The String Diaries (13 page)

Lukács mined Márkus for information on how the low-born citizens of the city lived. He needed to learn a great deal, and quickly. He asked questions about his friend’s work, his home life, where he ate, his courtship of Krisztina and the places he had visited up and down the Danube. As long as the beer flowed, Márkus was happy to answer any question he asked.

This afternoon, crossing the chain bridge to Buda on the third
végzet
of the summer
,
Lukács travelled in his carriage alone. This time he did not even bother with a subterfuge. He paid the driver a large tip and asked him to convey him directly to Márkus’s workplace.

At the Ujvári boatyard, amid the stench of boiling pitch and the clattering of hammers, he found his friend planing the raised hull of a de-masted river schooner. When Lukács’s carriage pulled up and he stepped out of it, Márkus straightened and whistled, long and low. ‘Hell’s teeth, Lukács, you travel like a king, don’t you? I reckoned you was a proper gentleman, but just look at the brass on that thing.’ He watched the carriage speed away, wiping sweat from his forehead. ‘What are you doing here?’

Lukács clapped the young man on the back. ‘I know you meet Krisztina on Tuesdays, but I was in the area. I thought I’d see if my hard-working friend needed a beer to quench his thirst before he met his sweetheart.’

‘Do I ever!’ Márkus shook his head. ‘I keep asking myself what I did to deserve bumping into a fellow like you.’

They spent two hours throwing back tankards of beer in an alehouse around the corner. Lukács laughed heartily at his friend’s jokes, and was gratified to see that he could make the boatwright smile at the anecdotes he invented of his life at home. ‘Márkus,’ he said. ‘There’s something I would ask you.’

‘Ask away.’

‘It’s a trifle . . . delicate.’

‘Do I look like I offend easily? Go on – out with it.’

‘I’ve decided to leave Hungary,’ Lukács said, bizarrely pleased by the disappointment he saw in the young man‘s eyes. ‘My father isn’t going to like my decision. In fact, no one is going to like it. I’ve been making plans, but I need your help to look after a few things once I’ve left.’

‘Then you’ve got it.’

Lukács nodded. ‘I’m grateful. Just a few ends that need tying. Perhaps you’d accompany me back to my lodgings and I can show you what I need. I’ve rented a suite at the Albrecht.’

Márkus raised his eyebrows. ‘They probably won’t even let me inside.’

‘Yes, they will. You’ll be with me.’

The Albrecht was a grand hotel, five minutes’ walk from the Ujvári yard. A porter outside its imposing frontage opened the door for them, greeting Lukács while examining Márkus with disdain. In the lobby, Lukács approached the desk and waited for the concierge to spot him.

‘Ah, Mr György, sir. How wonderful to see you. Your room has been prepared, I am pleased to say.’

‘Thank you. I don’t wish to be disturbed.’ He pushed a coin across the counter and the concierge bowed, handing him his key.

Leading Márkus up to the third floor, Lukács unlocked the door to his suite and went inside. At a drinks cabinet, he selected two crystal tumblers and poured whisky into them. He handed one to his friend.

Márkus slugged it back in a single gulp and wiped his mouth. ‘I’ll do another one of those.’

‘Gladly.’

‘Look at this place, Lukács. Four-poster, lace on the cabinet.’ He went to the bed, reaching out his hand. ‘Just feel these sheets. Smell them.’

Lukács laughed at the wonder in the young man’s voice. ‘Have you seen the view?’

Márkus knocked back a second whisky, put down his empty tumbler and walked to the window, looking out at the street below. He shook his head, marvelling at what he saw. ‘I could live like this. I really could.’

‘Could you? You might think so, but don’t be so sure. I can’t. And I won’t. You don‘t know the restrictions that go with this kind of life, Márkus. It has its advantages, admittedly. Its comforts. But it brings with it complications that stop you taking any enjoyment.’ Lukács found that articulating those feelings made him feel morose. He changed the subject. ‘Where are you meeting Krisztina tonight?’

‘Near the church of Saint Anne on Batthyány tér.’

‘No, you’re not.’ Lukács clubbed the young man around the head with the whisky bottle. Lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl of excitement, he was grateful when his makeshift weapon did not fracture or explode. Márkus spun as he fell, tangling in the floor-length curtains before pitching forwards on to the floor, where he lay still.

