back to Issue 19
by Zsófia Czakó
translated from Hungarian by Marietta Morry and Walter Burgess
Translators’ Note: This is the second in a set of eighteen linked stories from “It is not Proper to Garden on Good Friday” by Zsófia Czakó. The stories alternate between a narration by a schoolgirl attending a strict Roman Catholic school in a small town in Hungary and a narration of the girl, now grown and in her late twenties. Here we meet her in Milan.
The old Spanish lady and I were staring each other in the eye. She said I was a thief, a bloodsucker, a blasphemer and a communist to boot. Ladrona, chupasangre, blasfema, comunista. I didn’t know what to do about the last one. There was an explanation for the other words, but that I would be a communist, I, of all people, a communist, I didn’t know how to respond. Perhaps she focused on my Eastern European accent, my less-than-perfect Spanish pronunciation, when I informed her that we would not give refunds for tickets. She figured out where I was from, from communist Eastern Europe. She found me out and she wouldn’t budge until she got back the price of the ticket.
She claimed that she bought the ticket from me a half hour ago but I didn’t have the faintest memory of her, she waved the ticket in front of me to no avail, and it didn’t matter if she was right, I had looked at the tally twenty minutes earlier and between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. I sold 3,879 tickets and no one can expect a communist guest worker to remember all 3,879 faces she came across during those six hours. The Spanish lady’s ticket did have my cashier’s number and today’s date on it, therefore I had no choice but to side with her, you know señora, I am not a bad person, I am not a bloodsucking communist, whatever that means, please understand my hands are tied. I didn’t make the rules that admission to the Milan Cathedral is two euros and it is not my fault that under no circumstances, not even in the event of you dying, can the ticket be refunded, I am only doing my job, por favor.
It was in May 2015, after the opening of the Milan Expo, that admission to the cathedral was no longer free and mortals had to pay two euros to be able to admire the inside of the city’s most famous religious building. Visitors bought their entrance tickets from the cashiers huddling in sheet metal booths near the cathedral. I was one of them.
I thought I would work there for a couple of weeks until something else could be found, a decent job, a Milan career, but of course only until I had a child, because after that my life would be complete, that’s when my mother’s life became complete and therefore all I would need to do was listen to my mother and everything would be fine. She and my father told me a thousand times how they were waiting for the Italian grandchild, and whenever they said that, I had the impression that they were sitting on the edge of our bed or cross-legged in the middle of the carpet rooting for us and cheering, because they are really waiting for that Italian grandchild even if—in the circle of sympathizing relatives and supportive friends—they are a bit sorry that the grandchild will be Italian and thus they won’t be able to communicate with the child.
I have an Italian boyfriend. A beautiful, enchanting, sweet Italian man who adores me. We met during a study trip where we were boarded in the same house and later not a day would pass by without my boyfriend reminiscing about this lucky coincidence. Every morning before I left for the Chamber of Commerce, where I worked as a trainee, he sat in the kitchen with fresh coffee he had prepared, every morning started with me having a conversation with my early-rising, enchanting boyfriend who already adored me back then and attentively listened to me. He was the only one whom I told about what had happened between me and the local Hungarian consul who got me the trainee job, I was only able to tell him about it because with his silence, stillness and steadfastness, he exuded the enchantingly sweet feeling of safety and trust.
One day, the consul asked me after work if he could give me a ride home but for some reason he stopped his car not in front of my place but in front of his house, then he put his hand on my knee, looked me in the eye and asked if I would go inside for a drink. When he asked this, I got terribly warm, my heart was pounding and I would have liked to jump out of the car but I was not able to do it; I was ashamed about wearing a short skirt and all I could do was respond in a stutter that perhaps some other time. The consul was not fazed by this, and he said calmly, all right, anytime. Then he added, my dogs would love to get a bite of such a fresh chick like you. I didn’t call anyone, I didn’t know whom to call. I was scared that it was my fault, I was ashamed and knew that I would have to resign and didn’t know where to go after that. And the next morning just like all other mornings, I found this sweet pajama-clad man in the kitchen and I recounted to him that the consul put his hand on my knee and said a young chick like you would make a tasty bite. Which I translated into Italian, un buccone di pollo fresco, which means a bite of fresh chicken in Italian, and not me.
Before I only saw older men wearing striped pajamas, in which he waited every morning in the kitchen with his coffee and his newspaper. He sat there so calmly, so quietly, so steadfastly, that after a while, as soon as my eyes opened, he was my first thought. I knew he would be there in the kitchen in his pajamas, with his coffee and newspaper, just like the mountain we could see through the window, he would be there, the same way, every morning, this man will be there, if I want, till the end of my life, everywhere, simply and quietly.
