Green Peas

FICTION

by Anna Gáspár-Singer

Translators’ Note: Apartments are in short supply in Budapest. People searching often find one occupied by old people, and make an arrangement that they will look after them while they are alive, and take over the apartment after.

          Her employers showed her everything in the neighborhood, they even drove her to the hospital so that she would remember the route. It wasn’t far from the bachelor apartment where she lived. She had only been living in the capital for a few weeks. Once a month, on the day of the medical checkup, she had to get up at six in the morning because of Margitka, otherwise it was enough to get up at seven. She made coffee, buttered a slice of bread, and later another one for Margitka’s breakfast. She always found sausages and margarine in the same spot in the fridge. It was the Szimons who bought the groceries for the old woman in the Reál supermarket, they said it was the least expensive in the neighborhood. It was worth buying certain things in bigger quantities. Of course, not for Margitka, that would have been a waste. 
          They found Gizella through mutual acquaintances; she was looking for a job at the time and couldn’t say “no” to the offer, all they cared about, however, was how much that would cost them. She didn’t ask for much. The Szimons were told that the woman was reliable and meticulous, with a good work ethic; despite that the Szimons bargained the amount down considerably. Originally Gizella wanted to be paid by the hour; that is how she negotiated her previous jobs: come on, what an idea, the Szimons laughed, they insisted on a per diem, and they set the sum.
          The old woman is sickly, they said, even though she seems to be OK, but this whole business will cost them. There’s no telling how long this may last. Then there are the medications, a whole bagful, and the food. And then we haven’t even mentioned the time, the woman emphasized, and all the energy it takes to make such an arrangement, for the sake of the family. 
          Because it’s always the same with these old people, the man spread his arms. His wife kept lamenting in a plaintive voice, they never have any luck, but they do need the apartment, their daughter will finish high school this year and will get a car and an apartment. This one-bedroom place with central heating will do as a start. They had already outfitted their son some time ago, she looked at Gizella condescendingly; he got everything he needed. Their son is studying to be an IT specialist, that’s where the future lies.
          Later they took her over to the apartment. As soon as they entered, Gizella was hit by that typical odor, that was not simply that of old people, because that she had encountered before in many places, but rather some indeterminate stench as when they don’t clean up the litter under animals. It had seeped into the walls, the wallpaper, the creases of the wobbly daybed—everywhere. It also slid into the wardrobes, where the scent of mothballs had long since dissipated, and the myrtle and lavender bouquets pressed into the lingerie drawers had also lost their perfume. When she got home, she scrubbed her hands with a soapy brush, but she still felt filthy. She put on rubber gloves for cooking.
          Two days later she knew the contents of each drawer; the lard she found in the pantry was rancid, yet she didn’t mention it, in the hope that they wouldn’t bring any more. They brought over the leftovers from home so that there would be enough for her and Margitka to eat, but, other than that, they didn’t want to bother taking care of the old woman. Gizella cut up the wizened apples for an afternoon snack, to which she added a few biscuits that the old woman could dunk in her tea. Margitka’s eyes lit up, Gizella dear, she whispered quietly and touched her arm with her skeleton-like hand; this was the hardest because she needed to control herself, after all, she couldn’t avoid her touch. She did everything, cleaned the house, did the laundry, took the dinner from the delivery boy, a cheap food package for one: a thin liquid which passed for soup, creamed vegetables with a few bits of meat, rice, potatoes, or pasta. Before the holidays there would be rock-hard sponge cake, only good to choke on. 
          The old woman didn’t have much appetite, now eat it all, please, the Szimons shouted in her ear. Gizella put the leftovers in the fridge next to the sausages and margarine. The freezer had packages of green peas from the Szimons’ garden. The hundred-and-fifty-gram portions didn’t all fit in the drawer, making it hard to close the door. The green peas were sweet, sometimes Mrs. Szimon brought over some in a cream sauce, because Margitka liked sweet things. Even so, the peas were never eaten; the old woman kept pushing the kernels to the edge of the plate and only spooned up the thick roux.
          She liked best to sit in the kitchen. The door of the fridge was covered in magnets, snow-white sheep in grass up to their bellies, a street scene from Dublin, greetings from the Holy Land with a Star of David, and an inscription in a strange language, a blue one in the shape of a gummy bear, and a lot of others on the monster-sized fridge. She loved looking at them; even while eating she took delight in them. The Szimons brought her one from each of their trips abroad. That’s what they said; but they actually asked Gizella to buy the “souvenirs.”
