The following are the first three chapters from Krasznahorkai's twelve-part novel with a “tango-like” structure, Satantango, published in Hungarian in 1985 and later made into a film by Bela Tarr. The English translation, by George Szirtes, is a previously unpublished Almost Island exclusive.
I. The News of their Coming
One morning near the end of October, not long before the first drops of the mercilessly long autumn rains began to fall on the cracked and saline soil on the western side of the plot (so that later the stinking yellow sea of mud might render footpaths impassable and put the town too beyond reach) Futaki woke to hear bells. The closest possible source was a lonely chapel about four kilometres south-west on the old Hochmeiss estate but not only did that have no bell but the tower had collapsed during the war and it was too far to hear anything at that distance. And in any case, it was not of distant bells these ringing-booming triumphal sounds reminded him but something quite close (“ It was as if they came from the mill...”) swept along by the wind. He propped himself on his elbows on the pillow so as to look out of the mousehole-sized kitchen window that was partly misted up, towards the faint blue dawn sky but the field was still and silent bathed only in the ever fainter bell sound; and the only light to be seen was that percolating from the doctor's window among the other houses set well apart on the far side, and that was only because its occupant had for years been unable to sleep in the dark. He held his breath because he did not want to lose a single stray note of the rapidly fading clangor in order to know the truth (“ You are bound to be asleep, Futaki...”) and in order to be assured of it he needed to hear every single sound, however isolated. He hobbled on his famous cat-like feet across the ice-cold stone floor of the kitchen (“ But is no one awake? Don't people hear it? Is there nobody else?”), opened the windows, and leaned out. A sharp damp gust caught him so he had to close his eyes for a moment and, apart from the cockcrow, a distant bark and the howling of the persistent wind that had sprung up just a few minutes earlier, there was nothing to hear however hard he listened but the dull beat of his own heart, as if the whole thing had been merely a ghostly game, half-dream, as if (“ ... somebody out there wants to scare me”). He gazed sadly at the unpropitious looking sky, at the burned out remnants of a locust-plagued summer and suddenly saw, as in a vision, the progress of spring, summer, fall and winter on the twig of an acacia, as if the whole of time were a kind of fooling about within the sphere of eternity, a devilishly clever drawing forth of something straight out of chaos, establishing a vantage point while disguising anarchy to look like necessity... and he saw himself on a cross, its wood comprised of cradle and coffin, as he tried to jerk his body clear of suffering if only so that he might eventually render it - with no identifying mark, no sign of rank and stripped down to its essentials - into the care of those who wash down corpses, all by an order snapped out in the dry air against a background of guffawing from busy torturers and flailers of skin, who had decreed that he should take proper merciless measure of the human condition without the danger of a single path leading him back because if there was such a path it would immediately remind him that he had fallen into the company of cardsharps who had long ago decided the outcome of the game and who would, in the end, strip him even of his last means of defence, of the hope that some day he might find his way back home. He turned his head towards the east where a busy loud estate once stood, now nothing but a set of dilapidated and deserted buildings, watching while the first rays of a swollen red sun broke through the topmost beams of a derelict farmhouse from which the tiles had been stripped. “ I should make the decision at last. I can't stay here.” He drew the warm duvet over him again and laid his head on his arm, but he could not close his eyes; the ghostly bells had frightened him but it was the threatening silence afterwards that really did it because he felt anything might happen now. But he did not move a muscle in bed, not until the objects around him that had so far been merely listening started up a nervous conversation (the sideboard gave a creak, a saucepan rattled, a china plate slid into back into the rack) at which point he suddenly turned in the bed away from the sour perspiration smell of Mrs Schmidt, felt with his hand for the glass of water left standing by the bed and drained it at one