Since he had not thought about this before leaving Budapest Balint went at once to see an antique dealer in Kolozsvar who always had good things.
Old Mrs Bruckner did not keep a shop; she dealt directly from her apartment on the first floor of a building in Belmagyar Street. She was a small woman, rather fat, and entirely trustworthy. She never knowingly sold imitations or fakes, even though she was entirely uneducated with no knowledge of styles or period. If she believed something to be truly old she would say, ‘Das ist gotisch — this is gothic!’
Mrs Bruckner knew everyone in the town. She led Abady through her rooms, merrily showing him a host of every imaginable sort of object piled one on top of another or hung all over the walls; commodes, chests, tables, clocks and statuettes, ornaments, pictures, lampshades, embroidery or church vestments, everything everywhere in apparent confusion.
‘I’ve just got in a lovely cup!’ said the old woman enthusiastically. ‘It’s new in, so no one has seen it except you!’ and she took her customer to a shelf on which stood three beautiful Alt Wien cups among a host of rubbish. Balint was immediately struck by the one in the centre for he recognized the painted portrait on its side as that of his mother’s great-grandfather, the Abady who had been Governor of Transylvania. It had been fashionable at the end of the eighteenth century to give such cups as souvenirs to friends or relations, especially to relations, rather as at a later date people would give signed photographs. At Denestornya they already had two similar ones, and this would make a third.
‘Where did you get it from?’ asked Balint, marvelling at his luck. But Mrs Bruckner just gave an enigmatic smile and said, ‘From a very good place, I can assure you. I can’t say where, but it’s a very good place indeed!’
The price was sixty crowns and Balint paid it without question. As the old lady accompanied him to the door she said, ‘Come again in a few days, if you like. I may have some things from the same place. Alles prima, alles hochprima — everything of the highest quality, of course, and from the same place.’
Though Balint again asked her she would not say where it came from.
Christmas Eve at the Abadys’, whether at Denestornya or in Kolozsvar, was always a somewhat solemn occasion with nothing cosy or intimate about it. While Balint had been away at school in Vienna he had always had to spend Christmas in his rooms in the college and so for many years Countess Roza had spent the holiday alone with her servants. As the years passed, the ceremonies at home had frozen into an occasion of cold convention. Always, as now, there was a small tree in the centre of the dining table. This, as always too, was bought, for to her it would have been unthinkable sacrilege to uproot and bring anything from Denestornya or from the forestlands in the mountains. On the sideboards were high piles of woollen shawls and waistcoats that the countess and her two housekeepers had spent much of the previous year knitting just for this occasion. At Denestornya they would be distributed to all the children of the village on Christmas morning itself. Now, as they were at the town house in Kolozsvar, the estate manager would collect them on Christmas Eve and travel at dawn to the country so that the children would receive their presents after church the following morning. Around the little tree, which was ablaze with a multitude of candles, was a cluster of presents for the household servants and their families, all useful objects carefully chosen and marked with the names of the recipients.
Each servant was called in turn, with members of their families, and in turn they were handed their gifts by the countess, kissed her hand and made room for the next in line. Countess Abady sat in a large armchair in the middle of the room and, as each man, woman or child came up to her, she extended her chubby little hand to be kissed, exactly as if she were a queen receiving the homage of her people. Balint himself was given two silk ties and a silver cigarette case, the tenth of its kind, since Countess Roza had little imagination when it came to choosing presents and so gave him the same thing each year.
When the ceremony was over Balint produced the governor’s cup. He had been quite right, the choice had been perfect and his mother was overjoyed. Then they went back to the drawing-room to have the tea and stewed fruit which Countess Roza always liked have served in the evening. She carried the cup with her and sat down, still holding and caressing it and examining the inscription.
Balint told his mother all about the visit to Jablanka, and especially about Aunt Elise’s solicitous enquiries about her and about all her former acquaintance in Transylvania. They stayed up for a long time and Balint had the distinct impression that his mother now thought of nothing but the news he brought her. The thunderclouds seemed to have passed, and Countess Abady was all smiles and sweetness the whole evening.
Balint was thinking about this when he finally found himself alone in his room. It was possible that the old lady had come to believe that he had found a new distraction at Jablanka, at the Szent-Gyorgyis’, for when he mentioned little Lili Illesvary, his mother had even smiled, with no sign of disapproval or that sharp nodding of the head which always signified anger or disbelief. Of course it was more than two months since he had seen Adrienne and no doubt his mother knew this and rejoiced because she believed that his infatuation was over. In fact the link between him and Adrienne had grown ever stronger, even though they had recently met so little. Until recently, since they had renewed their love, hardly a week or ten days had passed without their somehow contriving to meet either in public or in private, or even in some secret place where they would not have risked discovery. Since his last visit to Almasko Balint had decided that he did not dare visit his little lodge built where the Abady forests marched with those of Adrienne’s husband, for it would have seemed strange to go to the cabin in winter-time, when the Uzdy mansion was so close, and therefore he would be forced to stay in that hated house knowing what happened there between Adrienne and her unhinged husband. Adrienne too, though she never told Balint that her husband had followed her through the forest with a hunting rifle on his arm, had written saying that he should not come to Almasko. It was only because of this that they had not seen each other for the past two months.
Time and again Balint said to himself that this cat-and-dog existence was no life, no life at all. Now, on Christmas Eve, he felt it even more strongly and made up his mind, which had been strengthened by these endless weeks of separation, that somehow this sterile, frustrating, bleak existence must be ended; and he thought once more of his mother’s obstinate resistance and of Pal Uzdy’s madness and total incompatibility with his wife.
Finally he decided that as soon as Addy came back to Kolozsvar they must definitely arrange her divorce.
However, days and weeks went by and they brought no change. In the middle of January Adrienne wrote and said that she would not be able to move from Almasko for some time to come. Her daughter had developed measles and even though old Countess Uzdy took entire charge of the sickroom and practically denied Adrienne access to her child, she was still unable to get away.
Balint wrote to Gyeroffy at Christmas time and, in his own name and that of his mother, asked him to spend the New Year with them. He also mentioned that he had a letter for him from his aunt, Countess Elise. Laszlo did not answer and did not appear; and so Balint decided one day to take a hired sleigh, drive to Szamos-Kozard, and take his cousin by surprise. It would be better that way for if Laszlo saw one of the easily recognizable Denestornya carriages on the road he might take fright and vanish before Balint could find him. It was not far, only about five miles.