I know, I know, of course . . . Nothing is so simple! But before you excuse yourselves — blaming the intolerable pressure of the situation or because you feel helpless when faced by the facts — consider little Esti for a moment, whose unexpected death caused you such consternation . . . You say you are innocent, friends, that’s what you say for now . . . But what would you say if I now asked you how we should refer to this unfortunate child? . . . Should we call her an innocent victim? A martyr to chance? The sacrifical lamb of those without sin?! . . . So, you see. Let’s just say that she herself was the innocent party? Right? But if she was the embodiment of innocence then you, ladies and gentlemen, are the embodiment of guilt, every one of you! Feel free to reject the charge if you think it is without foundation! . . . Ah, but you are silent! So you agree with me. And you do well to agree with me because, as you see, we are on the threshold of a liberating confession . . . Because by now you all know,
know
rather than just suspect, what has happened here. Am I right? I’d like to hear each and every one of you to say it now in chorus . . . No? Nothing to say, my friends? Well of course, of course, I understand how hard it is, even now when it’s all perfectly obvious. After all, we’re hardly in a position to resurrect this child! But believe me, that’s exactly what we have to do now! Because you will be stronger for the confrontation. A clean confession is, as you know, as good as absolution. The soul is freed, the will is released, and we are once again capable of holding our heads high! Think of that, my friends! The landlord will quickly convey the coffin to town while we remain here with the weight of the tragedy dragging at our souls, but not enfeebled, not uncleansed, not cringing in cowardice, because, our hearts broken, we have confessed our sin and can stand unabashed in the searching beam of judgment . . . Now let’s not waste any more time, since we understand that Esti’s death was a punishment and warning to us, and that her sacrifice serves, ladies and gentlemen, as a pointer to a better, fairer future.
Their sleepless, troubled eyes were veiled over with tears and, hearing these words, an uncertain, wary, yet unstoppable wave of relief washed over their faces, while, here and there, a brief, almost impersonal sigh escaped from them. It was like fierce sunlight curing a cold. After all, this was precisely what they’d been waiting for all these hours — these liberating words pointing to the lasting prospect of “a better, fairer future” and their disappointed looks now radiated hope and trust, belief and enthusiasm, decision and the sense of an ever more steely will as they faced Irimiás . . .
And you know, when I think back over what I saw when we first arrived and crossed the threshold, the way you, my friends, were strewn across the room, dribbling, unconscious, slumped in chairs or over tables, your clothes in rags, covered in sweat, I must confess my heart aches and I become incapable of judging you, because that was a sight I shall never forget. I will recall it whenever anything threatens to deflect me from the mission with which God has entrusted me. Because that prospect made me see the full misery of people cut off for ever, deprived of everything: I saw the unlucky, the outcasts, the indigent and defenseless masses, and your snuffling, snoring and grunting made me hear the imperative of their cry for help, a call I must obey as long as I live, until I too am dust and ashes . . . I see it as a sign, a special sign, for why else should I have set out once again but to take my place at the head of an ever more powerful, ever rising, fully justified fury, a fury that demands the heads of the truly guilty . . . We know each other well, my friends. I am an open book to you. You know how I have moved about the world for years, for decades, and have bitter experience of the fact that, despite every promise, despite all pretence, despite the thick veil of lying words, nothing has really changed . . . Poverty remains poverty and those two extra spoonfuls of food we receive are nothing but thin air. And in these last eighteen months I have discovered that all I have done so far also counts for nothing — I should not have been wasting my time on tiny details, I have to find a much more thoroughgoing solution if I am to help . . . And that’s why I have finally decided to seize the opportunity: I want now to gather together a few people in order to establish a model economy that offers a secure existence and binds together a small band of the dispossessed, that is to say . . . Do you begin to understand me? . . . What I want is to establish a small island for a few people with nothing left to lose, a small island free of exploitation, where people work
for
, not
against
each other, where everyone has plenty and peace and security and can go to sleep at night like a proper human being . . . Once news of such an island gets around I know the islands will multiply like mushrooms: there will be ever more of us and eventually everything that seemed merely an idle dream will suddenly become possible, possible for you, and you, and you, and you. I felt, in fact I knew, that now this plan had to be realized as soon as I got here. And since I myself have lived here and belong here, here must be the place to realize the plan. That, I now discover, is the real reason I set out for Almássy Manor with my friend and helper, and that, friends, is why we are meeting now. The main building is, as I recall, still in a reasonable state, and the other buildings can soon be put right. Getting the lease is child’s play. There remains only one problem, a big problem, but let’s not worry ourselves about that just now . . .
