 
### CSARDAS

RÜYA 3

### Neslihan Stamboli

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 Neslihan Stamboli

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### Table of Contents

March 2009: Budapest

ACT TWO

Tableau Five

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

March 2009: Debrecen

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

March 2009: Budapest

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

March 2009: Budapest

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

March 2009: Istanbul

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

March 2009: Istanbul

ACT THREE

Tableau Six

Chapter 31

March 2009: Paris

Chapter 32

March 2009: Paris

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

March 2009: Paris

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

April 2009: Istanbul

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

April 2009: Istanbul

Tableau Seven

Chapter 45

April 2009: Istanbul

Chapter 46

April 2009: Istanbul

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

April 2009: Istanbul

May 2009: Simi

September 2010: Venice

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To the memory of my grandmother

Erzsébet de Kandó Egerfarmos Sztregova Marcali Bayındırlı

(4 April 1904 - 14 July 1966)

One perfect moment may contain more,

infinitely more, than the years and decades

that preceded it and were not perfect.

Sándor Márai
March 2009  
Budapest

As Rüya was about to surrender herself to sleep in her hotel room in Budapest, a sudden shiver rippled through her body, filling her with a mixture of feelings, a twitch of foreboding, a tremor of fear, perhaps a touch of hope. Was she about to dip into the embrace of a sweet dream or was it a nightmare soon to bury her in its abysmal darkness? She tried to open her eyes. Her eyelids were sealed. The dream – or the nightmare – was not willing to let her go.

"Happiness is a moment's interval between desire and sorrow," she heard Mami murmur on a rainy day in April, her eyes bloodshot from crying in her bedroom in their house in Istanbul.

On a rainy day in April, two months after the liberation of Budapest from the Nazi occupation, Alex was sitting at her dressing table in her bedroom, staring at the reflection of her bloodshot eyes and emaciated cheeks in the mirror. "Happiness is a moment's interval between desire and sorrow," she murmured. She hated herself. She hated herself for being a coward, for hiding away like a mouse, for having done nothing, nothing at all! For having surrendered to her husband, for having been his slave, away from her country, from her family and from her only love Rudi. She hated everything! The pieces of her brother Károly's short letter, which she had shredded in fury, were scattered on the dressing table. With trembling hands, she tried to patch them together again.

" _My sweet Alex, I wish I could write a more cheerful letter to share the joy of our beloved city's liberation," started his letter. "Our minds, as well as our hearts, are in a turmoil of mixed thoughts and feelings. I'm happy beyond words to have seen the end of this tragic occupation although I can't help but question if the situation which we are in now is the freedom we've been yearning for all these years. I feel an unbearable sense of remorse for having lost so many lives and for having sacrificed so much during our fight for what we were led to believe was our liberation." His brief letter abruptly ended on a most tragic note. "This time, I'll ask you the question that you have asked me so many times before, Alex. Have you heard from Rudi? Is he all right? Is he safe? We've lost contact since Christmas. I shall not ask you where he is, for you might not be able to give me an answer. I implore you to tell me if he's all right and nothing more. Waiting in impotent ignorance consumes me. The unbearable weight of realising how helpless, how incompetent you are as your friends slip through your fingers, disappearing into oblivion, hits you like a heavy blow on the face. I beg you to forgive me, Alex. I beg your forgiveness for having failed to protect our loved ones, for having failed to save their lives. Please forgive your brother for failing to protect those he had to protect."_

" _Mami? What's wrong? Why are you crying again?" she heard Nili say in her worried voice, hardly above a whisper, while she tried to put her arms around Alex._

She hugged her daughter. There was no one left but her daughters to help her survive through this wretched life. No one ... nothing but Nili and Lila, the only two beings who were more important to her than her own life.

Rüya woke up to the sound of her mobile phone ringing. Her heart started to beat thunderously in excitement. She glanced at her watch. It was ten past five. Could it be him? Was it Paul? Wishful thinking, Rüya. Silly girl! How can you still let your heart skip a beat? How can you still hope? It's not only Paul's role in the Second Act that is over but also his role in your life. Can't you see that there is nothing left between you two except for the formal and meaningless relationship between Paul Brechon, the leading actor playing Rudi, and Rüya Nevres, the author of _A Hungarian Rhapsody?_ Paul was a short breath of fresh air in your suffocating life, and now it's finished.

She answered the call, and, upon hearing Gertrúd's voice, her excitement died like a ruptured balloon suddenly losing its uplifting air. Gertrúd was saying that she had some good news; she had traced the whereabouts of Konrád's son. Rüya jumped out of bed.

"I'm not sure if he's still alive, but if he is, he ought to be in his seventies and living in Debrecen."

Rüya began pacing the room. Nobody knew what had happened to Rudi after the war. As far as Rüya could squeeze out of her grandmother Nili, Mami and Rudi had come across each other before the war and kept up a correspondence for a while. She had given Rüya no details, saying that Rudi had disappeared into thin air after the war, concluding curtly, "He must have died somewhere."

Konrád, one of Rudi's two closest friends – not only a friend but also a brother. His brother! This was like finding a treasure box. Rüya felt a surge of excitement. She would go to Debrecen first thing in the morning and find Konrád's son, who surely had a few things to tell about his father – and also about Rudi. She needed to know how much of what she had dreamed for Mami in her book had actually happened. She needed to know that Rudi had not just died somewhere, that what she had written about the time after his disappearance was not only a dream. She had to prove that happy endings were not exclusive to novels and that sometimes dreams did come true, that the curtain in her life had not come down prematurely, that the second act continued.
ACT TWO

_Friss_ , the second part of the rhapsody, marches in like an army.

It roars. It is destructive.

It ruthlessly burns everything down.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Five  
1945 - 1947

Tableau Five

1

On April 30, Hitler shot himself through his right temple. They found him lying lifelessly on the floor next to his forty-hour-long wife, who had killed herself with a lethal dose of cyanide. About a week later it was announced that Germany had surrendered unconditionally, whereupon on the night of May 8 the war came to an end in Europe. In the Pacific Ocean and the Far East, however, it went on until the early days of August, when Japan surrendered following an attack by the United States of America, who dropped atomic bombs on the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Finally, on September 2, 1945, the Second World War ended after having devastated the world for six long years.

Nili and Lila had just finished playing, and Nili was jumping up and down in front of Anastasia, trying to throw her arms around her. " _Thicha_ Anastasia, shall we play another game? Please. Please. Let's play house. Please _Thicha_."

"All right, all right. Now you be the hostess of the house and let's have Lila pay you a visit, shall we? Let's see how well you can serve tea."

Alex had taken her daughters and come to visit Anastasia in her new house. In early September, on the day the war had ended, Anastasia had left her house in Galatasaray, where she had lived almost all her life, and moved to this tiny flat in Fenerbahçe on the Oriental side of the city, along with her brother Hristo and her elder sister Keti. Although Hristo, with his inexhaustible sense of humour, tried to lighten the weight of this unfortunate change of abode, saying, "More like a change of heart really, from Galatasaray football club to Fenerbahçe," they obviously suffered from a sinking feeling in the serene isolation of the Oriental side, after the relatively lively lifestyle of their former neighbourhood in Pera.

"Any news from Hungary, Alex?"

"My mother is very worried about the land reforms. She fears that our estates in Kengyel and Eger might be expropriated. 'It wouldn't be an expropriation but an outright confiscation,' she fumes. Some compensation is expected, but Mother finds it all very hard to believe. Many of her acquaintances have already been condemned as enemies of the state, and all their properties have been confiscated. 'In the old times,' she complains, 'acres and acres of land were bestowed upon our heroes, now they confiscate everything they own.' She's impossibly upset."

Nili, sitting on her little chair with her legs crossed, was playing house with Lila. "Lila dear, now that the war is over," she said as she brought her imaginary teacup to her lips, raising her delicately curled little finger in the air, "we can go and see our uncle Károly." She swiftly turned to her mother, her eyes momentarily darkened in apprehension. "We can go and see _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ , can't we Mami? And you'll be much happier from now on, won't you?"

"Yes, my love, yes we can go and see him."

Nili's never-ending questions disinterred the horrendous thoughts Alex desperately tried to bury in oblivion, maiming her mind and sinking her heart further. Nili lowered her eyes to the floor and, with the seriousness of the hostess in her game, started to examine the designs on the _kilim_. "Grandma and Aunt Necla told me that you hate Istanbul ... and Daddy's family as well," she mumbled.

"That's so untrue. How can they say such a thing! I do feel sad at times for not being able to go and see my family, but that's all there is to it."

"How is Aziz?" asked Anastasia. "Has he found a job?"

"He's being incredibly picky, turning down every offer. He's going through a very difficult time, you know, and has become unbearably grumpy. I don't know what he'll do. We've been living on our savings for the last two months."

"What does it mean, living on our savings, Mami?"

Anastasia put her coffee cup down and squatted next to the children. "Nili _Hanım_ , would you mind pouring me a cup of tea please? I'd rather have it very light and would very much appreciate a tiny slice of lemon, please. Could I also have a thin slice of your delicious-looking cake?" She then turned to Lila. "I hope all is well with your son and your lovely daughter, Lila _Hanım_."

"They are fine _Thicha_ Anastasia," said Lila, spoiling the game.

"How is your brother Hristo and your sister Keti?" asked Nili in a mature voice, as she pretended to pour Anastasia some tea.

"They're all right, Nili _Hanım_. They send their kindest regards. They're both working very hard."

"How about you? Do you have much work nowadays?"

"We're doing rather well, thank you. I ought to finish another evening gown before this weekend for the wife of the former Minister of Education. They have a very important ball to attend."

"Can I see it _Thicha_ Anastasia," blurted out Nili, forgetting about their game. "Does it have sequins? Does it have embroidery?"

Leaving her daughters in the safe hands of Anastasia's imagination, Alex went to her friend's bedroom. She opened the lower drawer of the bedside table, took out the box with the embroidered top and sat down on the bed. The box was full of letters, letters from Rudi, letters that she could not bring herself to destroy and had asked Anastasia to keep – sweet Anastasia, her confidante, her loyal friend, the only person in this town who truly understood her. She took the letter on the very top, which was as worn out as the rest of the letters for having been read so many times. She read it again, as though she wanted to torture herself, then she read it again and again. Taking the sheets of paper to her nose, she imagined how they once had been in Rudi's hands, how his fingers had lingered on them. She tried to smell the scent of his skin. Her own perfume had impregnated them now. She brought them to her lips and gave them a long kiss. For months now, her soul had been incarcerated in a torturously obscure cell of oblivion. She desperately tried to pull herself away from the oppressive thoughts of what might have happened to him. It drove her insane to think that he might have been deported and be suffering in one of those concentration camps now. There was no way out of those camps. She refused to consider the likelihood of him being dead. Her mind involuntarily drifted to the wars, to the first great war that had taken her father away from her. The possibility of another war taking away Rudi consumed her. Death! The end of everything. Never to see him again, never to smell him, never to talk to him, ever again. Forget these things! Get them out of your mind. Rudi is not a man to die. He must have gotten himself into some kind of trouble. Perhaps he was hiding somewhere. But then why did he not send her a line? Why did he not send her a message of some sort? He would have devised a way, sent her a hint, a secret message, something. A tiny note would have sufficed. "I'm alive. Wait for me. A beautiful life is awaiting us very soon," would be more than enough. There could be only one reason why he could not do this: death.

