I may be stubborn. Even unreasonable. But, I am working on an improved and expanded new edition of the Life in the Barracks. Among other plans, I want to make the tension between Tibor and Vida more prominent. In this spirit, I added a new section to the end of Chapter 4: Dinner with Vida. Here Tibor writes a poem inspired by the dilemma he had to face after Vida proposed him to join forces. For Tibor, it is a Mephistophelean offer and he spends some time about his response.
Needless to say, any feed-back is welcome from the occasional visitor to this "Occasional Reflections" site!
So, we are at the end of the dinner:
...They both smiled.
“I expect an answer by the end of this week. We could start next Friday. I think Friday is a good day since many soldiers leave for weekend furlough.”
“Thanks, Feri. I’ll get back to you. And thanks for the dinner. You don’t need to drive me back, I’d rather walk. The fresh air will help to clear my head. This was a most unexpected conversation, I must admit, and I need to think about your offer.”
Tibor plodded along the road back to the barracks with his head full of vertiginous thoughts. The night was dark. Thick clouds covered the stars. The faint glow of the city behind him was multiplied by the snowy fields, giving Tibor just enough light to see the ditches on the road. When an occasional car passed by with bright lights on, he had to stop and wait until his eyes accommodated again to the near darkness. He had four kilometers to go; plenty of time to reflect.
Vida’s intellectual complexity stunned him. Yes, he’s a SOB, a selfish brute, but with a great practical sense. His intellect, no doubt, is far above most people Tibor knew. For a moment, Tibor thought of Vida as a devilish genius, a formidable opponent—one who could hurt him if he lets his guard down. But could he be a worthy ally too? Did Tibor hear a veiled invitation when Vida had said: “They are soldiers, not the kind of professionals you and I are.” Could Vida be his path to headquarters and perhaps even to the colonel himself? Isn’t he Tibor’s chance to cushion his life in this snow-bound hinterland? Tibor recognized that ahead of him laid the opportunity to heed his parents’ warnings: “You need to learn real life, Tibi.”
When Tibor got back, Kerekes wasn’t home. This didn’t surprise Tibor although he wished Kerekes’ round face would emerge from behind his door with a glass of wine in his hand and a warm invitation to join him. But, Tibor was alone. He sat down at the bare table and pulled a sheet of white paper from the drawer. It has been one of his old habits to put down his reflections in writing. It started in his early teen years and stayed with him ever since. At times, he would turn the diary, but frequently a hurriedly found piece of paper had to do. A few of his musings turned into poems. Not necessarily good ones, but faithful to his state of mind at the moment of writing—and now he had plenty of stirring thoughts to ponder.
An hour later Tibor had a newly sprouted poem. As he re-read the final version for a last time, the straggly rows stared back into his face like a mirror. A mirror of him not visible to anyone, not even to himself. A mirror, which the impulsively spilled words coming from some undiscovered depths of his soul had to clear. He named the poem: “Proud Castle.”
Proud castle with slender spire:
Where the screeching hawk builds her nest,
And into the wind a prankish chimney
Spouts grey stream of smoke that flies
Adrift toward blue mountain crests.
The weathervane's grinding
As it squeamishly turns into the breeze,
"Why wouldn't I dance with my friend?"
He says, "Like the poplars around me
Do as they please?"
From a distance I marvel at the scene:
Oh, that splendor of the castle!
A vision takes me over softly,
Like my first dream at night,
To which I gently surrender.
But no! Go away dream!
Don't try your vile temptation on me!
You know I could never live in that castle!
You know that those dim walls
Would never let my heart soar free.
I am coming from an earth color hut
With the scent of clay and straw,
Where my mother with drawn face
Showed me how to remain man
Among hollering wolves.
The castle bathes in the fading light
Of the setting Sun. The windows glitter.
I train my curious eyes on the arched gate
As it opens and bolts, when
Brisk chaises enter.
… An old fairy, through the hedgerow
Smiles at me with peace!
“Is it you, Elder-Tree Mother?” I cry.
“That’s your house, Son, you like it?”
“No, I don’t! Please, give my hut back to me!”
***
Next day, Tibor woke up with a heavy head. His sleep was restless with agitated dreams about flying in bliss when, in mid-air, the terror of height struck him, or fleeing rapidly approaching chariots rumbling ever so close behind him. His eye half-open, he reached for last night’s poem and read it again. He liked it. He saw himself in the verses as if he were standing in front of a flawless Venetian mirror. A shudder of peace and contentment passed through him. I know where I am now. But where do I go from here?
This question preoccupied him the whole day in the infirmary. The others didn’t notice anything but Peter asked him.
“Tibor, you seem distant today, is everything alright?”
“Peter, have you ever heard the tale of the nightingale and the Chinese Emperor?”
“Now that is an odd question, Doc!”
“I know, but have you heard it?”
“Well, yes. I used to have a book of Anderson’s fairy tales. That’s the story where the real nightingale saves the life of the Emperor when the mechanical nightingale breaks down.”
“Very good, Peter! Now would you like to be the mechanical or the real nightingale?”
“The real, of course. The mechanical broke after all.”
And the real one could fly in and out of the Emperor’s window between her forest and the Emperor’s palace. And she still could sing for the Emperor!
***
That evening, by the time Tibor turned into the driveway of his barracks on the way home from the infirmary, he knew he had found the solution. I’ll ask the Asclepius representative if Vida’s patients could be enrolled into the study, he decided. Instead of simply working for Vida, this way I’ll continue my earlier research work for the benefit of all. I’ll have to ask Vida for a few weeks’ extension of his deadline, until a decision about my proposition is made at the study center.
Tibor felt that he’d reached a reasonable compromise with himself. Vida should also feel pleased about the possible study since no doubt it would improve his patients’ perception of him. Tibor heaved a sigh of relief as he climbed the dark stairs.
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