Balint’s
party had arrived at the foot of the mountain on whose
lower
slopes the village had been built. They rode slowly through the village until they reached the last house. This was the
fortress-like
building that Balint had seen from the other side of the valley on his previous visit. It stood completely isolated, well away from the others. Balint’s little caravan stopped outside a massive oak door which led into a courtyard in front of the main building. Balint waited behind the others while the
gornyiks,
led by Krisan Gyorgye, hurried up to the front door and started knocking
fiercely
. From inside could be heard the furious barking of the three guard-dogs and they set up such a clamour that even Krisan had to bellow at the top of his voice for anyone to hear. Krisan stayed at the door, hammering hard against its great oak beams and shouting as if his lungs would burst. Inside the house and
compound
nothing stirred except the dogs. It was as if they alone
inhabited
the house. Nothing moved. The veranda of the house, which was visible from the road, was deserted and there was no sign of life behind the iron grills that covered all the windows.

‘Perhaps this Rusz isn’t at home!’ said Balint to Krisan. At this moment, above the cruel line of broken glass which protected the top of the great stone outer wall, there appeared the head of a young boy.

‘What do you want?’ he asked timidly.

‘The
Mariassa
wants to see
Domnu
Rusz. Open the doors for his Lordship or I’ll break them down,’ shouted Krisan Gyorgye and he swung his great axe above his head and let out a stream of curses.

The boy’s head disappeared and in a few seconds one of the doors was opened. Balint rode in while the dogs were kept at bay by the
gornyiks’
long staves and by having stones thrown at them. As soon as Balint reached the foot of the steps that led up to the entrance of the house a tall, narrow-shouldered man appeared on the veranda. Abady looked him over carefully. The man’s face was completely hairless and covered in wrinkles like that of an old woman. He had tiny eyes and his hair was longer than was then usual. He wore a grey suit of city clothes with the tails of his shirt hanging loose from under his jacket which gave him a
surprisingly
broad-hipped look. At the sight of Abady he started bowing obsequiously and wringing his hands. So this is the wicked and terrible monster feared by everyone, thought Balint. So this is Rusz Pantyilimon!

‘Why are you here? What do you want of me?’ asked Rusz in a frightened voice.

‘Rusz Pantyilimon!’ said Balint sternly; ‘I wish to speak with you!’

He dismounted and, going up the steps was nervously shown by Rusz into a living-room which opened off one end of the
veranda
. Rusz kept turning as they went, looking back suspiciously at the grim faces of the mountain men that formed Balint’s band of
gornyiks.
Honey sat down on the top step and the others
remained
below. When Rusz saw this he realized that all was well as long as Honey stayed where he was. Then he followed Balint nervously indoors.

The men in the forecourt were still discussing the Pejkoja affair just as they had been the previous night and all through that morning’s trek. Once again there was no general agreement. Zsukuczo and the two younger
gornyiks
believed that, although no one stood a chance against Rusz as long as he was supported by the notary and the
popa,
they still hoped for a miracle if the
Mar
iassa
should intervene. Krisan Gyorgye, himself a violent man, held that
la
noptye
was the only practicable solution; while Juanye Vomului remained silent. He, as a well-to-do and respectable man, had been unwise enough the previous evening to suggest that those who incurred debts ought to be man enough to settle them. This had caused such an uproar that he had shut his mouth and hardly opened it since.

The room that Balint was ushered into was small and airless. Balint sat down at once on a bench, above which hung a holy icon, and took out his notes. Speaking deliberately and
dispassionately
he went through the history of the affair as it had been
reported
to him by the village people. He then told Rusz of their offer ‘which,’ he said firmly, ‘I find fair and reasonable!’

Pantyilimon had listened to what Balint had to say standing in front of him and shifting his weight restlessly from one long spindly leg to the other. At the same time he moved his head like a horse with the habit of’weaving’. It was not clear whether this was the result of panic, fright or excitement, or whether it was an habitual nervous tic. When Balint had finished, he hesitated a few seconds before replying and, when he did so, seemed to have difficulty in getting out the words: ‘Can’t be done, please, can’t be done!’