by Cathy Ace
“I understand the books tell a historical-mythological tale, set somewhere in Europe during what might be the Middle Ages. Is that about right?”
Zsófia beamed. “Indeed. Uncle Valentin is so clever. The story is about a multigenerational family steeped in carnage, power, blood, devastation, battles, and more blood.” She laughed a little, and I returned her smile. “They are popular among boys and men searching for a complete otherworldly experience where they can—let’s be honest—fantasize about violence, pillaging, and debauchery. The books also feature enough strong warrior female characters that even young women turn to them for role models.”
“Your uncle seems to be living well off his creations,” I said, looking about me.
“Yes, he is, and because of it, we are. By the time the world lined up to buy the fourth book, Borders, there was talk of a television series. Movies were rumored when the TV series became required viewing. With book five, Inheritance, what started as a cultish phenomenon had become mainstream, and—you are correct—highly lucrative.”
“Wow, I had no idea,” was my pathetic response to the revelation. Even though I was no fan, I didn’t live under a rock, and you couldn’t use the Internet on a daily basis without there being some rumor about when the final book in the double-trilogy would see the light of day; millions of people around the world were, it seemed, desperately awaiting what everyone knew would be the last ever book, to find out what would happen to which characters, and how. It, therefore, seemed polite to ask, “Has he finished the sixth book yet?”
I was floored when Zsófia burst into tears at my question. I scrabbled in my handbag in search of a tissue. The only ones I found were all in little balls, so I had to sit there and hope she could find something to wipe her face with. She did, and I allowed her a few minutes to sob quietly. As I made sympathetic shapes with my face, I wondered why she found the mention of book six so upsetting.
Finally composing herself, her voice was thick when she spoke. “I can’t be certain he ever will finish it. I hope he will. I have to believe he will. But . . . he’s sick. It’s Alzheimer’s. He’s quite old, I suppose—fifty-six. It’s hit him hard in the last year. He’s up, he’s down. It’s awful for him. For us, too.”
My heart went out to her even as I marveled at the view of what constituted “old” from the vantage point of a young person. Fifty-six? The same age as Bud. “That’s pretty young for that disease,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear it. Not because of the books, but for him, and for you and your mum too, of course,” I added quickly.
Zsófia managed a smile. “Thank you. And don’t mention this at the HUB, please. Absolutely no one knows about my uncle, and if anyone there knows about the murder of my grandmother, they’ve certainly never mentioned it. I would prefer to keep it like that.”
I could imagine she would. The attention either piece of information might draw to her would be both unpleasant and overwhelming. I wasn’t at all sure about how to continue our conversation—we’d been focused on her grandmother’s murder before we’d arrived at the house, and now we were swimming in even more challenging waters. I decided to give her a chance to backpedal.
“Are you sure you want me to meet your mum today? Are you feeling up to it? We could do it another time.”
Smiling weakly the girl wiped off what was left of her eyeliner as she replied, “There are tears here every day, for all of us. It’s not a happy house. Today. Tomorrow. It will make no difference. When Uncle Valentin is having a good day, we try to smile for him. When it’s not such a good day, or hour, we try to be strong for him. So we hold in our tears until we are not with him, then let them out with each other. He was still asleep when I left for my shift at the Gellért this morning; let’s at least see how he’s doing. We have nurses to help out, and there’s always someone available when he needs them. It’s best that way. Mama can’t do it all. Come on—we’ll see Mama first.”
I agreed, recognizing her resilient response as something I understood, and followed her up the staircase that curved from the entryway to the first floor, where she told me the sitting room was located. When we got there I realized that “sitting room” wasn’t an adequate name for the elegant salon, which offered views through large windows to the impressive, tree-lined boulevard outside. I imagined the summer greenery would be a magnificent sight, but the bare, black winter branches were also impressive, in a slightly menacing way.