gulp. Having done so he was free of his childish terror: he sighed, wiped his sweating brow, and knowing that Schmidt and Kráner were only just now herding the cattle together to drive them west from the Szikes towards the Farm byres to the west where they would eventually receive eight-months worth of hard-earned wages, and that this would take a good couple of hours, he decided to try and get a bit more sleep. He closed his eyes, turned on his side, put his arm around the woman and had almost succeeded in nodding off when he heard the bells again. “ For God's sake!” He pushed aside the duvet but the moment his naked corn-hardened feet touched the stone floor the bells suddenly stopped as if (“ Someone had given a signal...”)... He sat hunched on the edge of the bed his hands clasped in his lap till the empty glass caught his attention: his throat was dry, his right leg was suffering shooting pains and now he did not dare either get up or go back under the covers. “ I am leaving by tomorrow at the very latest.” He surveyed the vaguely usable articles in the bare kitchen, from the burned fat and cooking range filthy with leftover scraps, through the handle-less basket under the bed, the rickety table, the dusty icons hanging on the wall and the saucepans, his eye finally resting on the tiny window and the bare branches of the acacia bending across Halicsek's house with its dented roof and teetering chimney, the smoke blowing from it, and said, “ I'll grab what is mine and go tonight!.. No later than tomorrow at any rate. Tomorrow morning.” “ Dear God!” Mrs Schmidt cried, waking suddenly and stared about her in the dusk, terrified, her chest heaving, but when she saw that everything looked back at her with a familiar expression she gave a relieved sigh and slumped back on the pillow. “ What's the matter? Bad dreams?” Futaki asked her. Mrs Schmidt was staring at the ceiling in fright. “ Good Lord, and how!” She sighed again and put her hand on her heart. “ Such things! Me?!...Who'd have imagined?... There I am sitting in the room and... suddenly there is a knock at the window. I did not dare open it, just stood there, peeking through the curtains. I only saw his back because by now he was shaking the door-handle... and his mouth as he bellowed but God knows what he was saying... He was unshaven and it seemed his eyes were made of glass... it was horrible... Then I remembered I had only given the key one turn the previous night, but I also knew that by the time I got there it would be too late... so I quickly slammed the kitchen door but then I realised I didn't have the key... I wanted to scream but no sound came from my throat. Then... I don't exactly recall why or how but... suddenly Mrs Halics was at the window, grinning?... there she was staring into the kitchen and then, I don't know how, she vanished... though by that time the man outside was kicking at the door and he would be through it in a minute and break in, then I thought of the bread-knife and I dashed over to the cupboard but the drawer was jammed and I kept trying to open it... I thought I would die of terror... then I hear the great explosion of the door bursting open and somebody coming down the hall... I still couldn't open the drawer... then there he was at the kitchen door and now I finally succeeded in opening the drawer and grabbed the knife, and he was getting closer waving his arms about... but I don't know... suddenly he was lying on the floor in the corner by the window... and, yes, he had a lot of red and blue saucepans with him that started flying all over the kitchen... and then I felt the floor move under me and, just imagine, the whole kitchen set off, like a car... and I don't know any more after that...” she ended and laughed in relief. “ We're a fine pair,” Futaki shook his head. “ I woke to, what do you think? To someone ringing bells...” “ What!” the woman stared at him in astonishment. “ Someone was ringing bells? Where?” “I don't understand it either. In fact not once but twice, one after the other...” It was Mrs Schmidt's turn to shake her head. “You, you'll end up going crazy.” “Or I might have dreamt it all too,” grumbled Futaki nervously. “Mark my words. Something is going to happen today.” The woman turned to him angrily. “You're always saying that, just leave it alone, can't you?” Suddenly they heard the gate creaking open at the back. They stared each other in fright. “It must be him,” whispered Mrs Schmidt. “I can feel it.” Futaki sat up in shock. “But, but that's impossible! How could they have got back yet...?” “How should I know...? Go! Go now!” He leapt out of bed, grabbed his clothes, stuck them under his arm, shut the door