The String Diaries (14 page)

He grinned. ‘Walk with me. Up to the woods.’

‘The woods? At this time of day? Why on earth—’

He put a finger to her lips, jingling the purse of coins in his hand. ‘There’s something I want to ask you, Krisztina.’

Now her mouth opened even wider, eyes flickering over him, trying to read his face. He saw her chest swell in expectation. Arms linked together, they walked up the hill.

As the light of the day faded, shadows began to gather under the trees. Birds sang evening songs, calling to each other in the branches above. Márkus found a comfortable spot beneath an oak. Taking Krisztina’s hand, he eased her down on to a patch of soft moss. He reclined next to her and gazed down the hill. The waters of the Danube glimmered through gaps in the trees. ‘It’s beautiful here,’ he said. ‘So quiet.’

‘You’re going soft, Márkus. Since when did you start appreciating nature?’

He smiled then, and said, ‘Kiss me.’

Krisztina squinted at him out of the corner of her eye. Laughing, she pushed him on to his back and slung a leg over him, her skirts trailing out around his waist.
‘
“Kiss me,” he says.’ Her eyes sparkled as she mocked him. She was breathing hard, hands resting on his chest. ‘Well, seeing as you asked so nicely.’

Krisztina bent down and opened her mouth to him. He kissed her, passionately, aggressively, the excitement fizzing in his blood. She grabbed his hair and thrust her tongue deeper into his mouth and when he felt himself stiffen, she moved her hips against him. The pressure was exquisite, unbearable.

Márkus reached up and took her breast, feeling for the first time its contours, its weight. He explored with his fingers and when, through the fabric of her dress, he dragged his thumb across her nipple he felt her hiss against his mouth.

The smell of her – so potent, so all-consuming – intoxicated him. He slid his hand up to the warm damp skin at the slope of her breast, and then snaked it inside the front of her dress. Krisztina kissed him with a relentless urgency, but as he quested further under her clothes she reared up, out of his reach.

Laughing, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Now, now, Márkus. You’re getting a little hot. Maybe you should cool down.’

He frowned. Pulled her to him once more. Again they kissed. When he moved to touch her again she pulled back.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. He could feel the heat on his cheeks, the pulsing of his blood.

Krisztina rearranged the front of her dress, bent and bestowed upon him a final chaste kiss. ‘You said we would wait. Said you wanted to.’

‘I did?’

Smiling, she nodded.

He stared up at her, her scent filling his head. This girl, so earthy, so rich, so visceral, tantalised him and excited him and frustrated him. He memorised the image of her as she straddled him, the leafy canopy of the forest fanning out above her head. Márkus snorted. ‘I lied.’

Grabbing her by the arms, he flipped her on to her back and reversed their positions. He seized the front of her dress and tore it open. Her breasts spilled free. Soft white flesh. Dark and puckered nipples.

Krisztina screamed. He pinned her to the earth by her throat. She scrabbled in the dirt with her free hand, and before he managed to secure it, her fingers found a rock. She clubbed him with it. Sparks exploded in his head and he nearly lost his grip on her. But he caught her wrist and bashed it against the ground until the rock flew from her fingers.

‘Filthy
kurvá
,’ he told her. ‘You’ve teased me enough.’

When it was over, Márkus rolled off her and climbed to his feet. He buttoned his trousers.

On the mossy forest floor, Krisztina hugged her knees and stared up at him. Tears had washed clean lines through the grime on her face. A smear of blood clung to her mouth. Her voice trembled. ‘What will you do?’

‘About what?’

‘Are you going to kill me?’

He drew a surprised breath, chuckled, and shook his head. ‘Why on earth would I do that? We both knew this was coming, Krisztina. It just happened a little earlier than you expected, that’s all. Nothing to get emotional about. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Márkus turned his back and strolled away from her, whistling as he made his way down the hill. Above, the skies had darkened to full night.

He didn’t go straight to the hotel, feeling the need to walk for a while. He loved his new ability to wander freely, do what he wanted, go where he chose. On an impulse, he visited the tavern where he’d first met his friends. He took a drink, and when he found that it did not quench his thirst, took several more. So high on adrenalin was he that he did not notice the effect the alcohol was having upon him until he was quite drunk. By that time, an opium pipe seemed a good idea, so he tried that too.

Some hours later, he returned to the Albrecht. The porter glared as he approached, but this was the third time they had fenced with each other, and the man opened the door without a word.

Up on the third floor, the entrance to his suite looked undisturbed. He put his ear to it. No sound issued from within. Satisfied, he unlocked the door and went inside.

On the floor, his friend was still bound tight to the legs of the bed. His eyes were open now, and when they saw him they bulged in shock. The young man struggled against his ropes, making muted grunts and moans through the gag in his mouth.