Anastasia was at the door of the bedroom. "Alex, you'd better come now. The girls are asking where you are."

2

Despite the chill in the autumn air, Alex, warmly wrapped in her woollen cardigan, was sitting on the patio overlooking the front garden, sipping the black and bitter Turkish coffee carefully prepared by Fatma _Kadın_ and gazing at the first signs of a promising lawn while she waited for the postman – something that had recently become her morning ritual. She had no consolation other than the letters from Károly, her dearest friends Anastasia, Izabella, Éva, Margit and Maria, and, once in a blue moon, from her cousin Sándor. There was still nothing from Rudi. Every time the phone rang, she begged it to be Anastasia calling to tell her that a letter had arrived from Rudi. There was nothing, not even a single line, not even a telegram, not a single thing! It would be two years soon, two long years during which time she had often been tormented by a blistering sense of fury, unable to forgive him for having disappeared. However, she preferred to hang on to the possibility that he was alive but chose not to get in touch with her, because the only other logical explanation for his absence would be his death. She might be impossibly heartbroken for having been thus forgotten, for not having been loved enough, but all of that was much better, incomparably less painful than the other possibility, which she categorically refused to consider. He would one day call her. He would someday show up. She should never let her hopes die on her. A hopeless love was condemned to remain nothing but a dream.

They had been living in Karabük for almost two months now. One suffocatingly hot and humid day back in Istanbul, Aziz had announced that they would be moving to this small Anatolian town in September as he had accepted the post of general manager at the iron and steel works there. He said he had no other choice since he could no longer afford to be unemployed. For nearly a year after the war, he had been turning down every job offer, deeming them all beneath his worth. Alex, however, knew that it was not so much his desperation to have a job that had pushed him to accept such an offer, neither was it the high salary he would be getting, nor the life in Karabük being much cheaper than it was in Istanbul. She somehow felt that what might have whet his appetite was the prospect of living in a small town where he could control Alex much more easily, imprisoning her within the four walls of their house. Five weeks after Aziz's announcement, they left their flat at the Maçka Apartments and set off on their journey to Karabük. Alex was apprehensively demoralised for having closed yet another door behind her to sail into another unknown, into a life that would most probably be the beginning of another nightmare. She had nothing left to lean on. Her fragile mood was on a razor's edge as it precariously oscillated between the possibility of having lost Rudi forever and the chance that she might have been betrayed by the one and only love of her life. She feared that she might not be able to hold on much longer. During the course of the entire journey, she did not utter a word. Nili, having a deep aversion to any form of change, acted as miserably as she could, whereas Lila, in her young mind, tried everything she could to cheer up everyone. The four-legged members of the family, Duman, Hera and Zeus, on the other hand, remained as silent as their mistress, although for a different reason: they were blissfully serene; they had finally seen the end of weeks-long preparations at the Maçka Apartments which did not conclude in them being left behind, but instead meant their being taken along with their masters wherever they might be going.

Alex would never forget the sensation she had had at the first sight of their house in Karabük. She had tried very hard to keep her tears back so as not to upset her daughters when she saw the one-story concrete structure that resembled a matchbox more than anything else, and its garden, a barren plateau of earth where nothing, not even a dry bush, was to be seen – a sight so discouraging as to evoke a sense of unpleasant surprise even in Hera and Zeus who had expressed their emotions by the excessive movements of their eyes and eyebrows. In time, both the house and the garden improved, but they still did not look much. Patience was the key. She intended to have a lilac tree planted this month. They said it would not live long here, but she would give it a try anyhow.

She jumped to her feet as she spotted the much awaited postman turn the corner. He had brought a letter from her brother. She ripped the envelope open.

Budapest, 25th September 1946

A very happy birthday to you my little baby,

I hope this letter reaches you in one piece, and I do hope it does so before your birthday. You might wonder why it says Paris on the stamp. I plan to hand this letter to Endré who will be leaving for Paris in a couple of days because if I were to post it here in Budapest, I'm sure that half of it (or, most likely, all of it) would be blacked out. Our multi-party free democracy is not yet so free. Yes, the general elections held last November were the most democratic elections we have ever had; and, yes, we have been and still are formally a republic since February, but ... but! Our democracy is truly farcical. Although the Hungarian Communist Party, MKP, won only seventeen per cent of the votes, it managed – not without a little bit of help from the Soviets – to sneak into the government. Thanks to the efforts of László Rajk from the MKP, who has been enjoying the warmth of his seat as our Minister of the Interior since March, and certainly with much gratitude to the support of the occupying Red Army that supervises everything like a hawk, the borders of our "republic" has been rather lively lately. Billions of our new one-month-old baby, the forint, still smelling of fresh ink, are spent to set up barbed wire, mine fields and watchtowers along our borders. We shall be safe and secure, if you get my drift.

However, we should not be pessimistic because we can't deny that Rajk and his entourage do actually help people out. When I say people, that general expression does not, of course, include those who live in the mansions in wealthy neighbourhoods such as our beloved Rózsadomb but does embrace, for instance, the Gypsy porters from the Eighth District posing as members of the intelligentsia – those very distinct individuals who, I must add, welcome these winds of change that have been sweeping across the country after the war because they cannot help but be allured by the generosity of our state, which allocates them mansions on the Buda hills and summerhouses on the shores of Lake Balaton. In the meanwhile, we do cherish the fact that some of our truly valuable writers and members of the intelligentsia (albeit exclusively those who have proven their loyalty to the Soviet Union) have been bestowed with the same privileges.

Alas! There is more. Rajk is taking significant measures to bring "terrorist acts" under control. Early this summer, they arrested a young man accused of opening fire on the Soviet soldiers from the roof of a building on Oktogon Square. This young man, who was said to be a member of the Catholic Agricultural Youth Organisation, killed himself during the interrogations. That's what they say, of course. What they don't say is the probability of a provocative demonstration by the political police. Soon after, Rajk ordered the closure of a large number of civil and religious organisations and almost all youth organisations. As I have already said, we are safe and secure.

Well, I'm going to change the subject. Following my retrospective show at the Gallery of the Capital, the National Museum bought one of my paintings. They have paid a pittance, needless to say, but for me it was nevertheless an important step forward. In the new year we, as the Avant-gardes, will put up a collective show at the Creative Artists' Hall, for which I'm working frantically as I hope to show six new paintings, all of which will, _per forza_ , carry the marks of war and violence. Mother can't even look at them. She says she prefers the _Red Jug_ and, with unusual interest, comments, "I can't say I understand much of your paintings, son, but your still life paintings were more pleasant, so to speak."

Let me enlighten you a little bit on what is going in the artistic arena here in our beautiful country. Currently, a strange play is being staged on the Budapest platform. There are three groups fiercely in competition with each other: a group of emotional painters trying to keep the Nagybánya school alive, the Avant-gardes (which includes me) resisting any and all types of dictatorial regimes, and artists who surrendered to Socialist Realism. Our group, the Avant-gardes, is part of the European School founded by our good old Endré last year. We follow the European School of Paris, keeping in close contact with André Breton. Besides Surrealism, we embrace Fauvism, Cubism and Expressionism and aim at a synthesis of the east and the west. Our efforts include the revival of art, which plunged into a fatal coma at the onset of the war, and the depiction of an uprising against the suffocating air of the Socialist Realism imposed by the Soviets. Most importantly, we are determined to resist the efforts of the Hungarian Communist Party, which has specified the criteria for an optimistic art that reflects the struggle of the people, totally disregarding abstract art in defiance of "art for the sake of art."

This winter is expected to be much milder than the last in every sense of the word although, personally, I'm not so sure about such a forecast. It seems to me that a winter, or rather several winters, are in wait for us, which will most likely give rise to great disappointments. Our optimistic cousin Sanyi has returned to Kengyel, but there is a big question mark over what he might be able to do there. Shattered dreams, Alex. What we have been dreaming of and what has happened. Nothing is as it seems. The names change, the façades change, but some things remain exactly the same. We jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. What Churchill said in March is so true: "From the Baltic Sea to the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across Europe."

Lately our dear old friend János's red dreams have started to darken as well. The Party blackens idealists like him as traitors, as the enemies of the state. He works at a commission responsible for blacklisting books and other works of art that they consider to be "subversive" for the public (whatever on earth that means!) and anti-democratic (or, we might as well say anti-Party and anti-communism). János says that, so far, the list runs to 160 pages. Freedom, Alex, seems to have a different meaning for everyone. Why does freedom for some have to mean putting chains around others?

I sincerely want to change the subject, but the ugly reality creeps back onto my pages. I know that I'm boring you to tears, yet there is no way I can write about these things in the letters I post from Budapest. I'm sure that you have much better news to give me. Write to me, Alex. Write to me about Karabük, about your daughters, about your friends. Appreciate your life, my sweet angel. Appreciate the value of being alive and do not ever forget that you're living in heaven.

Why didn't they leave Hungary? What was it that still kept them there? Did he still hope to save their country? "We jumped out of the frying pan into the fire," he had written. They would all soon be burning in the fires of hell. He had to come here. They all had to come. Every one of them. Her mind leaped to Rudi again. Don't think of him, Alex. Don't! Think about the dinner party you'll be giving tonight. I'd better invite some more people, she thought. Has Aziz asked the Italian engineer, the new arrival in town, to join the evening with his wife? I ought to remind Aziz when he comes home for lunch. He must insist that they come. It will be too crowded, but the more the merrier, she reasoned. People diverted her from her dark thoughts. She remembered that she had to talk to Katie and her husband tonight about what needed to be done at the tennis club. They had to order a new net from Istanbul. She would not be able to seat everyone at the table, but they could use the coffee table and the side tables. It was not a dinner for the President, was it? She recalled her mother and how annoyed she would have been at such a dinner organisation, not approving of it at all. Or perhaps she would be sad. She tucked her brother's letter into her pocket and went inside. Mozart. _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_. Serenade number thirteen for the art of cooking. In G Major. She liked listening to Mozart while she cooked, for it somehow motivated her.