behind him and dressed. “My stick. I have left my stick out there.” The Schmidts hadn't used the room since spring. Green mildew covered the cracked and peeling walls, but the clothes in the cupboard that was regularly cleaned were also mildewed, as were the towels and all the bedding and a couple of weeks was all it took for the cutlery saved in the drawer for special occasions to develop a coating of rust, and what with the legs of the lace covered big table having worked loose, the curtains having yellowed and the light-bulb having gone out one day they moved into the kitchen for good and, since there was nothing they could do to stop it happening anyway, left the room to be colonised by spiders and mice. He leaned against the doorpost and pondered how he might get out without being seen, but the situation seemed pretty hopeless because in order for him to sneak out he would have to pass through the kitchen and he felt too decrepit to clamber through the window where he would, in any case, be observed by Mrs Kráner or Mrs Halics who spent half their lives peeking through their own windows to keep an eye on affairs outside. Besides which his stick, if Schmidt should discover it, would immediately betray the fact that he was hiding somewhere in the house and if that happened he might not receive his share at all since he knew Schmidt did not consider such things a joking matter, and he would have to scram much as he had seven years before - not long after the news spread, in the second month of his renaissance - when he first arrived here hungry in a single pair of ragged trousers and a faded greatcoat with empty pockets. Mrs Schmidt ran into the hall while he put his ear to the door. “No whining, sweetheart!” he heard Schmidt's hoarse voice. “You'll do as I tell you. Is that clear?” Futaki felt a hot rush of blood. “My money.” He felt trapped. But he had no time to think so decided to climb out of the window after all because, “something had to be done right away.” He was about to open the window catch when he heard Schmidt going down the hall. “He's going to have a piss!” He tiptoed back to the door and held his breath to listen. And once he heard Schmidt close the door to the back yard, he carefully slipped into the kitchen, took the measure of a nervously fidgeting Mrs Schmidt and silently hurried to the front door, stepped out, and once he was sure his mate was back inside gave the door a good clatter as if he were just arriving. “What's up? Nobody at home? Hey, Schmidt!” he shouted as loud as he could, then - so as not to leave him any time to escape - immediately opened the door and blocked Schmidt's way out of the kitchen. “Well, well!” he asked in a mocking voice. “Where are we going in such a hurry, friend?” Schmidt was utterly stuck for words. “No, well I'll tell you, friend! Don't you worry, friend. I'll help you, don't you worry!” he continued with a deep frown. “You wanted to make off with the money! Am I right? Have I got it in one?” And since Schmidt still said nothing but was rapidly blinking, he shook his head. “Well, friend. Who would have thought it?” They went back into the kitchen and sat down facing each other. Schmidt was nervously fiddling with objects on the cooking range. “Listen, friend...” Schmidt stuttered. “I can explain...” Futaki waved him away. “I understand without explanations! Tell me, is Kráner part of this?” Schmidt was forced to nod. “A little.” “Sons of bitches!” Futaki raged. “You thought you'd get one over on me.” He bowed his head. He thought. “And now? What happens now?” he asked in the end. Schmidt spread his arms. He was angry. “What do you mean: what's next? You are one of us, friend.” “What do you mean?” Futaki enquired, mentally calculating sums. “Let the three of us split it,” Schmidt answered reluctantly. “But keep your mouth shut about it.” “Don't you worry about that.” Mrs Schmidt was standing by the range and gave a sigh. “Have you lost your minds? Do you think you can get away with this?” Schmidt acted as though he hadn't heard. He fixed his eye on Futaki. “There, you can't say we haven't made it clear. But there's something else I want to say to you, friend. Don't you mess things up for me.” “We've agreed, haven't we?” “Yes, of course, there's no doubt about that, not for a second!” Schmidt continued, his voice changing to a pleading whine. “All I ask is... I want you to lend me your share for a short time! Just for a year! While we settle down somewhere...” “And what other part of your anatomy do you want me to lick, friend?!” Futaki snapped back at him. Schmidt flopped forward and grasped the edge of the able. “I wouldn't ask you if you yourself hadn't