Laszlo asked if he might look at the instrument.
‘May I take it down?’ he asked.
‘Of course!’
‘But this is a marvellous violin! It’s beautiful! Look what noble lines it has!’ He brought it to the table to inspect it more closely.
‘Yes, that is the Count’s violin. He really did play very well. He started when still at school, and I sang. I was a baritone. Oh, Lord, where did it all go? He must have studied very hard; he was a real artist. I remember when I got back to Kolozsvar — in ’37 it was because I was with Szerdahelyi then. Yes, that’s when it was. Every evening that winter, when there wasn’t a party or something, he always went to — oh, she was so lovely — he went quite secretly, and sometimes they asked me to join them, no one else, mark you, just me. They knew they could trust me not to tell.’
The old man said nothing for a moment. He bent forward, his open shirt showing the grey hairs thick as moss on his powerful chest. He reached a gnarled hand towards the violin and caressed it lightly.
Balint longed to know more about his grandfather’s past, but somehow it seemed indiscreet to ask. However Laszlo went on: ‘Did he play with a piano accompaniment?’
‘Yes, of course, with a piano, always with a piano.’
‘Who played for him?’
The dignified old actor lifted his hand in protest. He would not reveal the lady’s name then, or ever, the gesture seemed to say. Then he started to reminisce in half sentences and broken phrases, as if his tired mind and faded eyes could only catch glimpses of the past in uncertain fragments. Following his memory’s lead he was talking more to himself than to his listeners. Everything he said was confused and mixed up, complicated by a thousand seemingly irrelevant, and to the young men, incomprehensible details. He talked of other old actors, of plays and dates and though most of it meant nothing to Laszlo and Balint, it was clear that to old Minya it was all still as real as if everyone he mentioned were still alive. Throughout the scattered monologue, they sensed that he was recalling a personal drama which had nothing to do with the theatre, a real-life drama that had taken place seven decades before. But however alive this memory was, the old man never once spoke the name of the woman who had meant so much to his friend, nor even a hint as to whether she were an aristocrat or an actress. Though everyone he spoke of had been dead for many years, he still guarded the secret entrusted to him so long ago.
As he spoke they felt that he was getting near to the climax. His voice was very low:
‘How beautiful they both were! And how young — she was even younger than he, so young, so young. And then it ended. There was a concert in the Assembly Rooms … Beethoven, Chopin … Was it the music? What was it? I can see them now, they were so beautiful, a wonderful shining couple. Everybody felt it, everybody saw it! Through their playing, you could tell they belonged together. The trouble was that, everyone saw it, everyone …’ The old man frowned, ‘And, three days later it was over. I was given a letter for him — a goodbye note, though I didn’t know it then — and I had to give it to my best friend, me — of all people.’
He was silent. Laszlo had listened politely, untouched by the rambling tale, but Balint had been deeply moved. Mysterious though it all was, a memory had been stirred by the incoherent story. Once, sitting beside his grandfather’s writing desk, he had seen a tiny ancient pair of lady’s dancing slippers inside an open drawer. They were old-fashioned party shoes of white satin and, though old, they looked almost new; even the little satin ribbons which tied like the strings on Greek sandals, were smooth and fresh. The tiny heel-less slippers were shaped like ladies-finger biscuits and were thin as paper. When Balint asked his grandfather about them the old Count had taken them out of the drawer and shown him how worn the soles were. ‘Look,’ he had said, smiling, ‘see how much that little charmer danced!’ and he had tied the ribbons together again and dropped the slippers back into the drawer where he had kept them for so many years.
Only now, as the memory of old Count Peter came back to him, did Balint understand the regret and nostalgia that lay behind his grandfather’s always kind and welcoming smile. Was the heroine of old Minya’s story the owner of the little dancing shoes?
‘What happened then?’ asked Balint, with a catch in his throat.
‘Count Peter went abroad. He didn’t come back for a long time, not for years. He travelled to countries few people visited then; perhaps few go today. He once wrote to me from Spain just a brief word, and later from Portugal. Once he went on a walking tour in Scotland, just as I did as an itinerant actor. He wrote to me then that there were many lakes and the country was wild and bare, just like the hills of Mezöses …’
Balint had known nothing about all this. Old Abady had never mentioned his travels. Looking back, Balint realized, though he had never given it a thought at the time, that no matter what part of Europe was mentioned, his grandfather had known it well. Had he been impelled to travel by sorrow, or had there been some other reason, some irrepressible wanderlust? Now, hearing the old story that revealed so much and yet kept its essential secret, Balint looked once more at the old violin on the table. How beautiful if was, lying there on the bare planks. What melodies still slept behind the myriad golden lights reflected in the dark patina of its varnish? What enchanting melodies and ancient passions? And would those melodies, poured forth by two young people alive only to their love and to their music, ever be heard again, or would the old violin be forever silent, the tomb of their secret love?
Young Julis brought in the grapes and, as she put them down, a cart, drawn by an old horse with harness tinkling with bells, drew up in front of the house. The girl looked out of the window.
‘Look! Uncle Minya, Andras has arrived!’ She ran out, beaming with pleasure.
Steps were heard outside and in a moment the door was opened and Andras Jopal came in. He seemed disconcerted to see who the old man’s visitors were, but made them a stiff formal bow. Then he turned to Minya and started whispering to him. The old man looked up at Jopal’s face, murmured something, shook his head and then slowly took a ten-crown note from his wallet and handed it to the newcomer. Jopal went out, and they could hear the cart drive into the yard.
‘You must excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Minya. ‘That was Andras Jopal, my nephew. He’s a very clever, learned fellow!’ But there was a note of annoyance in his voice, despite the words of praise. ‘He could have been a professor by now, but he wouldn’t take his finals. He’s got a crazy idea he can build a flying machine. He’s so stubborn. Now he’s out of a job again.’
‘We saw him yesterday, at the Laczoks’.’
‘That’s where he’s just come from. It seems they’ve just thrown him out. He didn’t even have any money for his fare and he pretends left on his own accord. Bah! He’s crazy!’ The old man got up and looked angrily out of the window.
On the little cart was a jumble of fine wooden laths, rolls of paper, tangled wire and great sheets of stretched canvas like the wings of a gigantic dead moth.
‘Well, there it is, the precious model! He spends every penny of the little money I give him on it!’ Old Minya strode across the room, and then turned back to them, ‘And even if he succeeds, what’s the use, I ask you? What purpose would it have? People would still kill each other, even from the air!’
Balint wanted to say it wasn’t true, but the old man went on: ‘If human beings invent something new, they always use it first for killing. Iron was made into clubs and swords, bronze into cannon. And what did they do with gunpowder? Split rocks and build something? No! They destroyed each other more than ever!’ He waved his arms about and stumbled to a chair where he sat down heavily, tired, exhausted and disillusioned, and the weight of his many years seemed to overcome him.