An ornate, gold-framed sofa—at least ten feet in length and almost entirely covered with newspapers—sat beneath a window. Upon it lounged a woman with long dark hair, snuggled in a comfy sweater and leggings. She was wearing large wireless headphones, had a bottle of wine on the floor beside her, and was conducting an invisible orchestra with a wineglass that was all but empty. Oblivious to her surroundings, she was surprised when her daughter entered her line of sight. She leapt to her feet, spilling the last drops of wine on her sweater.
“Zsófia—we have a guest?” she asked in Hungarian, pulling the headphones off her ears.
“Yes, Mama,” said Zsófia in English, “this is Professor Morgan, from the University of Vancouver. I told you about her. I invited her for coffee. She visited the Gellért this morning, so I took the chance.”
“Professor Morgan,” said Alexa Takács with a smile I judged to be forced, “you’re welcome in our home. Zsófia’s has told me a great deal about you.” Her accent was Canadian; a couple of decades of life in Hungary had given it the twang of a more European cadence, but she was able to switch from English to Hungarian the same way Canadians can from English to French. “I’ll get some coffee organized. We won’t have our meal for a couple of hours yet, so I hope coffee and cake will work for you, Professor? Or would you like something stronger?” She picked up the bottle from the floor and waggled it at me.
“Please, it’s Cait—while we’re here,” I winked at Zsófia, “and I’d enjoy some cake with coffee, thanks; it’s chilly outside.”
Alexa peered through the window at the skeletal trees. “Not as cold as it’ll get,” she said bleakly. She stubbed her feet into a pair of slippers and gathered up the newspaper, dumping it onto the parquet floor. “Here, come, sit down, and make yourself at home. Just give me ten minutes.”
Passing her daughter, I heard her hiss in Hungarian, “You might have phoned,” then she was gone.
Zsófia and I simultaneously pulled a face at each other, then grinned.
“Mama will forgive me,” said the girl quietly.
Deciding to take my chance to find out what I could before our reluctant hostess reappeared I asked, “So you were born here in Budapest, but your mother was born and raised in Canada?” I knew what Bud had told me, but it never hurts to have “facts” supported by more than one source.
Zsófia indicated I should sit as she replied, “Yes, she grew up in the family home on the campus of your university. Uncle Valentin was six years old when she was born, and then her parents had what she says they always referred to as ‘the perfect family.’ Mama was just thirteen when her mother was killed. Uncle Valentin was nineteen. Grandfather continued to teach until the fall of the Communist regime here, then he brought Mama and Uncle Valentin to Hungary—to Budapest. By then he was seventy-two years old, and decided it was time to remove himself from his position as a professor emeritus. He wanted to spend some time, he told my mother, with the people still living here that he had lost when he escaped to the West in 1957. His brother-in-law didn’t manage to get out, you see, so Grandfather hadn’t seen him in almost forty years. They had been close when he and my grandmother married. He had no family of his own—they were all killed in the war—so Tamás and Klara Örsi were like his own brother and sister. You saw Klara at the New York Café; she is the wife of my grandmother’s brother, Tamás Örsi.”
“It must have been quite the reunion,” I said, unable to imagine how it must have felt for her grandfather to be able to return to his homeland after such an absence.
Zs
ófia stood and wandered to the window. Her back was toward me so I couldn’t see her facial expression, but her voice sounded distant. “I don’t know; I suppose it must have been. It’s difficult for me to imagine, to be honest. It’s like a story, not reality. Grandfather died the year I was born. Mama and Papa often told me when I was young about how they were fortunate to meet when they did, because Grandfather was not a well man. They married quickly so he could be at their wedding before he died. Then, when I was only six, my father became ill. He died when I was ten. Cancer. Mama has lost a lot of people. She never talks about Grandmother, or Grandfather,” she turned and smiled, “but she will tell you, if you give her the chance, how it was love at first sight for her and my father. She prefers to tell happy stories, not sad ones.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a positive way to look at life, but the stories about her and my father are all very . . . slushy.”
I wagged my finger at her playfully. “Hey, you’re talking to a woman who is still in the first year of her marriage. Be careful how you make fun of love.”