An excited hubbub surrounded him: he lit a cigarette and stared straight ahead with a solemn expression, lost in thought, the furrows on his brow deepening as he bit his lips. Behind him by the stove Petrina was quite overcome with admiration and gazed at the back of “the genius
”
’s head. Then Futaki and Kráner spoke at once: “What’s the problem?”
I don’t think I need burden you with that just yet. I know you are thinking: Why shouldn’t we be those people? . . . Indeed, my friends, it isn’t a wholly impossible idea. The kind of people I need are those with nothing to lose and — and this is the most important thing — they should not be afraid of taking a risk. Because my plan is undoubtedly risky. If anyone interested, you understand,
anyone
, gets cold feet then I’ll be gone — just like that! These are hard times. I can’t bring the plan to fruition straightaway . . . I have to be prepared — and am in fact prepared in case I meet with an obstacle that I can’t immediately overcome — to withdraw temporarily. Though that would be merely a strategic withdrawal, and I would simply be waiting for the next opportune moment.
The same question was now being fired at him from every direction. “OK, tell us about the big problem? Couldn’t we. . . . Maybe despite that. . . . Somehow . . . “
Look here, my friends . . . It’s not such a great secret really and there is nothing to stop me telling you. I just wonder what use the knowledge will be to you? . . . In any case, there’s nothing you can do to help me at the moment. For my part, I would be happy to help you once things here have improved, but for now this other business needs my entire attention. To tell you the truth, the estate looks a hopeless case to me right now . . . the best I could do, maybe, would be to find one or other of you honest work, a decent living somewhere, but your whole siltuation is new to me so you will understand that for now it’s impossible. I’d have to give the matter some proper thought . . . You’d like to remain together? I understand, of course I do, but what can I do in that case? . . . Pardon? What was that? You mean the problem. What’s the problem? Well look, I’ve already told you that it makes no sense keeping anything from you. The problem is money, ladies and gentlemen, money, because without a penny, of course, there’s nothing to be done, the deal is dead . . . the cost of the lease, the outlay on contracts, the rebuilding, the investment, the whole business of production, requires, as you know, a certain, what they call, capital investment . . . but that’s a complex matter, my friends, and why go into that now? What’s that? . . . Really? . . . You’ve got the money?. . . . But how? Oh, I see. You mean the value of the cattle, the herd. Well, that’s fair enough . . .
There was real fever in the company now; Futaki had already sprung to his feet, grabbed a table, put it down in front of Irimiás and reached into his pocket. He displayed his contribution to the others and threw it on the table. Within minutes he was followed, first by Kráner, then, one after the other, by the rest, all pledging their cash on top of Futaki’s contribution. The grey-faced landlord ran back and forth behind his counter, stopping dead every so often, and standing on tiptoe so he could see better. Irimiás rubbed his eyes in exhaustion; the cigarette in his hand went out. He looked on without expression as Futaki, Kráner, Halics, Schmidt, the headmaster and Mrs. Kráner tried to outdo each other in their enthusiasm to demonstrate their readiness and commitment. So the pile of money on the table rose ever higher. Finally Irimiás rose, went over to Petrina, stood beside him and moved his hand for silence. The room fell quiet.