She needed to empty the round coffee table in the living room. Picking up the vase, she placed it on the dining table and then cleared away the book, the lighter and her packet of cigarettes. Nili, who must have reckoned that they would be preparing _rétes_ , was waiting excitedly by the table, holding the small glass bowl and the large piece of sour-cherry-stained muslin they used for rolling out the dough. Alex sighed with apprehension as she looked at her daughter's pale face. She had started junior high-school this year and, as soon as she did, had taken to her bed with a fever. Alex was used to her being ill with a simple cold, but this time it was malaria, which worried her immensely. She had been up on her feet these last few days, but the doctor advised that she stay home for a while longer. Aziz was no help in that he depressed her mood even further, saying, "You might have taken better care of her if you didn't go out and about so much."

"Mami, we'll have to finish it before Lila comes back from school. You know that she'll spoil it," said Nili, carefully placing the glass bowl upside down in the middle of the coffee table.

Alex looked at her thin, bony fingers with a sinking heart. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Shall we start?" she said, trying to control her emotions. "Let's spread the muslin first, shall we?" With a gentle but brisk movement of her wrists, she shook the muslin open high above the table. They watched it fill with air and slowly descend like a feather over the table, finally covering the glass bowl. She heard the falling sound of another one of the records she had stacked on the gramophone. The music would be slowing down now. _Andante_. She walked to the kitchen with Nili running after her. She opened the fridge, took out the dough she had prepared in the morning and rolled it out on the wooden board on the counter. A few minutes later they were back in the living room, draping the rolled-out dough over the muslin-covered glass bowl. Alex took off her cardigan and went down on her knees by the table. Nili was ready to go, standing opposite her. They started to move around the table, pulling on the sides of the dough with the tips of their fingers to stretch it thinner and thinner with each round. Alex's heart sank again as she looked at her daughter's thin arms, which resembled giant but fragile matchsticks that might break if handled too harshly. Another record fell. _Allegro_. Going around the table, they kept up with the accelerating tempo of Mozart's music. Alex could hardly keep pace with Nili, often falling down. They were giggling and laughing.

"Mami, the music is too fast. You keep falling down and the dough is getting holes in it."

"Never mind, _tatlım_. When we fold it, they will all disappear. Carry on. Your fingers should move to the rhythm of the music. We must roll it really thin. The pastry of _rétes_ ought to be so thin that you should be able to read a timidly written, faded love letter through it."

"What shall we have for the filling?"

"It's not the season for sour cherries, so what about apples or curd cheese?"

"Apples."

Apple _rétes_ ... Japán Kávéház ... the majolica covered walls decorated with bamboos, chrysanthemums, vases and dreamlike birds paraded in front of her eyes. They all seemed so far away. It was as if centuries had gone by, although it had only been seven years. She let out a deep sigh.

"What's wrong, Mami?"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong, _tatlım_. Go on. Don't stop."

When they finished rolling out the dough, she put Nili to bed despite her objections. After stacking the records on the gramophone again, she went into the kitchen to tell Fatma _Kadın_ to grind some hazelnuts for the decoration of the Dobos tart and melt some caster sugar for its caramelised topping. Fatma _Kadın_ was very quick on the uptake, learning in no time how Alex worked in the kitchen and how she wanted things to be done. She had already taken out the frying pan and peeled the garlic Alex would use to prepare the _Lángos_. Theo loved these delicacies. Mozart was playing again. Waiting for the oil in the pan to heat, she started to keep tempo with the music, moving her head left and right, accelerating for a while and then slowing down again. What about some _cinke?_ That was Katie's favourite. Did she have enough potatoes? She turned to look at the potato basket. It was full. Cheese? Onions? She had all the ingredients.

"Fatma _Kadın!_ Would you please boil some potatoes? And please pick some dill from the garden, would you?"

"Right away, ma'am."

_Hortobagy palacsinta_ would be an excellent idea as an appetiser. It would take some time to prepare it, but it would be worth the while. Delicious with a generous dash of paprika. She would also serve the smoked pork ham her Polish neighbour Lidia had prepared. Everyone loved it, although it was nowhere nearly as delicious as those they used to buy in Polonezköy back in Istanbul. She felt a sudden pang of hunger. Aziz would be home soon. They would prepare the quails in the afternoon. Mozart was playing so beautifully.

It was well past midnight when they saw the last of their guests off. They all thanked her, saying that she should not have gone to so much trouble exhausting herself with so many dishes, although they were probably content that she had since they had finished everything, almost licking their plates clean. There had been seventeen of them, and they had drunk seven bottles of _rakı_. Her British and Italian guests had left the house literally on all fours. Alex's head was spinning, but that might have been the effect of too much dancing. She flung her shoes off to release her aching feet.

"I'm exhausted."

"You are bound to be if you dance so much."

"I've been on my feet all day, Aziz. Where do you think all that food came from?" She let herself sink into the sofa.

"It was your idea to invite so many people. I only suggested that we call John and Katie."

"Well, wasn't it better this way?"

"Theo can't tolerate alcohol. He shouldn't be drinking this much. When it gets into his head, his obsession becomes unbearable."

"He's not obsessed with drinks."

"Not with drinks, Alex. With you. He is obsessed with you."

"Don't start again with your jealousies. Can't anyone pay me any compliments?"

"Compliments? So you take it as a compliment when he presses his body against yours while he pretends to be dancing, is that it? Or do you think it's a compliment when he chats you up all night long, keeping you away from your guests?"

"Come off it, Aziz. That's enough!" She stood up. "Let's go to bed now."

Aziz followed her to the bedroom and grabbed her from behind. Sliding his hands underneath her arms, he started fondling her breasts. She was tickled when he kissed her neck. "I'm dead tired, Aziz. It's not the time."

"Is there supposed to be a time for it?" He would not give up. His hands moved to her hips and then down between her legs.

"You're completely drunk," she said, pushing him away. He seized her arms before she could free herself. How could he still be on his feet after so many drinks?

"Does me being drunk pose a problem for you?"

"Enough, Aziz!" she shouted, trying to free her arm. "Leave me alone! I want to sleep."

Aziz suddenly let her arm go and, before Alex could make a move, banged his fist on the bedside table. The lamp fell down; the light bulb shattered to pieces. "You're driving me mad! Can't I touch my wife?" he howled, the veins in his temples swelling.

She was used to his bellowing and did not mind it anymore, but what worried her was how much all this fighting and shouting were affecting her daughters. She knew precisely what she ought to do now. She had to get out of his sight. He would lose it altogether if she answered back.

"Perhaps I should make an appointment beforehand! Like one would do in a brothel."

She had to disappear before he began insulting her. She silently walked out of the room.

"For whom are you saving your precious body?" Aziz roared after her.

She went into the bathroom. His fury would soon die down, she thought. Five minutes, ten at the most.

When she returned to her bedroom, she saw that he had already gone to his bedroom, undressed and was in bed. He would most likely start snoring soon. She took her clothes off and slid into her nightgown. After putting on her dressing gown, she sat at her writing desk, opened her diary and started writing hastily. Her handwriting, which used to be elegantly beautiful, had long ago turned into an impatient scribbling.

Karabük, 10th October 1946

As of today, I am an old woman of thirty-six years old. How much I used to love our birthdays, but that was before she abandoned me, before I was left all alone. Birthdays no longer mean anything. I have no desire to celebrate the day we were born. It's no longer clear whether I enjoy myself on these days or fool myself by pretending that I do.

Creative lethargy. Artistic coma. The comatose artist. Nothing, but stillness. Everything in stasis. Life in neutral gear. The five senses open, and, as they perceive, they strive to numb themselves. Everything seems meaningless. Futile. Doing nothing. Nothing in particular. Idling. Embroidery! Embroidering without thinking of anything. Splendid idea! Is it the signs of autumn that make one feel this way? Shouldn't one be happy at the sight of the dark clouds announcing the imminent arrival of the rain, the longed-for, the much-missed, desperately-needed, definitely-required rain? Why is it that autumn evokes a sense of grief? Is it because of the falling leaves, nature dying? Leaves must fall though if there is to be a renaissance in springtime. The autumnal sadness, one is tempted to think, does have a beauty of its own. Its serenity, its wetness, its coolness after the scorching summer months, its refreshing breezes, its fitful shrewdness signalling the arrival of winter ... and its colours, the awe-inspiring colours of the earth: sienna, burnt sienna, mustard, umber, burnt umber, an unmatchable harmony from shades of green to yellow, from yellow to russet, from russet to mahogany. Spot a tree in autumn. Watch how its foliage changes colour from one day to another. Then watch the same tree in the spring. Every day. So as to remember that life never ends and each ending is pregnant with a new beginning.

Artistic coma is about to end, I guess. Not bad. Not bad at all. Considering that it had lasted for years.

Next morning she woke up with a kiss. It was Aziz sitting on the bed, holding a turquoise bracelet.

"Last night, I hadn't the chance to give it to you, _ma petite_. Many happy returns." He put the bracelet on her wrist, bent over and kissed her lips.

"Thank you very much, Aziz. It's truly exquisite." Where on earth had he found such a beautiful piece in this godforsaken place?

"I'm terribly sorry for the things I said last night, my love."

His excuses meant nothing. She did not care if he apologised, just like she did not care if he shouted at her or broke things. It was the same thing over and over again. Breaking her heart, shattering her spirits, destroying her day and then coming back with an apology. She only wished that her daughters did not hear how he humiliated her. God only knew how they took it all.

Karabük, 11th October 1946

The angle of the sun's rays must have changed. The living room is bathed in light this morning. It is a different kind of light, however, sort of dry, fresh, clear, cooler but much brighter.

These changing moods consumed her. They came and went away like tides, waters rising and then falling.

3

Throughout the entire winter she tried to cope with the tidal waves of her mood. When the tide was high, she desperately held on to her new friends, so she could hang on and not let the questions she had no answers for depress her again. She did everything she could, and more, to render her life a little bit more cheerful. The chatter, parties, tennis matches, bridge games, admiring looks, compliments, dancing, drinking, all these diversions were nothing but nepenthes to soothe her agonising mind, volatile frivolities to help pass the obstinately slow time. More often than not, none of them proved to be of any use, and in such abysmally dark days she clung on to her daughters to prevent the falling tide from leaving her soul withered. With each letter from her brother, her hopes were made to rise; with every envelope bearing Anastasia's handwriting, her heart skipped a beat. And then the waters left the shore again.

