Balint made a gesture to indicate that none of that would be possible, and they moved into the combined living and diningroom of the forest manager’s house. In the middle of the room stood a large square oak table of the style known in the eighties as Altdeutsch, and in one corner was a sofa and two armchairs.
They sat down, and in came two young Romanian servant-girls dressed in fine starched linen skirts and cotton blouses, one carrying a tray with glasses and the brandy bottle, the other a plate of biscuits. These they placed on the table, then they made a curtsy to Balint, and said in Romanian: ‘Poftyic Mariassa — at your Lordship’s command!’ and left the room winking at Balint as they went.
Without thinking Balint looked up at them.
‘Tasty morsels, eh? Look! If your Lordship will stay I’ll send one of them to your bed tonight … or both if you think you can handle them!’ The old man chuckled and then added, with a leer: ‘I sample ‘em myself from time to time!’ and he twisted his moustache with a swagger.
Abady replied coldly: ‘No, I’ll not be staying. I’ll be off just as soon as the horses are ready.’
‘Pity! Pity! It’s my loss!’ The old man gave a great puff of smoke between each exclamation. He was deeply offended that the oriental welcome he had planned to soften up the unwelcome guest had been spurned.
They sat for a few minutes in hostile silence. Then Balint said stiffly: ‘Be so good as to give me the estate maps. I want to compare them with the military surveys.’
‘No idea where they are!’ said the old man gruffly. ‘I put them away years ago. I’ve got no need of such things, it’s all in here!’ He tapped his head and continued to pull on his pipe in proud, offended immobility.
Outside the house the dogs began barking and firm steps could be heard crossing the wooden veranda. The door was flung open and a tall, rawboned man walked in. He was dressed in a short jacket and corduroy riding breeches cut in the fashion that country tailors thought to be English, box-calf boots, and carried a hunting crop. He did not remove his hat, into which were stuck three large boar bristles, but stood in the doorway with extended hand.
‘I’m Gaszton Simo!’ He spoke proudly as if everyone should tremble at the sound of his name.
Balint disliked him at once. He appeared not to notice the outstretched hand, and spoke condescendingly: ‘Please be seated, Mr … er … Notary.’
Old Nyiresy was deeply hurt. Although he knew that the house and most things in it belonged to the estate, and that he himself was no more than an employee, his pride had suffered a severe blow from the young count’s refusal to accept him on equal terms and the disdain shown for their efforts to entertain him. He boiled inwardly that this aristocratic brat should lord it over him in his own house, even to playing the host when Nyiresy’s friends appeared. It was too much!
To make up for Balint’s coldness he greeted the newcomer with extra warmth. ‘How are you, my boy? Come in! Come in! Have a little brandy!’ he went on, as he helped the newcomer off with his coat, put hat and whip on the table, and ushered him to an armchair.
‘His Lordship won’t be staying for lunch,’ he complained. ‘He’s starting at once for the mountains!’
Simo turned towards Balint enquiringly. What a bandit, thought Balint, now that he could see his face properly. Why, he looks like a medieval mercenary who would go anywhere, serve no matter who, kill anyone, so long sas he was properly paid. Gaszton Simo had a hard, resolute face under short hair which grew so low on his forehead that it almost touched his thick black brows. He had small shrewd button-like eyes, and thick black moustaches which joined equally thick black whiskers. He looked both forceful and cunning.
‘Madness, going up there in the winter!’ growled old Nyiresy. However Simo did not back him up as he had hoped.
‘Why not? The weather’s beautiful now, even if the nights are cold. This time last year I went shooting with my uncle, the Chamberlain. We went to the foot of the Humpleu and camped on the Prislop. Wonderful weather we had!’ He turned to Balint. ‘Have you got everything you need, sleeping bags, fur rugs, watertight tent, kettles …? If you need anything I’d be glad to lend it. If you like I could go with you and take care of everything.’
This did not fit in with Balint’s plans.
‘Thank you, I have all I need. The horses are being loaded up now.’
‘When do you return? I’ll have a roe-buck for you.’
‘A roe-buck? In February?’
‘There’re no restrictions in the mountains,’ laughed Simo scornfully. ‘It’s better if I order it shot than let it be taken by some common poacher. I just have to say the word!’
Balint was too outraged to reply at once and just as he was about to speak Andras Zutor came in. He clicked his heels to Abady and announced that the horses were ready whenever his Lordship wished to leave.
Balint got up at once and went out. He shook hands on the veranda with Nyiresy, and this time also with Gaszton Simo. Then he ordered Janos Rigo, who was waiting at the foot of the steps, to have the sleigh ready for him in three days’ time at Szkrind in the Retyicel Valley as he would not return to Hunyad the way he came but planned to return by way of Mereggyo.
The old forest manager muttered something into his beard but said nothing more to retain the young man who had made so light of the welcome he had planned for him.
In front of the house, standing about in the snow, were eight horses of which three were saddled: two, for Balint and Andras Zutor, with wooden Hungarian saddles covered with sheepskins, while the third, a much more impressive animal, had a military saddle and well-oiled bridle and reins. This was the notary’s horse, a fine dapple-grey, sleek and well cared-for. All the others were skinny mountain ponies with shaggy winter coats.
In the centre of the group stood Honey, who had discarded the old hat he had been wearing and replaced it with a splendid affair of sheepskin which he wore only on special occasions. Slung round his shoulders was a Werndl sporting gun and at his side he carried a bulging knapsack on which was displayed a brass plaque engraved with the Abady arms, the symbol of his official status as a Foleskudt man, someone who had taken the oath of loyalty and was therefore respected as an officer of the State. With his reddish beard trimmed like the monarch’s, erect stance and commanding glance, he had the air and presence of a sergeant-major, and was accorded the same respect.
Around him stood the five gornyiks — forest guards — who had been summoned by Andras Zutor. These were Todor Paven, a tall Albanian who had charge of the Intreape forest; Krisan Gyorgye, a big man with a black moustache and huge hands from Toszerat; the overweight Juanye Vomului, who, with new clothes, a vast sheepskin hat and a copper-studded belt with copious pockets, and who was not an Abady employee but was an independent smallholder from Gyurkuca and liked to underline his special status by the elegance of his appearance; Vaszi Lung from Valea Corbului, known as Zsukuczo or ‘Tipstaff’ because as a young man he had been the bailiff’s runner. He was a small elderly man, blond and chubby with inflamed red eyes who, from having once been a noted poacher was now such an efficient keeper that no one dared set traps or wander with a gun in his part of the forest. Lastly, there was Stefan Lung from Vale Szaka, the youngest of the band, tall and slim, who had inherited his job from his father. Young Stefan was no relation to Vaszi; they bore the same name simply because nearly all the families of the Retyicel district were descended from two brothers who had settled there a hundred and fifty years before. All five guards carried a long-handled axe and knapsacks bearing brass plaques with the Abady arms as symbols of their authority in their respective districts.