said you'd not be shifting from here now. What do you need it all for? And it's just for a year... a year, that's all!... We have to have it, you understand, we just have to. I can't buy anything with the rags I'm standing up in, I can't even get a plot of land. Lend me ten at least, eh?” “I'm not interested!” Futaki answered. “I don't give a damn. I don't want to rot here either!” Schmidt shook his head furiously, so angry he was practically crying, then began again, obstinate but ever more helpless, his elbows propped on the kitchen table that rocked each time he moved as if taking his part, begging his partner to “have a heart” and respond to the pleading gestures of his friend, and it wouldn't have taken much more to succeed since he had almost resolved to give in when his eye caught on the million specks of dust swirling in a thin beam of sunlight and his nose became aware of the dank smell of the kitchen. Suddenly there was a sour taste on his tongue and he thought it was death. Since the farm had been split up, since people had been in as much rush to get away as they had been to come here and since he - along with a few families, with the doctor and the headmaster who, like him, had nowhere else to go - had found himself unable to move, it being the same, day after day, tasting the same range of food while knowing that death meant getting used to the soup, then the meat dishes, then to go on consuming the very walls, chewing long laborious mouthfuls before swallowing, slowly sipping at the wine rarely enough set in front of him, or the water, he sometimes felt an irresistible desire to break off a chunk of nitrous plaster in the machine hall of the old pump-house he lived in and cram it into his mouth so that he might recognise the Beware sign in the disturbing riot of normally ordered flavours, because he believed that death was only a kind of warning rather than a desperate and permanent end. “I'm not asking for a gift,” Schmidt continued, flagging now. “It's a loan. You understand? A loan. I'll return every last cent of it in precisely a year.” They sat at the table, both of them worn out, Schmidt's eyes burning from exhaustion. Futaki was furiously studying the mysterious patterns of the stone tiling. He mustn't show he is afraid, though he would have found it hard to explain what it was he was afraid of. “Just tell me this. How many times did I go out to Szikes, all by myself, in that intolerable heat where a man is scared to breathe the air in case it set fire to his insides?! Who got hold of the wood? Who built that sheepfold?! I have contributed just as much as you have, or Kráner, or Halics! And now you have the nerve to touch me for a loan. Oh yes, and it'll all be returned next time I see you, eh!” “In other words you don't trust me,” Schmidt replied, affronted. “Darn right!” Futaki snapped back. “You and Kráner meet up before dawn, plan to make off with all the money and after all that you expect me to trust you?! Do you take me for an idiot?” They sat silently together. The woman was clattering dishes by the stove. While Schmidt looked cheated, Futaki rolled a cigarette with trembling hands and got up from the table, limped over to the window, leant on his stick with his left hand and watched rain billowing over the rooftops, the trees bowing obedient to the wind, their bare branches describing threatening arcs in the air. He thought of the roots, the life-giving sap that was now soaking the earth and of the silence, of the unspoken feeling of completion he so dreaded. “In that case tell me....!” he asked in a hesitant manner, “Why you came back, once...” “Why? Why?!” Schmidt grumbled. “Because that is what occurred to us on the way home. And before we could think better of it we had got back... And then there was the woman... Would I have left her here?...” Futaki nodded. “What about Kráner” he asked after a while. “What's your arrangement with him?” “They're stuck at home, like us. They want to head north. Mrs Kráner heard there was an available copse or something there that had been blown up. We are to meet by the cross after dark was what we arranged.” Futaki gave a sigh. “A long day ahead. What about the others? Halics? The manager?...” Schmidt rubbed his fingers together despondently. “How should I know? I reckon Halics will spend the whole day asleep, there was a big do yesterday at the Horgoses. As for his highness, the manager, he can go to hell at the earliest opportunity! If there's any trouble on his account, I'll drown the sonofabitch in the next ditch, so relax, buddy, relax.” They decided to wait in the kitchen till the night fell. Futaki drew up a chair by the window so that he