The Ninth Circle

by Alex Bell

  And then a tall man, dripping with flames, walked into the church, past the engrossed Nazis, and gazed down at the fallen monk. He looked up, gazing right at me, and I flinched instinctively from the hatred in his eyes. Then he was gone, to be replaced by the mystery woman from the alley. I yelled at her to get out of the church before the Nazis saw her, but it was as if she couldn’t hear me over the screaming and the deafening music Mephistopheles was playing on the organ. To my horror, she walked up to the soldiers and asked them to help her find her way home. I braced myself for the ringing gunshot and the thump of her body falling down lifeless next to the deceased monk, but it never came. The Nazis turned to the woman kindly and assured her that they would help. And, although I screamed at her not to trust them, I was unable to move and was forced to watch, helpless, as the soldiers became devils, surrounded the woman, and took her out into the burning city. When I woke up this morning, I was even more restless and unsettled than I had been last night. I washed and dressed, then took out one of my books on Budapest and read about St Stephen’s Basilica. There was the by now familiar sensation of memories being brought to the surface as I read that the cathedral had indeed been looted by the Nazis in 1944. After the nightmare, I decided to go and see it for myself, in an attempt to shake the horrible air of foreboding that had clung to me ever since I drove a kitchen knife through the old red book.

  It was bright, sunny and warm again today, and the white cathedral was a beautiful sight. It’s unusually shaped, with two towers rising on either side at the front of the building, and in the centre a 300-foot Neo-Renaissance dome that is visible from all over Budapest.

  When I climbed the semicircular white steps at the front and went inside, I was stunned by the richness of the interior. The ground plan is shaped like a Greek cross and the walls, floor and ceiling are all covered in blue marble and gold and bronze and mosaics and paintings and murals. Tall white candles stood in golden candlesticks attached to square red marble pillars; white angels curved over the top of gold studded arches and pink marble pulpits, which had fat, white cherubs perched on top, gazing down at the congregation. The final glory was the many stained-glass windows speckling it all with so many different colours. It was stunning and I couldn’t help but feel sickened at the idea of Nazis desecrating this beautiful place with their presence - greedily looting its treasures to line their own filthy pockets. And for what? What was that bell to them but so many Deutschmarks? Money to be spent on women, alcohol, and the pursuit of other disreputable prizes.

  There’s an observation point at the top of the bell tower, and I stood savouring the view from it for some time. I could see the Hungarian Parliament building and the old palace and, every now and then, part of the Danube weaving through the splendour. Held above the city in such a way, leaning on the wall with a gentle, warm breeze stirring my hair, I felt relaxed and at peace in a way I haven’t known since losing my memory. What did it matter if I could not remember who I was? God knew.

  The bell now hanging in the bell tower was bought by German Catholics as a replacement for the one taken by the Nazis. Such a thing pleases me. The Germans who paid for the new bell were not the ones who stole the old one and I admire them for putting right a wrong that they were not responsible for.

  After a while, I turned back for the stairs. There are two staircases through the hollow dome - one carries on all the way to the ground, and one leads back to the elevator. For one wild moment, as I took the stairs leading to the ground, I thought I glimpsed the mystery woman standing on the staircase opposite leading to the elevator; but when I looked back sharply I clearly saw that there were only two elderly men making their way down the stairs to the lift. My mind is just playing tricks on me. The photograph is upsetting me. I think the best thing will be to hide it away under the floorboards in my cupboard along with all the other things I don’t want to think about. I do not remember this woman. There is nothing I can do. If she needs my help, she will have to come and ask me for it herself.

  3rd October

  I am starting to fear that there might be something wrong with me. I went out to eat in a new restaurant this evening, and the waitress asked if I would like my steak angolosan - cooked rare. I said that would be fine and after about twenty minutes, the meal was delivered to my table. I had planned to eat and then walk back to my apartment block, taking in the cool evening air before going to bed.

  But the steak was very rare indeed, still a light pink colour; and, as soon as I sank my knife into the tender slab of beef, some red blood oozed out of the sides, staining the plate and running into the vegetable juices, collecting in clotted pools and swirls. I cannot do justice to the strength of my utter revulsion in that moment. Suddenly, my appetite was gone, and I felt sick at the sight of those scarlet droplets splattered across my plate and dripping from the end of my knife.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I had jumped up and overturned the entire table with a yell. Christ - I cringe now at the spectacle I must have made of myself. The china plates and cutlery fell to the floor with a room-silencing crash, and nearby customers shrank back in alarm as the staff rushed over and implored me to calm down. But my mind kept replaying the memory of my knife plunging into the pink flesh and the scarlet blood that had bled onto the plate.

  I can’t explain why the sight caused me such horror, but I was suddenly quite sure that I was going to be sick. I pushed the staff aside and just managed to make it outside before folding over double and retching there on the pavement, much to the alarm of various passers-by and an old couple who had been looking at the menu. They left pretty quickly. I suppose the sight of a man sprinting out of a restaurant to throw up is not the highest recommendation.

