In the train back to Kolozsvar Balint thought over the whole affair and found himself more and more annoyed by the part that he had allowed himself to play. He had done it again. Once more he had become personally involved.
He should never have promised his help to the men of Pejkoja, but weakly he had allowed himself to be carried away, first by the old man’s talk of his grandfather and then by his fear of what the evil-faced Turturika might do if they all decided upon la noptye. So now he had got right into the middle of their fight with the money-lender and what had begun as disinterested mediation had ended in personal involvement. Now, if he did not succeed in winning the case for the people of Pejkoja, his own prestige would suffer in the eyes of the mountain people. The case would not be easy. He never doubted the identity of Rusz’s silent anonymous partners. These were obviously the Romanian priest from Gyurkuca and the notary Gaszton Simo. Between them they would not miss a trick, however dishonest, to see that Rusz was exonerated. In their own world they wielded great power and they had the unutterable advantage of being always there, on the spot where they could frighten people and put pressure on them in a hundred different ways; whereas he, Balint, could only occasionally come among them. During his rare visits they put their trust in him, but if he were not there what would happen? Obviously he would have to find a lawyer who was prepared not only to accept the case but who would also be trusted by the people of the mountain.
Balint thought for a long time until at last inspiration came to him: Aurel Timisan. He was the perfect candidate; being both a lawyer and a Romanian who sat in Parliament to defend the interests of his fellow Romanians. The peasants would respect him and do as he said and he might even be able to influence the popa himself. Of all people surely Aurel Timisan had more chance than any of settling this affair properly — maybe even without taking it to court. He was generally known to be an honest man. Balint congratulated himself and decided to visit him as soon as possible, telling himself that the old radical was sure to agree to help, for it was entirely a question of protecting impoverished Romanians.
After several telephone calls in the morning Balint managed to make an appointment to see Timisan in the early afternoon. The old man received him in his smoking-room.
‘This is an honour indeed!’ said Timisan with an ironic smile under his huge white moustaches. ‘His Lordship dares to visit me, who spent a year in the prison of Vac! See! There is proof, on the wall behind you!’ He pointed to a large photograph in a heavy frame which portrayed a group of eight men. Balint’s host was easily recognized from the great sweep of his moustaches, though of course they were then still black. Balint asked about the others and was told that they were all his fellow defendants in the famous Memorandum trial.
‘And who is this?’ asked Abady, pointing to a man seated at the centre of the group who had not been identified by the lawyer.
‘Ah!’ said Timisan. ‘He was the governor of the prison. He was very good to us and so we — at least that’s how we put it then decided to pay him this honour!’
The two men sat down facing each other in large armchairs that were upholstered in that Paisley-printed velveteen which was then all the vogue in well-to-do middle-class homes.
‘I did not come to continue our last discussion,’ said Balint, ‘but I should be grateful, Mr Deputy, for your advice and help in a legal dispute in which I am interested. It concerns the welfare of a group of Romanian peasants, and therefore I am hoping that you will be interested.’ He then took out his notes and told the whole story, ending up with Rusz’s rejection of the offer made by the men of Pejkoja. He added that expense was no object and that he, Balint, would guarantee to see the matter through to the end.
Timisan heard him out in silence. Then he looked up; but instead of asking any question pertinent to the story Balint had related, asked: ‘Tell me, why does your Lordship mind what happens to these people?’
Balint was so surprised that for a moment he did not know what to say. It was so much a part of his nature and upbringing that he should do what he could to protect those in need that he was unable, at such short notice, put his motives into words. At last he said: ‘It’s so appallingly unjust! This sort of thing should not be allowed. I understand, Mr Deputy, that you advise the Unita Bank, which, through the popa Timbus, supplies this Rusz with the money he lends out. Surely if the bank gets to know how their funds are being misused they’ll issue a warning so that the money-lenders will be forced to give up this sort of extortion and we’ll be able to rescue their unfortunate victims!’
Timisan explained, rather as if he were giving a public lecture, that the bank was only concerned to receive regularly the interest on the money that it lent out. If their loans were correctly amortized, what was done with the money was not their affair. Timisan spoke for some time, coolly and professionally.
‘But, Mr Deputy, doesn’t it shock you personally when you hear of cases like this? These are your own people, and they are being ruined. You represent them in Parliament, you speak about their “rights”. Surely you will defend them?’
‘That is politics.’
‘Politics? Politics have nothing to do with this. Here we have some poor mountain people who need help!’
‘That too!’ The old deputy smiled. ‘Just so!’ He paused again and thought for a moment before going on: ‘Your Lordship is full of goodwill and you honour me with your visit. You will understand that I am not often honoured by visits from Hungarian noblemen!’ He laughed drily, then went on: ‘… and because of this I shall give your Lordship an explanation. Centuries ago this country was conquered by the swords of your ancestors and so the great Hungarian-owned estates were formed. In these days we have to find other means of getting what we want. We need a wealthy middle class and up until now this class has not existed. Most of the Romanian intellectuals like myself are the sons of poor Romanian priests who were the only ones among us who were properly educated. Do you see that picture? It is of my father, who was Dean of Pancelcseh.’ He pointed to the wall where, over the souvenir of the prison of Vac, there hung an almost life-size portrait in oils of a venerable popa with a huge beard: it looked as if it had been copied from a photograph. Timisan went on:
‘We are all equal, and we have no means. We have therefore decided that, no matter how, we must create a wealthy middle class. And that is what we are doing. Our bank furnishes the original funds and, apart form other businesses, it lends money to certain people we believe can be trusted firstly to build up their own fortunes and then to use those fortunes for political purposes. Naturally these people have to deal with — you would say exploit — poor Romanian peasants, and that is only natural because they have no one else to exploit! Were there no victims when your marauding ancestors over-ran our country? Well, it’s the same today, but the difference is that you did it on horseback and wearing coats of mail! So much for glory! Hail to the conquering hero! Perhaps it was all more picturesque in those days, more decorative, more “noble”!’ and he gave an ironic note to the word “noble” before laughing wryly. ‘But we are more modest. We are modern people, simple and grey and not decorative at all!’ The cold, cruel glint that had lit up his eyes as he spoke now faded. ‘I have never said anything like this to anyone before — and you won’t hear it from anyone else. If any of you Hungarians raised the matter, we’d deny it, naturally; but then you are not likely to, for Hungarians only think in political terms!’