The String Diaries Part 9

He felt his heart lurch. This was it. A first approach. The moment for which his father had coached him, and his older brother had taunted him, for so long. He knew the etiquette, knew he was being flattered, knew that outside of the vegzet this girl doubtless moved in far higher social circles. Yet that was the point of the vegzet, was it not? A levelling ground that allowed all hosszu eletek to mingle. A tradition, as she had indicated, and one that stretched back hundreds of years. He did not find her attractive but that was not the point. Tonight was for first introductions. It would only be at the next gathering that the more intricate s.e.xual fencing would begin.

'Would you not wish to admire the view a while longer?' he asked.

'Oh, nonsense with the view. The Danube will be there in the morning. It'll be there a thousand years from now.' She lifted a pointed chin and challenged him. 'Come out with me.'

Inclining his head, heart accelerating, he followed her out of the alcove and into the light. As they pa.s.sed along the wall, the girl paused underneath a gilt wall ornament that held a branch of candles. She turned to him, reached a finger up to his face and tilted his head towards her.

Breathless, Lukacs looked into her eyes. Around the black of her pupils, her irises were a startling cornflower blue. As he watched, he noticed other colours begin to emerge. Whorls of magenta, shooting lines of gold. He felt blood begin to fizz through his arteries. His chest swelled with antic.i.p.ation.

But even as he drank her in, the display faded. Still transfixed by what he had seen, Lukacs did not notice the disdain on her face until she asked, 'What's wrong with you? Your eyes. They're . . . lifeless.'

He felt his face reddening. 'It's a . . . a birth defect. The rest of me-'

'You're not even hosszu elet!'

'Yes, I am. Of course I am. It's just that my eyes . . . my eyes never took. No one knows why. But the rest . . .' He floundered.

'I heard a rumour we had a freak in our midst,' she hissed. 'I never imagined I'd be tasteless enough to pick him.' The girl turned away, searching for friendly faces in the crowd.

Lukacs's temper flared. He grabbed her by the arm and twisted her to face him. 'How tasteless of me to attract the only filthy kurva in the palace.'

The girl curled back her lip, revealing a row of white teeth. 'Manners to match your deformity, I see. Let go of my arm.'

Wanting to punish her, he tightened his grip. Beneath his fingers he felt the muscles of her arm contract and harden, fighting his pressure.

Lukacs gritted his teeth and squeezed, wanting to hurt her now, willing his fingers to force themselves into her flesh. He snarled when he saw pain register on her face. 'Filthy kurvak should keep their opinions to themselves,' he whispered, guiding her back towards the recess.

An ugly blotch of red had appeared at her throat. She took an unwilling step with him into the arch. 'I'll scream.'

'Make it a good one.' He knew she would not cry out, knew she would do almost anything to avoid drawing attention to their sordid little confrontation, even if that meant clenching her teeth and tolerating the pain he was inflicting. He increased the pressure on her arm. She gasped, sucking the lace veil taut against her lips, and then a hand appeared on Lukacs's shoulder.

Sharp fingers sank into him. The pain was immediate and brutal.

'Enough of this. Let go of her this instant.'

Lukacs twisted around. Three men, ancient and lean, had gathered behind him. Each wore a styled grey wig and navy frock coat. None of them wore masks.

The oldest of the three clutched his shoulder. Lines of age mapped the man's face, a network of creases spreading out from his mouth as his lips pressed together. The skin of his throat sagged like a ruined net, but his eyes were clear, strong, furious. His fingers clenched and Lukacs suppressed a curse.

The elder's voice was a dangerous whisper. 'Remove your hand from the lady's arm.'

Holding on to her a moment longer, a futile gesture of defiance, Lukacs relinquished his grip and the girl shrank away from him. Her eyes had lost their scornful expression. She watched him now with fear. Free, she took a few uncertain steps backwards and lost herself in the crowd.

'I can imagine the gist of your encounter,' the elder continued, removing his hand from Lukacs's shoulder.' That's no excuse for your behaviour. There is never any excuse for that kind of behaviour. You bring shame on your family with your actions. I know who you are. I know that you face some challenges. Your father is a good man, an excellent man. He is the only reason I do not ask these gentlemen to march you down to the river and hurl you in. We'll overlook this. Once. Do you understand me?'

