Gyula Krudy - Sunflower

By the crack of dawn, when little birds stir on the branch, these women will be on the road again. As they near the village of Pócs, the ragged beggars by the roadside will become more and more pushy, penitent life crying out from their dreadful limbs; the dust is deeper, the air hotter; the bells tolling from the friars’ steeple promise heavenly miracles, the whole world is steeped in a smell of gingerbread and wax candles, wandering Gypsies play their music at the barbecue stands, the organ’s boom resounds from the church…where their revived and quickened steps take them, where the miracle is to be found. Year after year these faces come, wide-eyed, for a glimpse of that flame-lit heaven.

Suddenly Pistoli sat up, as if the prevailing pious atmosphere had turned even him into one of the superstitious old women. At the end of the procession, following the booted, hatted, parasoled contingent of tradeswomen in brown, officials’ wives and small-town ladies, who all cast scornful glances as they passed the cart of the county’s greatest reprobate, there now appeared two figures, at the sight of whom Pistoli squiggled down to lie low on the straw-lined cart bed.

Kerchiefed, clad in a flowery skirt — borrowed from a servant girl — came the petite, cherry-lipped Eveline Nyirjes, sauntering along, her waist swaying. She was carrying her shoes in her hand, her bare feet treading on sand. Her companion, the wasp-waisted Miss Maszkerádi, cast a glance of queenly cruelty over Pistoli’s cart, as if her scornful eyes demanded: “How can this man still carry on, for shame…” Maszkerádi had not taken off her ankle boots of yellow leather, although Mr. Pistoli would have loved to catch sight of her feet, as well. Her peasant skirt allowed a glimpse of calf that revealed a pliant musculature, straight from the dreams of schoolboys. “After the pilgrims!” Pistoli shouted, beside himself, as soon as he regained his composure. “This is one pilgrimage that I must attend.”

But before Quitt had a chance to turn the cart about, Pistoli had lost his élan. His head drooped like a very old man’s.

“My time’s up. Let’s go home,” he growled, disgruntled, as if he noticed his heart skipping a beat every now and then.

But he kept staring after the pilgrim procession, until at last he saw in the far distance Miss Maszkerádi turn around, and send a fiery glance that ran down the shadowy highway like a burning carriage, as if a mirror’s shard had flashed on the horizon. Satisfied, Pistoli nodded toward the one who looked back. Just as he had thought.

All the way home he wondered whether the two ladies would confide to each other what they prayed for at the Máriapócs church…” Ah, women!” he sighed, and concluded that life was no longer worth living.

Now follow those events that complete the structure of life and death, the way a clock crowns a tower.

Stonemasons belong to the most ancient craft; they know well that building is indeed a thorough science. Much labor must go into the construction of the foundations, before the roof can be raised over the bare walls — or before one can erect a tombstone over the body of a restless man.

One man’s life may be paced like the tumbleweed’s passage over the wasteland, all day long chased by the wind from one end of the field to the other, to arrive in unexpected places and leave without any farewells after spending the night. Blowing unnoticed past hundreds of people, until suddenly, haphazardly, catching in someone’s hair: an existence that seems aimless, vanishing more rapidly than a shadow toward eveningtime. Yet such a life can cause so much trouble, howl so bitterly, crush so many hearts, create such havoc, evoke such anxieties. Yes, those with tumbleweed lives live life to the fullest, for they do not make any journeys for their own ends. Happenstance, rumors and humors, the vagaries of moods drive them hither and thither, toward good fortune or ill luck.

Yet others prepare the course of their lives as thoroughly as a fly picking its residence in amber. They build their house on a foundation of great fieldstones that will not easily be blown down by the wind. A few manage to live out their lives in a den of their own devising, to grow old, and die, all the while avoiding the serpent’s twisted and slippery path. Yes, there are men and women who indeed die innocent. (I wonder if they receive any special recognition for this in the world to come?) They never have to howl in pain, bitter remorse, guilty misery. But just as most of the guilty cannot help falling, the blameless ones have no call to be haughty on account of the purity of their body and soul. No, neither glorifying nor holding this world in contempt is quite justified. No one is responsible for their personal fate because it is unavoidable, like the misfortunes foretold in a fairy tale. And so it is best to leave people to their tumbleweed lives, or to their lonely isolation, as if in a humming seashell. The weather vane cannot help being placed on the peak of the roof. And even a hedgehog in a cellar may feel contentment. Let each live as he or she will, sad or gay. It is equally foolish to try to avoid an hour of bitterness or a moment of joy. The picnic in May, the funeral, the wedding night and the secret grief all have the same ending. Comes the stonemason to immure both the anxiety-ridden and the well- behaved.

Such were Mr. Pistoli’s thoughts, musing alone at home. By now, Ossuary was gone from the garden cottage, having left behind his discarded cigarette butts and his women, who went off on pilgrimages. In the afternoons Pistoli withdrew into a brown study, where he caught alternating whiffs of Miss Maszkerádi and of the precious Eveline.

“ Sic transit …” he mumbled.

One day a ragamuffin showed up, bringing a message.

“My father couldn’t come,” the boy reported, pulling a letter from his straw hat.

“And who may your father be?”

“Old Kakuk. We sacked our old lady. She yelled at us once too often. So we sent her packing, as my Da’ would put it. The old man brought home a new woman. Now she’s moved in with us. That’s why my Da’ couldn’t come.”

“May you grow up to be as wise as your father,” Pistoli said to Kakuk, Junior, and squeezed a penny into the boy’s palm.

The letter was written on fine watermarked paper not commonly used in this region. Women in these parts write their correspondence on their children’s notebook pages, or else they use the backs of old promissory notes. The exclusive stationery carried the following note penned in lilac ink:

“Someone implores you to hold your nasty mouth. Someone is coming to visit you, to make up. M .”

Pistoli peered at the note with an acerbic smile. “Young miss, you should have come yesterday or the day before,” he muttered.

Face propped on his elbows, Pistoli contemplated the letter. He was not as well-versed in graphology as most provincial young ladies, but he did have some experience with mysterious anonymous letters, having written dozens in his time: to women who had not received his advances too kindly, and to men who had rudely turned their backs on him. After most country club balls, when assault or dueling was out of the question, Pistoli’s hands reeked of sealing wax from all the anonymous letters he had penned; addressing women, he would fling in their faces even their mothers’ dirty underwear. (Poor Pistoli was, after all, just like any other man. He liked people to greet him in advance and with respect.)

This is how Pistoli interpreted the letter:

“Mademoiselle M. happens to be in the interesting condition that makes women want to eat chalk, possibly even crave the white stucco off the wall. In other words, a condition that brings great joy to a childless household. But does Miss M. necessarily rejoice over her condition? In the present case I am to be the bit of chalk the little miss craves. But I am too old to serve as chalk for anyone.”