ave been no more that thirty yards from it, so they could even make out the face, at least the part not covered by a veil; and if all three of them hadn’t thought it impossible, or if they hadn’t all helped place the body in the crude coffin Kráner had constructed, they could have sworn it was the kid’s sister lying there, her face ashen white, her hair in ginger ringlets, in peaceful slumber. From time to time the wind lifted the ends of the veil, the rain quietly washing the corpse, and the three ancient oaks creaked and groaned as if about to fall. . But there was not a soul anywhere near the body, just that sweet, bell-like laughter everywhere, a kind of carefree, cheerful music. The “kid” stared at the clearing, mesmerized, not knowing what he should most fear, the sight of his sister, dripping, stiff, clad in white as pure as snow, or the thought of her suddenly getting up and walking toward him; his legs trembled, everything went dark, the trees, the manor, the park, the sky, leaving only her, glowing painfully bright, ever more distinct, in the middle of the clearing. And in that sudden silence, in the total lack of any sound, when even the raindrops broke silently as they fell, and they could well have thought they’d gone deaf, since they could feel the wind but couldn’t hear it humming, and were impervious to the strange breeze lightly playing about them, he nevertheless thought he heard that continuous hum and tinkling laughter suddenly give way to frightening yelps and grunts, and as he looked up he saw them moving towards him. He covered his face with his arms and started sobbing. “You see that?” Irimiás whispered, frozen, squeezing Petrina’s arm so hard his knuckles turned white. A wind had sprung up around the body and in complete silence the blindingly white corpse began uncertainly to rise. . then, having reached the top of the oaks, it suddenly rocked and, bobbling slightly, started its descent to the ground again, to the precise spot it had occupied before. At that moment the disembodied voices set to a fury of complaint like a dissatisfied chorus that had had to resign itself to failure once again. Petrina was gasping. “Can you believe that?” “I am trying to believe it,” replied Irimiás, now deathly pale. “I wonder how long they have been trying? The child has been dead almost two days now. Petrina, perhaps for the first time in my life I am really frightened.” “My friend. . can I ask you something?” “Go ahead.” “What do you think. .?” “Think?” “Do you think. . um. . that Hell exists?” Irimiás gave a great gulp. “Who knows. It might.” Suddenly all was quiet again. There was only the humming, a little louder perhaps. The corpse started to rise again, and then some six feet above the clearing it trembled, then with incredible speed it rose and flew off, soon to be lost among the still, solemn clouds. Wind swept the park, the oaks shook as did the ruined old summer house, then the tinkling-chiming voices reached a triumphant crescendo above their heads before slowly fading away, leaving nothing behind except a few scraps of veil drifting down, the sound of rattling tiles on the fallen-in roof of the manor, and the frightening knockings of the broken tin gutters against the wall. For minutes on end they stood frozen staring at the clearing, then because nothing else happened they slowly came to their senses. “I think it’s over,” whispered Irimiás, then gave a deep hiccup. “I really hope so,” whispered Petrina. “Let’s rouse the kid.” They took the still trembling child under the arms and helped stand him up. “Now come on, pull yourself together,” Petrina encouraged him while just about managing to stand himself. “Leave me alone,” the “kid” sobbed. “Let go of me! “It’s all right. There’s nothing to be scared of now!” “Leave me here! I’m not going anywhere!” “Of course you’re coming! Enough of this pitiful blubbing! In any case there’s nothing there anymore.” The “kid” went over to the gap and looked over to the clearing. “Where. . where has it gone?” “It vanished like the fog,” Petrina answered, hanging on to a projecting brick. “Like the. . fog?” “Like the fog.” “Then I was right,” the “kid” remarked uncertainly. “Absolutely,” said Irimiás once he finally managed to stop his hiccupping. “I have to admit you were right.” “But you. . what. . what did you see?” “Me? I only saw the fog,” Petrina said, staring straight ahead and bitterly shaking his head. “Nothing but fog, fog all over the place.” The “kid” gave Irimiás an uneasy glance. “But then. . what was it?” “’A hallucination,” Irimiás answered, his face