Lukacs's temper still burned. He glared, but when the old man glared back, Lukacs glimpsed something in those eyes that terrified him. His palms grew slick, and he felt his heart gallop in his chest. He adopted a look of contrition. 'Yes. Completely.'

'I suggest you take some air. It is not too late to redeem yourself tonight. Thankfully there was little audience to witness your performance. We shall talk to the girl. Now go. Outside. The fresh air will bring you back to your senses.'

'Thank you, sir. I will.'

Striding across the floor of the ballroom, Lukacs wanted to tear the mask from his face and mop away the sweat. He fought the impulse. Between the gilt doors he walked, along the corridor of kings, down the grand staircase and out into the night air beyond.

The girl's reaction had hurt, but he had expected it. Jani, with his sarcasm, had at least prepared him. What puzzled him, what interested him, was the arousal he had felt as he dug his fingers into her flesh.

How many hours had pa.s.sed? How much had he drunk? Lukacs squinted at the tankard on the scarred wooden table before him. The watch his father had given him nestled inside his waistcoat pocket, but even as inebriated as he was, he knew better than to take out a valuable object like that in a place such as this. The tavern was filled with punters: their noise and their stink and their smoke.

Across the table sat his two drinking partners. Markus, that was the first one's name. Brash, opinionated, the young man's debauched humour had been making Lukacs laugh for over an hour. Markus's lady friend Krisztina perched next to him. She was pretty, he thought. In fact, a better word was s.e.xual. She had an easy, suggestive manner, the cut of her dress accentuating the slimness of her hips and the fullness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her rich blond hair was tucked under a white cap.

After leaving the palace for his prescribed fresh air he had, on a whim, continued down to the river. He discovered Markus and Krisztina larking about on the bank. They had both been drinking and, after running out of money at the tavern, had decided to take a stroll. Lukacs was drunk for the first time in his life and wanted to carry on drinking. He also had a purse of money. Markus and Krisztina needed little encouragement to help him spend it. While they initially showed surprise that someone so obviously high-born would choose to share their company, their determination to get drunk outweighed any reservations.

Lukacs did not have to manoeuvre through any political debate with these two. The conversation was degenerate but amusing, naive but fun. He knew they made a bizarre threesome. Yet that was the spirit of vegzet night, he told himself drily: social interaction free of the constraints of cla.s.s. His new friends might scratch around in the dirt by day, but Lukacs was having the best evening he could remember.

Markus swigged from his ale and gesticulated. 'You never told us. What was that thing going on up at the palace? That's where you came from, isn't it? You had one of them masks, just like all them others we saw.'

'A masked ball,' Krisztina said, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng. 'Very grand.'

'And very dull.' Lukacs drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. 'More drink!'

'That's the spirit!' Markus shouted. 'But I've got an even better idea. Kris, are you game?'

She met Markus's eyes, smirked, and then looked at Lukacs. Her eyes held a challenge. 'I am if he is.'

'What are you talking about?'

Markus slapped a hand onto his shoulder. 'Lukacs, old friend. Have you ever tried opium?'

A minute later, they were ushering him through a side door and up a flight of stairs. Down a filthy corridor and through a stained curtain, they emerged into a long room. A few candles offered a low copper light, and the air held an astringency he could not identify. Mattresses lined each wall, some of them occupied by groups of men, some by couples, a few by individuals. Markus found an empty spot and they collapsed down on to a mattress. Slowly Lukacs's eyes adjusted to the gloom. On the floor in front of them he saw an oil lamp on a tray.

A man came, standing over them. 'How many?'

'Three pipes,' Markus told him. Then: 'Well, pay the man, Lukacs!'

He handed over coins from his purse and the man brought the pipes. A small white lozenge lay in each bowl. Lukacs watched as Markus lit the oil lamp and warmed his pipe in its flame. He raised the stem to his lips and inhaled the vapours, holding the smoke inside him before gently exhaling and resting back on his elbow.

'Your turn.'

Lukacs copied his friend's actions, drawing in the vapour and trapping it in his lungs. It was a harsh sensation at first, bitter against the back of his throat. He breathed out and watched Krisztina light her pipe, giggling at something Markus said to her.