My friends! I can’t deny your enthusiasm is deeply touching . . . But you haven’t thought it over properly. No, you haven’t! No protests, please. You can’t be serious about this! Surely you can’t be capable of committing your hard earned small savings, won with such superhuman effort, suddenly, just like that to an on-the-spur-of-the-moment idea, sacrificing everything, risking all, on a venture that’s full of risks? Oh, my friends! I am extremely grateful for this moving demonstration, but no! I can’t take it from you . . . not for, what seems likely to be, several months . . . Really? . . . the bitterly scrimped savings of a whole year? . . . What can you be thinking?! My scheme is, after all, fraught with as yet unpredictable risks of all sorts! The forces I am up against could delay realization of the plan for months, even years! And you wish to sacrifice your hard-earned cash for that? And should I accept it — after having just confessed to being unable to help you in the immediate future? No, ladies and gentlemen! I can’t do it. Please take your money back and put it away safely! I’ll get the necessary resources one way or the other. I’m not willing to let you risk so much. Landlord, if you could just stand still for a moment, would you please be kind enough to bring me a spritzer . . . Thank you. . . . Wait! Let no one refuse! I invite my dear friends to have a drink on me . . . Go on, landlord, don’t even think about it . . . Drink up, my friends . . . and think. Think well. Calm yourselves and think it over once more . . . Make no rash decisions. I have told you what this is about and what the risks are. You should only agree to it if you are utterly decided. Consider the possibility that you might lose this hard-earned sum and that then you might, just might, have to begin again from scratch . . . No, no, friend Futaki, I do believe that’s something of an exaggeration . . . That I am . . . that you talk about salvation . . . Please don’t embarrass me like that! Yes . . . that’s a little closer to the mark, friend Kráner . . . “Well-wisher” is a term I can more readily accept, “a well-wisher” is what I certainly am. . . . I see you are not to be convinced. OK, OK, fine . . . Ladies! Gentlemen! Can I have a little quiet please! Let’s not forget why we are gathered here this morning! All right! Thank you! . . . Please sit down in your places . . . Yes . . . Indeed . . . Thank you, my friends . . . Thank you!
Irimiás waited for everyone to return to their chairs, returned to his own, stood there, cleared his throat, threw out his arms in a gesture of emotion, then let them drop helplessly to his sides, raising his slightly tearful eyes to the ceiling. Behind the deeply moved company, the Horgos family — now quite isolated from the others — stared at each other, helplessly confused. The landlord was emotionally scrubbing the top of the counter with his drying-up cloth, polishing the cake tray and the glasses, then sat back on his stool but, however he tried, he could not tear his eyes away from the great pile of money in front of Irimiás.
Now, my most dear friends . . . What can I say! Our paths have crossed by chance but fate demands that, from this hour on, we stick together, inseparably together . . . Though I worry for you, ladies and gentlemen, on account of the chance you are taking. I must confess your trust moves me . . . it feels good to be the subject of an affection of which I do not feel myself worthy . . . But let’s not forget how we have arrived in this situation! Let’s not forget! Let us always remember, let us never forget, the cost! What a cost! Ladies and gentlemen! I hope you will agree with me when I suggest that a small part of this sum, this money in front of me, should cover the cost of the funeral, so that the unfortunate mother might be saved the burden — as a gesture to the child who went to her final sleep most certainly for us or because of us . . . Because, in the end, it is impossible to decide whether it was for us, or because of us that she died. We cannot prove the case either way. But the question will remain in our hearts for ever, as will the child’s memory, a child whose life might have been lost for this precise purpose . . . so that the star that governs our lives might rise at last . . . Who knows, my friends . . . But life is harsh, and it has dealt harshly with us in this matter.