Lukács returned the bottle to the cabinet and began to strip off Márkus’s clothes. It was an unpleasant task. Boat-building was energetic work, and as he removed his friend’s underclothes he winced at the stench rising from his body.

Halfway through, Lukács realised that he had not checked to see if Márkus was still alive. Admonishing himself, he lifted an eyelid, and when that exploration revealed nothing, he lowered his ear to the young man’s mouth. The moist air rising from his lips confirmed he was still breathing. Lukács was gratified by that discovery too. He had not known how hard he would need to hit Márkus to knock him out, and so he had put all his force into the blow. While he only wished to incapacitate his friend, he’d accepted that the blow might kill him. He examined Márkus’s head and felt the large swelling that had risen there. But there was no softness to the skull. He hadn’t shattered bone.

Once Marcus was completely naked, Lukács reached under the bed for the lengths of rope he had stowed there. He tied his friend’s hands together, his feet, and lashed him to the legs of the heavy four-poster. He made a gag from a flannel and a piece of twine. Testing all his knots, satisfied that his friend could neither escape nor broadcast his whereabouts, Lukács stripped off his own waistcoat and shirt and draped them on the bed.

Squatting on the floor, he ripped a chunk of auburn hair from Márkus’s head and walked to the cabinet, depositing the heap on the polished wood. Lukács studied its colour, then looked up at his face in the mirror.

He had been practising this for weeks. No longer did he cast mere shadow animals on to the wall of his father’s toolshed. József had been right; it did not come easily to him. But he was proud of how far he
had
come, and of the agonies he had endured to get there.

Gritting his teeth, Lukács gripped the sides of the cabinet with both hands. He closed his eyes, took three long, deliberate breaths, and
pushed
.

A million needles pricked his skull, tattooing his scalp with fire. He concentrated, willing himself not to scream, and pushed again, harder this time. Hitting the barrier where the pain was simply too great, he battered himself against it once, twice, three times, until suddenly it collapsed and he forced his way through.

Lukács panted for breath. He opened his eyes and saw sweat standing on his brow. His face was a blotch of red and white. Lifting a hand to his head, he tugged at a clump of hair. It pulled loose from his scalp. Lukács examined the skin beneath and saw a coarse stubble of auburn. The colour matched exactly the heap of hair on the cabinet.

Closing his eyes, he endured another minute of suffering, of searing heat in his scalp. A dreadful thirst came upon him. He gulped water from a jug while he recovered his strength.

Going to Márkus’s body, he began a meticulous examination. He got down on his knees and peered at the man’s face from all angles, so close that he could see the individual pores of his nose, the smattering of hair in his nostrils, the wax in his ears, the food crusted at the corners of his mouth. His picked up Márkus’s right hand and felt its texture, examining the calluses of his fingers, the ripped fingernails and scuffed knuckles. He searched all over for blemishes, birthmarks, bruises or cuts. He inspected the hairs on the man’s chest, his nipples, his genitals.

Leaning even closer, he sniffed the breath rising from Márkus’s mouth, the stink from his armpits. He lowered his face to the mound of pubic hair and inhaled. Recoiling, he moved back up the body, pressing his fingers into muscle, testing the firmness of bicep and tricep, deltoid and pectorals.

Finally satisfied, Lukács removed the last of his clothes and lay down on the floor next to his friend. Canting his head to one side so that he could still see Márkus’s body if required, he exhaled fully and closed his eyes.

He would not cry out.

As the agony began, as the fire whipped through him, as his skin stretched and his muscles ripped, as his back arched and the soles of his feet beat upon the floor, Lukács thought his teeth would crack and his eyes would haemorrhage in his skull. His fingers dug into the wood of the floor, fingernails scraping, knuckles cracking. His heart beat crazily in his chest, so laboured he thought it might burst.

When it was over, he lay there in stupefied paralysis. Tides of pain washed over him. He rode them silently, forcing himself to breathe, to endure, until they gradually began to ebb away.

Shivers of sensation fluttered over his altered shape. He felt the hairs on his body register the tiny movements of air in the room. The ambient sounds of the hotel had a different quality now. He could feel the rush of breath into his lungs more noticeably than before. He brought together the fingers and thumb of one hand, feeling the calluses on the pads.

