by Cathy Ace
“Valentin wasn’t Ilona and Kristóf’s natural son. They adopted him when he was just a toddler.”
Three pairs of eyes stared at me; one in utter disbelief, two displaying surprise, but not shock.
“Valentin isn’t really my uncle?” cried Zsófia. “That’s nonsense. We act alike. We even think alike. He’s never said anything about this. It cannot be true.”
“They didn’t tell him?” asked Klara. I shook my head. “Why not? Did he come from a bad, or sad, background?”
Impressed by her perspicacity I gave her the answer she deserved. The truth. It took a while, but, when I had finished, all three of my companions looked stunned.
“This is a tragedy,” said Klara. “For a little one to see such things. To know his brother did this to his parents.”
“But he does not know,” Tamás corrected his wife. “It cannot harm him because no one has told him.”
“In one of my classes—not yours, Cait, one with a different professor—we studied early childhood memories. There’s research that says we remember things from times before we can speak. Do you think Uncle . . .” she paused, almost catching back the affection with which she’d used the word, “. . . Valentin remembers seeing his whole family killed?”
“I have no idea, though I am aware of the research to which you’re referring. Early-life trauma can be recalled under hypnosis, though often the subject cannot clearly explain what they have seen—because they had no frame of reference at the time. However, they can recall how the experience made them feel. It might be that Valentin holds such memories of emotion within him, hidden deep somewhere.”
“What if Uncle lost it, somehow, and bashed Grandmother on the head in a fit of temper?” whispered Zsófia, as though she was afraid to hear the words she spoke.
“He has no temper,” replied Klara. “Zsófia, you have spoken about him to us so much, so often, and you have always told us that, despite his writing, he is a gentle man.”
Zsófia pulled open the scarf she’d kept around her throat through dinner. “He did this to me,” she said sadly. “He didn’t mean to hurt me, I don’t think. Or maybe he did. In any case, he did it.”
Klara’s face creased with a warm expression. “He is a sick man, Zsófia, my dear. He is raging against things in his head over which he has no control. It is normal. We must forgive him.”
Tamás said, “Sometimes a man hides his true self. But it will show. Like a wild beast, he cannot help but follow his nature.”
I half-raised my hand. “Not all Alzheimer’s patients become violent. It’s not unheard of, but it’s not a part of the ‘normal’ course of the disease. Maybe we should consider the trauma of seeing his family killed when he was a very young child, his drug use as a teen, and the fact he might have been jealous of his mother showering her affection upon young men he was studying with. All these things could have accumulated to provoke outbursts long before his disease took hold.”
“Ilona and young men?” asked Tamás, surprised. “What are you saying? She was just a girl herself.”
“In 1976? No, Tamás, not a girl. The sister you never saw after she was in her twenties was a woman of forty-six by then. She was the mother of two, and living on a campus that I know from first-hand experience is a breeding ground for gossip and lies. She had a reputation for eyeing up young men; I have this on good authority not just from Valentin himself, but also from another source.” I looked at Zsófia directly as I added, “Patrik Matyas was at UVan during the 1970s and witnessed her approaches, even having to fend them off himself.”
“Professor Matyas was in Vancouver when my grandmother was killed? Is that when he worked with Hollingsworth on that paper?” asked Zsófia. When I’d explained the timeframe, Zsófia added, “I had no idea it was then.”
“Matyas?” Tamás hissed the name. “You know a man by this name?”
“He’s one of my professors.” Zsófia sounded puzzled.
“You have never spoken of him,” pressed Tamás.
“He’d just be one of many professors Zsófia has at the HUB,” I said. “Why do you ask? Do you recognize the name?”
Tamás looked thoughtful. “It might be the same one. Patrik Matyas. Maybe there are two? Who knows. One Patrik Matyas works for the people who follow old informants like me around, trying to make their lives uncomfortable, even unbearable. But he’s not only working for the group involved—he passes information to us so we can avoid them when we want.”
