They Were Divided - Miklos Banffy [82]
At this point Tamas jumped up and let out a roar, ‘Don’t you judge them by yourself, my lad! Those Albanians are tougher than you ever will be! I know them well!’
This was doubly unexpected: firstly because no one had for a moment thought that anyone present would have any firsthand knowledge of Albanians, and secondly because this plump stocky man whom few of them knew, and who hardly ever spoke, should suddenly interrupt so passionately. Furthermore Tamas’s scornful attack on Harinay impressed them because Transylvanians like nothing more than a well-justified rebuke. Some of them laughed, but they all looked at the newcomer with dawning respect.
Stanislo Gyeroffy, thankful to find a diversion from his deepening disagreement with Korosi, quickly picked up Tamas’s last words, saying, ‘Do you know Albania well? Hasn’t there recently been some insurrection against the Turks?’
‘There certainly has! It’s a real war. According to the ‘Petit Parisien’, which I get regularly, the Malissors overwhelmed Torkut Pasha and were immediately joined by the Miridiots.’
This was greeted by a storm of ironic laughter.
‘What kind of idiots?’ cried Harinay, while the others shouted out, ‘Is that what they are called? Are the Malissors idiots too? Is that really what they call themselves? Ho! Ho! Ho! That’s wonderful, that is!’
‘The Malissors and the Miridiots are the two fiercest tribes of Albania! And you, fellow-me-lad,’ said Tamas coldly to Harinay who was laughing immoderately at his own pun, ‘tu ne rigolerai pas comme une baleine – you wouldn’t be laughing like a whale if you found yourself their prisoner. These are true men of the mountains, bandits all of them.’ And he turned away because it had just occurred to him that this was a God-given chance to have a go at the banker Weissfeld. Smiling as if merely going on with his explication, ‘This lot are far more than your well-born forest thieves, my banker friend. These are not men who polish the seats of their chairs in their nice safe city offices, no sedentary businessmen who plot behind the security of the limited companies that they have founded. No! Not at all! These are real fighting men, warriors who risk their skins every day of their lives!’
Some of his listeners, who knew something of the forestry combine between Tamas’s brother and Weissfeld, realized what lay behind these last words and put their heads together chuckling at Tamas’s audacity, while some of the others, not understanding but now aware what a sharp tongue the elder Laczok had, fell silent and for a while did not attempt any further interruption. Tamas went on with his tale.
He was standing at the centre of the circle, turning from time to time to one side or the other, and he looked extremely comical. He was dressed in an old tail coat cut in the fashion of many years before, which was now stretched tightly across his bulging stomach; and with his bald head and long wispy beard he was like an actor in a vulgar farce. This impression was heightened by his exaggeratedly upward-slanting eyebrows, by the tuft of black hair on the top of his skull, and by the droll way that he would twist round with tiny steps whenever Stanislo Gyeroffy, Sandor Kendy or Major Bogacsy asked a question. These mostly came from the ex-soldier, for though he was nowadays principally interested in questions of honour, he had once served in Bosnia and knew something of the Balkans.
The audience, mischievous as ever, soon started muttering behind Tamas’s back; and one of them whispered, ‘Looks like a blackcock calling for his mate!’ at which the others barely suppressed their amusement for few of them were at all interested in what he was saying.
Nevertheless what he was saying was of interest. He must have been a keen observer who rarely forgot anything he saw and he could talk about his experiences with logic and clarity. He had not survived in the Atlas mountains for so many years without managing to keep his wits about him, and this