The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  The reflection that stared back at him was a statue, silent and still. After a minute, it bent forwards and examined teeth, nose, lips. It brushed a hand through its hair. Opened its mouth to speak. ‘Do I look like I offend easily?’ it asked. The reflection turned its head from side to side, touching its cheek, feeling the roughness of its jaw. It took a long breath. And then a smile twisted on its mouth. ‘I could live like this,’ it said. ‘I really could.’

  Márkus Thúry strode out of the hotel suite.

  He walked the streets of Buda until sunset. Excitement boiled in him as he wandered through the crowds. The city’s sounds seemed louder, its colours more vivid, its stench more cloying.

  On Batthyány tér he spotted Krisztina on a bench beneath a stone statue. She wore the same stained dress as always, with its tight waist and voluminous skirts. Leaning back on her hands, she seemed lost in daydreams, staring up at the sky. Márkus Thúry watched her for a while before he approached. He wanted to set this image of Krisztina in his mind, wanted to capture the scene as accurately as he could. He would enjoy reliving it later.

  The sun had slid below the hill and the sky was darkening, patched here and there with purple cloud. At the windows of apartments, candles were being lit. Children were being called in from the street.

  In the day’s dying heat, Krisztina’s forehead shone with a light sweat. He wondered how long she had worked before coming here. Her tanned cheeks were streaked with grime, but her hands and forearms were clean and raw where the oxalic acid she used to bleach the laundry had scoured them.

  Krisztina spotted him as he crossed the square. She stood, tilting her head to one side. Márkus drew up in front of her, blood pumping. He was about to kiss her when he noticed she had not greeted his arrival with a smile.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said, scowling. ‘I’ve been waiting here nearly an hour.’

  ‘There was a problem at the yard. It took a while to sort out.’

  Krisztina leaned forward and sniffed his breath. ‘That’s a lie. You’ve been drinking. Where did you get the money for that? I thought you were saving.’

  He opened his mouth to protest, and thought better of it. ‘OK, I admit it. Lukács came to see me at the boatyard. Told me he needed a favour and took me to a tavern nearby. Said he wanted to get out of Budapest for good, that we wouldn’t see him again. I organised passage for him on a steamer. He sailed north an hour ago.’

  ‘Good.’

  She started walking, and Márkus raced to catch up. ‘Good?’

  ‘Yes, good. You’ve been spending far too much time with him. It’s not normal.’

  ‘I thought you liked him.’

  She stopped in the street, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘When have I ever said I liked him? When has either of us ever said that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Krisztina put her hand on her hips, angrily thrusting out her chin. ‘What do I mean? You’ve suddenly changed your tune. “Let the dim-witted hülye spend his coin if he wants to, Krisztina,”’ she sneered. ‘“A few of his dull tales are worth a night of good drink.” You think you’re being so clever, Márkus. I’ll admit I was taken in by him at the start. But that man’s been using you just as much as you’ve been using him. You just don’t see it.’ She twisted away from him and strode up the street.

  He followed. ‘How can he be using me?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him. I’m glad he’s gone and that’s that. Where are we going anyway? What are we doing? I’d like a drink too but we can’t afford that.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Oh, yes we can. Look.’ From his pocket he withdrew Lukács’s purse.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘He gave it to me.’

  ‘He gave it to you?’

  ‘I swear, Kris. I don’t know how his mind works, do I? When we said goodbye at the dock, he looked me in the eye, shook my hand and gave me this. He asked me to tell you he was sorry he couldn’t say goodbye. Said he wished you a good life, and that he hoped the purse would give us what we needed to achieve it.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘He said that?’

  ‘What a hülye, eh?’

  Krisztina stared at him for a long moment. Then she shook her head. ‘Márkus, what will I do with you?’

  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.’
r />   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.

  CHAPTER 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 Főnök. 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 Főnök 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 Főnök. A white-suited servant held a parasol above his head, shading him from the sun.

  As József approached, the Főnök 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 Főnök 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 Főnök 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 Főnök 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 Főnök’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 Főnök 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 Főnök 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 Főnök’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 Főnök’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.’