The String Diaries (8 page)

He felt his face reddening. ‘It’s a . . . a birth defect. The rest of me—’

‘You’re not even
hosszú élet
!’

‘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.

Lukács’s temper flared. He grabbed her by the arm and twisted her to face him. ‘How tasteless of
me
to attract the only filthy
kurvá
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.

Lukács 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
kurvák
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 Lukács’s shoulder.

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

‘Enough of this. Let go of her this
instant
.’

Lukács 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 Lukács 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, Lukács 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 Lukács’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?’

Lukács’s temper still burned. He glared, but when the old man glared back, Lukács 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, Lukács 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 passed? How much had he drunk? Lukács 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. Márkus, that was the first one’s name. Brash, opinionated, the young man’s debauched humour had been making Lukács laugh for over an hour. Márkus’s lady friend Krisztina perched next to him. She was pretty, he thought. In fact, a better word was
sexual
. She had an easy, suggestive manner, the cut of her dress accentuating the slimness of her hips and the fullness of her breasts. 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 Márkus 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. Lukács was drunk for the first time in his life and wanted to carry on drinking. He also had a purse of money. Márkus 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.

Lukács 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
végzet
night, he told himself drily: social interaction free of the constraints of class. His new friends might scratch around in the dirt by day, but Lukács was having the best evening he could remember.

Márkus 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 flashing. ‘Very grand.’

‘And very dull.’ Lukács drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. ‘More drink!’

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

She met Márkus’s eyes, smirked, and then looked at Lukács. Her eyes held a challenge. ‘I am if he is.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Márkus slapped a hand onto his shoulder. ‘Lukács, 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. Márkus found an empty spot and they collapsed down on to a mattress. Slowly Lukács’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,’ Márkus told him. Then: ‘Well,
pay
the man, Lukács!’

He handed over coins from his purse and the man brought the pipes. A small white lozenge lay in each bowl. Lukács watched as Márkus 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.’

Lukács 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 Márkus said to her.

They continued to chat, their conversation just as irreverent as before, and the man brought more pipes. After a while, Lukács 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 Márkus and Krisztina, thinking how fortunate he had been to bump into them. Warming his pipe, he sucked long and hard on opium smoke.

‘Lukács.
Lukács
!’ Márkus’s grinning face leered at him. ‘Look at him, Krisztina, look at his eyes! You enjoying yourself, Lukács?’

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

‘Where’s that purse of yours?’

Lukács threw it at him. He realised he was leaning into Krisztina’s torso, his arm brushing 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 breasts, and could follow her cleavage into the shadows of her bodice. Krisztina’s sexuality, 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 Márkus, 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 Márkus did not mind how close Lukács sat to Krisztina, or whether she flirted with him, because the man was confident of his worth, and equally trusting of Lukács’s honour. Both of those insights delighted him. ‘You know, Márkus,’ he said after a moment’s contemplation. ‘You’ve chanced upon the most beautiful woman. I salute you for your impeccable taste.’

Márkus chuckled, raised his pipe. ‘I salute your salute.’

Lukács felt Krisztina staring at him. When Márkus 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
végzet
could go so badly while here he seemed expert in communicating with his eyes alone.

Taking a risk as Márkus hunched over the oil lamp, Lukács 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 Márkus to see if he had noticed. When her eyes returned to Lukács, 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 Szilárd’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?’

Márkus found a scrap of paper and scrawled a crude map on to it. ‘Meet us at the place I’ve drawn.’ He grinned, slapping Lukács on the shoulder. ‘And bring that purse!’

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

‘I look forward to seeing you again, Lukács,’ she said.

Her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

C
HAPTER
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 grass with a buttery light.

Charles watched her with a prickle 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 space 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 titles 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 Kezá on the second.

He spotted passages 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.

Hosszú életek
.

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 snatched 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 bloody 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—’

‘Damn
right
you’re a bloody 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 mysel
f
?’ 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 passports. If it wasn’t for you we’d be back in Paris by now.’ She barged past him to the counter, snatching up the books. ‘I’ve had about as much of your help as I can stomach.’

He folded his arms. ‘Fine, then. Go.’

She stopped, tilted her head at him.

‘Do you have any friends here?’ he asked. ‘Any contacts? Money? No? Face it, Nicole. You need my help. You both do.’

‘We’ve got this far without you.’

‘I’m sure you have. But that was then, and now you’re here. And actually you do need my help, and despite the fact that you’re a volatile lunatic with an equally volatile mother, it’s still on offer.’

Nicole stared at him, trembling with anger. He could tell that his words had caused her to pause, even if they had outraged her. Charles opened his mouth to continue, but something told him that he had said enough, that he had pushed his luck – and his argument – as far as it would go.

He sensed that the three of them balanced on an apex.

‘He’s right, Nicole.’

Charles turned. He had not been expecting support from her mother.

‘We don’t have any choice,’ Alice said. ‘Let this go. Take a breath. I don’t like the situation any more than you. But I believe him. We can forgive one error of judgement after what he’s done. Let him make his plans and see if he can get us home. For the moment we have to accept that he is our best hope.’

Nicole’s shoulders slumped. She dropped the books down on the counter, took up the string and began to secure them. Chagrined, she met Charles’s eyes. She started to say something, changed her mind, and shook her head. Chewing her lip, she picked up the books and strode out of the room.