I took a moment to think through what Tamás was saying. “You mean Patrik Matyas acts as a double agent, working within one organization, but passing information to another?” If it was true, it made sense.
“We are not an organization,” sulked Tamás. “We are people who had to do what we did. Sometimes we are the only ones who understand the full picture. We talk, tell each other things. He helps.”
Zsófia looked at me aghast. “It can’t be the same person,” she said hesitantly.
“Think about it, Zsófia. Think about the nature of the man. Might he be keeping an eye on you because you are related to Tamás?”
“You mean that’s why he follows me about? Do you think all the people who follow Valentin, Mama, and me are part of the same group?” I nodded. “And then he tells—he tells the . . . what, the Communists about us?”
“No, child,” replied Klara quietly. “The people who follow us are not Communists. They are the families of those who were informed upon. They think we are Communists, and the people who still support the Communist ideals do help us out from time to time. It is a strange situation, to be helped by the people who, for so long, were our sworn enemies, and made us do things we hated doing.” Her intelligent eyes looked at me. “Matyas is still working for the party—or what’s left of it.”
“He told me he remained a devout Catholic throughout the occupation,” I said thoughtfully. “Maybe he was acting as an infiltrator then, too. Passing information to his masters about the religious community.”
Zsófia’s eyes lit up with excitement, “His field is group dynamics—that’s a good area to be in if you’re doing that. Maybe it is him. Maybe that’s why they recruited him in the first place.” The light in her eyes changed. “So he could have done it. He was there, in Canada, when Grandmother was killed. Maybe he was a hit man for the Communists.”
Tamás said, “I know of people who were forced to infiltrate and inform upon all sorts of groups, not just religious ones. Like me they often had no choice. Like me, their assigned tasks were designed to spread discord within closed communities, to make those who might have become allies against Communism become enemies of each other. We didn’t just gather information; we were also used to spread disinformation. Undermining from inside. It was hard to do. But not as hard as being told to kill someone.”
“Were ordinary people made to kill people too?” asked Zsófia angrily. “If they were, I bet Patrik Matyas would have done it. He’s the type.” She gave me a challenging sideways glance.
“I do not know if the Communists sent Matyas to Canada to kill Ilona. And, whatever my husband says, I do not know of anyone who was sent anywhere to do such a thing. Unless it was their job. They had enough people who did that for them, without having to use amateurs, I would think. They certainly sent people away wherever they wanted, and whenever they wanted,” replied Klara sadly. Her head tilted as she looked at her husband. “They sent my darling Tamás away twice, didn’t they? Once for weeks, the year after the big elections.” She looked at us again. “He wasn’t the same man when he returned. It took years for him to be my Tamás again.”
I was desperate to ask what she meant, but Tamás’s reply of, “It was a time when there were many special stories I had to write, but it is not a time of which I will speak. Ever,” shut me down.
Zsófia dropped her chin onto her arms, which were crossed on the table. “Knowing what I do now, I almost wish it was Patrik Matyas who killed Grandmother. But it seems so fanciful, like
something out of an old movie. If it wasn’t an assassin, it must have been a stranger. The brother they let out of the hospital. The sick one.” Her head shot up again. “The one who killed Uncle Valentin’s parents. He must have done it. He was already a murderer.”
“We could speak like this for many hours, but this is an old wound. We cannot make it heal tonight,” said Klara. “We have spoken of much. Maybe too much. Do not be in such a hurry, child. We are old, but we have time yet. We can talk like this, in the firelight, many more nights. I suggest we all sleep now.” She sounded wise—and tired.
I had to admit I was flagging, too; I’d had an exhausting couple of days, what with one thing and another, and I had to be up early to get back to the city and deliver a lecture. After Zsófia and I made plans for the morning, I phoned and left a message for Bud about where I was staying for Bud using the Örsis’ landline, then I fussed about in the tiny bathroom for as short a time as I could manage.
I was finally glad to let my head hit the pillow and I could feel myself drift off. I was warm, full, comfy, and in a proper family home for the first time in weeks. I knew I’d sleep well.