Lukács-Márkus shut the door, walked over to his friend and kicked him in the kidneys. ‘Ungrateful shit,’ he said. ‘That’s for calling me a
hülye.
’ He went to the bed and stripped off his clothes. Naked, he performed a few stretches before lying down on the floor. He closed his eyes, relaxed his hands and feet, and concentrated on his breathing.

Opening his eyes, distracted, he turned to the young man, who was goggling at him in horror. ‘For pity’s sake, Márkus. This is difficult enough already, without you staring at me like that.’

Strangely, though, he discovered it was not that difficult at all. There was pain, yes, but the transformation in reverse was not nearly as strenuous. It felt as if his body poured into a memory of itself, a recognised groove. When he was complete, he opened his eyes and looked at Márkus. Colour had drained from the man’s face.

‘
Surprise!
’ Lukács said, laughing as the absurdity struck him. Going to the mirror, he examined his face before pulling on his clothes. He swept up the hair he had left on the floor and threw it out of the window. Then he took a knife from his pocket.

Márkus flinched when he stood over him. Lukács bent down and sliced through the bonds. He cut off the gag and retreated to the bed.

‘Get dressed,’ he said.

His friend had been bound tightly for hours. He could not move quickly. Shivering, stumbling, he gathered his clothes, never once taking his eyes from Lukács’s face.

Finally he found his voice. ‘
Hosszú élet
,’ he whispered. ‘You’re
hosszú élet
.’

‘An outstanding observation, Márkus.’

‘Lukács . . . please. Don’t kill me.’

He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Why does everyone think I want to kill them today?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to kill you, Márkus. I just want you to get dressed.’

Once Márkus had put on the rest of his clothes, Lukács led him out of the room and down through the hotel. Outside, he reached forward and plucked a piece of bracken from his friend’s shirt. The young man seemed too terrified to do anything except stand and wait for instructions.

‘I won’t be seeing you again. Good luck with everything. Try not to speak ill of people in future. You never know when they might be listening. Here.’ He delved into his pocket and removed the purse of money. When Márkus still made no move, he took his hand and pressed the purse into it. ‘As recompense for this evening’s inconvenience. Spend it well. And don’t lose it.’

Winking, Lukács turned and walked away down the street.

C
HAPTER
10

Gödöllö, Hungary

1873

Balázs József waited in the marble-floored hallway of the
tanács
townhouse and stared at the clock that hung on the wall in front of him. The timepiece was not one of his own, although the craftsmanship was passable. Its ponderous metal pendulum marked the passage of long seconds as he sat on a high-backed chair in the cool of the hallway, waiting to be called.

Two members of the
tanács
had interrupted his meeting with a customer in Pest and conveyed him here with hardly a word. When the destination of their coach became apparent, József fell silent. One did not question the motivations of the
Örökös
Főn
ök
. He had been called before, but this time seemed different. A disquiet gnawed at him, growing with every tick of the clock.

A door opened at the end of the hallway and a hawkish old man with white hair and a black suit came across the marble floor. ‘The
Főn
ök
will see you now,’ he said.

József stood up. ‘Of course.’

‘He is in the rose garden. You may follow me.’

József accompanied the man to an intricately stuccoed antechamber that contained three doors, and through one of the doors to a quadrangle. The formal garden was surrounded on all sides by a covered walkway, stone pillars supporting a balcony level above. A water fountain stood at the centre of the garden, approachable by four gravel paths. Roses, red and white, lined each route. Near the trickling fountain, gazing into a low wide pool, waited the
Örökös
Főn
ök
.
A white-suited servant held a parasol above his head, shading him from the sun.

As József approached, the
Főn
ök
turned to face him. The skin of his ancient face had sagged into multiple wrinkled folds, and his flesh had withered on his bones. But his eyes, when they regarded József, were bright and glossy and alert: two chips of cold jade.

József sank to one knee and bowed his head. ‘Lord, I came the moment I was called.’

The
Főn
ök
sighed
,
his breath rattling like wind through the branches of a dead tree. ‘Please, József, get up, get up. How long have you and I known each other?’

József rose to his feet. He found the
Főn
ök
studying him intently, and his disquiet matured into dread.

‘How is Jani?’

Was that what this was about? József opened his hands outwards. ‘Jani’s a headstrong boy. He’s in love with the Zsinka girl, and finds it difficult to be patient.’

‘The
tanács
will make its decision soon. Patience is a valuable skill. It will do him no harm to wait a little longer.’

‘I agree, Lord.’

The
Főn
ök
nodded thoughtfully. He took another rattling breath and turned to the servant holding the shade. ‘Leave us, please. József, lend me your arm. Walk with me to the bench.’