could keep an eye on the houses opposite while Schmidt was overcome by sleep, slumped over the table and began to snore. As for the woman she brought the big iron-strapped military trunk out from behind the cupboards, wiped away the dust on it, inside and out, then wordlessly began packing their things. “It's raining,” said Futaki. “I can hear,” replied the woman. The weak sunlight only just succeeded in penetrating a jumbled mass of cloud that was slowly proceeding eastwards: the light in the kitchen dimmed as if it were dusk and it was hard to know whether the gently vibrating patches on the wall were merely shadows or sinister marks left by the despair underlying their faintly hopeful thoughts. “I'll go south,” Futaki declared, gazing at the rain. “At least the winters are shorter there. I'll rent some land near a growing town and spend the day dangling my feet in a bowl of hot water...” Raindrops were gently trickling down both sides of the window owing to the finger-wide crack that ran all the way from the wooden beam to the window frame, slowly filling it up then pushing their way along the beam where they divided once more into drops that began to drip into Futaki's lap, while he, being so absorbed in his visions of far away places that he could not get back to reality, utterly failed to notice that he had actually wet himself. “Or I might go and take a job as a night-watchman in a chocolate factory... or perhaps as janitor in a girls' boarding school... and I will try to forget everything and do nothing but soak my feet in a bowl of hot water each night, while this filthy life passes...” The rain that had been gently pouring till now suddenly turned into a veritable deluge, like a river breaking over a dam, drowning the already choking fields, the lower lying of which were running in serpentine channels, and though it was impossible to see anything through the glass he did not turn away but stared at the worm-eaten wooden frame from which the putty had dropped out, when suddenly a vague form appeared at the window, one that eventually could be made out to be a human face, though he could not tell at first whose it was, until he succeeded in picking out a pair of startled eyes, at which point he saw “his own careworn features,” recognizing them with a shock like a stab of pain since he felt the rain was doing exactly what time would do to his face. It would wash it away. There was in that reflection something enormous and alien, a kind of poverty radiating from it, moving towards him, compounded of layers of shame, pride and fear. Suddenly he felt that sour taste in his mouth again and he remembered the bells tolling at dawn, the glass of water, the bed, the acacia bough, the cold flagstones in the kitchen and thinking of these he pulled a bitter pouting face. A bowl of hot water!... Devil take it!... Don't I bathe my feet every day?...? Somewhere behind him he heard the sound of choked-off sobbing. “What's bugging you then?” Mrs Schmidt did not answer him but turned away, the sobs shaking her shoulders. “You hear me? What's up with you?” The woman looked up at him then simply sat down on the nearby stool and blew her nose like someone to whom speech was pointless. “Why don't you say something,” Futaki insisted. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Where on earth should we go!” erupted Mrs Schmidt in bitterness. “The first town we come to some policeman is bound to stop us! Don't you understand? They won't even ask our names!” “What are you blathering about?” Futaki angrily retorted. “You will be loaded with money. And as for you--” “That is exactly what I mean!” the woman interrupted him. “The money! You at least might have some sense! To go away with this rotten old trunk... like a band of beggars!” Futaki was furious. “That's enough, now. Don't interfere. It has nothing to do with you. Your job is to shut up.” Mrs Schmidt would not let it rest. “What?” she snapped. “What is my job?” “Forget it,” Futaki answered quietly. “Keep it down or you'll wake him.” Time was passing very slowly and, lucky for them, the alarm clock had long stopped working so there was not even the sound of ticking to remind them of time, nevertheless the woman gazed at the still hands as she gave the paprika stew the occasional stir while the two men sat wearily by the steaming plates in front of them not touching them despite Mrs Schmidt's constant badgering for them to get on with it (“What are you waiting for? Do you want to eat at night, soaked to the skin in the mud?”) They did not turn the light on although objects washed into each other during that agonizing wait, the pans by the wall coming to life along with the