Kula explained that he had come himself to tell the Mariassa all this so that he would understand what had happened and would not be angry at the village people. After the notary, said Kula, the popa Timbus had come — but he did not tell Balint that the priest had scolded them for turning to a hated Hungarian lord for help against their own flesh and blood, saying that they had betrayed their priest and his good friend Rusz and that this he would never forgive or forget. Let them only come to him when they were in need, he had said, and then they would discover what it was to defy him! But young Kula told none of this to Balint, merely repeating a couple of times: ‘The priest was here also! He too came to see us …’
Balint thanked him and gave the young man a two-crown piece.
‘No! No! I didn’t do this for money! Please believe me, not for a reward!’ But Balint insisted and the boy finally accepted the coin before vanishing once more into the thicket of hazel bushes beside the road.
A few days later Balint went to see the chief notary for the district, for it was he who remained in charge after the sheriff had been suspended. He related what had happened up on the mountain, what Timisan had told him (without revealing his source) and, giving details of Simo’s involvement, laid the whole blame on the district notary, explaining how abominably he treated the people under his jurisdiction.
The county notary listened with a cold expression on his face.
‘I am unable to take any action at present, my Lord,’ he said at last. ‘Everything has now become a matter of politics — or at least it is treated as such either by the government or else by the people in the districts. Besides, Simo is one of the best notaries in the service. He’s completely trustworthy!’
‘Do you know that from your own experience?’
‘From the reports of his immediate superior, the chief sheriff, who always …’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Balint angrily. ‘He does not check on such things because he’s in on all the deals himself!’
The chief notary stiffened in his seat, offended.
‘It is quite natural that they should be socially acquainted. Simo comes from a very good family. His uncle is a Chamberlain and he himself only became a notary because, for private reasons he was unable to finish school. I understand that he does an excellent job and up there in the mountains, he is, shall we say, our Hungarian sentinel.’
‘Hungarian sentinel?’
‘Yes indeed; sentinel!’
Balint laughed in disbelief:
‘Hungarian sentinel? The man who aids the bank that provides the money because he makes a profit himself? The man who sides with the money-lenders?’
‘These are very grave accusations of which I would require further proof before any action could be taken. If your Lordship insists I can initiate an inquiry, but your Lordship must realize that this puts me in a most awkward situation. In the present circumstances … well, it could mean that I was risking my job because both the government and the opposition will assume I’m interfering in politics. Anything I do …’ and he trailed off weakly.
This is just a waste of time, thought Balint, as the notary accompanied him to the stairs all the while explaining effusively what a difficult situation he was in. Balint left the building depressed by the fact that party politics could so impede the most disinterested and humane efforts to help those in trouble. One aspect of the affair, however, gave him a little cheer. At least it had been the villagers themselves who had refused his help so no one could accuse him of leaving them in the lurch: it was the only good point in the whole unfortunate affair.
Until the middle of November Balint would pass his days in the hunting field and his evenings, after his Romanian lessons, dining with friends and going out in society. At the weekends he went back to Denestornya.
On the Saturday after St Katherine’s Day he found his mother in bed with a bad cold. The doctor said that she had bronchitis and for some days Countess Roza had a high temperature. When the fever subsided she was left with a persistent cough and a chest specialist announced that Countess Roza must spend the winter in a warmer climate. He always suggested natural cures and this time he proposed the Riviera. For a long time she would hear nothing of it, but Balint finally was able to persuade his mother to do what she was told. The old lady agreed, but only on her conditions, which were that Balint should go with her and that some little-known and simple resort on the Italian coast east of Genoa be chosen rather than the mondaine Côte d’Azur.
Balint guessed that this was because she had travelled there on her honeymoon with his father and had a hankering to return to a place where she had been so happy. He wrote to one of the friends he had made during his diplomatic days, an Italian now en poste in Vienna, and in a few days received an answer recommending Portofino, where there was an excellent little hotel with a good reputation. Soon Denestornya was in a flurry of packing and all the preparations for a long absence.
This was a cruel blow to Balint. The thought of having to go so far away from Adrienne — and for so many months — just when he had at last become so close to her, was unbearable. He knew that it was his duty to go with his mother but he could not go without seeing Adrienne once more. There was always the possibility that maybe this time, in the emotion of their imminent separation, she might, just might, yield to his entreaties. Balint dismissed the thought as soon as it came to him, for he knew in his heart that there was little hope of that unless he forced himself on her. He wrote a letter to Adrienne explaining that he had to go away on a prolonged journey and that before going he must see her, not at Almasko but somewhere where they could be alone, perhaps in Kolozsvar. It might — who knows? — be the last time they ever met. He wrote truthfully that he could not go unless he could see her first, not merely for a brief leave-taking but for several hours, just the two of them. It was a good letter, ardent and humble at the same time.
In a few days he had an answer.
Adrienne wrote that she could not go away at this time for ‘they’ would see through any excuse she might make. She told him that she too longed to see him before he went away and said that she could think of only one way: Balint should make his way to where the Abady forests joined the Almasko property; just in front of the clearing where he had shot the roebuck and he should be there punctually at 10 o’clock: ‘I will be there, at 10 exactly and you too,nomatter what the weather. This is the only solution I canthink of. Next Wednesday, at 10o’clock sharp …’
This was not quite what Balint was hoping for, but it would have to do.
He prayed that the weather would be fine and not a day of mist and November drizzle — though, for what he was hoping, there was little to choose between the four walls of a room and the heather in the forest …
Balint was already at the appointed place long before he heard the distant sound of the Nagy-Almas town clock ring out the hour of nine o’clock. He walked down from the boundary of the Abady forest, which was on the crest that divided the valleys of Sebes-Koros and the Almas, and stood by the trunk of a huge beech tree. From there he had a clear view over the clearing at the edge of the Uzdy woods, as well as far beyond to where the path followed the line of the hills.
He was lucky. It was one of those deceptive autumn days when no one would believe that winter was so close at hand. It seemed more like a day in late summer, for many of the trees had not yet lost their leaves. Where Balint stood he was surrounded by luxuriant foliage of all colours, from pale lemon-yellows through every shade of gold to the darkest red-bronze. Balint looked at none of this but kept his eyes fixed upon the track beyond. Once some men passed along the road on their way to Banffy-Hunyad, but after them no one was to be seen. At last, in the distance, he saw Adrienne emerging from the distant trees and walking fast with long strides, her head held high.