As the white-suited youth collapsed the parasol and retreated to the house, József offered the old man his arm. He felt the
Főn
ök
’s
fingers latch on to his flesh like the talons of an old hunting bird. They walked together to a wooden bench on the covered walkway and sat, looking out into the garden.

When József had entered the quad, two guards had been flanking the nearest entrance. Now, from a doorway at the opposite end, a second pair emerged and took up positions either side of it. He felt a shrinking of his scalp.

‘My old friend, this is painful. I wish you to know that. I’m afraid there’s no gentle way to break this. Your boy, Lukács, did not attend the last two
végzets
.’

József stared at one of the stone pillars that supported the balcony above, not quite comprehending what he heard. ‘That cannot be the case.’

‘You think I am mistaken?’

He took a sharp breath, realising his error. ‘No. Of course not. I would never suggest such a thing. But . . .’ he floundered. ‘I accompanied him to the second
végzet
myself. I saw him go inside.’

‘I am told that your son slipped out of the courtyard moments after your carriage left the premises. Neither did he attend the third
végzet
.’

József felt his chest tightening, his stomach plummeting as if dropped into a well. He raised a hand to his face, and noticed that it was trembling. ‘I . . . trusted him. I was proud, immeasurably so. I thought that despite his difficulties, he intended to fulfil his duty. He has made a mockery of that trust. Of me.’

The
Főn
ök
bowed his head. ‘I am sorry.’

József looked away from the pillar, at the profile of the old man beside him. He straightened. ‘Lukács is still my son. What will happen to him?’

‘You understand the importance of maintaining our traditions.’

‘I also know, Lord, you have the authority to dispense as you see fit.’

The old man nodded, then turned and looked at him. The chips of jade were flecked now with azure. ‘I do, József. And I would hesitate to cast out any son of yours for a transgression even as serious as this. But other things have come to light.’

József closed his eyes.

‘Last night in Buda a young woman was raped. Pretty thing, by all accounts. The girl has accused her betrothed of the crime.’ The
Főn
ök
shook his head. ‘It’s not often an incident like that gets reported, or even taken seriously when it is, but this girl is a bit of a fighter, by all accounts.’

‘And what does this have to do with my son?’ József felt as if he balanced at the edge of a precipice, the
Főn
ök
’s
finger
resting against his spine.

‘Hopefully nothing, my friend. But they picked up the boy shortly afterwards and threw him in the cells. His defence is a strange one. He maintains he was kidnapped by a
hosszú élet
sharing your son’s name, who supplanted him before going out to meet the girl. At this stage we know little more than that. We have not had a chance to speak to the boy ourselves.’ The azure flecks in the
Főn
ök
’s eyes had faded. ‘The
palace
has asked us to investigate. That’s unprecedented. Regardless of what has or has not taken place, the fact that the palace has even requested that we cooperate, demonstrates the lack of trust we now enjoy in some quarters. The king notices the tide turning, József, and seeks to distance himself. You must bring your son before the
tanács
, and give him an opportunity to clear his name.’

‘Yes, Lord.’ József hesitated. ‘If I may ask: what will happen to the boy in the cells?’

‘Guilty or innocent, he will hang. The stakes are too high for any alternative. Your task is simple, József. Go back to Gödöllö. Return here with your son.’

Lukács was looking down at the courtyard through the leaded windows of the music room when he saw his father ride in under the arch. He watched József dismount and hand the reins to a servant.

If you knew what I’m about to tell you, Father, perhaps you’d walk a little less upright
.

Lukács headed down the stairs to his father’s library. His stomach fluttered in anticipation. Not fear exactly; he had grown too confident for that. But even the most basic of interactions with his father brought nerves. Considering the magnitude of what he was about to reveal, it was testament to the changes he’d wrought in himself over recent weeks that he only needed to admit a slight anxiety. Overriding everything was his thirst to see the expression in his father’s eyes when the man realised that, ultimately, he had failed to impose his will on his son. Lukács’s situation was now a
fait accompli
. With his rejection of the
végzet
process, he had made his transition to
kirekesztett
inevitable. Nothing József could do now would change that. Perhaps if his father had listened, perhaps if he had consented to Lukács’s requests, this might have ended differently. Instead, he had lost both his son and the respectability he valued above the feelings of his offspring. József had not listened; had never listened. Lukács would ensure that his father heard him –
properly
heard him – before he left Gödöllö for the last time.

Smirking as the door to the library swung open, unable to mask his smugness even as his stomach flipped and his heart raced, Lukács watched his father enter the room and come to an abrupt halt.

József stared. Lukács met his eyes and stared back.

