Aleksandar Tisma - The Book of Blam

*

“Does Lajos Kocsis live here?”

“What do you want him for?”

“I just want to talk to him. Is he in?”

“If it’s about money, you might as well leave now. Half of his salary goes to pay off his loans. And the three kids you see here? He’s their sole support.”

“Are they his?”

“They’re mine, comrade, and I won’t let anybody take a crumb away from them, understand?”

“The Kocsis I’m looking for is an old man. I think they gave me the wrong address. How old is your husband?”

“Who gave you my address anyway?”

“A common friend. I’m trying to give him money, not take it from him. Is that him in the picture with you and your children?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then I apologize. Please forget I ever came.”

*

“Does Lajos Kocsis live here?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Sleeping.”

“Are you related?”

“I’m his mother-in-law.”

“Can you tell me if he ever lived in Vojvoda Šupljikac Square?”

“Where? Wait a second. Marta! Marta!”

“What is it?”

“This man wants to talk to Laci.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I may be wrong. I’m looking for a Lajos Kocsis who moved to Budapest during the war. Could that be your husband?”

“My husband was in Budapest during the war. In the army. What do you want from him?”

“The Kocsis I’m looking for went to Budapest as a civilian with a woman who lived in Vojvoda Šupljikac Square.”

“What are you talking about? They took him against his will and he came back with his legs cut off. Mother, can’t you see the man is drunk?”

*

“Are you Lajos Kocsis?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, then I must be wrong. The one I’m looking for is shorter than you and heavier. Maybe younger too.”

“Cukros?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you looking for the Lajos Kocsis people call Cukros? He’s my nephew.”

“Did he happen to live in Vojvoda Šupljikac Square during the war?”

“Yes, yes, I think so. Come in.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Not at all. I’m all alone here. And bored. It’s so hot this afternoon.”

“Yes. Now this Kocsis you mention, this…”

“Cukros.”

“Right. Was he married?”

“Yes, of course. Three times. His first wife was from Srem. He was in the army, in Mitrovica. Then he got mixed up with somebody else. You know how it is when you’re young. But it didn’t last, and they broke up.”

“Any children?”

“With the first wife? I don’t think so. They only had two years together, if I remember correctly.”

“No, I mean any children at all. And did he spend any time in Budapest?”

“Oh, he’s been everywhere. Even America.”

“For how long?”

“He was there for a good ten years, I think.”

“When was that?”

“I can’t give you the exact date. He went as a bricklayer, but then the war broke out and he couldn’t get back. His second wife was from there.”

“So he wasn’t here during the war.”

“No, I told you. He couldn’t get back. The borders were closed.”

“Well, then I am wrong. He’s not the Kocsis I’m looking for. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Oh, you don’t need to rush off. We were having a good talk. I used to be a teacher; I’m used to talking to people. If you’re interested in other Kocsises, I can tell you that our family came here from Hungary, from Hortobágy. I went to Hungary once, and while I was there I thought I’d go to our village, Korpány. My grandfather used to tell us about it. Anyway, I get there and what do I find but seven families with the name Kocsis! Let me show you the picture we took. Just one second. I live alone and things aren’t as orderly as they might be.”

*

“Some other time, perhaps. I have to be going. Believe me, I have to go. Goodbye.”

*

“I’m looking for Lajos Kocsis.”

“You are? What for? Who are you?”

“An old friend. Is he in?”

“So you don’t know!”

“Don’t know what?”

“Oh God! He’s dead. Papa’s dead. He died not three weeks ago. His heart. After six days in the hospital. We hoped it would help, but no. If only I’d kept him here at home…”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. But maybe your father isn’t the Kocsis I’m looking for. Did he spend any time in Budapest?”

“Quite a bit. My sister lives there with her husband.”

“No, I mean any extended time. During the war.”

“No, we spent the war in Serbia, in Kraljevo. My mother was killed in the station bombing there.”

“Then he’s not the one. I’m very sorry.”

*

“I’m looking for Lajos Kocsis.”

“He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“How should I know? I don’t ask him where he goes.”

“Are you his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Did your husband ever live in Vojvoda Šupljikac Square?”

“What square?”

“Vojvoda Šupljikac. In the center of town. There was a widow living there with her lame daughter. Did your husband ever stay with them?”

“What business is it of yours? Who are you anyway? Why are you cross-examining me?”

“So it is him. Sorry, ma’am, I just needed to know if he was the Kocsis I was looking for. He moved to Budapest during the war, didn’t he? And then came back. He’s the one, isn’t he?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything. And if it’s his floozy who’s sent you, you can nab him whenever you like. I don’t care.”

“I’m not going to ‘nab’ him. I just wanted to know where he lives.”

*

“See that house over there, little boy?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s a man living there whose name is Lajos Kocsis. Know who I mean?”

“What’s his name again?”

“Lajos Kocsis. An old man. Know him?”

“No.”

“Sure you do. You play here, don’t you? The old man in that yellow house.”

“Oh, him.”

“There, you see? Now, where do you think he is?”

“You mean now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know where he is now, but I know he went to the bar.”

“What bar?”

“Two streets down, on the corner.”

“You saw him go in?”

“He’s there all the time. Every day.”

“Show me where it is, and I’ll give you money for an ice cream.”

*

“This is it, eh? Then lean your bike against the wall and peek in and tell me if the old man’s there. Don’t go in; just peek through the door. Okay?”

“Okay.”

*

“Well, is he there?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Where’s he sitting? Where in the room? Left? Right? Front? Back?”

“He’s not sitting; he’s standing.”

“I see. At the bar?”

“Yes.”

“Is he the only one there?”

“No, there’s some others too.”

“Look, give me your hand and we’ll go in together. Right. Now tell me which one he is. The one with the cap on?”

“No.”

“What about the one next to him? Yes, yes, he’s the one. Gray hair, hunched back, faded green shirt. He’s the one, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go. I’ll walk you to the corner. Here’s the money I promised. But don’t tell a soul. I want this to be our secret, and if you keep it, I’ll come back every once in a while for a chat. And each time I’ll give you money for an ice cream.”

THE BLAM FAMILY tree can be traced back a century and a half to 1812, when a group of approximately four hundred refugees from Alsace, the survivors of a pogrom occasioned by the proclamation of the Edict of Tolerance, headed south to Switzerland. The group included a tanner by the name of Nachmia and his wife, their six children, and his wife’s father. Her father and their youngest child, Noema, died of hunger and cold on the way and were buried in two neighboring ravines on two successive days. Switzerland proved inhospitable in another respect: its Calvinist pastors forbade their flocks to have dealings with the refugees or even let them into their villages. Then a landlord in the town of Turs, which had its own Jewish colony of twenty-six families, allowed the refugees to settle there, though they had to live outside its borders and pay a head tax of one thaler a year. Since the earlier Jewish settlers were not required to pay tribute, the newcomers tried to deceive the landlord by mixing with them, which led to conflicts and reprisals.