The String Diaries (7 page)

Tears streaked his face. He wiped them away with his free hand and studied the one that pained him. Blood welled from under the nails of each finger and dripped onto the toolshed floor, where it mingled with that of the mole rat in the dust.

They left for Budapest at noon the next day. Lukács climbed on to the cart next to his father as the two horses flicked out their manes, impatient to be on the move.

His brothers had gathered in the courtyard to watch them leave for the city. Jani’s face betrayed his scorn, but he raised an arm and waved Lukács off, as if sensing his father’s displeasure and calculating the cost of defiance too high. Little Izsák, his face filled with excitement at the prospect of a night alone, skipped and bobbed on the gravel. József whistled to the horses. The cart lurched forwards and Lukács felt his stomach lurch in tandem as they drove out through the gates.

The horses led them through the town and soon they were passing the white walls and red tile roof of the huge Gödöllö palace. The building’s magnificence captivated Lukács every time he saw it. The knowledge that the Royal Palace in Budapest dwarfed it both awed and perturbed him.

‘Will I see Franz Joseph at the palace?’ he asked, after they had been riding for an hour. Once they had left the outskirts of Gödöllö the road had narrowed, and they journeyed now past fields and forest.

‘There’s no chance of that,’ his father replied. ‘For a start, the king is in Austria. That’s the only reason we’ve been granted permission to hold the
végzet
at the palace this year.’

‘He doesn’t know what goes on in his own palace?’

‘Of course he does. But there are appearances to maintain. The Crown doesn’t officially recognise us as subjects.’

They ate lunch on the road: cured sausage spiced with paprika, a hard cheese and hunks of bread. His father washed it down with mouthfuls of red Villány wine, then handed the bottle to his son. It was the first time Lukács had tasted wine. He enjoyed the feeling of warmth that spread through his belly.

‘Will all the great families be arriving at the palace on a horse and cart?’

‘Don’t be insolent, boy. You won’t be arriving on this. I’ve hired a carriage for tonight. It meets us at Szilárd’s house. The manner of your arrival is the least of our worries.’

They reached the Pest district by late afternoon. The city was hot and dusty, and the sounds of the crowded streets filled Lukács’s ears. When they finally arrived at the waterfront, he gazed out at the vast expanse of the Danube for the first time in his life. Jani had told him to expect a sight, but this was the largest body of water he had ever seen. Its sheer size confused him at first, and he found it difficult to believe what his eyes were showing him. How could such a wonder of nature exist?

The river, his father explained, originated in the Black Forest of Germany, winding its way through Europe for nearly two thousand miles before emptying into the Black Sea. The afternoon sun, low in the sky, winked on its brown waters.

József halted the cart outside a three-storey townhouse with tall leaded windows. A boy came out to lead away their cart and horses while another servant conveyed them inside. After brief introductions with Szilárd, Lukács was shepherded into a dressing room where clothing had been laid out for him.

The polished shoes he recognised; the rest of the outfit he had never seen before. While it resembled the formal evening wear worn by the nobility in and around Gödöllö, the cloth and the tailoring before him was of an even finer standard.

Wearily, he peeled off his travel clothes. He washed himself using water from a jug a servant had left him, then pulled on dark trousers and a stiff white shirt. The winged tips scratched at his neck. He tied a white silk bow tie at his throat, shrugged into the waistcoat and finally the wide-lapelled frock coat. Its fabric was heavy, smooth, luxurious.

On a separate side table, the last item waiting for him was a polished pewter mask. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. The artistry was stunning. He remembered the lengthy sitting he had endured six months earlier; the pewter face bore an unsettling resemblance to his own, although the artist had clearly used licence in its construction. The mask’s expression conveyed strength, confidence, compassion – qualities he suspected his father had requested, rather than anything the visiting journeyman had witnessed for himself.

At nine o’clock that evening, obediently following József, Lukács climbed into an enclosed black carriage. The sun was setting as their driver turned on to the Széchenyi chain bridge that linked Pest in the east to Buda on the west bank. The bridge sat upon two enormous stone river piers, the roadbed suspended by chains of iron, each link several yards long. It was the only bridge in Hungary to have mastered the Danube.

‘See the stone lions?’ his father asked, pointing at the guardians on each abutment. ‘I knew the sculptor, Marschalkó. A fine man. They say the famous bronze lions of Trafalgar Square are based on them. Such mastery.’

As they crossed the bridge, Lukács studied the vast edifice of Buda Palace on the opposite bank. The building overwhelmed the hill on which it stood, its tall walls of stone, washed golden in the setting sun, rising up proud of the surrounding trees. Verdigris roofs, turrets and domes blazed with colour.

‘The finest building in Europe,’ József told him. ‘Graced tonight with the finest of its residents. You’re privileged indeed, my son. I’ve never visited the ballroom. They say its opulence is not to be matched.’

Their carriage clattered up the hill, rolling to a stop in front of the palace entrance. József laid a hand on Lukács’s shoulder and reached into a pocket. ‘Before you go,’ he said, ‘I have something for you. Tonight you become a man. It’s fitting that as my son, you wear my finest work.’ From his pocket he withdrew a gold watch on a heavy chain. ‘This is yours. I’ve kept it from you until tonight. I’ve been working on it this last year. You won’t find a more accurate, finely balanced piece, even if I say so myself. Here, take it.’

Stunned, Lukács took the watch from his father, immediately feeling its weight. He opened the hunter case and gazed at its face, marvelling at the craftsmanship, and the work that must have gone into it. Turning it over, he saw an inscription on the back plate.