They continued to chat, their conversation just as irreverent as before, and the man brought more pipes. After a while, Lukacs felt a strange peace settling over him. A numbing sensation had spread throughout his limbs, and he felt as if his vision had softened. He found himself studying Markus and Krisztina, thinking how fortunate he had been to b.u.mp into them. Warming his pipe, he sucked long and hard on opium smoke.

'Lukacs. Lukacs!' Markus's grinning face leered at him. 'Look at him, Krisztina, look at his eyes! You enjoying yourself, Lukacs?'

Laughing, he nodded. His lips felt like jelly. 'Want another pipe.'

'Where's that purse of yours?'

Lukacs threw it at him. He realised he was leaning into Krisztina's torso, his arm brus.h.i.+ng her breast. He could not remember how they had become so close, but he was reluctant to move in case she pulled away. From his vantage point, he could see the slopes of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and could follow her cleavage into the shadows of her bodice. Krisztina's s.e.xuality, her very immediacy, was beginning to intoxicate him as powerfully as the opium. He blinked, looked up and discovered that she was watching him. Aghast, he glanced over at Markus, but his new friend was too busy with the lamp to notice.

They smoked more pipes. The conversation waned. A feeling of utter calm and rightness washed over him. It occurred to him that Markus did not mind how close Lukacs sat to Krisztina, or whether she flirted with him, because the man was confident of his worth, and equally trusting of Lukacs's honour. Both of those insights delighted him. 'You know, Markus,' he said after a moment's contemplation. 'You've chanced upon the most beautiful woman. I salute you for your impeccable taste.'

Markus chuckled, raised his pipe. 'I salute your salute.'

Lukacs felt Krisztina staring at him. When Markus occupied himself once more with the pipe, he dared to meet her eyes. They exchanged a lot with that look. Ironic, he thought, that his vegzet could go so badly while here he seemed expert in communicating with his eyes alone.

Taking a risk as Markus hunched over the oil lamp, Lukacs reached up, brushed a blond curl from her face and traced his finger down her cheek.

Krisztina's mouth dropped open. She shot a glance at Markus to see if he had noticed. When her eyes returned to Lukacs, he saw a flush rising on her cheeks. They exchanged no words, and she did not pull away.

They remained on the mattress, virtually comatose, for another hour, until he remembered the carriage. Pulling the watch from his pocket, he swore. The driver would not wait for him all night, and he could not remember the route back to Szilard's district. Rousing his two friends, he told them that he needed to leave. They pulled themselves up, blinking, thanking him in slurred voices.

'I want to do it again,' he said. 'I'm back in Buda in a week. Where can I reach you?'

Markus found a sc.r.a.p of paper and scrawled a crude map on to it. 'Meet us at the place I've drawn.' He grinned, slapping Lukacs on the shoulder. 'And bring that purse!'

Lukacs pulled himself to his feet. His legs felt like someone else controlled them. He shook hands with Markus, and made theatre of kissing Krisztina's hand when she proffered it.

'I look forward to seeing you again, Lukacs,' she said.

Her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

CHAPTER 7.

Oxford 1979.

When Charles walked into his kitchen the morning after bringing Nicole and her mother to his cottage, two things struck him as odd. First, the back door hung open. He knew he had left it closed and locked. Second, the pile of books Nicole had liberated from the Hillman Hunter stood on the kitchen counter. The string that usually bound them lay in a loose heap.

Frowning, Charles looked through the window to the garden outside. In front of the raspberry bushes that marked his property's border, Alice Dubois stood motionless, her back towards the cottage. Arms folded against the early morning chill, she gazed into the meadow beyond, where low sun kissed the gra.s.s with a b.u.t.tery light.

Charles watched her with a p.r.i.c.kle of unease. Again, he asked himself what had scarred this woman and her daughter so deeply, what it was they feared, and from whom they fled. He also wondered at his compulsion to find out more about Nicole. How many times had he met her? Twice at the library, a third time outside the college campus, and yesterday's near-fatal meeting on the road out of Oxford. Four encounters in the s.p.a.ce of a week, that had started to consume him as nothing had before.

His eyes travelled to the pile of books. Curious how they appeared chronological in age. The bottom-most volumes were cracked and blistered, their leather bindings crumbling, their pages stained and yellow. One ragged specimen had almost been destroyed by fire, edges blackened where flames had taken a bite. None bore t.i.tles on their spines. The books towards the middle of the stack were more recent, their leather worn but still supple. Some of those nearer the top showed a year printed in gold numerals, and the one uppermost was the volume Nicole had been writing in when he met her at Balliol's library.