In the evenings, in friendly get-togethers he would sit apart but would follow the conversation attentively and would only interject on rare occasions, but on those occasions, wisely and modestly. His whole being was like Switzerland and my stomach quivered just looking at him because I knew that I shouldn’t look any further since there will never be a better man than he, the personification of a safe home, and I must love him.
I would have liked to move to a third country that would offer excitement for both of us, but my brand new Italian boyfriend said that his roots were in this country. When I left the Chamber of Commerce and he and I moved into a rented room in Milan, the Italian aunt of my Italian boyfriend was so overcome with happiness that she sewed two blankets together in her joy. I had to look for another job and since I could never stay idle, I accepted the first one that came my way. That is how I became a cashier at the cathedral.
The managers of the cathedral placed two booths on the Piazza Duomo. The larger of the two, which the employees called “the box,” had two small windows overlooking the square and we sold the tickets through those. One window serviced the regular visitors, while the other was for priority customers, groups, children, retirees and the handicapped. On the other side of the cathedral, in another booth that we called “the ship,” there were five cashiers working behind five windows. Earlier, this other booth had the simpler name of ticket office or box. It was a bit farther away from the entrance to the cathedral, the tourists had trouble noticing it, therefore they put a mast on its roof made of laths and strings, and called it a ship to attract the visitors to it.
Because of the conception, faulty from the start, the cathedral staff informed at regular intervals those standing in line where else it was possible to buy tickets to save them waiting for hours in front of the box, and it was posted in several languages as well as being announced loudly that the booth called “the ship” was receiving ticket purchasers on the other side of the cathedral and there was no line, and it was true, yet the ones waiting in front of the box would not budge. Few people believed that at two minutes’ distance there was another cashier open, they did not understand, after all they were already standing in line and did not want to lose their place. This one worked for sure, there were others waiting and they did not leave the line either to go to the opposite side, so everyone preferred to stay. The ones who approached the ship were the chosen ones, the adventurers, the winners, the clever, the entrepreneurs, those who dealt with obstacles with more success in other facets of life as well, because they realized that they could be surmounted, they were able to change tactics, look for different solutions when they understood that something was not working. After reaching the ship, they smiled in liberated triumph, and they inquired smugly, as if they did not know perfectly well, why everyone was standing on the other side. It was in vain that the unfortunate booth was decked out as a ship, people still did not find their way over there, they did not want to, they did not dare to. As a consequence, lines of hundreds of metres formed in front of the box, resigned, feeble, loser lines and the agitated crowd was dependent on the help of one person, the cashier.
I had been working as a cashier at the Milan Cathedral for several months, all the while not knowing why I was there.
— The Spaniards are like that, my colleague Maria, the tall strong Moldavian girl told me, turning to me for a second from the wicket of the priority cashier — the Spaniards, the Italians and the Romanians. Maria moved to Milan in her twenties, ten years ago, to get a job as a cashier in the cathedral and had been working there ever since. In those days there was less work because the visitors only had to pay for viewing the roof of the cathedral, but Maria was able to handle the changed work pace and kept spewing out the tickets like a ticket machine, a sentimental and obliging ticket machine, because Maria considered it important to provide information with the tickets as well, tell which entrance was where or what else was worthwhile for the kind visitor to see. She liked most to talk to Asians, she learned greetings and a few numbers in Korean, Chinese and Japanese and even would have smiled at the Asians because she liked them, but she couldn’t because that would have taken time, and time was in short supply for a cashier. — The Spaniards are like that — Maria said when she witnessed the conflict unfolding in front of me.
The Spanish lady wore a grey skirt reaching to her knees and a black blazer that went with it. She wore her hair up in an elegant do, there were pearls dangling from her ears. She shouted and what she shouted was that such a thing would be unimaginable in Madrid, that she would have to pay to visit a church. This could only happen in Italy and exclusively in Italy. This statement caught the attention of Gloria, my Italian colleague, and, outraged, she stopped counting change and rushed over to the window. Even though Gloria also often stated the same thing, that this could only happen in Italy and exclusively in Italy, but being Italian, Gloria’s remark could not be considered as criticism; my mother always said that family members were allowed to berate the family but it was strictly forbidden for anyone else. In the meantime, the Americans standing in line behind the Spanish lady also got tired and asked the señora to let them get over to the window because they had been waiting in line for forty-five minutes. The Spanish lady’s face was distorted by rancor and anger. She came back to me, she said, because the north aisle inside was closed off and when she asked the staff, she was told that that area was reserved for worshipers, so that now she needed to come over to me to call it to my attention: all she wanted was to worship and so she should not be paying for the ticket.