Károly's letters had become a puzzle, an enigmatic riddle to decode. "Recently," he had written in his last letter, "my paintings are dominated by a colour that is darker than your red engagement gown. They have to be, since the circumstances don't allow the use of any other hue. It's very likely that soon enough no other tint will be available, and that's something I will have to get used to whether I like it or not. I find it rather disturbing though that its shade is rather too dark for my liking. Suffocating, I should say." He filled his letters with an abundance of self-criticism, through which he flayed the political regime without being censored. He was saying that, for the first time in his life, he appreciated the twisted and indirect language of the art critics. Initially, Alex had found these analogies and metaphors odd, but she eventually got used to them. Her brother had already made it clear that she ought to be careful as well in what she wrote in her letters to him.

At long last, winter left its place to spring, and Alex started to frequent the tennis club almost every day. She was there with her daughters today as well.

She gazed around, putting her teacup to her lips. "I ought to have some roses planted here, like the ones I cultivated in my garden," she thought. The club had turned out to be a place as perfect as it could be. They now had a room where they played bridge and a small drawing room where they threw parties. They even recruited a cook from Bolu, a town famous for producing the best chefs in the country.

"You must show your aquarelles, Alex," said Theo, sitting opposite her. He had been repeating the same thing for months now.

"Forget it, Theo. I paint for myself, not for others."

"Listening to Aziz's condescending remarks on your art, you've become blind to your talent. He takes you to be one of those housewives who are encouraged to paint to avoid boredom. You can't let him do that. You're wasting your talent. I'll talk to Ernestina. She and her husband will help you out."

Theo was talking about a friend of his, Ernestina, a painter of Romanian origin who had changed her name to Eren after marrying Bedri Rahmi Eyüboğlu, another painter.

"It's unfair that you have exclusive access to such beautiful pieces of art, Alex."

"No one will be interested in my paintings," she said airily, as she put her cup down and stood up. "I'm far too behind the times. They'll find them simply _jolis_ ," she added with a sort of wounded irony.

"Those who fail to understand your sentimentality might think so, but ..." he said, rising to his feet and putting his arm around Alex's waist.

His eyes were so much like Rudi's. The same deep blue, the same mixture of harshness and softness. His gaze threatened to make Alex lose all control. She did not care to look at him anywhere but in his eyes, for that was the only place where she found Rudi. Every time their eyes met, the butterflies in her stomach woke up from their long sleep and started fluttering their wings.

"Mami? When will you start the game?" Nili had come over, leaving her friends in the park where they were skipping rope.

Alex moved away from Theo's grip and turned to Katie. "Katie, shall we teach the gentlemen a lesson? Come along, let's go!"

They all walked towards the tennis court. Aziz had gone hunting for the weekend, as he usually did. In fact he hardly came to the club, not being a great tennis fan. Theo and John took their places across the court. Nili settled down on the bench near Alex and Katie, her hands tucked under her knees and her shoulders stooped. She started watching Alex with her eyes squinted and her face screwed up under the bright sunlight. Alex turned to her and pushed her shoulders back a few times to urge her to sit up straight. Nili shrugged her shoulders and left the bench to run back to the park where her friends and Lila were playing.

Alex and Katie scored 6-3 and 6-4 in the first two sets and won the match. Alex's spirits rose, although she suspected that their victory had been a polite gift from the gentlemen. Walking towards the club house, she saw Nili and Lila playing hide-and-seek with their friends.

"He's head over heels in love with you," whispered Katie in Alex's ear in her very-broken Turkish.

"Don't be ridiculous, Katie!"

"Everybody knows that."

"I'm a married woman, and he is a married man. Besides, Theo is not the first man to pay me compliments. I'm used to it."

"Mami! Mami! We're playing hide-and-seek." Nili had run towards them and hugged Alex from behind. Had she heard what they had been talking about? Alex bent over to kiss her before raising her eyes towards Katie. "Nothing to worry about, Katie. I fell in love only once in my life, and I'm still in love with him, and that will never change. Never!" She had said it in Turkish, although she knew that Katie's Turkish was not good enough to follow her meaning, but she wanted Nili to understand what she had said.

"Daddy will be returning this evening, won't he, Mami?"

"Yes, he will be, sweetheart. He certainly will be."

Only Rudi did not return. Would there be any word, any gesture, any look that would not remind her of him? This love exhausted her. It consumed her. Don't think, Alex! Don't let your heart sink. Let the time drift by. There will come a day when everything will be fine, just fine.

4

The sun was about to sink behind the horizon when they came back home that evening. Aziz should be back soon. Alex felt she ought to write to Károly before he arrived; while the tide was high, while her spirits resisted the pull of the darkness in her soul.

Karabük, 25th May 1947

Dearest _Öcsi_ ,

Your letter, impregnated with the sweet smells of spring, arrived this morning, although I can see that the sweetness was well forged. Your metaphorical depictions convey a lucid picture of the situation, which seems to be none the sweeter. I gather that winter, as you predicted, has been rather harsh. You know very well that there are other lands where winters, as well as other seasons, are much more pleasantly warmer. And don't you forget that your loved ones in those lands are waiting for you with their arms and hearts wide open. I can't say that artists earn much here, but I assume that earning money is the least of your problems at the moment.

I'm surprisingly accustomed to Karabük. I can even say that with the arrival of spring I almost like it. It somehow reminds me of Kengyel, although it would be a crime to compare the hut-like abode here to Erzsébet Manor. It wouldn't be an exaggeration, however, to say that I have created a miniature carbon copy of it, except for a few minor details, of course. The estate manager, the head butler, the butler, the servants, the chamber maid, the cook, the kitchen aid and the nanny – they are all embedded in one single person: yours truly. Surely I ought not to neglect my role as the mistress of the house as well. Luckily, I have Fatma _Kadın_ to help me in much of these chores, but unfortunately she's not very comfortable with Hera and Zeus – dead scared of them in fact – something that makes life rather complicated for us all.

Life is so unpredictable, _Öcsi_. Would you have ever imagined me startling my daughters with coal-stained hands, just like our good old Tibor used to scare us? But, rest assured that your spoiled sister, who was raised like a princess, is very happy with her life, although at times she even has to clean the toilets. Being far away from the pressure of Aziz's family fills me with such a delectable sense of liberation that I'm more than happy to pay the price for it. Contrary to my fears, Karabük has given me my freedom. We have a large group of fun-loving friends. As you might guess I still cannot but do with at least an army of friends around me. We do have a jolly good time here with the English and the Italian engineers from the factory and their wives. I don't remember if I told you about the time when, last year before Christmas, we were in Ankara for the _Yunus Emre Oratorio_ , a marvellous work by Ahmet Adnan Saygun, the husband of Irén (Irén Szala) – or Nilüfer, if I'm to use her new adopted name. Well, at that concert, we met Theo and Eleni, who moved here a while ago. They helped me set up a tennis club here, rather a miracle considering that we are in a remote corner of Anatolia. The court is appalling, but it's better than nothing, I have to say. In the evenings we play bridge and dine together at the club or at a friend's house. You won't believe it, but everybody adores my cooking. All the girls have taken the recipe of apple _rétes_ , hoping for some gastronomic success in blissful ignorance of the impossibility of the venture without the magical touch of Nili's tiny hands.

I implore you to write more about your paintings and the shows you plan this year. I do hope you'll be able to use the colours you want on your canvases. Do please kiss Ada and my lovely nieces for me. I wonder if Mother has received the letter I wrote her last week? Has Uncle Filip got used to Aunt Irén's absence? Please do give him my warmest regards. How is Sanyi, by the way? He hardly replies my letters.

Hoping that you never lose your good spirits and optimism,

With much affection,

Your sister,

Alex

"Mami? How do you say malaria in Hungarian?"

" _Malária_ , my love. There's an accent on the second a."

Nili added a few lines to the letter she had written to her friend Évike, put it in an envelope and sealed it before handing it over to Alex. "Please don't read it, Mami, all right?"

In her letter, Nili had written that she had great fun in Karabük with lots of new friends and that her mother had become another person, much more cheerful despite a lot of very tiring housework. She talked about their garden, which had turned into a paradise where they played all the time, and added that she did not get sick so often anymore.

... I was bedridden with a fever almost all winter although I did not mind it much because I got to stay at home with Mami alone instead of going to school. But then I had an illness called malaria, which was really awful. Fatma _Kadın_ poured some lead for me. This is something you wouldn't know – it is what they do here against the evil eye, something meant to protect me against those who had looked at me with an evil eye, had been jealous of me, for instance, that sort of thing.

We often go to the tennis club my mother and her friends set up here. My father hardly joins us, for he usually goes hunting on the weekends and to the office during the week. He works very hard and says that he doesn't like his job. "We shall not be staying here long. We shall soon return to Istanbul," he keeps saying. I wish we stayed here in Karabük because everybody is much happier here.

How is school? Are your parents well? Please tell me about the things you do with your friends. I do look forward to your letter.

Your most loving friend,

Nili

5

"How can the bright sky of a summer day evoke such melancholy?" Alex mused. Yet it did. She saw sadness wherever she looked. The cloudless sky transformed into a dome of dull blue, its vastness reminding her of her loneliness. Amasra. The beautiful Amasra. It was their third visit to this seaside town where she had found the inspiration to paint twenty-two aquarelles. The artistic coma was over, but sorrow persevered. Theo had hung all her paintings on the walls of the tennis club. He apparently wanted to depress people. She had been painting the sea and the sky. The blues, the turquoises, the stillness, the dullness ... She spent hours among the ruins in Amasra. And the stones. She loved the stones. They carried her back in time. How many people, she wondered, had walked past through these archways? How many had kissed in the shade of these walls? What fights had they had? How many hearts had been broken? What pains had been inflicted? Shattered dreams, losses, deaths ... They were no more. Neither were their names nor any trace of them. Time had devoured them all as if they had never existed, as if their suffering had no significance. Only these stones knew what had really happened, but they could not tell.

When they had come to Amasra for the first time in early summer, Aziz had joined them to check the _pensione_ they were to stay at and to meet its owner to ensure that his family was in safe hands. After that, he had not come, not even for a weekend, saying that he could not possibly leave Duman, Hera and Zeus in Fatma _Kadın_ 's care.

Alex was on the beach in front of the pensione with her daughters, where she had been every morning since their arrival ten days ago, making charcoal sketches of Lila, who constantly went in and out of the water and of Nili, who had curled up in the deckchair next to Alex in the shade of the umbrella. Last night Nili had complained of an itchy throat, the symptom of another cold, which she somehow managed to catch despite the August heat. Nevbahar _Hanım_ , the wife of the owner of the pensione, had prepared some herbal remedy, which seemed to have worked, since she was a little bit better this morning.