icons on the wall and it even seemed there was someone in the bed. They hoped to escape these hallucinatory visions by stealing glances at one another but all three faces radiated helplessness, and while they knew they couldn't get started till nightfall (because they were sure that Mrs Halics or the manager would be sitting at their windows watching the path to Szikes with even greater anxiety now that Schmidt and Kráner were almost half a day late), every so often Schmidt or the woman made a move as if to say, blow caution, let's make a start at dusk. “They're off to see a movie,” Futaki quietly declared. “Mrs Halics, Mrs Kráner and the manager, Halics.” “Mrs Kráner?” Schmidt snapped. “Where?” And he rushed to the window. “He's right. He's darn right,” Mrs Schmidt nodded. “Hush!” Schmidt turned on her. “Don't be in such a hurry, sweetheart!” Futaki calmed him. “That's a smart woman. We have to wait till dark anyway, don't we? And this way no one gets suspicious, right?” Schmidt was edgy but sat back down at the table and buried his face in his hands. Futaki carried on despondently puffing smoke by the window. Mrs Schmidt drew out a length of twine from the depths of the kitchen cupboard and since the locks were too rusty to close, tied the trunk up with it and set it down by the door before sitting down next to her husband and clasping her hands together. “What are we waiting for?” asked Futaki. “Let's share out the money.” Schmidt stole a glance at his wife. “Don't we have time enough for that, old man?” Futaki rose and joined them at the table. He spread his legs and, rubbing his stubbled chin, fixed his eyes on Schmidt. “I say we share it out.” Schmidt ran a hand over his brow. “What are you worried about? You'll get your share when it's time.” “Then what are you waiting for, friend?” “What's with the fuss? Let's wait till we get Kramer's contribution.” Futaki smiled. “Look, it's very simple. We just halve what you've got there. Then when we get what's owing we'll split that at the cross.” “All right,” Schmidt agreed. “Fetch the torch.” “I'll do it,” the woman leapt up, agitated. Schmidt plunged his hand into his trench coat and brought out a package tied round with string and somewhat drenched through. “Wait,” cried Mrs Schmidt and quickly wiped the table with a rag. “Now.” Schmidt shoved a piece of paper under Futaki's nose. (“The document,” he said, “just so you see I am not trying to cheat you.”) Who tipped his head to one side and briefly took stock of it before pronouncing: “Let's get counting.” He pressed the torch into the woman's hand and watched the bank notes with shining eyes as they passed through Schmidt's stubby fingers and slowly piled up at the far side of the table, and, as he watched, his anger slowly evaporated, because now he understood how 'a man's mind might well get addled at the sight of so much cash, that he'd risk a lot to possess it'. Suddenly he felt his stomach cramp up, his mouth filled with saliva and, as the sweat-spotted wad in Schmidt's hand, began to shrink, and swell the piles on the other side of the table, the light from the flickering unsteady light in Mrs Schmidt's hand seemed to be shining in his eye as if she were deliberately doing it to blind him and he felt dizzy and weak, recovering only when Schmidt's cracked voice announced: “That's the precise amount!” But just as he was reaching forward to take his half share somebody right by the window shouted: “Are you in, Mrs Schmidt, darling?” Schmidt snatched the torch from his wife's hand and snapped it off, pointing to the table, whispering: “Quick, hide it!” Mrs Schmidt lightning fast, sweeping it all together and stuffing the bills between her breasts, mouthing almost silently: “Miss-us Ha-lics!” Futaki sprang to conceal himself between the range and the cupboard, back tight against the wall, visible only as two phosphorescent points, as if he were a cat. “Go out and tell her to go to hell!” Schmidt whispered, escorting her as far as the door where she froze for an instant before giving a sigh and stepping out into the hall, clearing her throat as she did so. “All right, all right, I'm going!” “We'll be fine providing she didn't see the light!” Schmidt whispered to Futaki though he himself did not really believe that, and having hidden himself behind the door was so nervous he had a job remaining in one place. “If she dares take a step in I'll throttle her,” he thought in desperation and swallowed hard. These early morning bells, Mrs Halics's unexpected appearance, it must be a conspiracy, there must be some significant connection, and as the slowly drifting smoke enveloped him it fired his imagination once more. “Maybe