This collection of texts, Charles knew, held the answers to many of his questions about her predicament. She was still deeply distrusting of him. So far, even though he had taken the leap of faith Nicole had demanded, had ferried them away despite her mother nearly braining him had even taken them into his home she had revealed virtually nothing. Surely, if he was willing to do all that, he deserved to at least know something of what she faced? He knew his mind, his intentions. He wanted nothing more than to help her tackle whatever problem she faced. OK, perhaps he did want a little more than that. But the less she told him about her predicament, the more difficult it was to offer his help.

Nicole's mother still stood at the bottom of the garden, watching the meadow. With an impulsiveness that surprised him justifying his actions even as he reproached himself Charles picked up the uppermost book and opened it.

Nicole's handwriting was neat, compact. Much of it was in French, but here and there he noticed phrases in Hungarian. It made him think of the texts she had been studying in the library: Gesta Hungarorum on the first occasion, and Gesta Hunnorum et Hungarorum by Simon of Keza on the second.

He spotted pa.s.sages she had written in German, and phrases in a language he could not place. On some pages he found sketches of locations, of buildings and costumes. Slipped between two leaves he discovered a faded black-and-white photograph. It depicted a silver mask, the date on the back indicating it had been taken in 1946. He flicked forwards, finding various attempts at a family tree. Nicole's name appeared at the bottom of each. The names immediately above hers were French, but higher up they were of German origin. Above that they seemed to move into Eastern Europe.

In all the notes one phrase stood out.

Hosszu eletek.

Charles had never before heard or read the term, and could not begin to guess either its meaning or significance. It clearly obsessed Nicole. She had written it many times, sometimes underlining it, sometimes scratching it on to the page so forcibly that her pen had torn through the paper. Another word he saw repeated was a name.

Jakab.

The name her mother had called him on the telephone. Again, it was circled, crossed out, gouged out.

'What do you think you're doing?'

Charles spun around. Nicole stood in the doorway, eyes blazing. She lunged forward and s.n.a.t.c.hed the book from his fingers.

Dismayed, he lifted up his hands. This was, he knew, the worst possible transgression of the small amount of trust she had placed in him so far. 'Nicole, I'm sorry. I'm a b.l.o.o.d.y idiot. I came down here and they were just lying there, open. I couldn't help myself. I thought there might be something in there that-'

'd.a.m.n right you're a b.l.o.o.d.y idiot. You thought there might be something in there that . . . what? Helped you find out everything you wanted to know about us? After everything I warned you about last night? Did you understand or believe a word I said?'

'You've hardly said a word except to tell me you won't tell me anything,' he protested.

'And that gives you the right to snoop through my papers, does it?'

'Hardly snooping. They were left out on the counter.'

'Where they spontaneously untied themselves.'

'They were loose like that when I walked in.'

'Liar! I can't believe I was foolish enough to think I could trust you.'

'Nicole!' Alice Dubois had appeared by the back door. Her face was pale as she stepped into the room. 'Why are you shouting? What has happened?'

'He's happened. He untied the diaries. I caught him rifling through them like a sneak thief.'

Her mother frowned. 'He didn't untie them, Nicole. That was me. I brought them downstairs this morning. I went into the garden to watch the sunrise and left them here.'

'You left them out, where anyone could look at them?' Nicole asked, her eyebrows raised incredulously.

'I thought you were all still asleep,' Alice snapped. 'Just calm down. And as for you,' she added, jabbing a finger at Charles. 'Do you think you can help yourself to our belongings just because they're under your roof?'

'Help myself?' he asked. 'I hardly-'

Nicole interrupted him. 'You've betrayed our trust.'

Charles felt his temper fraying. His swollen nose began to throb. Reading her notebook had been stupid, but he resented accusations like that. 'I've done nothing but try to help you ever since we met.'

'Thanks Charles, we really appreciate it,' she retorted. 'Yesterday we nearly died because of your help. And now we're stuck here without our pa.s.sports. If it wasn't for you we'd be back in Paris by now.' She barged past him to the counter, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the books. 'I've had about as much of your help as I can stomach.'

He folded his arms. 'Fine, then. Go.'