The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  ‘Put my father back on.’

  ‘Can we talk? Meet?’

  ‘Put my father back on. Let me talk to him, talk freely to him. Grant me that, and then we’ll see. Prove to me that I can trust you.’

  ‘I can’t ask for more than that. Here’s your father.’

  Charles’s voice again. ‘Hannah, I told you. Please don’t do this.’

  ‘Dad, I know what I’m doing.’ Her voice trembled. She fought to contain her emotions. ‘Do you remember the Christmas you built me the doll’s house?’

  ‘I’ll never forget.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened?’

  ‘The paint hadn’t dried and we ruined your dress, the carpet, my trousers, and your mother’s vase in the hall.’

  ‘Do you remember how much we laughed?’ She heard his soft sigh. He already sounded so far away. So unattainable now.

  She strove to remain lucid through her grief. ‘Dad, do you remember what I told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That you were the best dad in the world, and how much I loved you for spending all that time making something especially for me.’

  ‘I remember.’

  Now that she had accepted that this was the last time they would ever talk, Hannah wanted to share a final memory with him. It was the only gift she could give – the snapshot of a perfect moment together.

  ‘I meant it then and I mean it now,’ she told him. ‘Dad, I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you too, darling. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. Never sorry. Don’t you dare apologise. What you did, what you’ve done. You’ve saved us. All of us. It’s down to you. We’re here because of you. I love you. For that, for everything.’

  ‘Time to say goodbye, love.’

  ‘I know.’ She cried out. ‘Oh, Dad.’

  ‘Say it, Hannah.’

  ‘I love you. Goodbye.’

  Hannah hurled the phone across the room and collapsed into Nate’s waiting arms.

  CHAPTER 12

  Keszthely, Hungary

  1874

  The sun was dissolving into liquid fire over the hills behind Keszthely as Jakab left his hotel room and walked down to the shore of Lake Balaton to meet Erna Novák. It was nine o’clock, a midsummer evening, and the day had been hot and humid. Now, at its end, a breeze began to stir, tickling at Jakab’s sweat-damped clothes and drying the perspiration on his forehead.

  Coming to the edge of the lake after a short walk through Keszthely’s streets, he stared out across Balaton’s water. Its vastness still awed him, even eight weeks after first seeing it. To the south-east he could faintly see the far shore; to the north-east the lake stretched virtually to the horizon.

  He had spent much of the day in his hotel room, seeking refuge from the heat, grateful for the breeze that blew in off the water and chased the curtains around his sill. From his balcony view, with the sun overhead, the lake had reflected a shade of turquoise so vivid it lifted Jakab’s soul. Now, as that same sun drew blood from the clouds and sank towards the horizon, the water shed its colour and became instead a fathomless bowl of mercury.

  He could feel his senses fizzing in anticipation of the girl’s arrival. The light mottled and faded, and the singing of the crickets intensified, filling the air with their chitter. He fancied he could smell the sap of the pine trees growing on the hills to the west. Their scent mingled with the mineral smell of the lake, the citrus tang of his cologne, and the underlying sourness of his sweat.

  Could it have really been two months since he had arrived in Keszthely? Much of his fondness for the place was doubtless due to the girl. But even discounting her influence he was sure he had never experienced such peace in his surroundings, such comfortable anonymity.

  After leaving Gödöllö, he had taken a steamer south, following the Danube through Serbia and between Romania and Bulgaria, before realising that by trailing the river he made pursuit needlessly easy for anyone who wished to do so. Abandoning a Duna altogether, he travelled north to Bucharest and crossed the mountains back into Hungary, arriving at the natural spectacle of Lake Balaton in time for summer, and Erna Novák.

  As the last red sliver of sun disappeared behind the hills, the waters of the lake darkened and a colder breeze seemed to break around him.

  ‘Jakab?’

  He turned, and there she was behind him. So powerful was her effect on him that his breath came in a rush, a flower blossoming in his chest. Here she stood, in rough linen shift dress and leather sandals, face and arms tanned from the sun, confident of the feelings she stirred in him but lacking any plurality, any motive. Her hair fell unbound about her face, the naturally dark tresses bleached to honey by the sun. Chocolate brown eyes, striated with olive and caramel, flashed over him and set his heart pounding.

  Jakab pulled her towards him, pressing his lips against her mouth. He entwined his fingers into hers. ‘The sun is only just setting. Let’s walk along the shore a while. I want to—’

  ‘Jakab, wait. There’s something I must tell you.’

  He smiled. ‘Tell me later. We have the whole evening ahead of us. I have a surprise for you.’ He let go of her hand and took her arm. Her skin was warm and deliciously moist against his fingers. ‘Come on, it’s this way. I promise it’ll be worth it.’

  For a moment she allowed him to pull her along the shore. Then she slowed, her face creased with lines of worry. ‘Jakab, no. Please. I think this is important.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Erna searched his face with her eyes. ‘Strangers. This afternoon in my father’s tavern. Asking questions about you.’

