Iza's Ballad by Magda Szabó, George Szirtes Page B
Authors: Magda Szabó, George Szirtes
Tags: Literary, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Family Life, Genre Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Women's Fiction, Domestic Life
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to hide from people. Then he turned away and didn’t want to talk about it any more.
Before his rehabilitation she could never persuade him to visit Gyüd and in November 1946, when the letter arrived, trembling, lips twitching, he took his small suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and started packing. She didn’t need to ask him where he was going, she could see it from his face, the way he was shaking. She asked Iza to see him down there but she shook her head, pointed to her books and was interested in nothing but her approaching university exams. She wanted to talk her father out of the trip too, and spent the evening explaining to him that there were no hotels in Gyüd, that he had practically no living acquaintances there, that the teacher was long dead and that the Dávid children were all gone, working in one place or another. Those who were still there would stare at him as if he were some kind of curiosity. ‘What do you want to see in Gyüd?’ she asked her father. Vince stubbornly continued to pack his bag and answered, ‘The dike!’ ‘Excuse me but I have not the least interest in the dike,’ said Iza, lovingly stroking her father’s arm. ‘I’m afraid you can’t pass on memories as if they were a kind of inheritance.’ Vince just looked at her, his hand still above the suitcase, his face suddenly thinner, thinner and sadder. In the end he didn’t go, since that was the time she got that awful flu and he didn’t want to leave her while she was ill, and, besides, the weather was worse than usual, nor did he ever make the journey. He never saw his birthplace again, didn’t even mention it much; he grew older and weaker, and rarely left the house. He was past sixty-six when they rehabilitated him, his movement was limited on account of rheumatism and his stomach was already troubling him; it was just that no one suspected what it would turn out to be.
She pushed the drawers shut. There was nothing unexpected here, which is to say no more than everything associated with fifty years of shared life. But there were no secrets among these common things, no photographs of women, no pressed flowers, no secret letters, nothing that did not pertain to Vince’s childhood or family life. She felt ashamed of herself for ever having doubted him, even for a moment – she should have known Vince better. It was the effect of Antal and Lidia. By the time they got there, Dekker told them Vince was no longer conscious and he remained unconscious when she sat down beside him. Maybe he never told Antal to give the picture to Lidia but simply happened to whisper something and Antal misunderstood him. He was constantly whispering, poor thing, whispering time after time when he got the injections. And why would he have talked about dying? Vince knew nothing of that, never suspected.
She went into the hall, opened the door and looked out at the yard. The rain was still pouring down but it felt milder than in the afternoon. Captain spotted her and leapt up the steps. Ten years before he had done just the same, just as cheekily, when he skipped through their open door for the first time. It was 1 May and they were standing on the threshold, watching the flowers strewn from aeroplanes and the flight of doves that signalled the end of the day’s festivities in the main square, as promised by the papers. Suddenly there was a knocking sound at the gate and a creature rather like a black rabbit, no bigger than someone’s fist, slipped in. ‘Here’s the dove,’ said Vince, laughing, ‘strutting like a captain. It’s just that it’s black.’
The memory was so fresh, so hauntingly alive that she couldn’t bear to bend down to the animal but turned round into the hall. The neighbour’s cockerel crowed and slowly people woke. The sky was black, a single dark mass. ‘Dawn,’ thought the old woman. ‘I wonder if he can see it?’
It was warm in the bedroom, too warm after the damp dawn breeze on the doorstep. She
Before his rehabilitation she could never persuade him to visit Gyüd and in November 1946, when the letter arrived, trembling, lips twitching, he took his small suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and started packing. She didn’t need to ask him where he was going, she could see it from his face, the way he was shaking. She asked Iza to see him down there but she shook her head, pointed to her books and was interested in nothing but her approaching university exams. She wanted to talk her father out of the trip too, and spent the evening explaining to him that there were no hotels in Gyüd, that he had practically no living acquaintances there, that the teacher was long dead and that the Dávid children were all gone, working in one place or another. Those who were still there would stare at him as if he were some kind of curiosity. ‘What do you want to see in Gyüd?’ she asked her father. Vince stubbornly continued to pack his bag and answered, ‘The dike!’ ‘Excuse me but I have not the least interest in the dike,’ said Iza, lovingly stroking her father’s arm. ‘I’m afraid you can’t pass on memories as if they were a kind of inheritance.’ Vince just looked at her, his hand still above the suitcase, his face suddenly thinner, thinner and sadder. In the end he didn’t go, since that was the time she got that awful flu and he didn’t want to leave her while she was ill, and, besides, the weather was worse than usual, nor did he ever make the journey. He never saw his birthplace again, didn’t even mention it much; he grew older and weaker, and rarely left the house. He was past sixty-six when they rehabilitated him, his movement was limited on account of rheumatism and his stomach was already troubling him; it was just that no one suspected what it would turn out to be.
She pushed the drawers shut. There was nothing unexpected here, which is to say no more than everything associated with fifty years of shared life. But there were no secrets among these common things, no photographs of women, no pressed flowers, no secret letters, nothing that did not pertain to Vince’s childhood or family life. She felt ashamed of herself for ever having doubted him, even for a moment – she should have known Vince better. It was the effect of Antal and Lidia. By the time they got there, Dekker told them Vince was no longer conscious and he remained unconscious when she sat down beside him. Maybe he never told Antal to give the picture to Lidia but simply happened to whisper something and Antal misunderstood him. He was constantly whispering, poor thing, whispering time after time when he got the injections. And why would he have talked about dying? Vince knew nothing of that, never suspected.
She went into the hall, opened the door and looked out at the yard. The rain was still pouring down but it felt milder than in the afternoon. Captain spotted her and leapt up the steps. Ten years before he had done just the same, just as cheekily, when he skipped through their open door for the first time. It was 1 May and they were standing on the threshold, watching the flowers strewn from aeroplanes and the flight of doves that signalled the end of the day’s festivities in the main square, as promised by the papers. Suddenly there was a knocking sound at the gate and a creature rather like a black rabbit, no bigger than someone’s fist, slipped in. ‘Here’s the dove,’ said Vince, laughing, ‘strutting like a captain. It’s just that it’s black.’
The memory was so fresh, so hauntingly alive that she couldn’t bear to bend down to the animal but turned round into the hall. The neighbour’s cockerel crowed and slowly people woke. The sky was black, a single dark mass. ‘Dawn,’ thought the old woman. ‘I wonder if he can see it?’
It was warm in the bedroom, too warm after the damp dawn breeze on the doorstep. She
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