The Distance, As Seen
For years after, Mrs. Halics would insist that as Irimiás, Petrina and the “demon child” who had in the end attached himself to them, disappeared down the road leading to town in the pattering rain, leaving those that remained standing silently around in front of the bar because the figure of their savior had not quite vanished in the bend of the road, the air above their heads was suddenly filled with brightly colored butterflies. Where they came from no one knew but you could clearly hear the gentle angelic music from on high. And though she was perhaps alone in such an opinion, this much was certain: they had only just begun to believe in what had happened, and were only now capable of realizing that they weren’t the subject of some lulling but false vision with a bitter awakening to follow, but an enthusiastic, specially chosen band that had just passed through the painful process of liberation; and as long as they could still see Irimiás, recall his clear instructions, and be cheered by his words of encouragement, they could keep at bay the fear that something terrible might happen at any moment, something that might sweep away their fragile sense of victory and leave it utterly in tatters, for they also knew that, once he had gone, the glowing sparks of enthusiasm could quickly turn to ashes; and so, in order that the time should seem longer between striking the agreement and the farewells that would inevitably follow, they had tried to delay Irimiás and Petrina’s departure by a variety of artful distractions; by discussing the weather, or complaining about their rheumatism, or opening new bottles of wine, babbling all the while — as if their lives depended on it — about the general corruption of life. And so it was understandable that they could breathe freely only once Irmimiás had gone, for he embodied not only the promise of a bright future, but also the fear of disaster: no wonder that it was only after he had gone that they dared truly believe that from now on “everything would be right as rain’, and also only now that they could relax, let joy sweep over them, allaying their anxiety, and enjoy the sudden dizzying sense of liberation that could overcome even the usual “sense of apparently inevitable doom.” Their boundless good cheer only increased when waving farewell to the landlord (‘Serves you right, you old miser!” — shouted Kráner) who was leaning, exhausted, against the doorframe, his arms crossed, with rings under his eyes, watching the merry chattering band as they moved away, and capable — after having exhausted his self-consuming fury, long-simmering hatreds and the agony of his sheer helplessness — was capable of nothing more than shouting after them: “Drop dead, you miserable, ungrateful bunch of bastards!” He had spent the night awake plotting ways — all ineffective, all flawed — of getting rid of Irimiás who had had the nerve to take over even his bed, so while he was debating with bloodshot eyes whether to stab him, strangle him, poison him, or simply chop him into pieces with his axe, “the hook-nosed swine” was happily snoring at the back of the store, not taking the least bit of notice. Talking had proved useless too, utterly useless, though he had done everything possible, in anger, in fury, in warning, or simply by pleading, to dissuade “these ignorant bumpkins” from this guaranteed disaster of a plan, a disaster that would destroy them all, but it was like talking to a brick wall (‘Come to your senses, dammit! Can’t you see he’s leading you by the nose?!’), so there was nothing for it, but to curse the whole world and admit the humiliating truth that he was ruined once and for all. For “what’s the point of staying in business for one drunken pig and one old tramp” — what could he do except gather up his belongings and to do what everyone else was doing, to leave, to move back into his house in town, and hope to sell the bar, maybe even make some use of the spiders. “I could offer to sell them to someone for use in some scientific experiment; who knows, I might even get a bit of money for them,” he pondered. “But that would be just a drop in the ocean . . . The fact is I have no idea how to start over again from scratch,” he sadly admitted. The intensity of his disappointment was only matched by the intensity of Mrs. Horgos’s delight at his despair. Having surveyed “this whole idiotic ritual” with a sour expression, she had returned to the bar, to mock the landlord behind his counter. “You see. Just look at you! The horse has bolted, all right!” The landlord controlled himself but he’d happily have kicked her. “That’s the way it goes,” she went on. “Now up, now down. You’d better get used to it and accept it. See where all your bright ideas have got you? A lovely house in town, a car, your lady wife — but that’s not enough for you. So now you can choke on it!” “Shut up with your cackling,” the landlord growled back. “Go home and do your cackling there!” Mrs. Horgos downed her beer and lit a cigarette. “My husband was just like you, never satisfied. Nothing was ever good enough for him, not no how. By the time he realized his mistake it was too late. There was nothing left but to hang himself in the attic.” “Why don’t you just shut up!” the landlord snapped back. “Stop hassling me! Go home and look after your daughters before they run off too!” “Them?” Mrs. Horgos grinned. “Forget it. You think I’m simple or something? I’ve locked them up at home till this bunch on the estate are safely away. Why not? They’d leave me in my old age to look after myself. This way