  I would like to think that it hadn’t been the steak. That it had perhaps been something I ate earlier that day. But the nausea came upon me so suddenly. There wasn’t any warning. If there had been, I certainly wouldn’t have been vomiting in the street where all those people could stare at me. There seems to be a pattern emerging here. Sometimes . . . I almost seem to lose my mind . . .

  The way I see it is this: either I truly am a madman, or else these episodes are triggered by my subconscious in response to some event that occurred before I lost my memory. And I know, I know I’m not mad. So this scares me, all this. I wish it would all stop. I walked home quickly last night in case the restaurant called the police or something equally alarmist. I just kept my head down, cheeks burning with shame, and carried on walking.

  When I got back to my apartment block, I paused outside it and drew out the battered box of fish food from my pocket. I glared at it for a minute in the weak light of the street lamp, hating it. Then I dropped it into the nearby trashcan and went upstairs to bed.

  4th October

  Stephomi contacted me a couple of days ago to arrange to meet for a drink in the wine bar of his hotel. I had been pleased to make these plans at the time, but this morning I didn’t really feel like seeing anyone. I missed feeling the fish food in my pocket. I realised how pathetic that was so I didn’t let myself rummage around in the trash for it. I didn’t take a new box from the stack in my cupboard, either. But I’m sure that my family are not returning now - after all, I’ve been here for two months. Holidays do not go on that long. There really are no fish. I must have moved to Budapest on my own. My old life could be anywhere, and I have no idea how to find it. Perhaps, after all, I should go to the police with this . . . I had half made up my mind to do so this morning, but now I am not so sure.

  I tried to cancel my plans with Stephomi - I just wanted to stay at home by myself today. But his phone was just ringing out so in the end I had to go, although I’m glad I did now. I was impressed when I located the Hilton - the hotel in which Stephomi had been living for the past weeks. It’s situated on the other side of the Danube, in the Castle district - I had to walk across the Chain Link Bridge to get to it - and is one of the most luxurious hotels in Budapest. The hotel building incorporates parts
of both a Gothic church and a Jesuit monastery, and the views of the Danube and the Pest cityscape are magnificent.

  The wine bar in which I was to meet my friend was set in an authentic medieval cellar built beneath the hotel. I admit I was disappointed not to drink in one of the bars upstairs, looking out over the Danube. It seemed a shame to be drinking in an underground cellar when the view from above was so beautiful. But Stephomi was waiting for me downstairs so I followed the signs to the wine bar, expecting only to have to walk down a few stairs before I came to it, but instead I had to go down several flights of stairs scattered across the hotel before I came to another door with a sign for the wine cellar. When I opened it and stuck my head through, I stared in surprise at the sight of a stone staircase carved out of the rock, twisting down in semi-darkness and illuminated only by the occasional soft orange lamp. For a moment I wondered if I was still in the Hilton, or whether I had in fact come across some kind of underground monastery. I looked back over my shoulder, but the sign definitely pointed to this door. So I shrugged and crept inside, half expecting to be told off for going through, although there was no one else to be seen.

  The uneven rock was cold to my touch and there was that unmistakable musty, slightly damp smell that only truly ancient places have. I followed the twisting staircase down until I saw it reached a short corridor, at the end of which was a stone archway to the wine bar. I froze in alarm when I saw it, for the twisting black words above the arch clearly read: Faust Wine Bar.

  I jumped when someone spoke below me. ‘You’re late.’

  I strained my eyes and saw that Stephomi was waiting for me at the bottom of the twisting stone stairs, leaning against an archway with his hands in his pockets, virtually hidden in the shadows cast by the soft light.

  ‘I, er . . . had some trouble finding it,’ I said, still staring down at him from the stairs.

  ‘Yes, it can be like that the first time. I think most of those tourists upstairs don’t even know it exists. They get distracted by the panoramic windows in the modern bars upstairs. Come on, this bar is far better, I promise you.’

  I hesitated, feeling almost childishly afraid to go down the steps and join him. It was the name of the cellar: Faust . . . the once honourable man that Mephistopheles had so cleverly managed to corrupt and disgrace.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Stephomi asked, when I didn’t move.

  I wanted to ask if we could go back upstairs to one of the sunlit and tourist filled bars, but Stephomi was obviously keen to show me the cellar, and I knew it would sound odd . . . so I walked down, and followed him as he led the way through to the cellar.

  It was very small, with only enough room for six tables or so in a long, thin room, with the wall and ceiling forming a semicircle above the floor. Apart from the odd light built into a rocky enclave, the whole room was lit by candles, illuminating the many bottles of wine stacked in the old wooden wine racks against the walls. When we got there, the cellar was empty but for the waiter stood behind the small table outside. Soft cello music was playing from somewhere, although I couldn’t see any speakers. Stephomi ordered a bottle of Szekszárdi Merlot and we sat down at one of the corner tables in creaky old wooden armchairs padded with cushions.