I have given a lot of thought to the purpose of people visiting the cathedral. There were several entrances, one was for paying visitors, costing the infamous two euros, from there, theoretically — except for the area closed off for worshipers — one could get to any part of the building, another one would lead you to the rooftop terrace via the staircase or the elevator, as well as the holy door for worshipers, the Porta Santa, for which the worshipers did not need to buy a ticket, still most would line up at the cashier because they did not know it was free, because it was not indicated at the entrance, they did not mark on it that it was the Porta Santa, just as it was not marked on the people that they were worshipers. I couldn’t have known what it meant that someone was a worshiper, I didn’t know that the Spanish lady in the grey suit was a worshiper because I didn’t know what it meant, apart from the fact that they could enter the cathedral for free, if they were aware that it was free. I observed, however, that people quickly became worshipers when they realized what were the benefits.
— How much?
— Two euros, please.
— God damn it, I only wanted to pray.
—Then would you, please, make your way over to the Porta Santa, the worshipers’ entrance, you do not need to buy a ticket there.
— That’s better, why should I pay for the fucking church when I’m Italian, I’m from Naples. You don’t need to pay for anything in Naples — said this gentleman — and headed for the worshipers’ entrance where he was swallowed by the Porta Santa.
I didn’t know what was the real purpose of these people. At night I dreamt that I was a gatekeeper, a guardaportone, and not a cashier. The entrance of the cathedral was guarded by armed soldiers and gatekeepers. The soldiers searched the people, checked their bags, the gatekeeper, on the other hand, sent everyone away who did not cover their shoulders or knees. In my dream I was a gatekeeper, one of the three who guarded the entrances. The worshipers arrived one by one to the Porta Santa. A young woman arrived in front of my colleague, the man excitedly sized up the pretty visitor.
— So the young lady is a worshiper — he asked teasingly.
— Yes — the girl answered.
— Then I would ask a few questions — my colleague said — you don’t need to worry, they won’t be difficult, it is just that we have to screen out who is the true worshiper and who is lying. I assume you have no objection.
— No, I don’t.
— Would you please tell me the names of the four Evangelists?
The girl wrinkled her forehead, was searching her memory, and listed quietly, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and here she stopped. Strangely she made an error at the same spot as I did, because I could never remember the name of the fourth Evangelist in religion class. And this girl also said the same thing as I did, Jude instead of John. My colleague clapped his hands together sadly.
— Unfortunately this won’t do.
In the meantime I asked the elderly gentleman who was heading for the holy door to tell me the Credo. The old gentleman, with glasses and a cloth coat, leaning on his cane, was thinking.
— I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth — he started out energetically and then continued calmly, in a deep voice as if he were reciting poetry at a competition. In my dream the elderly gentleman recited the Credo beautifully while the young woman was held by two soldiers. She protested in vain and was lifted out of the line of worshipers because she did not know the names of the four Evangelists. The old man just went on that he believed in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord; who was conceived by the Holy Spirit; born of the Virgin Mary. Meanwhile there was another worshiper in front of my colleague who had to list the stations of the cross in order to enter the door of the worshipers.
The angry Spanish lady, this time as worshiper, kept fuming in front of my window. The long serpentine line was winding more and more agitatedly, more and more people started glancing ahead, there was more and more pushing and shoving. I tried to explain to the lady that I could not refund her ticket and I tried to direct her to the free entrance of the Porta Santa. Suddenly, an American man stepped forward from the queue of the more and more impatient customers and told the Spanish lady with determination that it was time that she stopped holding up the line and as he said it he brushed against the tiny Spanish lady just a little bit; she grabbed her handbag all incensed. Before she headed for the holy door, she shouted to the Black American that he should stop talking and go back where he came from.
Zsófia Czakó was born in 1987 in Györ, Hungary. Her book It is not Proper to Garden on Good Friday appeared in 2019 published by Scolar; it is now in its third printing. She is a recipient of a MasterCard Literary Scholarship. This award was based on a project for a memoir, Heartsound (Szívhang); that book was published in 2022, also by Scolar. Her latest book, Distant Relatives, has just appeared.
Marietta Morry and Walter Burgess are Canadian. In addition to stories by Zsófia Czakó, they translate works by five other Hungarian authors. Many of their translated stories by these authors, including five by Zsófia Czakó, have appeared in magazines in six countries.