She put away her drawing pad and charcoal stick and, taking out Károly's last letter from among the pages of her diary tucked in her wicker basket, leaned back in her deckchair. She read her brother's letters again and again until the next one arrived.

Paris, 26th July 1947

My sweet little baby,

Paris! Paris! Paris! Freedom. What a great luxury it is to be able to write whatever you feel like writing and to be able to express your thoughts freely. I'm most grateful to the Hungarian Group of Concrete Art, which has given me the honour of participating in this year's exhibition of _Salon des Réalités Nouvelles_. And we're in Paris. Paris, Alex. The City of Lights. I can't deny that Mariusz Rabinovszky's review of my paintings in the collective exhibition at the Creative Artists' Hall in January last did play a decisive role in this most fortunate despatch. You will find a clipping of his review enclosed with my letter, which I'm sure will amuse you. As usual he uses such an ostentatious and complex language that even I am surprised at what I convey through my art. "Grotesque outlines," he says. My, my, my! I really do wonder if these critics know about the true meaning of the words they borrow from other languages. Do they really think that my designs look like the wildly formed, irregular and caricature figures discovered in the fifteenth century in Italy in the _grotti_ (caves, in case you have forgotten your Italian), or do they use the word simply to sound eccentric? Never mind. Let's leave it at that and move on.

I must admit that I would much rather have participated in the International Surrealist Exhibition opened at Galerie Maeght rather than in the _Réalités Nouvelles_. Surrealism, which has resurrected from its ashes in all its glory after the war, has truly swept me off my feet. I am mesmerised by the allure of the freedom it offers and can't possibly give up my dreamlike paintings, for I can't resist the attraction of creating without the binding control of reason. In any case, I am most grateful to be here in Paris with Ada and twenty paintings I did twelve years ago when I was still following Abstraction-Creation – the style I abandoned years ago for the sake of Surrealism. _Salon des Réalités Nouvelles_ shows, as its name suggests, works of art that don't imitate any existing reality but present brand new realities, aiming at resurrecting the neglected branches of abstract art. I'm proud to have my paintings shown at the Salon where a brand new era was inaugurated last year with the opening of its first exhibition, which included the pioneers of modern art such as Piet Mondrian, Wassily Kandinsky and Robert Delaunay. It really gives me great satisfaction to be considered among the pioneers of Abstraction-Creation, though it also reminds me that I'm an old man now.

Unfortunately, we had to leave our daughters behind. They'll be staying a few days with Mother and a few days with Ada's mother. We thought that it wouldn't be a good idea to drag them along with us, a decision that proved to be most appropriate as we socialise day and night, seeing our old friends. I can't tell you how happy Ada is. She insists that we move here.

The mourning post-war Paris is seeking ways to get over the humiliation of the Occupation and the shame of the Vichy Government and to rebuild its identity. Despite all its problems and the burden of trying to get back on its feet again, the City of Lights is full of hope. The cradle of modern art still sheds light on its artists. It still sparkles in every sense of the word. Most importantly the minds sparkle, being as enlightened as they are. The communist Paris embracing Socialist Realism in art lives happily with the dreamlike Paris of Surrealism, which has been excommunicated as the irresponsible art of the bourgeoisie. People freely express and discuss their opinions. They might agree or they might disagree with each other, but, whatever the case, they nourish each other and develop hand in hand.

A sense of panic reigns in the art circles of Paris that is not so obvious when one looks from abroad. Ever since Churchill took out the Iron Curtain rabbit from his hat, Paris, being too close to the shadow of this curtain, and, more importantly, having declared far too openly its interest in communism and Socialist Realism, is on the verge of losing its cultural dominance to New York. Perhaps it already has. Many of our friends had already moved to New York during the war, and nowadays the picture is "School of Paris versus the School of New York." Paris seems to be trying very hard to keep the rank of capital of the arts by promoting a new movement of abstract art against the American Abstract Expressionism: Lyrical Abstraction. Non-geometric abstract art. We could also call it Informal Art. It's a bit like improvising on stage. Momentary transformations. Discovering as you paint. Although it stands against Surrealism, it would be much more appropriate if they called it Abstract Surrealism, since they have so much in common.

By the way, don't you think it's tragically comic that Surrealism, only a few years after being condemned by the fascists in the Vichy Government as degenerate art and consequently identified with freedom, is also condemned by the communists? One wonders why. The Surrealists were once communists, even anarchists, were they not? Of course, they were. But then Dalí's _Six Apparitions of Lenin on a Grand Piano_ comes to mind, and how it scorned the anti-fascist stand and the revolutionary sympathies of the Surrealists. However, that was sixteen long years ago, was it not? Of course, it was, but that doesn't matter. André Breton cast Dalí out, did he not? Of course he did, but never mind that. The Communist Party excommunicated Breton anyway. Why? Because he said that proletarian literature was impossible in a capitalist society. Apparently, Surrealism, which seeks to liberate the imagination of human beings and underline the need for freedom against the oppressor, seems to disturb any and all types of oppressive regimes. Well, art is a mirror of life, my dear sister, a ruthless mirror of life.

I haven't met any of them, but they say there are quite a few Turkish painters here in Paris. How is the art scene in post-war Turkey? How is it affected by all these developments? What do Turkish painters do at the moment? Tell me about the new trends, new schools of art, would you? What about female painters? Are you interested in what is going on or still confined within the four walls of your own inner world, painting real-life aquarelles exclusively for the eyes of your immediate family?

I feel I should talk about what is going on in our country while I have the opportunity. The Right Honourable Lajos Dinnyés (also known as "Mátyás Rákosi's Puppet") has been occupying the seat of the Premier by keeping his government docilely in the service of the Hungarian Communist Party since May, when the communists accused Ferenc Nagy of having been involved in the "Hungarian Community" plot and sent him into exile (I'm sorry for the slip of the tongue; I meant, when they advised him to prolong his holiday in Switzerland for ever) – probably because they were not too happy about the ten-million-dollar loan our government had procured from the United States. It's all in the name, my dear Alex: _Dinnye_ – Watermelon! Green on the outside, bright red in the inside. I find it rather praiseworthy that the Independent Smallholders, Agrarian Workers and Civic Party (please do note the word "Independent"), which came to power single-handedly with a soaring majority of the votes right after the war, has been made to become so "dependent" on the communists.

Shall I tell you more? Well, I must talk about what is being done for our safety, thanks to the efforts of our Minister of Interior, the Right Honourable Rajk. We have a Ministry of State Security and a State Security Agency. Their aim is to catch the "enemies of the people." (Or should I say enemies of the Soviet Union?) Do you recall the ugly building on our beautiful Andrássy Boulevard, the infamous Number 60, the cave of the Arrow Cross thugs? That is where they are based. They are known shortly as ÁVO. The Secret Police. The puppet of the Soviet Secret Service. Whatever you may wish to call them. Despite their title, it is no secret what they do. They show up at your doorstep in the early hours and take you away in a pitch-black long-tailed car without telling you where you're heading. However, you do know where you'll end up: in one of the rooms in the basement of Number 60. You might stay there for a few days or for a few months. It all depends on what they want you to confess and how much they will be satisfied with what you tell them. As to whom they are taking away, that is the big question mark. The traditional class, for instance, branded as retrogradist by the fascists, are now accused of being so by the communists. It's impossible to make heads or tails of any of this charade, really.

"Mami, when will I be able to swim?"

"We'll see, sweetheart. Perhaps tomorrow, all right?"

The rest of Károly's letter was really depressing, so she turned back to the page where he talked about Paris and read it again. She took out the newspaper clipping from inside the envelope.

" _Each of his pictures has a resolute construction. He expresses his emotions in search of a relief from his worries and reveals his inner world in a strongly bizarre way through finely defined grotesque outlines holding together the planes shining in strongly contrasting colours."_

She smiled. What would they say if they saw her paintings? "We observe the helpless fluttering of a wild bird imprisoned in a cage in the dull and still aquarelles of the artist, who has become an expert in finding traces of grief even in the brightest of skies, where she looks for some relief for her soul suffocating under the weight of her sorrowful existence." Would they say that?
March 2009  
Debrecen

Rüya looked up at the darkening sky through the grimy window of the Budapest train as it rambled out of Debrecen train station. At this very minute Paul should be flying to Paris, she thought. Is he also thinking about me, looking out the window of the plane, saying, "Rüya must be down there somewhere?" Wishful thinking, Rüya. Not everyone is as obsessed as you are. She was rather successful today though. She had not thought of Paul more than a few times.

After the phone call of yesterday, she had decided to go to Debrecen early this morning and had no difficulty finding what she had been looking for. Konrád's son, Móric Sovány, was alive and still living at the same address. Initially, he had treated Rüya cantankerously, almost refusing to invite her in, but, once he learned who she was, his bad temper immediately gave way to a much friendlier approach. What he told Rüya as they took a walk in the park where he usually went for his late morning stroll, and then in the shabby restaurant where he usually had his lunch, and finally in his threadbare flat, was much more interesting – and infinitely more depressing – than what she had learned so far.

The Black Crow. Transfer to another prison. Another cell. Cell Number 110 on the second floor. Solitary confinement. White-washed walls. An iron bed. Rusted and rotten. A thin mattress, nauseatingly mouldy. A worn-out, three-legged wooden stool. A tin bucket for the stool and the urine. A light bulb shedding its weak light from behind its iron cage. A noise radiating from the speaker above the door. Continuous and deafeningly high-pitched. It is boiling inside. Everything melts. The iron bed softens and, like a viscous syrup, spreads on the concrete floor where it suddenly freezes. When did it become so cold? The mattress slowly transforms into a huge rock, surprisingly undulating. The fleas leap out. Meaningless words fan out into the cell. Am I losing my mind?

" _No," says a voice. "You're trying to obliterate the reality you live in by reorganising chaos."_

Rüya suddenly felt a hot flush oppress her. It was like an oven in the compartment. She was thinking about the things she had heard today. It all seemed unreal, a fairy tale where the bad defeated the good. Her spirits had sunk even further listening to him, but a dim light had appeared at the end of the tunnel. Someone very close to Rudi had made it; Konrád had survived. People did survive. It was possible. Perhaps Rudi had survived as well; perhaps it was not all a dream; perhaps what she had imagined in her book did actually happen.