chalk-white, his voice so faint that the “kid” instinctively leaned towards him. “We’re exhausted. Chiefly you. And that’s hardly surprising.” “Not in the least,” Petrina agreed. “People are likely to see all kinds of things in that condition. When I was serving at the front there’d be nights when a thousand witches would pursue me on broomsticks. Seriously.” They walked the length of the path, then for a long time down the road to Postelek without speaking, avoiding the ankle-deep puddles, and the closer they approached the old road that led straight as a die to the southeastern corner of town, the more Petrina worried about Irimiás’s condition. The master was all but snapping with tension, his knee buckling now and then, and often it seemed that one more step and he’d collapse. His face was pale, his features had dropped, his eyes were staring glassily at nothing in particular. Fortunately the “kid” spotted nothing of this partly because he had been calmed by the exchange between Irimiás and Petrina. (‘Of course! What else could it be? A hallucination. I must pull myself together if I don’t want them to laugh at me!. . ’), and partly because he was quite excited by the idea that Petrina had acknowledged his role in the discovery of the vision so he could now march along at the head of the procession. Suddenly Irimiás stopped. Petrina leapt to his side in terror, to help if he could. But Irimiás shoved his arm away, turned to him and bellowed, “You creep!!! Why don’t you just fuck off?! I’ve had enough of you! Understand!!?” Petrina quickly lowered his eyes. Seeing that, Irimiás grabbed him by the collar, tried to lift him, and failing gave him a great push so Petrina lost his balance and, having scrambled a few steps, finished on his face in the mud. “My friend. .” he pitifully pleaded, “Don’t lose your — ” “You still talking back?!” Irimiás bawled at him, then sprang over, and with all his strength, punched him in the face. They stood facing each other, Petrina desolate and in despair, but suddenly sober again, utterly exhausted and quite empty, feeling only the mortal pressure of despair like a trapped animal that discovers there is no escape. “Master. .” Petrina stuttered: “I. . I am not angry. .” Irimiás hung his head. “Don’t be angry, you idiot. .” They set off again, Petrina turning to the “kid” who seemed to have been turned to stone and waving him on as to say, “Come on, no problem, that’s done with now,” sighing from time to time and scratching his ear. “Listen, I’m an evangelist. .” “Don’t you mean an Evangelical?” Irimiás corrected him. “Yeh, yeh, that’s right! That’s what I meant to say. .” Petrina quickly answered and gave a relieved sigh on seeing his partner was over the worst.” “And you?” “Me? They never even christened me. I expect they knew it wouldn’t change anything. .” “Hush!” Petrina waved his arms in panic, pointing to the sky. “Not so loud!” “Come on, you big dope. .” Irimiás growled. “What does it matter now. .” “It may not matter to you, but it does for me! Whenever I think of that blazing comet thing I can hardly breathe!” “Don’t think of it like that,” Irimiás replied after a long silence. “It doesn’t matter what we saw just now, it still means nothing. Heaven? Hell? The afterlife? All nonsense. Just a waste of time. The imagination never stops working but we’re not one jot nearer the truth.” Petrina finally relaxed. He knew now that “everything was all right” and also what he should say so his companion might be his old self again. “OK, just don’t shout so loud!” he whispered: “Haven’t we enough troubles as it is?” “God is not made manifest in language, you dope. He’s not manifest in anything. He doesn’t exist.” “Well, I believe in God!” Petrina cut in outraged. “Have some consideration for me at least, you damn atheist!” “God was a mistake. I’ve long understood there is zero difference between me and a bug, or a bug and a river, or a river and voice shouting above it. There’s no sense or meaning in anything. It’s nothing but a network of dependency under enormous fluctuating pressure. It’s only our imaginations, not our senses, that continually confront us with failure and the false belief that we can raise ourselves by our own bootstraps from the miserable pulp of decay. There’s no escaping that, stupid.” “But how can you say this now, after what we’ve just seen?” Petrina protested. Irimiás made a wry face. “That’s precisely why I say we are trapped forever. We’re properly doomed. It’s best not to try either, best not believe your 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 t