A
Sentimental Journey:
You can feel his presence beyond the trees
that are passing hurriedly, beyond the high bushes: rye field, sand dune, smoke
cloud. Material, subtle,
elusive.
The dusk is heavy with raindrops. Georgine, a friend
I haven’t seen for 15 years, is driving up a smooth coast to a village called Dörgicse. The
houses are stony island in a sea of
green. There, beyond the white church,
wrought with a fine thread of red brick arise the solitary walls of another
church, long lost in forgetfulness. The deep
windows, one like a cross facing east, the west one aslant, are traversed by
the declining sunbeams once a year; at Easter time. In the churchyard, at the forest’s brow, beyond
the graves, a cluster of totemic pillars raised for those who never made it
home.
The now iridescent sunset envelops the tree
leaves in a crystal hue. We take road
into the forest that whispers tears encased in green chalices. Fitzko, a solid dog
of an undetermined breed, is leading us exuberantly into the depths and then
leaves us waiting in an abeyance full of words.
Later, as the evening falls, from the
window of my room I catch a glimpse of a silvery shimmer, somewhere in the
distance.
The next morning we drive to the
waterfront. We stop at the main
pier.
We drive into the land. The long road through the fields takes us to
the Graveyard of the Enamored Quarryman where
all the gravestones painstakingly carved by his hand two centuries ago have the
form of his heart that turned into stone at his lady’s death.
White cranes are flying above us.
We climb a hill to Hegyestü, a platform that accommodates
a colony of massive stone fragments, millions of years of age, compact as a
herd of motley bisons. Right above it, a basalt
cathedral rises solemnly. The walls
ridged by the sun, by rain and winds lend the embraced agora the holiness of a
nave. On the wide stairs, held by wide
planks, we set off to the top. From
above we see the lake again, a gilded band glimmering beyond the forest, among
the minuscule houses, and at the end of the roads that all lead to him.
Another day, wrapped in memories, we leave the
village on a strong but somehow caressing wind cutting through the fields in
gales of poppies and waves of chamomile; with purple patches, with hares
jumping crossly.
We come to the ruin of another church. Underneath lie buried the members of a long extinct
Hungarian clan. The stone altar under
the open sky sets us in contemplation; in the song of the wind we pray.
From afar, like the forest above, like the
fields beneath matching green with green, we are surrounded by the opaline presence of the lake.
The third day in the picturesque borough of
Tihany, with
the houses covered in reed on the stony streets leading to the Benedictine
abbey rebuilt in baroque style, we sit on the shore in the afternoon breeze
sharing secrets. Balaton is greener
today, livelier. A boat is taking
tourist to and fro; jollies with flaring sails are floating in the distance;
children run along the shore. A
diamantine scarf unfolds over the lake, the surface trembles gently. My journey is coming to an end.
Georg
Michael Primus, a warm hearted villager, drives me to the airport among the
fields of jade reciting at length from the national poet Petöfi Sandor, about the rivers
Looking out the car window I bid my
farewell to the stellar waters.