The second act continued.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Five  
1947 - 1949

6

It had been four months since Károly had returned from Paris, and he had had only one thing in his mind ever since: to move to Paris. Could there be a better choice than Paris for a painter and a photographer? The Paris they knew like the back of their hands. The Paris they desperately loved. They had to go back to the City of Lights where they had spent probably the happiest years of their bohemian existence, living freely amidst other artists like themselves. To go back to freedom. To be able to do whatever they liked. To pour all his thoughts onto his canvases without any reservations. To show his paintings as he wished, without any restrictions. Not having to weigh up his every move, whom he should see or should not see, what he should say or should not say.

The communists had seized the majority of the seats in the coalition government after having won twenty-two per cent of the votes during the "Blue Card Elections" in August, thanks to widespread electoral fraud, the pressure from the Soviets, the threats of the Secret Police ÁVO acting as a puppet in the clutches of the Soviet Secret Service and the "salami tactic" the Hungarian Communist Party used to eliminate its adversaries. It was more of a political coup than a democratic election. Mátyás Rákosi, the General Secretary of the Communist Party and the master of Stalin's Hungarian disciples, devoured its opponents after "cutting them off like slices of salami." Dozens of important figures from the Independent Smallholders Party were accused of being involved in a political conspiracy in collaboration with the secret racial preservation organisation Hungarian Community that had been unearthed last December. After being tortured until they confessed and resigned, they were convicted through a series of show trials and either incarcerated or forced to leave the country. Directing a play commonly staged on the world theatre, Rákosi said, "I eliminated my colleagues in the government one by one, after slicing them up like salami." Following the elections, "Watermelon" Lajos Dinnyés remained in the seat of the Premier as Rákosi's puppet. The democratic institutions were not abolished altogether, but Rákosi was slowly laying the foundations of a communist dictatorship. After the coal mines and heavy industry, he had begun to nationalise the banks. One thing was crystal clear: Hungary would soon turn into a vast dungeon. The iron curtain of the Soviets was about to fall.

Károly knew that they had to get out of Hungary before it was too late. He ought to talk to Sándor. His cousin had to leave Erzsébet Manor. He had to leave Hungary. They all had to. They had to move to Paris. He needed Sándor's help. They had to convince their mothers.

His thoughts scattered as the train came to a sudden halt. He jumped to his feet. They had arrived at Kengyel. He had almost missed the station. Grabbing his small suitcase, he rambled out of the train. Tibor, the stableman and the coachman of the estate, was waiting for him.

His heart sank as they drove through the stately garden gate of Erzsébet Manor. The magnificent manor house, which looked in perfect shape from a distance, had its walls peeling off, with most of its roof tiles missing or broken. The stone lions had lost an ear or a paw. One of them had totally disappeared. "How did that happen?" he wondered, feeling strangely disconnected. There were long cracks in most of the windows in the North Wing. The flower beds along the façade of the house were no more than an army of dry stalks. The lawn surrounding the building was a barren piece of crinkled and grainy surface covered in stones and lifeless weeds, broken with an occasional lilac tree, sad in its untrimmed disposition. The stone paving was full of fractures and holes.

Sándor was waiting for him in front of the main door, his hands tucked in his trouser pockets. They threw their arms around each other with real affection. Károly noticed how his cousin had lost more of his hair since he had last seen him. He had to move to Budapest, for he definitely needed some care.

They went inside. His stomach turned at the intense smell of mould. The whole place was covered with dust.

"I closed both wings, Károly. I only use the Yellow Salon and sleep upstairs. You can, if you want, use your bedroom, but it becomes rather chilly at night. I would advise you to stay upstairs as well."

A tired and weak light streamed out of the drawing room. They walked through a mahogany door desperately in need of a good polish. Károly looked with angst at the frayed silk wall coverings, which seemed darker than he remembered them, under a veil of dust. Was it his memory that failed him or had the carpets always been as pale as they were now? Were the faces depicted in the portraits on the walls so tenebrous before? Sándor sank into one of the sofas in front of the disconsolate flames feebly flickering in the stygian blackness of the fireplace. Károly perched on the edge of the other sofa, and, unable to find comfort on its uneven surface, no longer welcoming because of the broken springs underneath, he moved to one of the armchairs, which provided a relatively more comfortable seat. How did Sanyi tolerate this wretched life, watching everything gradually disintegrate? The place looked exhausted, consumed, and his cousin seemed to be waiting to die in this miserably monotonous, empty and depressing existence.

"I'm thinking of moving to Paris after Christmas with Ada and the girls," he blurted out, looking straight into Sándor's eyes to see his reaction. His gaze was embedded in the apology for a fire in the grate. He probably did not even hear Károly.

"You must come with us, Sanyi. Hungary is soon to become a vast prison. The opposition might dream of the Red Army moving out of our country and the West helping Hungarian democracy get back on its feet, but the bitter fact is that we're not even accepted into the United Nations yet. We have to leave before it's too late."

"Your mother?"

"You know my mother. She'll be most unwilling to leave our home in Rózsadomb, let alone Hungary. I would ask you to help me convince her. If your mother agrees to go, she'd have no choice but leave as well. Uncle Filip is already ready to get out since, after Irén _néni_ 's death, there is nothing left that will keep him here. We must go, Sanyi. We must all go."

Sándor raised his head and made to say something, but instead reached towards the coffee table for one of the plates Csaba, the head butler, had brought over a few minutes ago. "Please have some," he said without taking his eyes off the _Gyulai_ sausages and the paprika salami neatly lined up on the plate. "You won't find these in Budapest." He gestured with his head to the other plates of duck liver pâté and pickled vegetables. "Have some of these as well. And do please take some with you when you go."

"Ada says that we ought to leave for our children if not for ourselves. And she's absolutely right. What kind of a future awaits them here, Sanyi? What would Hungary be able to offer them?" He stood up and walked over to the fireplace. Squatting where Sándor's eyes were fixed, he began prodding the hot logs around in the fireplace with the brass poker. "I want Juli and Dóra to grow up free," he continued, turning his head in search of his cousin's eyes, "without having to fight for their freedom, without even knowing what it means to lose their freedom."

"I can't leave, Károly. These lands are my ... our inheritance from our fathers. I can't abandon the people living on this land. I have a responsibility. _Noblesse oblige_ , Károly. _Noblesse oblige_ , even if the regimes change. These people have no means to work the land distributed to them. The state gives them nothing. They have no money, no agricultural machines, no animals. I can't leave them."

The land reform after the war had led to the expropriation of all of their lands except for fifty hectares, their manor house and the hunting lodge. They had given away almost seven thousand hectares of land to the state to be redistributed to the peasants. They were forced to abandon the land bestowed upon their ancestors, who had shed their blood to create a nation. Most of their animals, agricultural machinery and tools had been confiscated as well, although none of those had been passed to the people.

Károly returned to his seat. "The Party looks upon the intelligentsia as their enemy. The ill-educated new cadres they packed the apparatus with hate the intelligentsia. I don't understand what we need to do to help them overcome their inferiority complex. Ought we to forget what we know, to hide our talent?" He stood up again to take a slice of salami and sat back in the armchair. "It's our duty as artists to criticise the system by freely displaying our talents, to break the mould so to speak, but we are forced to abandon our individuality and bow, to be poured into set casts of iron or otherwise risk being accused as a traitor or, at best, dying of hunger. They suspect even the most ardent communists. You should see the posters I design to earn a living. I spit on them before I hand them in, and then I spit onto my face in the mirror. I can't take it anymore, Sanyi. I regret all we had to sacrifice to come to this point. I feel like I am betraying those who died for our country."

Sándor's eyes suddenly shifted away from Károly, who carried on speaking, and looked at the door opening on to the entrance hall. It was obvious that he had difficulty concentrating on what Károly was saying. His eyes travelled between Károly and the door several times before he brusquely turned his head away. Károly stopped in mid-sentence. His cousin did not even notice that he had fallen silent. The ash of his cigarette fell on his waistcoat, which he did not seem to mind. "Do you know something?" he finally said as if talking to himself. "Being part of a nation that lived under foreign domination for centuries can make you forget the true meaning of freedom. The Ottomans, the Habsburgs and now the Soviets. In the end, you tend to adopt a culture of submission and despair. Caught between your roots stretching out to the east and your heart reaching out to the west, you fail to have a firm identity and end up all alone." He stopped abruptly, and his eyes wondered around the room as though he was trying to remember where he was, with whom he was and what he had been doing. Eventually, he turned his tired eyes to Károly. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

7

"Three Francs a dozen! Three Francs a dozen! Apples from Normandy! Arrived this morning!"

"Beauties from Brittany! Last four! Fresh out of the sea!"

Károly walked along past the greengrocers' shops and fishmongers crowding the narrow Rue Grégoire de Tours and entered the apartment building through its rusty iron door. He climbed the stairs to the sixth floor and unlocked the door to his flat. Ada had woken up and was preparing breakfast.

"Good morning," he said, kissing his wife. "Everything all right?"

"Dóra did not sleep at all last night."

"Is she sick?"

"I don't think so. How are you?"

"Tired, but richer than yesterday."

They had been in Paris for a month. Despite Károly's insistence, threats and pleas, Gizella had categorically refused to leave Rózsadomb, and Sándor had strongly rejected the idea of abandoning Kengyel. Károly, on the other hand, had been aching for Paris, even though he was not so sure if he would be doing the right thing by moving there. He was rather uncomfortable with the idea of leaving behind his mother, who said that she was happy for him; but he knew her contentment was feigned, an effort to hide her grief and broken heart at the prospect of her imminent separation from her son, the last of her offspring to desert her. Finally, Károly made up his mind in December and, two weeks after Christmas, was on board the train for Paris with his wife and daughters. As they slowly pulled out of the Keleti Train Station on that miserably dark and gloomy day, he was still filled with mixed feelings about his decision. They travelled in a relatively comfortable compartment they shared with another family of their acquaintance and their friends. The journey lasted five days, during which they were kept waiting at some border crossings nearly for an entire day while armed soldiers checked their papers, and searched them and their luggage, going into every nook and cranny of the compartment. He now remembered very well the day they had arrived in Paris when, breathing in the aroma of burnt coffee and roasted chestnuts mixed with the odour of coal, he had thought that freedom might, after all, have a smell of its own.

They had hired a room in a guesthouse on Rue Grégoire de Tours in the Latin Quarter until they found a flat. The nearest toilet was two flights of stairs down, so was the single telephone in the building. They had no hot water and no shower. It was impossible for their daughters to walk barefoot or sit down on the floor to play because of the splinters on the floor boards. The first thing Ada had done in Paris was to spray DDT on the fleas in the straw-filled mattresses. A week later, when they moved to the two-bedroom flat they hired a few paces further down the same street, they thought they were in paradise.