they can carry on looking after the farm — they’ve done enough whoring, after all. They might not like it, but they’ll get used to it. It’s only the kid, Sanyi. I’m cutting him loose. He can go where he likes. I can’t see any use for him at home anyway. He eats like a pig. I can’t support him. Let him go — wherever he wants. One less thing to worry about.” “You and Kerekes can do what you like,” growled the landlord. “But it’s all over for me. That rat-faced bastard has ruined me for good.” He knew that by evening, when he had finished packing — because until then nothing else could go in the van apart from the coffin, not next to it, not behind it, not on the seats, anywhere — once he had carefully locked all the doors and windows and was driving to town in his battered old Warszawa, cursing all the while, he wouldn’t be looking back, wouldn’t turn round once, but would vanish as fast as he could and try to wipe all trace of this miserable building from his memory, hoping it would sink from sight, and be entirely covered up, so that not even stray dogs would stop to piss on it; that he would vanish precisely the way the mob from estate had vanished, vanish without a last look at those moss-covered tiles, the crooked chimney, and the barred windows because, having turned the bend and passed beneath the old sign indicating the name of the estate, feeling elated by their “brilliant future prospects’, they trusted the new would not only replace the old but utterly erase it. They had decided to meet by the old engine house in two hours at the latest, because they wanted to get to Almássy Manor while it was still light, and in any case that seemed ample enough time to pack their most important belongings, for what was the point of dragging stupid bits of bric-a-brac with you for ten or so miles, particularly when they knew they wouldn’t lack for anything once they got there. Mrs. Halics had suggested they start straightaway, not bothering with anything, leaving it all behind to start in the spirit of Christian poverty, since “we are already blessed and well-provided for with the Bible!” but the others — chiefly Halics — eventually convinced her that it was desirable to take at least a few basic personal necessities. They parted excitedly and feverishly set to packing, the three women going through their wardrobes first then emptying kitchens and pantries, while Schmidt, Kráner and Halics’s first thoughts were for their tool cupboards sorting out essentials, then checking everything else with eagle eyes in case the women in their carelessness had left “anything valuable behind.” The two bachelors had the easiest job of it: all their possessions fit into two large suitcases: unlike the headmaster who packed fast but very selectively, constantly bearing in mind the idea of making “the best use of whatever the new place offers.” Futaki quickly threw his belongings into the old suitcases left to him by his father and, quick as lightning, snapped the locks shut — it was like locking a genie back in its bottle — then put them in a pile and sat on them, lighting a cigarette with his trembling hand. Now that there was nothing left to remind him of his personal presence; now that, cleared of his clutter, the place that enclosed him was bare and cold; having packed, he felt he had left no sign that he had ever been part of this world, no shred of evidence that might have proved he once existed here. But however many days, weeks, months, perhaps years of hope lay before him — since he was quite sure his lot was finally cast for the better — squatting on his baggage now, in this drafty, foul-smelling place (of which he could no longer say, “I live here” though he was in no position to answer the question, “If not here, where?’), he found it ever harder to resist an increasingly suffocating sense of sadness. His bad leg was aching so he got off the suitcases and carefully lay down on his wire bed. For a few minutes he was overcome by sleep, then, having suddenly awoken with a fright, he clumsily tried to leap off the bed and his bad leg got caught on a gap between the wires so he almost fell flat on his face. He cursed and lay down again, putting his feet up on the bedstead and examined the cracked ceiling for a while with a melancholy expression, before propping himself up on his elbows and making a survey of the bleak room. Doing so, he understood why he had, time and time again, put off the idea of making the decision to leave: he had rid himself of the one single security in his life and now he had nothing left; and, as before he hadn’t had the guts to stay, so now he lacked the guts to leave, because having packed up for good, it was as if he had denied himself even greater possibilities, and had simply exchanged one trap for another. If, up until now, he had been a prisoner of the engine house and the estate, now he was subject to — in fact being exploited by — mere chance; and if he had until now dreaded the day when he wouldn’t know how to open the door anymore and the window would allow no more light in, now he had sentenced himself to be the prisoner of some eternal momentum, a momentum he might equally well lose. “Another minute and I’ll be on my way.” He allowed himself some slight delay, and felt for the cigarette pack by the bed. He bitterly recalled the words spoken by Irimiás by the door of the bar (‘From today, my friends, you are free!’) because right now he was feeling anything but free and though time was pressing he was quite incapable of making up his mind to leave. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his “needless” worries by imagining his future life, but instead of being calmed he was seized by anxiety to such an extent that he had to mop drops of sweat from his brow. Because however he willed his imagination to move on it was the same image that kept recurring time after time: he saw himself on the road in his ragged old coat and a torn carrier bag, trampling exhausted through the rain, then stopping and indecisively turning back home again. “Stop it!” he growled at himself in desperation. “Enough of this, Futaki!” He got up from bed, tucked his shirt back into his trousers, threw on his heavily worn overcoat and strapped the handles of his baggage together. He carried them outside under the eaves then — not seeing anyone else — set off to hurry the others. He was about to knock on the door of the Kráners, his nearest neighbors, when he heard a great clattering inside, as if several heavy objects had collapsed. He retreated a few steps because at first he thought there was a problem. But when he was about to try knocking again he could clearly hear Mrs. Kráner’s gurgling laugh, then the sound, first of a plate, then of a mug being broken on stones. “What the hell are they up to?” He looked through the kitchen window, shading his eyes with his hand. He couldn’t believe what he saw: Kráner, just raising a heavy-duty cauldron above his head, threw it with all his might against the door. In the meantime Mrs. Kráner was tearing the curtains from the back windows facing the yard before motioning the out-of-control Kráner to get out of the way and then dragging the empty sideboard away from the wall and effortfully pushing it over. The sideboard hit the stone flagging of the kitchen floor with a mighty crash. One side of it came away and Kráner kicked the rest to pieces. Then Mrs. Kráner climbed on top of the already broken pile in the center of the kitchen and, with one great yank, tore the tin light fixture from the ceiling, swung it above her head and Futaki had only just enough time to dive before it was flying towards him, crashing through the window, rolling a few yards and landing under a bush. “Hey! What are you doing?” Kráner shouted at him when he finally managed to inch the window open. “Good God!” screamed Mrs. Kráner behind him, watching pale faced as Futaki cursed, got up, leaned on his stick and carefully shook the splinters of glass off his clothes. “You’re not cut, are you?” “I came to get you,” muttered Futaki, frowning: “But if I’d known this would be my reception I’d have stayed at home.” Mrs. Kráner was dripping with sweat and however she tried she couldn’t get rid of the look on her face, clearly intent on havoc. “Well, serves you right for peeping!” she retorted with a malicious grin. “Never mind. Come in, if you can, and we’ll have a drink to make up!” Futaki nodded, beat the mud from his boots, and by the time he had succeeded in scrambling over parts of an enormous broken mirror, a dented oil-stove and a shattered wardrobe in the hall, Mrs. Kráner had filled three glasses. “So what do you think?” Kráner asked with great satisfaction. “Nice work, eh?” “You should leave your things in one piece,” Futaki replied, clinking glasses with Mrs. Kráner. “I’m not going to leave them for a bunch of gypsies to take away, am I? I’d sooner smash it all!” Kráner explained. “I see,” Futaki cautiously answered, thanked them for the
pálinka
, and quickly left. He cut across the ridge dividing two rows of houses but took better care at the Schmidts’ house, taking a sly look in at the kitchen window first. But there was nothing threatening here, only the wreckage, with Schmidt and his wife sitting exhausted on top of an overturned cupboard. “Has everyone lost their minds! What the hell has got into these people?” He tapped at the glass and gave the confused, round-eyed Mrs. Schmidt a wave to say they should hurry up because it was time to go; then started towards the gate but stopped after a few steps because he spotted the headmaster carefully creeping over the ridge, entering the Kráners’ yard and peeping through their broken window, then — still thinking he wasn’t seen by anyone (Futaki was hidden by the Schmidts’ gate) he set off back to his own house, uncertainly at first, but then on his arrival, slamming the entrance door over and over again, ever more forcefully. “What’s got into him? Have they all gone crazy?” Futaki wondered in astonishment, leaving the Schmidts’s yard, walking slowly towards the headmaster’s house. The headmaster was slamming his door ever more furiously, as if trying to work himself into a hysterical state, then, seeing he was having no success, lifted the door off its hinges, stepped back two paces then, using all his strength, smashed it against the wall. But this was still not enough to break the door so he jumped on it and kept kicking it until only a single plank of wood remained. If he hadn’t happened to glance back and see the grimacing figure of Futaki he might have started smashing whatever furniture was still in one piece inside the house; but, having seen him, he was deeply embarrassed, straightened his heavy grey coat and gave Futaki an uncertain smile. “Ah, you see . . .” But Futaki made absolutely no reply. “You know how it is. And besides . . .” Futaki shrugged. “Obviously. All I want to know is when will you be ready. The others have finished packing.” The headmaster cleared his throat. “Me? Well, I’m ready now. I just have to stack my baggage on the Kráners’ cart.” “Good. You can sort that out with them.” “It’s already settled. It cost me two bottles of