Charles watched her go. He felt Alice’s gaze upon him.

‘This volatile mother can forgive one error of judgement,’ she said, eyes flat. ‘But two would be dangerous. Don’t think I’m not watching your every move.’

‘Does the term
hosszú életek
mean anything to you?’ Charles asked.

Ensconced in the Rabbit room of the Eagle and Child public house, he traced a bead of foam down his pint glass and looked across at his colleague, Patrick Beckett.

‘Charles, I’m astonished!’ The professor of comparative philology was a tall man, with quick birdlike mannerisms and teeth too enormous for his mouth. He leaned forwards on his stool and snapped out a hand to retrieve his ale, slurping down a mouthful. ‘I never thought this night would come.’

‘What night is that?’

‘The night you came to ask my advice on something. You honour me greatly, my friend. I must have risen up the ranks of academia to deserve such an accolade. I’d better drink this quickly before you change your mind, hadn’t I? I knew there was a reason behind you buying the beer. Do you think this might be the first time you’ve dipped into your wallet this year?’

‘Don’t be daft, Patrick.’ Feeling foolish in spite of himself, Charles glanced out of their wood-panelled hideaway by the fireplace before adding, ‘
Életek
. I’ve been looking for a reference everywhere, but I’m damned if I can find anything.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’ve seen the light, that’s all I’ll say. You’ll learn just as much about a society studying its myths as its history.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘It’s not a historian you need, Charles, it’s a folklorist.’ Triumphant, Beckett indicated himself. ‘Enter Beckett stage right.’

‘I was under the impression that linguistics was your bag.’

‘Of course. And to understand any language fully, one has to understand the society in which that language developed. What better way to do that than by familiarising oneself with its folklore? Now I’ll admit that I’ve spent far more time reading the old tales than most, but it’s fascinating stuff. Much better than any of the guff produced this side of the twentieth century.’ He held up a quick hand. ‘Ah, aha, I forget our surroundings, of course. That was crass of me, and entirely untrue. But you understand my general sentiment.’ He rapped on the table with his knuckles, for no reason that Charles could fathom. Beckett was full of these odd little quirks, tics and contradictions. It made conversation with him exhausting.

‘So what can you tell me about
életek
?’

‘Probably very little.’ Beckett raised a finger in caution, taking a break to sip from his beer. ‘Although saying that, more than most, I’m sure. On the other hand, who knows what I know or whether what I know is even true? When I say true, of course, I mean correct, or at least what I mean to say is,
authentic
. You see? We’re already getting into difficulties.’

‘In that case,’ Charles said, ‘putting aside the potential
inaccuracies
of what you’ve heard for a moment, could you at least enlighten me with what you
have
heard before they call last orders?’

Beckett clapped twice, delighted. ‘Beautifully phrased. Of course I will. I’d have to go back and check my sources, as this is straight off the top of my head. I can’t remember if it’s from the German
Märchen
, the Slavic folktales, or somewhere else entirely. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. In fact, I think there may be tales about them in a number of different sources, which is entirely normal. They’re not always referred to that way either. In fact,
életek
– or to be more accurate,
hosszú életek
– is a Hungarian phrase.’

‘They?’

‘A people.
Hosszú életek
translates from the Hungarian into Long Lives. Or perhaps it’s Long-lived.’ He paused again, clicked his fingers. ‘I’m not entirely sure if it’s a direct translation, anyway. It could be a slight corruption.’

‘OK, let’s not dwell on the etymology.’

‘Perish the thought.’ Beckett drained his beer. ‘Is it your round again?’

Shaking his head, Charles picked up his wallet. A few minutes later, settled with fresh pints of ale, he waited for Beckett to resume.

‘I’ve been thinking about it while you’ve been at the bar. I told you I knew more than I thought, didn’t I? It’s all coming back now. I must have come across them several times over the years, and clearly from different sources, because the tales diverge. Amazing, the brain. Anyway, the Long Life part is only half the story. The real meat of the legend is the fact that the
hosszú életek
could change their shape.’

‘Shape-shifting?’

‘It’s a common theme in mythology, isn’t it? Sometimes punitive, sometimes defensive. Often predatory. You even have your more contemporary psychological shifting. Jekyll and Hyde, as an example.’

‘And the
életek
?’

‘Well that’s where the stories diverge. Many of them talk about
hosszú életek
just as we would talk about a different society or culture. You wouldn’t classify the French as essentially evil or predatory, would you? Or all the Japanese as crooked? The
életek
are simply another aspect of our heritage. Rare, but present all the same. Moving through the world, largely invisible, known only to the nobility in whichever country they reside. Many of them actually
are
nobility. You would assume that longevity and disguise would give one a certain advantage in political circles, after all.’ Beckett laughed. ‘Well, any sort of circles, let’s face it.’

‘But not all the folklore agrees on that point.’

‘No. And that’s where it gets interesting. There does seem to be a clear split. You’d obviously expect a few renditions of a tale like this to have a more sinister edge. Stories told to young children to keep them in line, for instance. And there are plenty of those as well. But what I remember finding fascinating is the fact that those stories come much later. In fact, you can’t find many of them at all if you go back more than a couple of hundred years or so. It’s as if something happened back then to turn opinion against the
életek
.’