His father took a breath of air and it seemed to catch in his throat. He shuddered. Bizarrely, his eyes filled with tears. Then he crossed the room, raised his fist and swung it at his son’s head.

Lukács was so surprised that he failed to react. The blow caught him on the cheek with a force so brutal that he heard something
crack
in his face. He staggered, fell to his knees. When he looked up, József punched him again. Blood burst from his nose. He spluttered through it, pain blinding him. The fist slammed into his skull a third time and when he sprawled on the floor, József kicked him so hard in the stomach that the air exploded from his lungs.

Hands grabbed him, lifting him to his feet. He blinked away tears to see his father’s face, inches from his own, eyes a mad burst of colour. József snarled and hurled him backwards into a bookcase. Lukács’s head struck a wooden shelf. He fell to the floor a second time, accompanied by a rain of books. His father strode to a bureau Mazarin, yanked out a drawer and began to riffle through its contents.

Lukács tried to focus on healing, on repairing the damage his father had done. But he was too shocked to concentrate. ‘Wha . . . you doing?’ he slurred.

‘I
know
, Lukács, you hear me?
I KNOW!
’ Shaking, his father dragged the entire drawer out of the desk and dumped it on top. ‘The
Főn
ök
knows too. They all know, but they wish to offer me this. You knew what you did when you raped that girl, Lukács. You knew what the penalty would be. The
tanács
will not allow bad blood to thrive.’

‘Wait, Father.
Rape?
’ He tried to work out how anyone could know, and once he worked that out, wondered why anyone would give the story credence, especially so quickly. Especially his father.

Did they all think so little of him?

‘Don’t
lie
to me, Lukács. And don’t make this harder than it already is.’ József found what he was looking for. From the drawer, he picked up a dagger and unsheathed the weapon, turning it over in the light. Tears washed his cheeks. ‘You’ve thrust a knife in me just as real as this.’

Lukács gasped through the pain. If he were found guilty by the
tanács
, the sentence would be capital. With sudden clarity, he understood that his father did not intend things to go that far. József would not suffer the humiliation of seeing his son on trial.

Coughing, spitting blood from his mouth, he used the bookcase to pull himself upright, gagging from the agony in his face and torso.

József sprang across the room, shoved him against the shelving and put the blade to his throat.

Lukács tried to move his head but he was pinned. Could he repair the damage quickly enough if his father cut his throat? Possibly. But what if József didn’t stop there? What if he kept cutting? The thought panicked him and as Lukács struggled, the blade of the knife bit, its steel drawing a line of fire across his throat.

He was so close to his father’s face he could see the individual pores of his skin, smell the tobacco on his breath, the mint oil, feel the wetness of his tears.

József moaned. He pressed his cheek against Lukács’s forehead. ‘I
loved
you, you stupid boy. Despite everything I loved you, always loved you,
always
. And then you did this. You did this to me. To your family. To yourself. To that stupid girl. Why, Lukács?
Why?
I don’t want to do this, I really don’t, but I must.’

‘You don’t have to do anything, Father.’

József bellowed. With his free hand he hauled Lukács away from the bookcase and slammed him back against it.

The shelf cracked his head and the knife sliced deeper. Lukács felt the blood beginning to course down his throat, hot and thick.

And then, with eyes now as black as the heart of a solar eclipse, with spittle hanging from his chin and with monstrous strength, József ripped the blade through his son’s neck. Lukács’s eyes bulged. He felt blood
erupt
from him. Saw it gush over Józse
f
’s forearms. Heard it spatter across the floor.

His father held him, face contorted.

Lukács tried to speak, tried to twist out of József’s grip, tried to focus on his throat. But the pain was too great. He felt his legs buckle, and when they surrendered completely, his father braced him against the bookcase.

He coughed, choked. Spasmed.

Shadows rolled over him. His felt his head lighten. His thoughts began to spin away from him, unravelling in terror. His lungs emptied and this time when he took a breath, he found that he could not, found that his lips were numb, that his arms were numb, that his world was darkening, that his, that . . .

Balázs József relaxed his grip on his son’s body and allowed it to thump to the floor. He turned, staggered to the bureau Mazarin and plunged the knife deep into its wood. Panting, sobbing, he roared again and upended the heavy wooden desk. Papers, candles and writing implements flew everywhere. József collapsed among the ruins. Weeping, he pressed his palms against his skull.

How could this have happened?
How?

Was it his fault? Had he failed the boy somehow? He thought of his dead wife and moaned. He knew that the grief of her passing had made him retreat from the world, from the responsibility he bore to his sons. What would she think if she could see this? What would she say? Her middle son a rapist. Her husband soaked in his blood.