A much more dire fight, however, was in wait for them in Paris than finding a flat or spraying DDT on the fleas: finding a job. The Hungarian forints they had brought along were no use, for the Hungarian currency had devalued to almost nothing after the war. The unemployment rate was extremely high in France, as the country sought to recuperate from the consequences of the war. Refugees – especially those from Eastern Europe – were not welcomed. Often times, they were told to go back to where they had come from. Each day was another disappointment for Károly. He refused quite a number of job offers, finding them degrading, and quit others after only a few days, finding the treatment he received intolerably humiliating. In the end, however, both he and Ada had to do many an odd job, from painting lampshades to gluing shoe soles. For the last three days he had been working as a night watchman in a shop, yet another job he found beneath his dignity. Ada kept saying that, at such times and under such circumstances, he ought to be content at having a job at all.

"I stopped by the guesthouse. There is a letter from Alex."

Karabük, 2nd February 1948

Dearest _Öcsi_ ,

I received your letter dated January 15 just a few minutes ago. I must admit that it did surprise me. I'm utterly elated that you moved to Paris, to "the forbidden cradle of apprehensive Surrealism and free art" as you so nicely put it, reuniting with the city where you're happy and free. You need not worry about Mother. She's not alone, you see. She would have come with you, had she preferred it. She ought to be happy where she is, given that she had chosen to stay. You know that she would never leave Rózsadomb, being the mainstay of our home.

My life is as you already know it – rather monotonous. But I shouldn't complain. I have no worries other than Nili's health. It wouldn't be an exaggeration if I said that she has been sick all winter. She is a weak soul anyway, but this malaria is an awful thing and, unfortunately, has become chronic with her. After Christmas she ran a very high fever, and the doctor here said that it was malaria again. In the end, Aziz decided to take her to Ankara to see a doctor they strongly recommended. I was extremely worried about how she would survive the journey, but just as we were about to board the train, the doctor we were supposed to see in Ankara walked off it. I guess our tiny Nili does have a guardian angel hovering above her. We all went back home. The doctor said that, besides malaria, she had developed pneumonia as well. Thank God that it was at an early stage. She could have died, _Öcsi_. She's a little bit better now, but she is so skinny. I'm so scared that I could lose my mind. I don't know what I need to do. I could easily sacrifice my own life to save hers.

I was devastated by the loss of Aunt Etel. Sanyi must have taken it really badly. It was fortunate that he did not come with you to Paris, otherwise he would have never forgiven himself for not being by his mother's side on her deathbed. God only knows how he will survive this loss. I'm sure it's very difficult for Mother as well, for they were sisters more than sisters-in-law, having spent almost a lifetime together.

How are you all doing in Paris? How is the City of Lights treating you? Which artists do you see? How are Juli and Dóra? How is Juli at school? How does she manage with the French language? I can't tell you how much I miss you all. The Turks say that those who are far away from sight are also far away from the heart. I say absence makes the heart grow fonder. My only hope is to be able to see you sooner than later. Please give my love to Ada and very big kisses to my nieces.

Your always loving sister,

Alex

Károly could not overcome his hatred for being a night watchman and, in late March, after two months of forced labour, as he put it, presented his resignation, saying that he could no longer tolerate the rude manners of his boss. They were penniless. Lately he had been thinking that perhaps there was no point in insisting any longer, perhaps it would be best if they returned to Hungary.

In early April, when they received two tickets to the premiere of _Les Mains Sales_ staged by Pierre Valde at Théâtre Antoine, they were overjoyed, as it had been a very long time since they had last been even to a movie, let alone to a premiere of a play. This play by Jean-Paul Sartre, which took place in 1944 in an imaginary country called Illyria, was of special interest to them since it was actually set in Hungary. They watched this anti-Stalinist play with mixed feelings.

April went by as Károly wavered between staying in Paris and going back to Hungary, and he became increasingly tense as the arguments between him and Ada intensified. Just as they were thinking of how they would be paying the rent for May, Ada found a job in a well-known photograph agency. She did not have a work permit, but was hopeful that she would have one very soon.

Károly remained unemployed for two months, after which, in June, they decided to move to a suburb of Paris, for they could not find an affordable housing in the centre, which was far too expensive for their tight budget. Moreover, their life was not the same as before. The lively Latin Quarter, abundant with nightclubs and cafés, was the epicentre of art and artists, of wining and dining and therefore might have been ideal for the bohemian lifestyle of unmarried artists, but it was not quite the place for raising children. Eventually, they decided to move to Sèvres, a small town west of Paris, surrounded by woods, where they rented a flat on the top floor of a three-storey apartment building on Rue Brancas near Parc de Saint-Cloud. They loved their new home, which looked over the distant silhouette of Paris, River Seine and the Eiffel Tower, a view that reminded them of Rózsadomb.

The question marks gnawing at Károly's mind intensified from one day to the next. What kind of a life were they leading? How appropriate was their bohemian lifestyle for their daughters? Would it not be better if they went back to Budapest? Was it not more reasonable to be in their own country, even though communism had turned out to be much different than what they had imagined? Would they not be better off living like first-class citizens in their own country rather than being considered second-class citizens in a foreign one? When he talked to Ada about his considerations, albeit rather timidly, she said that she did not even want to think about going back and that she would do anything to make it out here.

"Besides, if I understand correctly what you mean by first- and second-class citizens, don't forget that you – and not only you, by the way, but all of us – would be considered second-class, even third-class citizens in Hungary due to your aristocratic background."

"We don't even have a work permit here, Ada. They will, sooner or later, deport us from France anyhow."

"We can't take our daughters back to that dungeon, Károly. I'll do anything to stay here. And you've got to show some effort as well. You can't have the luxury of not liking a job. You have no choice."

These arguments went on throughout the entire summer. Károly neither found a permanent job nor could get a work permit. It soon became a chicken and egg situation that drove him into an impasse. They would not give him a work permit unless he had a job, and they would not offer him a job unless he had a work permit. He found it almost impossible to make heads or tails of the intricacies of the French bureaucracy. Each morning he tucked his designs under his arm and trekked through the art galleries. He had to do it, although he felt very bad about walking from door to door like a beggar. Ever since the HWPSMTB Exhibition that had opened in April, Ada kept saying that he should move away from Surrealism and join the Lyrical Abstraction trend, because that was where the money was. The current trendsetter was the New York School. Abstract Expressionism had taken free reign in the United States. Earlier that year an artist by the name of Jackson Pollock had created a sensation by showing paintings he had made by dropping paint on empty canvases placed on the floor. The path to follow was Lyrical Abstraction, which corresponded to the Abstract Expressionism of New York. Károly, however, had not yet sated his appetite for Surrealism, through which he was able to challenge the repressive and archaic social structures in his paintings, where all the absurdities of his subconscious world reconciled with the ruthless and hard rational life. In the absence of all control from his consciousness, he discovered the secret world of his subconscious, freeing his rebellious nature. He was not ready to give up this style that liberated him, and thus carried on painting canvases that told a story that made no sense, canvases that depicted tales resembling bizarre dreams, canvases that brought no money as he could not sell a single one.

Finally in October, he made up his mind to go back to Hungary, much encouraged by János's letters insisting that he come back. The picture his friend drew was very promising. In June the Hungarian Communist Party had merged with the Social Democrats and was rechristened the Hungarian Workers' Party, aiming at socialism while keeping the autonomy of the unions, the church and the cultural institutions. János was quickly climbing the hierarchical steps in the Party and said that, irrelevant of his family background, Károly would definitely be rewarded for what he had done in the resistance against the fascists during the war, and that the Party would surely give him a helping hand.

Ada, on the other hand, accused Károly of being weak and lazy for giving up so quickly, insisting that they should not return. "It's only been ten months, Károly. You can't give up so easily. We have to survive here," she implored him, only to fire up the next minute, scolding him, "Go! Go, if you can't pay the price of freedom. Go and paint those Socialist Realist murals you hate on the walls of those government buildings you detest." What Károly found hard to digest was being unable to save his family from this miserable life and, worse still, being so ineffectual as to watch his dearest wife shoulder this responsibility. He would at least be able to look after his family in Hungary. Ada, however, persistently said that she was happy with her job here and would not agree to dragging their daughters into the unknown. Being a highly-talented and ambitious hard worker, she had already proven herself at work. "Let me and the kids stay here. You go and settle in Hungary. And we'll see how things will turn out," she said in an apathetic voice that shattered Károly's heart to pieces.

At long last, Károly made up his mind and sent a telegram to his mother and another one to Alex:

Returning to Budapest STOP Ada stays here with the kids STOP

In the evening he heard someone call out his name from downstairs. There was a call for him. It was Alex.

"What happened _Öcsi?_ Why are you going back?"

"I can't stay in Paris anymore, Alex. I can't find a job. I can't look after my family here. János says that he will help me out. He talks about social security and all that. It should be much easier for me to find employment in Budapest. Here, I can't even get a work permit."

"You can't leave your daughters behind. You must be out of your mind."

"Only for a short while, Alex, only for a short while. I'll see what can be done. Once I settle down, they'll join me. If I can't make it in Budapest, then I'll go back to Paris. Well anyway. How about you? How is Nili, by the way?"

"She came back to life, _Öcsi_. This summer the doctors openly said that she should just enjoy herself, swim and do whatever she liked. They must have thought that she would die soon. But you should see her now. She has put on a lot of weight and looks in perfect health. I think I must have done something good to deserve this bliss."

"I'm so happy for you, Alex."

The line started to buzz and then was cut off.

8

Károly returned to Budapest, giving up on his freedom and yielding to the system where he hoped to earn a living, although he knew perfectly well that Hungary, which opened its arms to its healthy and strong citizens who wished to be repatriated, was not so flexible for those who wished to expatriate. The house in Rózsadomb was almost empty except for a few pieces of furniture Gizella had resolutely held on to; they had been obliged to sell most of their possessions during the war and whatever had remained after that had been pillaged by the Russians during the siege, while the few remnants after that had to be sold in recent years to compensate for their lack of income. Every little sound echoed on the empty walls; a whispered word, the hardly audible tinkling of a glass gently placed on a table or the vague shuffling of soft steps gliding over the unpolished parquetry floor hit their ears like the ruthless reflections of their loneliness.

His mother, who had greeted him with much joy, presently started to nag him for having left her granddaughters in foreign lands. "You ought to have brought your children along or otherwise stayed there with them, whatever the circumstances might have been."

