Consulting the schedule of the Carolina, Madzar figured out when Bellardi would be in Mohács.
He had so much figuring to do anyway, and these various calculations persisted in crossing and accompanying one another.
All right, he said, he didn’t come today, but he might come the day after tomorrow. It became almost unbearable to think that every third or fifth day Bellardi sailed by on the Danube, touching Mohács, but didn’t get off. He made his calculations because he did not want Bellardi to surprise him. Today he didn’t come, so now there’s a respite for a few hours. Thank God he’s not coming. He could not endure his former friend’s capriciousness and inconsistency. When every third or fifth day the critical hour arrived and the moment was approaching, the blood jolted in his head and he felt himself blushing in shame.
His heart beat loud at the sound of the ship’s horn coming close.
Then he preferred to think about Mrs. Szemző; he made as if to think about her but in the end did not. His hand slipped; in alarm he had either hit or grasped something the wrong way. His old friend might show up in a few minutes, though he wished he wouldn’t come — now or ever again. He even sighed and moaned in his wild joy. Such an emotional turmoil was not without its danger because the old power saws made by the Langefelder machine factory had hardly anything by way of protective devices. He was embarrassed to think such thoughts and to be making little moans instead of watching what he was doing with his hands, but he had to admit he had good reason to tease and make fun of himself.
He was indeed waiting for his lover.
So what if at least twelve years had gone by without giving him a thought. Which, of course, was not even true. Bellardi might come this afternoon. Or if not this afternoon he might come five days from now in the middle of the night. The latter was the more exciting image, that he’d arrive at night. They’d sit on the veranda with a bottle of good wine until dawn, he’d ask his mother to bake some of her pork-scraps round cake. He wondered whether he should tell his mother in advance about Bellardi’s possible visit.
Mother, please be prepared, I might have a guest soon.
But he said nothing about it to her.
Yet his mother spoke, from behind his back, asking whether she should count on anyone coming, perhaps a guest.
Yes, he shouted over the noise of the power saw, but don’t make a fuss. If he comes, he comes, if he doesn’t, nobody else will be coming.
And to keep his mother from asking more questions, he quickly asked her whether she knew what had happened to Gottlieb’s dogs.
What dogs, his mother shouted back in German.
Madzar stopped sawing; only the drive belt was making repeated clattering noises.
He had two large dogs, didn’t he.
How in hell would I know what he did with them.
So his mother didn’t dare ask whom they might be waiting for, though she remained for a long time in the workshop doorway, standing silently, watching her son measure everything more than once and make new marks before putting the logs to the saw.
Her son did not like it when every so often she spoke to him in German.
Mother, you probably beat those dogs to death yourself, he said aloud later; he had long wanted to learn the truth from her.
What dogs, son, his mother shouted back, this time in Hungarian.
When the subject was unpleasant she preferred the foreign tongue.
Well, our two big white dogs, the komondors, I’ve been thinking about them, said Madzar, as if in passing, as if he weren’t truly interested and might not even hear her answer in the noise. He did not look up from his work; with such transparent maneuvers he thus occasionally managed to trick his mother.
Oh, son, that was so long ago.
Once again, only the noise of the drive belt was heard. They said nothing for a long time, but as she looked at her son’s strong back while he was checking the cutting surface, she knew that if she did not give a straight answer she’d have to leave, because her son would be angry with her.
First, I killed only one of them, the bitch, she answered.
But why did you do it, that’s what I want to know.
The female was the wilder one. I couldn’t cope with them, because they listened only to your father, son. They were partial to him, how could I live with them.
Now the silence felt better.
The sheer mention of Bellardi’s name always provoked excitement in his mother, so for his peace of mind Madzar did not risk invoking it. She was more in love with Bellardi than he was, if that was possible. She treated him, even when Bellardi was a small child, as if the Lord Jesus had come down to them or had sent the little boy with his schoolbag in his stead.
Ultimately, the Bellardi-Montenuovo clan has always been and will forever remain the first family of Mohács.
Madzar knew this was the right opportunity; he could make it easier on himself because he wouldn’t have to wait alone for Bellardi, but he said nothing. Yet the very next day silent preparations began for receiving the guest; his mother was baking, I’ll bake some cheese bundles ahead of time, she said.
Which made her kitchen bloom with the sweet smell of vanilla.
Maybe you should bake some pork-crackling cones, Madzar said incautiously, for with the crackling cones, which Bellardi could never get at home, he revealed everything to his mother.
He blushed so hard he had to turn away.
I already did, son, don’t worry, just the way you like them, she added tactfully, as if she had no suspicions regarding the possible guest, I cut the pork crackling very fine before mixing it in. But it’s not my own anymore, that’s the problem. I had to have crackling delivered from Lehmann’s this morning. At least he has it fresh twice a week.
She cleaned the spacious veranda, the large living room, and the bedroom, where they might have to put the overnight guest. Unless he plans to spend the night elsewhere. Very few tradesmen’s families in Mohács could boast of such expensive bedroom furniture. These pieces had taken up an entire classroom of the local school when they were displayed as part of the great industrial exhibition, which His Excellency the regent came to see as did the royal princes, together with Magda Purgly, not to mention Archduke Frederick,* the prince of Montenuovo, and the Odescalchis. The furniture, made of pure Finnish poplar, was the masterwork of Tóni Windheim Jr., made after he had returned to his father’s plant from his wanderings. They had the wood brought from Finland; Sanyi Csikalek prepared the upholstery for it. The old Windheim manufactured an entire set; we bought ours from the first batch. He also sold a lot in Vienna, he shipped them there himself. Along with old Csikalek, they received a gold medal for it. But they got their medals separately, each for his own work. That’s when your father also received his, in 1926, when the grand exhibition was held on the four-hundredth anniversary, but you do remember that. Old Windheim was still with us then. They were standing like this, I’m telling you, your godmother to my right, and in front of her the whole big Windheim family, including the relatives from Pécs. Don’t forget, they are also our relatives, all of them. I’m saying it just like that, just as we said back then, not only the Catholics, we took an oath and everyone cried, everyone who came to Széchenyi Square that day. No stranger will ever set foot on our homeland as long as one Hungarian is alive. How could we forget the Serb rule. You can’t know about this, what are you laughing at. But Archbishop Zichy could not say this then because the Serbs were standing there crying. My, the things those people did, son. They broke down the door of our house in the dead of night. To this day I cry, son, when I think of that devastation. It was beautiful; you can laugh all you want. We’d swear there would be no discord, no disagreement. But the poor man could not get the gold medal himself, our young Tóni did, though it rightfully belonged to the old man.