Balázs Lukács

Végzet
1873

‘I don’t know what to say, Father.’

‘Then say nothing. Go. Don’t lose it. Put on your mask before you open the carriage door. And take this purse. You shan’t need it but you should have money. Make me proud, son. I wish you well. Whatever happens tonight . . .’ His father paused. Then he nodded towards the door. ‘Go on. It’s time.’

Lukács followed two footmen through the palace grounds as the sun dipped below the hill. Candlelight shone out of a plethora of palace windows. Once through the grand entrance, he ascended wide stairs and followed an endless corridor hung with life-sized paintings of Hungarian royalty. The identities of most of the monarchs were lost on him, but he noted several images of Franz Joseph.

Two huge gilt doors stood at the end of the corridor. Music and conversation drifted from beyond. As the footmen moved to the doors and opened them for him, Lukács lifted a hand to the pewter mask on his face. The metal was cold beneath his touch. Taking a breath, he stepped into the palace ballroom, utterly unprepared for the splendour that greeted him.

Hanging from brackets at least sixty feet above the floor, three enormous chandeliers dominated the room, each festooned with scores of burning candles. So intricate and delicate was the white-golden stucco that adorned the ceiling that Lukács found it difficult to believe anyone capable of producing such beauty. Along the east wing of the room, several arched recesses housed windows that stretched forty feet in height, with views down to the mighty Danube and to Pest on the far bank. Frescos adorned the long wall opposite the windows, and all along its length stood gilt chairs upholstered in red velvet.

A string ensemble played on a stage at the far end of the ballroom. Across the main floor, young men – perhaps a hundred of them – stood together in groups. All of them wore the same formal attire as Lukács, and all of their faces were hidden behind individually crafted pewter masks. They conversed loudly, holding thin-stemmed champagne flutes and long cigars.

While the young
hosszú élet
men were an impressive sight, the ladies stole the main focus of Lukács’s attention. Like so many tropical birds, their finery bewitched him. Their dresses were a kaleidoscope of colours and fabrics. Bustles were
de rigueur,
as were plunging necklines and short off-the-shoulder sleeves that would have scandalised his father. There was uniformity too in the style of their hair: scooped up from each side of the face, into either a high knot or a cluster of ringlets. Instead of masks, they wore lace veils that covered their faces just below the eyes. Mirroring their male counterparts, they chattered in small clusters. Lukács saw several in the nearest group break off from their conversation to examine him, and he felt a pleasurable prickling of his skin as their eyes flashed over him.

Intercepting a waiter bearing a tray of champagne flutes, he helped himself to a glass, selected the nearest group of young men and walked into their midst. Immediately they widened the circle to accommodate him. One by one they came forward to shake his hand. He received no named introductions, but he had been advised to expect that.

As each young man spoke to him, he watched the eyes behind their mask. He was used to seeing the striations of green and indigo in his father’s eyes, but now he saw a multitude of variations: flecks of silver, swirls of purple, vivid tiger stripes of orange. Grimly, he noted their looks of confusion as they studied him. Did they wonder if an impostor lurked in their midst? Or simply a weakling? The constraints of protocol prevented anyone from challenging him, but he saw several of them exchange questioning glances.

As the champagne flowed, the conversation flowed with it, moving from the exploits of the king to the latest on the unification of Buda and Pest into a single metropolis. Lukács found it difficult to contribute at first, but as glasses were refilled and everyone began to relax, the talk turned to the night’s proceedings and, more pointedly, to the other half of the room’s occupants. Lukács noticed that some of his group had already started to drift away to initiate conversations, and it was not long before he found himself standing alone in the arch of one of the huge windows. Turning his back on the reception, he gazed down at the Danube below. Darkness had fallen. The great river was a wide strip of black, flickering with the reflected lights of Pest. Beyond the city, somewhere out there, lay Gödöllö, his home, his bed. He wondered what Jani and Izsák were doing. He wondered if they thought of him.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

Startled, Lukács spun around. Close to his elbow, a girl almost his height studied him with a critical eye. He noticed a smirk on her lips beneath the translucent lace of her veil. Instinctively, he backed into the recess, away from the lights of the chandeliers.

‘Ah, a shy one.’ The smirk widened. ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t bite. I saw you come in. I thought you might have introduced yourself by now but you’ve been standing there with that dull group of boys all evening. And now you’re all alone. You haven’t even talked to any of us.’

‘I hadn’t realised I was being observed.’ He winced; it had been a clumsy thing to say. Quickly, he added, ‘You’re right. It is a magnificent view.’

She glanced out of the window and Lukács used the opportunity to examine her. He could not say that she was pretty – or even charming – but there was something in her brash confidence, in her obvious ripeness, that interested him.

‘Is this your first time at the palace?’ she asked.

‘Yes. And you?’

‘Gods, no. My father’s an ambassador.’ She laughed. ‘Am I allowed to say that? Perhaps not. Indeed, certainly not. But now I have and there is little to be done. All this secrecy, it’s just a bit of theatre, wouldn’t you say? I mean we’re all
hosszú életek
.

‘I’ve accompanied my father here many times. Official engagements. Impossibly stuffy, to tell you the truth. Nothing at all like this.’ With a gloved hand she touched his arm. ‘Come over into the light. I can hardly see you, standing in the shadows like that.’

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
végzet
this girl doubtless moved in far higher social circles. Yet that was the point of the
végzet
, was it not? A levelling ground that allowed all
hosszú életek
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 sexual 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 passed 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, Lukács 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 anticipation.

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