there'll be life on the estate yet? They might bring new machines, new people might come, everything could start all over again. They could mend the walls, give the buildings a fresh coat of lime-wash and get the pumphouse going. They might be wanting a machinist, mightn't they?” Mrs Schmidt stood in the door, her face pale. “You can come out,” she said in a hoarse voice and turned on the light. Schmidt leapt over to her, blinking furiously. “What are you doing? Turn it off! They might see us!” Mrs Schmidt shook her head. “Forget it. Everyone knows I'm at home, don't they?” Schmidt was obliged to nod in acknowledgment as he grabbed her arm. “So what happened? Did she notice the light?” “Yes,” Mrs Schmidt replied, “but I told her I was so nervous on account of you still not having returned that I fell asleep waiting and when I suddenly woke and turned the light on the bulb blew. I said I was just changing the bulb when she called out and that was why the torch was on...” Schmidt murmured in approval then grew anxious again. “What about us? What did she say... did she spot us?” “No, I'm certain she didn't.” Schmidt breathed a sigh of relief. “Then what in God's name did she want?” The woman looked blank. “She's gone mad,” she replied quietly. “No surprise there,” Schmidt remarked. “She said...” Mrs Schmidt added, her voice hesitant, looking now at Schmidt, now at the tensely attentive Futaki, “she said that Irimias and Petrina were coming down the metalled road... they were on their way to the estate! And that they might already have arrived at the inn...” For a minute or so neither Futaki nor Schmidt were capable of saying anything. “Apparently the conductor of the long-distance bus... he saw them in town...” the woman broke the silence and bit her lip. “And that he set out... they set out for the estate... in this furious weather, this time of judgment... the conductor saw them as he turned off for Elek, that's where he has his farmstead, he was hurrying home.” Futaki sprang to his feet. “Irimias? And Petrina?” Schmidt gave a laugh. “That woman. Mrs Halics really has gone mad this time. She's been at the Bible too much. It's gone to her head.” Mrs Schmidt stood stock still. Then she spread out her helpless arms and ran over to the range and flung herself on the stool propping her head on her hand. “Should it be true...” Schmidt turned on her, impatient. “But they're dead!” “If it should be true...” Futaki repeated quietly as if completing Mrs Schmidt's line of thought, “then the Horgos kid was simply lying...” Mrs Schmidt suddenly raised her head to look at Futaki. “And we had only his word for it,” she said. “That's right,” Futaki nodded and lit another cigarette, his hand trembling. “And do you remember? I said back there was something not quite right about the story... there was something about it I didn't like. But no-one listened to me... and eventually I gave in and accepted it.” Mrs Schmidt kept her eyes on Futaki as if she were trying to transfer her thoughts to him. “He lied. The kid simply lied. It's not so hard to imagine. In fact it's very easy to imagine...” Schmidt stared nervously, now at him, now at his wife. “It's not Mrs Halics that's gone mad, it's you two.” Neither Futaki nor Mrs Schmidt ventured an answer but looked at each other. “Have you lost your mind?!” Schmidt burst out and took a step towards Futaki. “You, you old cripple!” But Futaki shook his head. “No, my friend. No... You're right, Mrs Halics has not gone mad,” he told Schmidt then turned to the woman, announcing: “I'm sure it's true. I'm going down to the inn.” Schmidt closed his eyes and tried to govern his temper. “Eighteen months! Eighteen months they've been dead. Everyone knows that! People don't joke about such things. Don't fall for it. It's just a trap! You understand? A trap!” But Futaki hadn't even heard him, he was already buttoning his coat. “It will be all right, you'll see,” he declared, and you could tell by the firmness of his voice that his mind was made up. “Irimias,” he added, smiling and he put his hand on Schmidt's shoulder, “is a great magician. He could turn a pile of cowshit into a palace.. if he wanted to.” Schmidt lost his head entirely. He grabbed hold of Futaki's coat and yanked him closer. “It's you who's a pile of cowshit, friend,” he grimaced, “and that's all you'll ever be, let me tell you, a pile of shit. You think I'm going to let a peabrain like you do me down? No, friend, no. You're not going to get in my way!” Futaki calmly returned his gaze. “I've no intention of doing so, old man.” “Yes? And what will become of the money?” Futaki bowed his head. “You can split it with Kraner. You can make like