“Really? You didn’t marry until now?” Zsófia looked shocked.
I wondered how old she thought I was. “Do you have plans to marry young? I dare say there are one or two men at the HUB who’d be happy to know that.”
Zsófia rejoined me on the sofa. “You mean Laszlo, who follows me about everywhere?” I agreed. “Or maybe you mean Professor Matyas? He never seems to be more than a few feet from me wherever I go.”
Given the way Patrik had spoken so spitefully about Zsófia, I was puzzled about why he’d want to be anywhere near her at all. “Do you mean he’s stalking you?” I was concerned maybe a line was being crossed by a colleague.
Zsófia waved an arm, replying, “No, not stalking. I do not mean this. He’s just—always there. Smiling. Do you know what I mean?”
Why are young people always so vague about everything? “What do you mean, specifically?”
Sighing, the girl spoke reluctantly. “I walk to a class, and I pass him in the corridor. I leave a class, and he’s outside the room I am leaving or need to enter. He wanders past me in the library or study rooms. Or he’s right behind me getting coffee or a snack. Just there. Always. With that smile. And those ties.”
At least I knew what she meant about those aspects of the man. His choice in ties was atrocious, as was his worrying grinning. “Is it only at the HUB that you see him all the time? Not outside—you know, when you’re out on the town, or whatever you get up to when you’re not studying.”
Zsófia’s face fell. “I’m either at school, studying here, practicing my singing, or performing. Of course there’s my job at the spa, but that’s because I really want to earn a little money that’s my own. Mama and I live here for free, and Uncle pays all the bills, but I like to have a little cash of my own, without having to always owe my family everything. I’ve seen Professor Matyas at a few of my performances, but I don’t mind that so much—he applauds with great enthusiasm, then others join in.” She finally grinned.
As her mother pushed a wheeled trolley into the salon, Zsófia leapt up to help with serving coffee.
“How’s Uncle today?” asked Zsófia.
“Pretty good,” replied her mother with an apprehensive glance toward me.
“I told her about Uncle’s condition, and about his writing,” said Zsófia. Alexa looked uncomfortable. “It’s for the best, Mama,” her daughter reassured her. “Besides, I am sure there’s some sort of student-professor privilege, isn’t there, Professor?” She mugged a goofy smile.
I smiled but shook my head. “Not to my knowledge, Zsófia, but you and you mother can rest assured I’ll respect your wishes for confidentiality.”
It was clear Zsófia had inherited her mother’s limpid brown eyes, as both women gazed at me sadly. “It is a terrible disease,” said Alexa quietly. “Sometimes he’s like the old Valentin, other times he’s gone. Completely gone. It breaks my heart.” Her eyes filled. “He’s my big brother, and I always looked up to him, tried to look after him when he needed it, even though he was—a little different. His mind was so sharp, so inventive. But now? It’s a tragedy.”
I allowed a moment of silence to pass before venturing, “Has this been a recent development?”
Alexa shifted in her chair. Her microexpressions told me she’d made the decision to confide in me. “Valentin always marched to his own drum. Back in the day, he’d sometimes stay in his room for a week, then come out ready to take on the world, until something didn’t go his way, then he’d retreat into his shell again. And that was even before . . . well, while he was still a teenager. Because his lifestyle was so unusual, I didn’t think anything of his oddities. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I began to realize maybe what we had come to think of as normal behavior was anything but. That’s when I managed to get him to agree to some tests, and he was diagnosed.”
“It’s such a shame he’s not able to really understand how much pleasure his work has given so many people,” said Zsófia gently.
Alexa replied, “That’s not because of his disease, my darling. He never really cared about what others thought of his work anyway.” Looking directly at me, as though seeking my understanding, she added, “That’s the thing, Cait. He never sought out wealth, and always shied away from fame; Valentin just wanted to tell his stories. He was happy when people paid him huge amounts of money to do so, but he’d have written the books anyway, whether they were published or not. The saddest thing is, I don’t think he’ll ever finish his saga, now.”