          One of the old woman’s favorites was a small metal gondola from Venice, its bottom shiny from all the patting. Another one was a doll-faced angel in a dress with a golden hem, holding a Bible. The golden paint peeled off the wings from the first day. Margitka still liked it. Perhaps because she herself was like a sleeping doll someone had forgotten about. She reminded Gizella of her grandmother. The old woman looked a bit like her, mostly her shape. Otherwise, no, because Grandma usually quarreled and shouted, and wouldn’t let anyone tend to her, even when she was ill. Never grow old, she kept telling her; it’s the lousiest thing in the world. Gizella didn’t intend to. She worked, she kept busy at home as well. The two of them lived together; she got used to it, she didn’t feel the lack of anything. Only when her grandmother died ten years ago did she feel that something had broken in her. She had no one left. No husband, no child, and on her thirty-eighth birthday to boot. She could have looked for someone, but she felt it was by then too late. For a while she hated herself for it, then decided that she didn’t need anyone or anything; it wasn’t in the works in any case. She quickly got used to solitude. She no longer missed having someone beside her. 
          That day also unfolded like all the others, without anyone saying “Happy Birthday, may you grow up to be a big girl, Gizus”; her grandmother always teased her on such occasions. She forgave her for being quarrelsome and argumentative, but she wouldn’t have forgiven anyone else. She had her fair share of abuse in her life. What she longed for was peace and quiet, and these old people, especially near the end, were rather quiet, they didn’t make a lot of fuss. Her illness made her grandmother, on the contrary, overactive; she kept moving around, packing things, making endless rustling noises. It was only at the very end that she just sat, the way Margitka did, on her chair propped up by pillows, her eyes teary, looking at the other doll face made out of painted plastic. She said that when she holds it, she forgets the thing that keeps appearing to her so often these days.
          It’s impossible to describe, Margitka complained; there is no word for it, it hasn’t got a name. At times like this nothing could console her, nothing except, perhaps, a new fridge magnet. They would arrive at the hospital at a quarter to eight, sometimes the patient transport would pick them up to help them finish sooner. In the mornings, Margitka liked to watch the serials from her bed, she huddled in the corner pulling the duvet over herself. At other times she would pretend to be asleep. She hesitantly moved her head when Gizella asked if she needed anything. Months passed like this.
          By December, severe frost was in the forecast and Margitka was cold. Her duvet lost its effectiveness by being washed so often. Gizella got a bit of money from the Szimons to buy a new one for the old woman; they would deduct the amount from Margitka’s pension. They had a separate account for the apartment, because once it becomes vacant, they will need to renovate it.
          That day when Gizella arrived back with the old woman from the medical checkup, snowflakes were dancing in the air. The transport could only stop at the street corner. They had to shuffle home from there. Afterwards Gizella told a neighbor that she would be away for a while, and left to get a new duvet. She was only gone for an hour during which she even remembered to get a new fridge magnet, because the Szimons were on vacation in the Red Sea resort Hurghada.
          When she arrived back, the apartment seemed empty. She started searching for the old woman. She looked in all the rooms, but there was no answer when she called her name. Finally, she found her beside the fridge. The child-sized body was lying on the floor, her face was completely covered by the bags that had crashed down on her from the freezer. She was clutching the angel fridge magnet in one hand, her mouth agape as if in wonder. Gizella returned the magnet to the fridge and spread the new duvet over the body. 
          She started to tidy up. It was no longer possible to refreeze the peas; she needed to empty the freezer. She took out a big bowl and put the bags in it, picked up the pea kernels that were scattered on the floor. She was reluctant to throw them out. She decided to cook at least half of them. The peas oozed a sweet and thick liquid as they cooked, and gave off a nauseating vapor that filled the kitchen. She opened a window; the frosty air rushed in from outside.
          She turned on the heating even though it was still early; Mrs. Szimon made her promise never to start it before two in the afternoon. If you don’t adhere to the rule, I will deduct the cost from your per diem, she kept threatening; and Gizella did as she was told, yet this time she turned up the heat to the maximum level. She dialed the Szimons’ number. It rang, nobody answered, she waited for the answering machine to come on. They had arranged to talk about the accounts at two thirty, she gabbled, but now this other business has come up. She would rather discuss it in person. While she talked, she kept her hand pressed against the side of the ceramic stove. The hot tiles burned her skin. She didn’t feel anything; her senses were numbed; only the sweet odor from the kitchen invaded her nose.

(translated from the Hungarian by Marietta Morry and Walter Burgess)