Journey by Moonlight

“But what will become of me? What shall I do tomorrow, and the day after? I expected a miraculous answer from you. I superstitiously believed that you would give me advice. Should I go back to Budapest, like the Prodigal Son, or start a new life, as a worker? Because I have done an apprenticeship. I’ve got a trade. It would be possible. Don’t leave me to myself. I’m so alone already. What shall I do?”

Ervin fished out a large peasant’s watch from the depths of his cowl.

“Right now, go and sleep. It’s almost midnight. I have to go to chapel. Go and sleep. I’ll take you to the room. And during my matutine I’ll think about you. Perhaps it’ll become clear … it’s happened before. Perhaps I’ll be able to tell you something tomorrow morning. Now go and sleep. Come.”

He led Mihály to the hospice. Given the deep state of distress that gripped him there seemed a fitness in the semi-darkened hall in which pilgrims down the centuries had dreamed of miraculous cures for their sufferings, yearnings and dearest hopes. Almost all the bunks were empty, though two or three pilgrims were asleep at the further end.

“Lie down, Mihály, and sleep well. Have a good, peaceful night,” said Ervin.

He made the sign of the cross over him, and hurried away.

For a long time Mihály sat on the side of the hard bed, his hands crossed on his lap. He was not in the least bit drowsy, and he was very depressed. Would anyone be able to help him? Would his road ever lead anywhere?

He knelt and prayed, for the first time in years.

Then he lay down. It was difficult to sleep on the hard bed, in unfamiliar surroundings. The pilgrims stirred restlessly on their bunks, sighed, moaned in their sleep. One of them kept calling for aid on Saints Joseph and Catharine and Agatha. When Mihály finally drifted off day was already breaking.

He woke in the morning with the exquisite feeling that he had dreamed of Éva. He did not remember the dream, but his whole body registered the silky euphoria that only that dream could give, or waking passion on very rare occasions. In the context of this bleak, ascetic sleeping-place, this mellow feeling took on a strange, paradoxical, sickly-sweet quality.

He rose, washed himself, an act of no little self-mortification in the antiquated washing-place, and went out into the courtyard. It was a bright, cool, breezy morning. The bell was just tolling for Mass, and brothers, lay people, monastery servants and pilgrims were hurrying from all directions into the chapel. Mihály joined them, and attended devoutly to the timeless Latin of the service. He was filled with a festive, happy feeling. Ervin would surely tell him what to do. Perhaps he would have to do penance. Yes, he would become a simple workman, earning his bread with the labour of his hands … He had the feeling that something new was beginning in him. It was for him that voices rose in song, for him rang out the crisp and mellow tones of the spring bells. For his special soul.

When Mass was over he went out into the courtyard. Ervin came up to him, smiling:

“How did you sleep?”

“Well, very well. I feel quite different from last night, I have no idea why.”

He looked at Ervin, full of expectation; then, when he said nothing, asked:

“Have you thought about what I should do?”

“Yes, Mihály,” Ervin said quietly. “I think you should go to Rome.”

“To Rome?” he blurted out in astonishment. “Why? How did you arrive at that?”

“Last night in the choir… I can’t really explain this to you, you’re not familiar with this type of meditation … I do know that you must go to Rome.”

“But why, Ervin, why?”

“So many pilgrims, exiles, refugees have gone to Rome, over the course of centuries, and so much has happened there … really, everything has always happened in Rome. That’s why they say, ‘All roads lead to Rome.’ Go to Rome, Mihály, and you’ll see. I can’t say anything more at present.”

“But what shall I do in Rome?”

“What you do doesn’t matter. Perhaps visit the four great basilicas of Christendom. Go to the catacombs. Whatever you feel like. It’s impossible to be bored in Rome. And above all, do nothing. Trust yourself to chance. Surrender yourself completely, don’t plan things … Can you do that?”

“Yes, Ervin, if you say so.”

“Then go immediately. Today you don’t have that hunted look on your face that you had yesterday. Use this auspicious day for your setting forth. Go. God be with you.”

Without waiting for a reply he embraced Mihály, offered the priestly left cheek and right cheek, and hurried away. Mihály stood for a while in astonishment, then gathered up his pilgrim’s bundle and set off down the mountain.

XII

WHEN ERZSI received the telegram Mihály had sent via the little fascista she did not linger in Rome. She had no wish to return home, not knowing how to explain the story of her marriage to people in Budapest. Following a certain geographical pull, she travelled to Paris, as people often do when they have no hopes or plans but wish to start a new life.