Opening his eyes, he pulled himself to his knees and crawled on to the bed. Hunger burned in his belly but he had prepared for that. Tearing open a parcel of food, he gorged on spiced meat, hard cheese, sweet cakes. Saliva dripped from his chin. He felt his stomach attacking the food, breaking it down into fuel the moment he swallowed it.

When he had sated his craving, he dressed, went to the cabinet and gulped down the water that remained in the jug. Then, finally ready to see, he lifted his chin and looked into the mirror.

The reflection that stared back at him was a statue, silent and still. After a minute, it bent forwards and examined teeth, nose, lips. It brushed a hand through its hair. Opened its mouth to speak. ‘Do I look like I offend easily?’ it asked. The reflection turned its head from side to side, touching its cheek, feeling the roughness of its jaw. It took a long breath. And then a smile twisted on its mouth. ‘I could live like this,’ it said. ‘I really could.’

Márkus Thúry strode out of the hotel suite.

He walked the streets of Buda until sunset. Excitement boiled in him as he wandered through the crowds. The city’s sounds seemed louder, its colours more vivid, its stench more cloying.

On Batthyány tér he spotted Krisztina on a bench beneath a stone statue. She wore the same stained dress as always, with its tight waist and voluminous skirts. Leaning back on her hands, she seemed lost in daydreams, staring up at the sky. Márkus Thúry watched her for a while before he approached. He wanted to set this image of Krisztina in his mind, wanted to capture the scene as accurately as he could. He would enjoy reliving it later.

The sun had slid below the hill and the sky was darkening, patched here and there with purple cloud. At the windows of apartments, candles were being lit. Children were being called in from the street.

In the day’s dying heat, Krisztina’s forehead shone with a light sweat. He wondered how long she had worked before coming here. Her tanned cheeks were streaked with grime, but her hands and forearms were clean and raw where the oxalic acid she used to bleach the laundry had scoured them.

Krisztina spotted him as he crossed the square. She stood, tilting her head to one side. Márkus drew up in front of her, blood pumping. He was about to kiss her when he noticed she had not greeted his arrival with a smile.

‘You’re late,’ she said, scowling. ‘I’ve been waiting here nearly an hour.’

‘There was a problem at the yard. It took a while to sort out.’

Krisztina leaned forward and sniffed his breath. ‘That’s a lie. You’ve been drinking. Where did you get the money for that? I thought you were saving.’

He opened his mouth to protest, and thought better of it. ‘OK, I admit it. Lukács came to see me at the boatyard. Told me he needed a favour and took me to a tavern nearby. Said he wanted to get out of Budapest for good, that we wouldn’t see him again. I organised passage for him on a steamer. He sailed north an hour ago.’

‘Good.’

She started walking, and Márkus raced to catch up. ‘Good?’

‘Yes, good. You’ve been spending far too much time with him. It’s not normal.’

‘I thought you liked him.’

She stopped in the street, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘When have I ever said I liked him? When has
either
of us ever said that?’

‘What do you mean?’

Krisztina put her hand on her hips, angrily thrusting out her chin. ‘What do I mean? You’ve suddenly changed your tune. “Let the dim-witted
hülye
spend his coin if he wants to, Krisztina,
”
’ she sneered.
‘
“A few of his dull tales are worth a night of good drink.” You think you’re being so clever, Márkus. I’ll admit I was taken in by him at the start. But that man’s been using you just as much as you’ve been using him. You just don’t see it.’ She twisted away from him and strode up the street.

He followed. ‘How can he be using me?’

‘I don’t want to talk about him. I’m glad he’s gone and that’s that. Where are we going anyway? What are we doing? I’d like a drink too but we can’t afford that.’

He grinned at her. ‘Oh, yes we can. Look.’ From his pocket he withdrew Lukács’s purse.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘He gave it to me.’

‘He
gave
it to you?’

‘I swear, Kris. I don’t know how his mind works, do I? When we said goodbye at the dock, he looked me in the eye, shook my hand and gave me this. He asked me to tell you he was sorry he couldn’t say goodbye. Said he wished you a good life, and that he hoped the purse would give us what we needed to achieve it.’

Her mouth fell open. ‘He said that?’

‘What a
hülye
, eh?’

Krisztina stared at him for a long moment. Then she shook her head. ‘Márkus, what
will
I do with you?’