They Were Divided - Miklos Banffy [137]
Soon the great moment arrived.
Pityu Kendy called out, ‘Guards! Do your duty!’
The two young Laczoks, Dezso and Erno, stepped forward wearing ancient military shakos, which Pityu had found in some drawer, and hung around with rusted sabres and dilapidated sabretaches. Both men were short and stocky with markedly Tartar features. They were as alike as twins. Standing strictly at attention they made an impressive pair with their gold-fringed headgear, even though this was somewhat moth-eaten.
Then came the command, ‘Bring the accused up before the house!’
The two Laczoks clattered away and the guests followed them out onto the long stone terrace in front of the house. There they settled down in a semi-circle, on chairs that the footman and maid brought out from the dining-room. The chairs wobbled a little on the uneven paving stones, but the guests were in no state to notice. The sun was shining, the lovely pale sun of the beginning of winter, and everyone was eager for the fun to begin.
As the gentry settled themselves in their chairs, two gypsy bands took up their positions, one on each side, holding their instruments at the ready, and the village folk crowded together on the lawn in front of the house, all in festive clothes, young and old alike, the girls in their most elaborate finery. Among them a swarm of children tumbled about, sometimes running up close to the terrace and having to be dragged back before they reached the terrace steps for they were too young to know their place.
Balint saw that among the crowd were all the men who had seemed so eager to get away from the Co-operative meeting.
Everywhere there was an air of expectancy and excitement, especially down on the lawn for they all knew that later there was to be a barbecue in the farmyard, with quantities of wine and gypsy music.
Now the gentlemen gaolers brought up the accused. It was a large wooden five-litre wine jug and they were carrying it by two handles that looked like arms. The belly of the jug was painted with flowers of all colours and the dome-shaped lid represented a face with wide slanting eyes and a huge moustache made of some kind of fur.
The culprit was carried up with stiff formality, in a most soldier-like manner, and placed on a bench that a footman hastily slid under it.
The arrival was greeted with cheers and, strangely enough, squatting there on the bench between two guards, who stood erect with drawn swords, the accused had an air of knowing malice, seeming to challenge everyone present, guards, judges and spectators alike with a look of pride in his own wickedness.
The trial started, not in the usual way for Pityu himself was to be prosecutor, witness and judge and also, as everyone could see, executioner too, for strapped to his waist was his officer’s revolver in its leather holster.
Pityu rose to his feet and, to a flourish from the gypsy bands, waved in the air the prosecution’s crime-sheet.
‘You vile scoundrel!’ cried Pityu, and after this unflattering start proceeded to enumerate the crimes of which Brandy was accused: that he made men unsteady on their feet, that he caused dreadful headache, that he made noses swollen and empurpled and, finally, made men drunk so swiftly that there was no joy in it.
After these generalities Pityu turned to more personal charges, himself appearing as chief witness.
‘I shall now testify,’ read out Pityu, ‘how many crimes have been committed against myself, how many times you have muddled my brains while I have been at cards and made me stake my all on a single ace. Time and time again you have encouraged me in foolhardy bids so that I have lost money. More than that you have so fuddled my wits that I have insulted my friends to the point that I have had to fight duels with them, slashing