Bonchida
My life begins, as Hungarian tales end, in Bonchida—but without a feast.
In 1920, the situation in Transylvania left little room for celebration among Hungarian families. Expected, though not welcome, I was the only son of the Farkas family. On the sixth and final attempt, after five daughters, my father could finally rest. And he rested completely, as he died before I was born.
In any case, my sisters died during the war. They and my mother. They died together—and I imagine at the same time—during an Allied bombing.
The closest thing I had to a father was my uncle, Lajos. My mother’s family were the Fekete (Black), and my father’s the Farkas (Wolf), so I liked to imagine myself as the black wolf of Bonchida, even though I had golden hair and white skin.
Lajos was an excellent blacksmith and a terrible teacher, so I never managed to learn the trade. But what I did learn from him was how to throw knives with great skill. Nothing escaped my blade: foxes, hares, mole rats, even hoopoes. Death intrigued me. I enjoyed my aim.
My mother and sisters avoided me.
According to my uncle, my father was ashamed of having only daughters, and he never hid it. He always blamed my mother. He used to beat her on the days when wine failed to sedate him into sleep. They took revenge on him through me.
My mother never breastfed me, even though she had milk. I fed from various breasts, or so I’ve been told. She preferred to get something in return. Some men paid more to sleep with a woman if, when squeezing her breasts, a trickle of milk soaked their face.
Let’s say times were hard for a widow with six children.
I remember the first time I saw her working. I was four years old. I was hiding behind a beam, in the barn of a huge Saxon with a hairy back. My mother saw me. She looked me in the eye without blinking, while embracing that panting animal and screaming her way to orgasm.
I ran to tell my sisters, but they spat at me and threw stones whenever I came near, which always made communication difficult.
In a way, I should be grateful that my mother didn’t throw me into the river the moment I was born. I’m sure the thought crossed her mind more than once. Surely more than a hundred times.
Even so, I grew up happy. My childhood smells of forge, sounds like the clanging of a hammer, and tastes of dead animal blood.
The day came when I became a tall and vigorous young man.
Maybe it was the inability to earn the love of my mother and sisters that led me to the obsession of seducing every woman I saw. Single, married, young, mature, even a good-looking old lady or two. It didn’t matter. They all took the bait. But since I never reeled them in, some bubble of jealousy rose to the surface and reached someone’s ears.
Not long after the first hints of my secret activities became public knowledge, all the men of Bonchida—offended and ready to be offended—gathered to punish me.
Luckily, I was warned by the youngest of my lovers, just minutes before a walking forest of torches and angry voices came knocking at my door.
From afar, hidden in the shadows of a small vineyard, I watched their frustration grow as they failed to find me. Their rage faded among shrugged shoulders and scratching heads. I found it funny, until the girl who had saved me from certain death began sobbing and whispering against my back.
“We have to run. We can start a new life far from here. It doesn’t matter where.”
I knew that behind those innocent dreams, there was some truth. I had to leave that very night. But not with her. Why would I start a new life in chains?
“We can’t go together.”
“Why not?” she said, sliding her hand into my pants, provoking an immediate erection.
“Life on the run is no life for such a beautiful flower.”
“You’ll take me with you.” Her voice soaked into my ear as she spoke. Her tongue tried to slip into my mind.
She felt very sure she could change my mind. Gripping my penis tightly, she turned and slipped it inside her with a swift movement, her buttocks slamming against my pelvis. My legs, feet, back—all tensed. I had to hold her by the waist to avoid falling backward.
I growled. Gripped her tightly and reached the edge of the abyss. She let out a moan that I silenced by covering her mouth, afraid we’d be heard. My hand covered almost her entire face. With the other I grabbed her breast and began to move violently. She was so aroused that she soaked my thighs in seconds.
Shiny eyes watched us from below. A curious cat, confused by the wet sounds.
It was clear she wanted to get pregnant. The yoke of family. In that moment I didn’t realize it, or didn’t want to, or didn’t care. I ejaculated inside her while watching them burn my house and curse my name. The moment I lost my erection, I came to my senses.
“You’re not coming with me.”
“You think you have a choice?” she said, raising her voice.
“Lower your voice. They’ll hear us.”
“You’re not leaving me here, pregnant,” she said, adjusting her clothes without lowering her tone.
“Lower your voice, please,” I said through gritted teeth, growing more nervous. “You don’t know if you’re pregnant. Besides, I don’t feel anything for you. Do you want to run away and start a family with someone who doesn’t love you?”
I suppose I didn’t think my words through. Strategy was never my strength.
“That’s not true. I know you love me. And if you don’t, I’ll scream your name. I’ll scream that you’re hiding here. They’ll come. They’ll set the dogs on you. They’ll eat your balls.”
Her voice rose with every word. I thought someone in the crowd had turned in our direction. In an instinctive movement, I grabbed a knife from my belt and slid it across her throat just as she was about to scream.
My name bathed in bubbles of blood I would never be able to wash away.
I ran into the darkness toward what I guessed was west. My thighs still wet, chilled, making me feel even more confused. I ran until I reached the dawn. The blood, the smell of sex, and the remorse made me understand that, in the end, in a way, she had succeeded.
I would carry her with me forever.