A River of Words
I WAS WRONG. I COULDN’T SETTLE. The place was too quiet, and the few noises I could hear—the shrieking of owls, the rustling of branches—were all making me feel completely overwhelmed with loneliness.
My mind was awhirl, and I couldn’t stop thinking about . . . everything. Especially Patrik Matyas.
I sat up in the narrow bed and tried to get comfy. There was nothing for it but to do my best to organize my thoughts, or they’d keep me awake all night.
Sometimes, when I allow everything to fly about and take its own shape, I can understand the connections between places, people, and happenings more clearly. In a strange bed, in a strange part of a strange country, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to float . . .
I am on a boat on a river I know to be the Danube, even though it seems to be flowing through Stanley Park in Vancouver.
I peer across to one bank where I see Ilona, Kristóf, Alexa, Valentin, and Zsófia. They are all dressed in medieval clothing, and are beating each other with giant inflatable hammers. On the other bank I see thousands of men, two armies facing each other, one wearing red uniforms, the other black. Patrik is at the head of one army, Tamás at the head of the other. They are cheering and jeering at each other.
I know I must make a choice—do I try to paddle my boat to the side of the river where there is just a family with all its infighting, or do I paddle to the side where there are armies? I cannot decide, then I realize I have neither paddle nor any rudder on my boat, so I can do nothing but drift.
As I float along the river, unable to steer, the scenes on the banks change. Where once there was Zsófia’s family, now there is only Ilona, dressed in regal robes, surrounded by young men, all wearing sports jackets and bow ties, who are spraying her with aerosol cans full of perfume. The mist they are creating becomes a shower of tiny little stones, which land on her and explode into clouds of blood. There’s so much blood, Ilona disappears.
The air clears, and I see Ilona standing with Kristóf, Alexa, Valentin, and a man I somehow know is Valentin’s blood brother Edward Cook. They are all holding hands, as though in solidarity with each other, but then, as a frightening flapping sound approaches, each raises an ancient shield above their head.
They are warding off a flock of eagles descending upon them from a blackened sky. I see two of the eagles are carrying people—Patrik Matyas is on one, Tamás Örsi on another. Both men are throwing rocks from their flying steeds; the noise of the rocks on the shields is like thunder. Both men are wailing, “No, no, I do not want to do this!” They are each weeping tears of blood.
I see that all of Patrik’s eagles are wearing clerical collars and bearing signs that say WE LISTEN. Tamás’s birds all have cameras mounted on their backs. The eagles grab at the humans below them, plucking away their shields and finally carrying their bleeding bodies into the darkness.
Then there is Bud, silently weeping beside a gravestone. I know it is the grave of his late wife, Jan. He turns to me and begs me, without his lips moving, to be safe and to make good decisions. I must avoid all politicians, he says.
Inside my boat I see a telephone housed in a little wooden box. It’s ringing so I answer it. It’s a Russian voice telling me I can get lots of money so I can live happily ever after with Bud if only I sign a paper that says I am not Zsófia’s mother. I say I will not sign, then the telephone changes into a giant bee, buzzing in my hand, its stinger close to my face. I don’t know what to do with the bee—I don’t want to hurt it, but I know it wants to hurt me. I throw it over the side of the boat into the water and it disappears.
A hand appears from beneath the water holding two quill pens dripping with blood-ink. Patrik’s head pops up and he’s laughing like one of those hideous laughing policemen you see at the funfair. He shouts with the sort of voice you expect to hear from a ventriloquist’s dummy, “Write two times faster with two pens—it’s the best way. Everybody’s happy when you write things twice.”
I’m no longer in a boat; I’m at the top of a hill, looking down a raging torrent I know is the bicycle path where Ilona died at UVan. She’s there, dressed as the queen from Valentin’s books and she’s shouting at me, “I am my daughter.” Then I see a man who has no face but who is wearing a kingly crown rise up from the torrent and lift Ilona’s now-lifeless body, exactly as the character of the king had done in Valentin’s final book. The man has no legs; they are below the waterline. He screams with grief.