  ‘How long have you been living in this hotel?’ I asked, once the soft-footed waiter had brought out our wine and retreated to his area outside, leaving us alone in the dim cellar.

  ‘Since I arrived in Budapest. A few weeks, I suppose. I came into some inheritance a few years ago and now I’m lucky enough to be able to travel the world at my leisure.’

  ‘What about your family?’ I asked glumly, still brooding over the loss of my own.

  At once, Stephomi’s face darkened and he gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather estranged from my family,’ he admitted.

  I knew such things happened, of course. I knew that families could tear apart and life-long feuds prevented relations from speaking to each other for years and years. But I still couldn’t help but cringe at Stephomi’s words. What a waste! At least he had a family.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Stephomi said, doubtless seeing the look on my face. He paused, then added with a smile, ‘Well, mostly not my fault, anyway. It started off as a small thing - you know how it is. But somehow the situation just -’ he waved a hand around, searching for words, ‘- escalated. Now even when I do go home, my father and brothers won’t speak to me. Won’t even see me.’ He grinned suddenly and gave a lazy shrug. ‘I think the situation could have been salvaged if only I hadn’t proved them wrong about something some years back. The one thing they can’t forgive, really. So what about you? Do you get on tolerably well with your family or do you avoid Christmas reunions like the plague?’

  Christmas reunions . . . ? I couldn’t help but grimace. I had never thought about Christmas, only two months away now. What was I going to do on Christmas Day? Sit in my apartment by myself wondering what my parents might be doing? What my siblings might be doing? What my . . . wife . . . my children . . . might be doing? I felt suddenly desperate for them - for these people that I no longer knew. What if they had given me up for dead already?

  ‘I’m sorry, Gabriel, I didn’t mean to pry,’ Stephomi said quietly, misinterpreting my silence.

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Don’t apologise. The truth is I . . . I don’t know my family. I can’t remember them.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ Stephomi murmured, eyebrow arched. ‘You were adopted?’

  I could have said yes right there. But Stephomi was my friend now - my only friend, in fact. He was a clever man; he might be able to suggest some solution to this problem. He might be able to help me somehow. He might know of some way to fix this without going to the police.

  ‘There’s no fish,’ I said suddenly. ‘All this time I thought they were real but . . . there’s no one here but me. And I’m not even sure who I am.’

  So I told him the truth. I told him that I had woken up lying on the floor of my kitchen some months ago, and that I had no memory of my life before that day - no clue as to where I might have lived or who I might have been.

  But I didn’t tell him of the incident in the back streets of Budapest late at night when I had been unable to stop myself from beating up five Hungarian muggers. I didn’t tell him of the utter horror that had risen up sharp and vicious within me at the sight of the dead butterfly, the antique book or the bleeding steak. Nor did I say anything about the strange mystery woman who had fled from me. I did not want to scare away the one person I felt I could trust.

  I was afraid that he might be astonished and horrified by my predicament, or else denounce me on the spot as a compulsive liar. But Stephomi merely sat for some moments after I had finished, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his slender fingers and frowning slightly, as if contemplating an interesting puzzle.

  ‘Amnesia?’ he said at last. ‘Most unusual. And all this from hitting yourself with a shelf and falling from a chair?’

  ‘Well, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘And there is nothing in your apartment that gives you some clue as to what your life was before? No one has been in contact with you?’

  ‘No, but that’s because I’ve only just moved in. I don’t think anyone knows where I am. I don’t know what to do about it!’

  ‘You’re right. It’s a bloody mystery, Gabriel. But I’m sure the amnesia won’t be permanent. These things usually aren’t. You’ll just have to wait it out.’

  ‘Wait it out?’ I asked, appalled. ‘But I could go on like this for years!’

  Stephomi shrugged. ‘The only other thing to do is go to the police. There’s nothing to stop you doing that if you want to.’

  I could see him watching me closely. I hadn’t told him about the large stash of cash I had found in my apartment, and had no wish to let him know of the sinister elements I had deliberately left out.

  ‘I’d rather not do that . . .’ I began uncertainly.

  ‘Well, if your f
amily aren’t in this country, then there’s probably little the Hungarian police could do anyway. I’d wait it out, if I were you. I mean, your friends and family must have known that you were moving to Budapest. I expect one of them will seek you out eventually, even if they don’t have your address. There can’t be that many English people living here. It’s only been two months, Gabriel. I’m sure everything will resolve itself eventually, just give it some time. And if your family is anything like mine, then be prepared for the ribbing of your life when they find out that you managed to knock yourself out with a shelf within days of moving in.’

  His attitude made me feel so much better. I wouldn’t always be in this situation. It was just a matter of time. It was not something to become hysterical about. I’m glad that I trusted Stephomi with this. Perhaps, in time, I will be able to tell him about the other things. I’m sure he would be able to come up with a rational explanation for everything else that has happened to me too.