Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

The young man leaned above her, his approaching fulfilment pulsating through him like great waves of intoxicating fever. Now there was nothing left of the hunter, the coarse human stalking its mate; these had been wiped out by the terrible reality of a primeval, eternal emotion that had swept over him with the inexorable force of a tropical storm. In one tiny corner of his conscious mind, however, there still lurked the memory of their talk that afternoon, the knowledge that in four weeks’ time all this joy must be paid for … Gently, but urgently, he whispered in her ear: ‘Do you want to? Now?’ fully aware to what he was committing them both. And when Addy did not answer in words, but flung her arms around him, drawing him down upon her, opening wide her mouth to receive his ardent kisses, surely she knew it too?’

For a long time they lay together in each other’s arms, and from outside the room could be heard a faint rustling sound, which might have been the night breeze in the trees of some distant garden or the soft movements of the waters of the lagoon but which to them sounded like the beating of the wings of fate, that fate which had now and for all time chained them to one another.

From far away in the distance could be heard the soft notes of a tenor voice singing a late-night serenade to his beloved. The white folds of the voluminous net curtains moved in the early morning breeze, and outside the sky began to lighten with the approach of dawn. Adrienne, who had been lying wide-awake in Balint’s arms, said: ‘It’s time for you to go!’

‘Already? But it’s still dark!’

‘It’s time, and I want to be alone. I have to think.’ Adrienne’s amber-coloured eyes were serious. She was asking, beseeching, but she was also giving an order.

‘We’ll meet this afternoon? At the same place as yesterday? We’ll meet there again?’

‘Yes. But be there at six, I shall be free by then.’

This time Balint waited in the gondola to be sure that no one witnessed their meeting. Before him on the bench lay a huge bouquet of dark red roses, but when Adrienne had arrived he did not give them to her, indeed he did not even mention them. As she stepped into the boat he rose and kissed her hand as he always did, but today with even a touch more formality and respect than before: and when she sat down beside him his first words were not of love but were a simple question, spoken softly, asking if she would like to visit the church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. He explained that it was very close to where they were now, and was a miracle of beauty made out of white marble by Pietro Lombardi. He spoke so quietly and in such a matter-of-fact way, allowing no trace of triumph of possession to colour his voice or manner, that there was nothing to remind Addy of what had passed between them only a few hours before. In this way he helped her to pass through what could have been for her an awkward moment after holding him off for so long. Even later on Balint did not speak of their night together: only the bunch of red roses spoke for him. There it lay, almost at her feet, paying homage to her with that great splash of red, the colour of passion, the huge blossoms wide open to symbolize the ripeness of fulfilment.

Only later, as they floated gently back, did he murmur in her ear: ‘May I … like yesterday?’

And so the days passed, each as dreamlike as the last. Sometimes they visited a church, or looked for a little-known picture that hung halfconcealed on the dark walls of some neglected Scuola , but mostly, unlike the tourists who never tired of sight-seeing, they remained in their gondola, floating down obscure canals and always, in the end, out on to the great expanse of the lagoon, lying there in each others arms in sweet exhaustion, fingers entwined while they were still in town, kissing with joy and abandon as soon as they were away from the shore. They always had the same gondolier. From his post behind their cabin, their faithful Riccardo plied his oar so slowly and silently that it seemed that the gondola was propelled by no human hand. Each day, they would go even further from the city, until it seemed that they were the only two people in the whole wide world and that they would float on for all eternity, surrounded only by the mother-of-pearl waters of the lagoon and the faint rainbow iridescence of the late afternoon sky. Time stood still and nothing was real except their love, only their love.

Never again had either of them made the slightest allusion to what they had so long discussed on their first day together. Both were aware, all too aware, of what the future might hold, but by tacit mutual understanding, they pushed aside such thoughts as if they never had been and never would be.

Adrienne passed her mornings on the Lido beach where the sun beat down ferociously, very different from the soft radiance of the afternoon light over the lagoon. She and her sisters used to swim for hours together as all of them had been strong swimmers since the days they had splashed about in the great lake at home and been taught to swim when still young children. They felt quite at home in the water and now, in Venice, they bathed separately, Adrienne consciously taking herself a little way off from her sisters for she had noticed that Judith’s face still hardened if she came near. It was quite enough to be with them at lunch or sit with them in the hotel lounge in the early afternoon when Mlle Morin went upstairs to take a nap. In the mornings she swam alone, energetically and with great long strokes and almost savage pleasure, just as she did when she walked, or skated or danced.

Often Adrienne swam a long way out to sea, where the waters were dark and deep and far bluer than closer inshore. When she returned after swimming far out she would often stop for a moment as soon as she arrived in shallow water where she could stand with the little waves just below her knees. Sometimes she would stand there for a long time, quite motionless, and then, the water running off the black swimsuit which clung wet and shining to the lines of her body, she was like some polished marble statue.

She stood there, oblivious of the many men who eyed her from the shore. She never even noticed their looks. For her only one man existed, and he would be waiting for her later in the gondola by the quay under the Ponte Canonica. So she would stand there just gazing out to sea, looking towards the far horizon, head held high, brows knitted as if she were thinking hard.

Where she stood, the waves flowed over her feet and legs and were yellowy-green in colour, for here it was shallow and the golden sand beneath could be seen through the translucent water. Only farther out, where the deep waters started, did the sea become dark and mysterious.

There were no ships to be seen except, very occasionally in the far distance, they could glimpse the sails of fishing boats going towards the shores of Istria where the catches were unusually rich for the Adriatic. One little boat was always there, riding at anchor. It was the boat of the life-guard placed there by the authorities to make sure no one swam out too far or got into difficulties out of reach of the shore. Outside the limits of where most people swam there were dangerous currents against which even the most experienced of swimmers were powerless. Once taken by one of these no one could get back without help. Adrienne often looked out towards that little boat, anchored there so far from the shore.