  Jakab felt as if someone had poured iced water down his spine. ‘What strangers? How many?’

  ‘Two of them. One tall and broad. A few years older than you, perhaps. Dark hair. The other man was fifty or so. Scarred face, dangerous eyes.’

  Trying to keep his expression empty of emotion, not wanting her to see his alarm, he guided her along the trail through the long grasses. ‘What questions?’

  ‘Jakab, are you in trouble?’

  ‘No, of course not. Tell me, what questions were they asking?’

  ‘They were talking to my father when I came back from the piac. Asking him questions about you. About how long he had known you, how long you had known me. Where they could find you.’

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did they say who they were?’

  ‘I wasn’t there when they arrived. From what I heard, they made out they were old friends of yours. But there was something about them. Especially the older one. Who are they, Jakab?’

  Jakab. When he had heard about the kirekesztett name the tanács had given him he had adopted it as readily as his new status. It had been a prideful and indulgent act, a childish thumbing of the nose. Far better to have taken a name with no connection to his past life. He knew the hosszú életek hunted him, intent on forcing him to answer for his actions in Budapest. Why had he made it any easier for them?

  When he thought back to the events leading to his departure from Gödöllö, he did not recognise the person he had been. That time held dreadful memories, of deeds for which he now felt shame. Whatever pressures he had faced, whatever conflict had raged within him, nothing could excuse his treatment of Krisztina. In Bucharest he had read in a newspaper that Márkus Thúry had hanged. Jakab regretted that too, although not nearly as much as his treatment of the girl. He had supplanted Márkus in the belief that it was a short cut to her seduction. Still scarred by his experience at the végzet, he’d been unable to see that Krisztina’s refusal had not been a rejection of him, but of Márkus. At the time, that refusal had blinded him with rage, and Jakab cringed at his recollection of its consequences.

  He
had been running ever since. Initially, because he was shamed by the memories of what he had done; later, out of necessity. In Belgrade, he had chanced upon a hosszú élet merchant who told him of the scandal in Budapest and how the tanács hunted their own. When the merchant deduced his identity, Jakab killed him. He regretted that too, briefly, until he was almost caught by his pursuers; the trauma of that experience quickly erased any remorse.

  He had known for weeks that he had lingered too long in Keszthely. But what could he do? By then he had met Erna Novák. For the first time, he had found someone he loved, someone who reciprocated that feeling, and he could not abandon her here. Would not. Even though he had known her only two short months, the prospect of life without her was already too bleak to contemplate.

  ‘Jakab? Please, tell me. They’re your people, aren’t they.’

  Sharing with her the truth of his lineage had been the biggest risk he had taken so far. The revelation had frightened her at first; hosszú életek were a near myth to most. She had asked him to show her, and he had complied. Incredibly, her fear had surrendered to wonder and she accepted it, accepted him – just one of the many reasons he would not give her up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They’re probably hosszú életek.’

  ‘And they’re not your friends.’

  He laughed, a hard bitter sound. ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘What do they want with you?’

  ‘Erna, I can’t tell you that. I’ve told you so much, shared all I can with you, but you must trust me on this. Do you love me?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Then believe me when I say it is far better that you do not know.’

  They had arrived at a secluded part of the shore, where a rise hid the town at their backs. On the sloping grass below them lay a blanket. Upon it was a wicker basket covered with a cloth. Inside, he knew, was bread, cheese, cold meat, slabs of chocolate. A bottle of wine and two glasses stood next to the basket.

  Erna’s eyebrows rose. ‘Did you do this?’

  Jakab shrugged. He had planned a romantic evening, and her news had soured all of that.

  ‘Oh, Jakab. What are you going to do?’

  He forced a smile. ‘Well, for a start, I’m going to open that bottle. Will you have a glass?’

  Curled together on the blanket, they ate the food and sipped at the wine. As the skies darkened and the crickets sang, they held each other and stared out across Balaton’s waters.

  ‘I’m going to have to go away for a while,’ he said.

  Erna’s body tensed. ‘I knew you would say that. Is there no other way?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘But you’re hosszú élet. Can’t you just . . . disguise yourself? Change?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. There’s no change I could make that would stop them recognising who I am eventually. It’s difficult to explain, but they’d know.’ He put down his wine glass, took her hands and turned to face her. ‘You should go home. I need to find out more about these strangers. Now. Tonight.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll be careful.’

  ‘Of course. Can you meet me later?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The woods behind your father’s tavern. When you hear me whistle, come down.’

  She kissed him. ‘I’ll see you again, won’t I?’

  He felt his stomach twist at the uncertainty in her voice, and wrapped his arms around her.

  Nightfall brought cooler air and a breeze that danced through Keszthely’s streets. Jakab followed Erna as she crossed the square alongside Kossuth Lajos Utca, weaving his way through throngs of people seeking respite from the heat.

  Her father’s tavern stood on a street in a cluster of commercial premises, flanked by a general store and an apothecary. As Erna approached the entrance, Jakab hung back, watching from an alley behind a row of houses.