nothing has happened.” Schmidt sprang to the door and barred their way. “Idiots!” he screamed. “You're idiots! Go fuck yourselves, the pair of you! But as for my money...” he raised his finger, “you will deposit that on the table.” He looked menacingly at the woman. “You hear me, you lousy... You'll leave the money right there. Understand?!” Mrs Schmidt made no move. An unusual, peculiar light flashed in her eyes. She slowly rose and moved towards Schmidt. Every muscle of her face was tense, her lips had grown extraordinarily narrow and Schmidt found himself the object of such intense contempt and mockery he was forced to step back and gaze at the woman in astonishment. “Don't you go screaming at me, you dummy,” said Mrs Schmidt quite quietly. “ I'm going out. You can do what you like.” Futaki was picking his nose. “Look friend,” he added, his voice also quiet, “if they are really here you won't be able to escape Irimias anyway, you know that yourself. And what happens then?...” Schmidt felt his way over to the table and slumped in a chair. “The dead resurrected!” he muttered to himself. “And these two happy to take the bait... Ha ha ha. I can't help laughing!” He brought his fist down on the table. “Can't you see what the game is?! They must have suspected something and now they want to lure us out... Futaki, old man, you at least should have a drop of sense in you...” But Futaki wasn't listening; he was standing by the window, his hands locked. “Do you remember?” he said. “The time the rent was nine days late, while he..” Mrs Schmidt brusquely cut him off. “He always got us out a mess.” “ Filthy traitors. I might have guessed,” Schmidt mumbled. Futaki moved away from the window and stood behind him. “If you are really so sceptical,” he advised Schmidt, “let's send your wife ahead... She can say she is looking for you... and so on...” “But you can bet your life on it it's true,” the woman added. The money remained in Mrs Schmidt's bra since Schmidt himself was quite convinced that was the best place for it though he insisted he would far rather it were secured there with a piece of string and they had to work hard to persuade him to sit down again because he was off somewhere to look for something. “All right, I'm going,” said Mrs Schmidt and, quick as lightning, was already in her coat, pulling on her boots and was off running, soon disappearing into the darkness through the ditches surrounding the carriageway leading to the inn, avoiding the deeper puddles, not once turning back to look at them, leaving them there, two faces by the window, the rain washing over them. Futaki rolled a cigarette and blew out smoke, happy and hopeful, all tension gone, the weight lifted from him, dreamily contemplating the ceiling; he was thinking of the machine hall in the pumphouse, already hearing the cough, the splutter, the painful but successful sound of machines long silent starting up again, and it was as though he could smell the freshly limewashed walls... when they heard the outside door open and Schmidt had just enough time to leap to his feet before Mrs Kraner was announcing: “They're here! Have you heard?!” Futaki stood and nodded and put his hat on. Schmidt had collapsed at the table. “My husband,” Mrs Kraner gabbled, “he has already started and just sent me across to tell you if you didn't know already though I'm sure you know, we could see through our window that Mrs Halics had dropped by, but I've got to go, I don't want to bother you, and as for the money, my husband said, let it rot, it's not for the likes of us, he said and... he's right because why hide and run, with never a moment of calm, who wants that, and Irimias, well you'll see, and Petrina, I knew that it couldn't be true, any of it, so help me, I never trusted that sneaky Horgos kid, you can tell from his eyes, you can see for yourselves how he made it all up and kept it up till we believed him, I tell you, I knew from the start...” Schmidt examined her suspiciously. “So you're in on it,” he said and gave a short bitter laugh. Mrs Kraner raised her eyebrows at that and disappeared through the door in confusion. “Are you coming, old man?” Futaki enquired after a while and suddenly they were both at the door. Schmidt led with Futaki hobbling behind with his stick, the wind snapping at the edges of his coat as he held on to his hat to prevent it flying away into the mud and tapped his blind way in the darkness, while the rain poured pitilessly down washing away both Schmidt's curses and his own words of encouragement that eventually resolved into a repeated phrase: “Don't go regretting anything, old man! You'll see. It will be cushy for us. A golden age”