The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  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.

  CHAPTER 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 myself?’ 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.

&nbs
p; ‘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.’

  ‘You speak of them as if they exist.’

  ‘No, I speak of them as if society believed them to exist. And there’s lots of evidence for that. When you piece the folklore together, throw in a few assumptions and stir it all up with a bit of imagination, a tale emerges of a race that lived in secret in Eastern Europe until about five hundred years ago. It’s not surprising that the shape-shifting aspect of their nature comes to the fore. Think about the context. In the ninth century you have Árpád the Magyar leader, with his Covenant of Blood, taking and unifying the whole of the Carpathian Basin, of which Hungary was a part. His descendants rule quite happily – well, perhaps happily is not the right word at all, but let’s not allow it to delay us – until the thirteenth century, and then . . . bang!’ Beckett thumped the table with his fist, spilling beer. ‘Disaster! The Mongols invade. Millions slaughtered. Women and babies. Cats and dogs. Massacre after massacre. Nobody safe. The Mongols raid and raid. They burn, plunder, rape. It’s not difficult to understand how a myth centred around shifting develops in that environment.’

  ‘Defensive shifting.’

  ‘Exactly. And that is perhaps the birth right there of the életek. Their root, as it were. And if it’s a defence mechanism we’re talking of, then you’d expect them to be secretive. Who kn
ows? Maybe after the threat of the Mongols had dwindled by the end of the century, the életek were able to step forwards. And live quite happily side by side until, for whatever reason, they were driven underground again, or interest in the myth began to wane.’ Beckett drummed his fingers on the table, evidently pleased with his oratory. He sipped his beer.

  ‘It’s an interesting tale.’

  The academic nodded sagely. ‘You know, Charles, I have to say I’ve enjoyed this conversation immensely. You’ve completely reinvigorated my enthusiasm for the Carpathians. There’s something I feel I ought to ask you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Beckett’s expression became serious for the first time that evening. ‘Would you be at all interested,’ he asked, ‘in joining our battle re-enactment society?’

  Nicole and Alice stayed with him a further week. It took him longer than he had expected to arrange their passage back across the Channel. His boat-owner friend had agreed to the crossing readily enough, but the avoidance of French Customs had been a negotiation point that resulted in him parting with several cherished bottles of Château Latour.

  But even with that complication resolved, Charles admitted to himself that he had played for time. The longer he spent in Nicole’s company, the more he realised it was not just curiosity that led to his procrastination but an obvious attraction. They had argued less as the days passed – although on a few occasions their differences of opinion had forced Alice to intervene and separate them. They ate together, walked together, talked, laughed. Nicole asked to listen to a tape of his radio documentary, and then mocked him ruthlessly while she listened. He saw a different side to her during those evenings. When her defences were down, they bantered affectionately. He was often left feeling intoxicated from the experience.

  The night before the two women sailed, he managed to persuade Nicole to leave the cottage and accompany him to a French restaurant in the heart of Oxford. Whomever she was running from, he reasoned, the chances of meeting him in a particular restaurant in a particular city on a particular evening were remote.