  Outside the tavern, groups of men sat at rickety tables, drinking and smoking. He heard laughter, the clink of glasses, the buzz of conversation. He felt a flash of anger at the leers Erna drew as she walked to the tavern door and went inside, but he stilled his body. Now was not a time to allow emotion to distract him.

  They were here. He could feel them.

  Whether it was a previously dormant élet sense that alerted him, he did not know. No disguise, he knew, could ensure invisibility from his compatriots for ever, but they would still need to meet him face to face to confirm he was the one they sought. This feeling was something different, an indescribable pull towards the building, a vague itch behind his eyes. He shook his head against its effects, disturbed and confused.

  The front door of the tavern opened and a man came out, his tall frame silhouetted by the candlelight that shone from the windows. Jakab felt a shiver of awareness. The man placed a cigar between his lips and when he struck a match, his face was illuminated in its flare: square jaw, eyebrows like tangled hedgerows, dark locks shiny with grease, a crooked scar that ran from the left corner of his mouth across his cheek. Jakab had never seen him before, but that strange sense was screaming at him now, insisting that he had found one of his pursuers. The man lit his cigar, puffed out smoke. He slouched by the entrance of the tavern, staring into the night.

  In the alley, Jakab remained wreathed in shadows, but he felt the prickle of the stranger’s eyes nonetheless.

  Fear rolled through him. Relations between the hosszú életek and Budapest’s ruling classes had always been fractious, and he knew his actions the previous year had soured those relations further. The tanács needed to appease their critics by making an example of him. If he were caught, his life would be forfeit.

  From a gap between two tenements, another figure appeared. It approached the first man and conferred with him. The two talked for a few minutes. Jakab edged closer. All of a sudden, the newcomer stiffened and turned towards the alley. For the briefest instant, light spilling from the tavern windows shone on his face.

  Jani.

  Jakab felt his heart quicken. His blood surged through his arteries. His stomach cramped. His head began to pound.

  Of course.

  They had sent his brother after him. The discovery outraged him, but it was an obvious move, now he thought about it. While his fellow hosszú életek could identify him up close, tracking him at a distance presented far more of a challenge.

  But a relative, a brother – that was different. Jani had the vérérzet, the blood tie that allowed him to intuit his brother’s whereabouts in the same way a diviner found water.

  Until now, Jakab had thought he lacked that particular gift: just one more example of his stunted growth. But this explained the nagging watched feeling he had experienced earlier. His own ability was clearly meagre compared to Jani’s, who had managed to follow him here from however many hundreds of miles away.

  He watched, mouth dry of moisture, as his brother led the scar-faced stranger back into the tavern. What had he done to deserve betrayal like this? What had they promised Jani in return for bringing him back to Budapest?

  Jakab had been planning to kill his pursuers tonight. How, though, could he take Jani’s life? And, just as distressing – how could he ever hope to be free, ever hope to make a life with Erna, if he did not? He had no idea how long they would look for him. A year had passed since the végzet. Would they still be looking for him another year from now? Another ten?

  With Jani out of sight, comforted by the knowledge that the vérérzet manifested as a vague directional pull rather than a bright beacon, Jakab emerged from the alley and followed a route between the buildings to the woods behind the tavern.

  Erna arrived minutes after his low whistle from the cover of the trees. He watched her move through the long grass, the moon dusting her shoulders with milky light. The realisation that this might be the last he saw of her for some time distressed him more than he c
ould bear. She spotted him lurking at the edge of the wood and when she reached him, flinging her arms around his neck, he felt hot tears sting his eyes as he embraced her.

  They stayed that way for a while, motionless except for the slow rise of their chests, listening as a thousand crickets mourned them.

  ‘I saw them,’ he said.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘You were right to tell me. You probably saved my life.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I have to go. I have to end this. Otherwise we will never have any peace.’

  ‘Is it safe? Will you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be all right if you say that you’ll wait for me.’

  ‘What are you going to do? How long will you be gone?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. But I won’t be long, I promise you that. I don’t think I could stay away from you for long.’ He hesitated. ‘These are hardly the circumstances I’d imagined, but I brought you down to the lake tonight so I could ask you to be my wife.’

  Tears brimmed in her eyes now too. ‘Whoever those people at the tavern are, whatever they want with you, you know my answer, Jakab.’

  ‘You’ll wait for me, then?’

  She kissed him, and he felt her desperation in the press of her lips. ‘Why must I? Let me come with you.’

  ‘Erna, no.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There are things I must do, things I would protect you from. Your place is here until I can finish this. I’ll come back. Soon. When I do, I’ll speak to your father. And we’ll do this the right way.’

  ‘Promise me.’

  Jakab kissed her again, her tears wet against his cheek. He could feel his anger rising, a cold fury that made him clench his fists at the injustice of what they faced. The hosszú életek had cast him out and he had gone willingly, yet they were not content to leave him alone. Along these shores he had found happiness, and now they interfered with that too, jeopardising everything he held precious.