“He might, Mama. I’m doing everything I can to help him get to the end,” said the woman’s daughter.
Alexa looked at Zsófia with round, warning eyes. “Shh now, child.”
Zsófia blushed. I wondered what secret the women were sharing, and was on the point of asking when Zsófia said, “I am comfortable with Cait knowing I am helping Uncle with his book.”
“Helping?” I had to know.
“She doesn’t mean anything,” snapped Alexa.
“Mama, I believe we can trust Cait to know the truth,” said Zsófia gently.
I was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable with the number of secrets I was becoming privy to, and wondered how many more this odd family harbored.
The young girl leaned in and continued, “Uncle Valentin writes often, but the story he’s telling gets muddled sometimes. It started to happen toward the end of book five, so I helped tidy it all up and even typed it all up on his old typewriter before we sent the manuscript to his publishing house. They didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss, so I’ve been doing it for this book too. Unfortunately, his grasp on the storyline is slipping more and more. I try to sort it all out, but I just hope I end up getting it the way he meant it to be. Sometimes he doesn’t finish sentences, other times a chapter seems completely out of place—if he manages to finish a chapter at all.”
“You’re such a good girl,” cooed Alexa, beaming at her daughter. Turning to me she added, “Looks and brains, and a heart of gold, this one. She’s my little princess.”
I smiled politely at the proud mother, who I noticed wasn’t having coffee, but rather another glass of wine.
Zsófia tried to fob off her mother’s indulgent compliments with, “I don’t mind doing it, Mama. You know I’m happy to be able to help him. I love his books, and the characters are all like family to me. They’ve been a part of my entire adult life, you see, Cait, and I’m not what anyone would call a ‘big mixer,’ so they sometimes seem more real to me than living human beings.”
“Do you feel upset when he kills off characters you’ve grown to love?” I asked. “Although I haven’t read them, I understand that’s one of the features of his work—that he’ll kill off prominent characters.”
Zsófia shrugged. “I’m not sure any of them are truly ‘loveable.’ They’re all utterly self-obsessed and prepared to do anything to survive, or so their part of the family can retain power. Driven and bloodthirsty
, yes, but loveable, no. I enjoy reading his battle scenes, but my favorite parts are those where he emphasizes the intrigue and behind-the-scenes power plays. All those informers whispering behind the tapestries and handing out poisoned chalices—wonderful.”
Alexa tutted. “Maybe you should look less gleeful about that sort of activity. This family has suffered because of it.”
I was on full alert. “How so?” I asked as innocently as possible, while taking my last mouthful of moist cake. I hoped for a seamless segue into the tragedy in Canada, but was surprised by Alexa’s sharp response.
“Answering that sort of question can have serious consequences. There might not be an AVO anymore, but now there’s the TEK.”
I was nonplussed. Alexa had acknowledged that the infamous Hungarian secret police of the 1940s and ’50s, the AVO, no longer existed, but had suggested the anti-terrorist force known as the TEK had replaced it. Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree, but I had to try to understand what she meant. “You think of the TEK as the new secret police in Hungary?”
Alexa stood, her eyes blazing. “You must not speak of such things. You never know who might be listening.”
I looked around the vast room, then at Alexa and Zsófia, not understanding what the woman meant.
“Mama’s right,” said my student. She nibbled at her lip.
I wondered if both women shared some sort of paranoid delusion, but told myself off and began to give serious thought to what Alexa had said. It made me consider some of Zsófia’s comments about “not being overheard” in a fresh light.
I whispered, “Do you think Valentin’s publishers might be concerned Zsófia is helping with his manuscript, and you think the TEK is involved?” It seemed far-fetched, but I couldn’t imagine another reason for Alexa mentioning the institution as a potential eavesdropper.
Alexa was pacing the room. She stopped, turned, and mouthed, “You never know.” She marched to a discreet audio system in a corner and seconds later we were overwhelmed by the third movement of Bartok’s Cantata Profana.