I snapped back to reality, and knew I’d worked out quite a few things. I also knew I had to tell Bud what I’d deduced without delay, so I crept downstairs and dialed his parents’ house again. There was still no answer, so I left another message. I spoke as fast as I could until the machine beeped, then I rang back again, and again. I had to tell him about Patrik Matyas and his work as a double-agent, and my belief he and Peter Mezey had been one and the same person. I poured out all I could in terms of the examples of how Patrik had wrong-footed me since I’d arrived, how he’d used insinuation, lies, and carefully framed true information to make me doubt myself, and others around me. I told him all about the conversation at the Örsi house earlier that night, and I finally told him that I had a suspicion Tamás Örsi might have been in Canada when his sister was killed. I admitted I was going out on a limb a bit with that idea, and begged him to look into it because Tamás’s absence from Hungary only might have coincided with the time when Ilona was killed, but it was worth a shot. I didn’t know what else to do.
As I replaced the receiver for the final time, I thought I heard a floorboard creaking above my head. Had someone been listening to my whispered messages? I crept back to my room, but couldn’t tell if anyone else had ventured from their bed.
I finally settled for what was left of the night and told myself to go to sleep. I’d need my wits about me the next morning.
The Sound of Silence
IT WAS GONE SEVEN WHEN I awoke, feeling fuzzy-headed. The heavy silence of my surroundings was punctuated only by birdsong, and made me realize how far from civilization I was. I pulled back the floral curtains at the small casement window and peered out; having arrived in the dark I had no real sense of exactly where I was. The Örsis’ house stood on a hill and was surrounded by open countryside, with forested areas of bare trees and some evergreens. Fat flakes of snow were falling, and it looked as though a few inches had already settled, rounding the edges of the landscape the way only snow can.
Luckily, the house was warm and cozy, and I was pleased no one was in the bathroom. I cleaned up and pulled on my clothes. I did the best I could for my hair with Zsófia’s hairspray, which was as close to glue as I’d ever experienced. Finally, I bravely used the tube of red lipstick Zsófia had donated to me at bedtime the night before. I usually opt for more neutral shades, so I took my time with it, because I wanted to
make the outline look as smooth as possible, which I know makes a big difference when you’re wearing a really noticeable color. Eventually, I reckoned I was presentable enough to deliver a lecture—especially when my students would really only be interested in quizzing me about the exam the next day.
I made my way downstairs quietly, not knowing when the aged Örsis usually rose. No one was about. I made my way through each room downstairs to find they were all empty. I crept back up the stairs and risked knocking on then opening the door to the room Zsófia had told me she’d be using. It was empty. The bed was unmade, and had been occupied, but there was no sign of Zsófia herself. Maybe she’d gone for a walk? I noticed the door to Klara and Tamás’s room was open. Their bed, too, had been slept in, but was now empty.
I couldn’t help but think of those episodes of The Avengers when Steed and Mrs. Peel would show up at a completely deserted English village and have to work out where everyone had gone. My rising panic told me I knew full well I was neither of those characters, and this was horribly real.
I raced downstairs again and began to hunt about for a note. I found one pinned to the back of the front door, and cursed myself for not having spotted it earlier.
4:00 AM Gone to help Mama. She needs us. Uncle Valentin is very sick because he has tried to kill himself. I will return to collect you by seven. Did not want to wake you. NOT your problem. Zsófia.
I let the news sink in. The note didn’t answer most of the questions tumbling around in my head, so I ran to the sitting room and grabbed my phone from my handbag. It didn’t have a signal, but at least I could access my contact list. I picked up the old-fashioned telephone handset to call Zsófia’s cellphone. The handset was dead. That was new; it had worked a few hours earlier. I checked the wire leading to the box on the wall. It looked just fine to me. I reasoned maybe the snowfall had led to the landline being out of order. There probably wasn’t a sinister reason for it at all.
