Read Online Iza's Ballad by Magda Szabó, George Szirtes - Free Book Online

threw off the dressing gown and prepared to lie down next to Iza again. The girl turned but didn’t wake: fast asleep and dreaming, her very breath a form of sadness. Now that she was facing the wall she could clearly see the picture, the painting above her bed that watched over her dreams. There goes the little girl, her basket on her arm, treading a rickety old footbridge, under the bridge a foaming mountain stream, her basket full of strawberries. You could practically hear the water beating at the rocks below, almost sucking her in, sweeping away the little aproned figure, and yet you wouldn’t worry for her, because an angel was hovering over her, its sandal-shod feet steady in the air above the loose planks, its two arms extended in protection round the child who is carefree, chasing a butterfly over the rocky depths and the small, severe river.

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    THE ORDER OF the next few days was determined by rural funeral customs. The mourners who came home with her were not too fussed about proprieties and stayed longer than the generally approved fifteen minutes though the old woman didn’t mind: she liked talking about Vince. She served liqueur to her guests because the weather was unusually cold again, as if March were at war with itself, bringing hard winter days to frustrate the promise of spring. Iza said it was a barbaric custom having crowds round before a burial. She hated guests and was never at home. But there was no alternative and there was so much to do. Iza spent one morning at the clinic with Dekker, arranging things with the trade union social services, organised the funeral and was constantly negotiating at the estate office since it was no simple matter selling the house.
    Apart from one unexpected local council member and a young clerk of court who was a total stranger, there was no one who failed to speak of Iza as well as Vince. Iza’s reputation, her important job and the money she sent monthly, the regular supply of fuel she ordered for her parents, how she took them to the shoe shop, to the tailor’s and to the doctor, was a matter of constant street gossip. The idea that she was moving her mother to Budapest was no surprise to anyone. Iza couldn’t have done anything else; that was just the way she was. She was not only a brilliant doctor, a properly grateful child, but a good person. Mrs Szo ̋ cs must be so pleased with her. Old Vince had gone, of course, poor thing, but here was his daughter to take his place as protector. What delight it must be to move to Budapest, to leave sad memories behind and to enjoy a happy old age in new circumstances: it was not just to be free of cares and worries but to avoid loneliness at seventy-five and to give oneself over to peaceful reflection! Iza would look after her, she’d have nothing to worry about for the rest of her life.
    Iza really did do everything for her mother, even tiny, insignificant-looking things. She cooked for her, made sure she ate, and when the doorbell rang and she happened to be at home she ran to answer it to make sure her mother didn’t have to rush. Her great head of hair floated after her as she made speed. Vince hadn’t been the same for ages and had to be excused various duties so all the responsibility was on the old woman’s shoulders, right down to apparently small and insignificant tasks like opening the gate, which could be a serious problem when it rained in the winter because of the mud. Now it was Iza who would run to answer in the heavy downpour in her black skirt and pullover, looking as young as she had when she lived in the house as a girl, or as a bride of two days.
    There was plenty for her to do and not much time for crying or thinking.
    Before she left Pest she had taken a few days out of those due for her summer vacation and wanted to settle everything in that time – the funeral, discussions about the inheritance, the sale of now useless possessions, the moving and even the matter of the house. ‘I don’t