József, who had known him since childhood and knew him well, scolded him, saying that he must have gone insane to have returned. "You're mad, Károly. You must be out of your mind to leave Paris and come back here. Don't you see how critical the situation is? The Kremlin has an extensive list of those it considers to be a threat to their long-term objectives, a list that not only includes the nobility, the wealthy, the bourgeoisie, the non-communist politicians, the clergy and all those who are in contact with them or share the same views, but also anyone who has been part of any kind of resistance, unfortunately inclusive of those who resisted against the Nazis. All of them are classified as undesirable elements. You're doomed to be one of the first names on their list, Károly. You have no way out. Not a single one! They'll have no difficulty in finding an excuse to arrest you."

"As Sándor Márai says," started Éva, cutting her husband short, "the artist is merely the personal embodiment of the creative genius that drives him; he can't choose, for his genius will press a pen, a chisel, a brush or even, occasionally, a sword into his hand whether he will or no. Károly has no choice, because the voice of his creative genius is too strong." Her eyes were fixed on Károly, revealing how proud she was of their friend.

Despite the shortages no less acute than those in wartime, head butler Álmos had used all his resourcefulness to prepare an impeccable feast in honour of Károly's return. As had become his custom, he had made a trip to his village and returned with an abundance of sausages, cured pork, liver pâté, cheese, wine, _pálinka_ , beer and pears. Upon Károly's inquiry as to the situation in the countryside, he focused his eyes not on Károly, who despite everything was still his master Monsieur Károly de Kurzón, but on a spot on the wall behind Károly's shoulders and started talking about the Party's ultimate target – the medium-sized farmers they referred to as _kulak_. "My family has already been listed as _kulak_. The percentage of the crops they're obliged to submit to the state is so high that it's questionable whether they will be able to fulfil their obligations. They're afraid that they might have to sell their land because of these submission quotas."

József, on the other hand, complained about the violence, which was no less atrocious than during wartime. "Even the fascists did not do what ÁVO is doing now."

Rumour had it that the Secret Police was trying to establish its control by arresting and torturing thousands of innocent people, especially in the countryside.

József carried on and on. "They are nationalising all enterprises that employ more than one hundred people. The stock exchange is closed. Schools are becoming state schools. Even the Church was impotent in preventing its schools from being nationalised. In August Rákosi announced a collective agricultural programme. Formally the multi-party system still exists, but Parliament has not convened since August. We're in October. Since the elections, the opposition has lost most of its seats in Parliament. The Independent Smallholders Party initially had sixty-eight seats. Do you know how many they have now? Thirty-three! The left wing of the Social Democrats, before they merged with the MKP in June, expelled everyone who was against the merger and initiated an extensive purge. What do you reckon all this means?"

"Things can't go on like this," insisted Károly, determined not to yield to pessimism. Everything would be better, and he would be able to bring his wife and children over. Hungary would not let them down.

"Unfortunately, old boy, it _will_ go on like this. A brand new era is about to begin in our country. July 30, 1948. We shall remember this date for a very long time to come, my friend."

"What do you mean? Tildy is not the first statesman who was forced to resign, is he?"

"No he's not, but he's the first president of our first republic. We're about to step into a completely different period."

Less than a week later Károly started feeling unbearably lonely in the huge house, where no one but his mother and uncle Filip remained. He shrank with an agonising pain as he looked at the window fronts where he once passionately kissed Ada, at the corners where they fiercely argued, at the bed where they madly made love, at the corridors where his children joyfully capered about and at their beds, impregnated with their sweet innocent smell. He now realised what a grave error he had committed by returning here. He had to go back to Paris, back to his family. His mother was right. He had to return no matter what the circumstances were. He would not be able to live through this misery.

9

_Puszta_. Emptiness. Through the window of the compartment, Károly was gazing at _Puszta_ , the Great Hungarian Plain, stretching endlessly like a calm, silent and boundless sea, reminding him of infinity. A vast void of flatness, as motionless as it could be. Stagnant. Not even a tree in sight. An occasional house, a distant oasis, a galloping wild horse in the mirages created by the hot August air quivering over the earth. The horizon had disappeared as the earth had seamlessly joined with the sky, creating a sense of infinitude. The monotonous landscape, intermittently disrupted by the long sweep-poles of a well, became alive with the flick of a grazing cow's tail, which often seemed an illusion. The sun lowering on the horizon resembled a blazing inferno, reminiscent of a fatally passionate farewell kiss before a journey of no return. Soon it would lose its intensity, and nothing would remain of its passion.

Ten days ago Parliament had ratified the Soviet-modelled new constitution, and the country's name had been changed to the People's Republic of Hungary. A red star, a hammer and a wreath of wheat had been placed on the flag, symbolising communism; and socialism had been declared as the new and single objective of the country. A people's republic had been established, with all power vested in the working class. The iron curtain had finally fallen on them. Károly thought how very right József was about the things he had said last October. "A brand new era is about to begin in our country. We're about to step into a completely different period," he had said. Károly could not leave. He could not go back to Paris. He had not lost hope. He had trusted his country. But now everything had radically changed. He did not know whether he would be able to see Ada and his daughters ever again. How easily he could say this when he should be going insane, destroying everything around him, yelling, revolting, running away. A strange inertia had settled upon him. Despondency. Shattered dreams. Dreams turning into a nightmare. A sense of weariness triggered by acute helplessness. All his senses were numbed. His gaze lost itself in the _Puszta_ , in the emptiness, in the unexpected serenity offered by nothingness.

Last night he had talked to Sándor and early this morning had set off for Kengyel. The notice from the Land Claims Committee said that today they would be finalising the formalities for the transfer of their remaining land, whereupon it would be divided up and distributed to eligible claimants who had filed a request.

" _Erzsébet Manor of Kengyel along with its surrounding lands, farms, properties and machinery shall be made available, free of charge, to the use of our government for an indefinite period of time. You are required to be present at the aforementioned property on Tuesday, August 30, 1949 to finalise the transfer and the parcelling formalities."_

A few minutes later a mirage of a church tower came into view, followed by the woods surrounding the Erzsébet Manor and the small houses of Kengyel. Arriving at the train station, he saw Tibor waiting on the platform with a grim expression on his face. Without a word, they climbed onto the old Studebaker, which was falling to pieces. They passed through a stream of villagers slowly walking in silence with their heads lowered along the dirt road leading to the manor house. Their centuries-old dream was about to come true in a few hours: they would become landowners. However, none of them wore the joyful expression expected from a man who would soon be realising his dream. Should they not be happily scuttling towards their new lands? Károly even noticed traces of grief on some faces. Was there a hint of shame as well? Or perhaps Károly wanted to see that, being an incurable optimist. One of the villagers recognised him and, taking off his cap, respectfully bent down in greeting. Others followed suit as they noticed their former master passing through. Károly responded by raising his hand. He recognised some of them. They must have been mostly from Kengyel and the neighbouring villages. A large group was walking slowly under the shadow of the acacia trees on the road leading to the hunting lodge.

The wrought-iron gateway of the manor house had been opened wide to allow the free passage of the newcomers. Everyone, including the youngest of the gardeners, had gathered on the gravel pathway in front of the house. The Studebaker stopped next to the trout pond. Csaba, the head butler, was waiting at the main door, standing next to the priest of the Calvinist church of Kengyel. What was the priest doing here? Had he also applied for land? Károly smiled involuntarily. There was no trace of Sanyi. They probably had already commenced the formalities inside. Csaba opened the door of the truck. The good old hunting dog Öröm started jumping up and down in front of Károly, licking his hands in longing. Its cheerful eyes seemed to have lost their vigour.

"Where is Sándor?" asked Károly.

10

Alex picked up the cover of the saucepan. The cloud of steam that rose from the haricot beans cooking in olive oil burned her face. She would faint if she stayed in that sweltering kitchen one minute longer.

"Turn it off after fifteen minutes, would you please? The rice pilaff should also be ready in five minutes."

She ceded control of her kitchen to Güllü and dashed out into the corridor, where it was as oppressive as it was in the kitchen. This city was unbearably hot. She adored the heat and had no tolerance for lack of sun, but this was something else, something that made her feel as though she was incarcerated in a furnace of infernal fire.

In April, after only three years in Karabük, Aziz had unexpectedly decided to move to Izmir, triggering another change in Alex's life and decimating yet another world she had laboriously created for herself. Heartbroken and apprehensive about what awaited her at their destination, she ventured off into the unknown again, leaving all those friendships she had so possessively been hanging on to in Karabük. "Beautiful Izmir," as it was known to many, was, for her, nothing more than a city that suffered under the scorching sun. Neither their new two-storey stone house in Karşıyaka, nor its garden, nor the superb beach only two steps away from their house, was enough to put a smile on her face. As the summer heat reached an unbearable crescendo in August, she not only avoided the streets but even refused to come out of her bedroom.

It was another one of those extremely hot days, making her feel as if a debilitating grogginess was gradually decomposing her soul, draining all her energy. Each breath she took was a strenuous exercise that exhausted her and scalded her lungs. She desperately needed a bath; she was drenched in sweat again despite her light dress. Wiping the sweat trickling down her legs with her hands, she dragged herself up the stairs and into the bathroom. Even the water from the tap was disturbingly warm. This was her third bath since this morning. Staying in the water absolutely motionless for a while, she finally found some relief and got out. Without drying herself, she wrapped a _peştemal_ – the light cotton loincloth they used in these parts – around her and left the bathroom. In her bedroom, she took an even lighter dress out of her wardrobe and slipped it on. As she brushed her hair, another torrent of sweat covered her whole body. She wished she could shave off her hair altogether. Her eyes stopped at the letter lying on her writing desk. She had to make an effort to finish the letter she had been writing to Anastasia for the last three days. She could not even hold her pen properly because of the heat.

... I've lost so much weight, you won't recognise me. I look like a beanpole. The scorching heat of Izmir consumed me in four months. August, in particular, has been unbearably hot. I can't put up with it any longer. I've even come to hate the sunlight.

You must have heard what happened in Hungary ten days ago. Aziz tells me that from now on it would be almost impossible to see my family. I don't believe him though. Surely there must be a way. How can one not be allowed to see her family? What kind of a monstrous system could impose such a restriction? Aziz says that I would need to go to Budapest to see them, and if I did, I wouldn't be allowed to leave the country ever again. I don't understand it. People can go and visit even the convicts in the jails. But this ... this is inhuman. I can't imagine not being able to see Károly ever again, or Mother, or Rudi – if he's still alive and if he's still in Hungary, of course. It's been more than four years since I last heard from him, but I haven't lost hope; and it's been ten years since I last saw him, but he's still right in front of my eyes and deep in my heart. I'm so very unhappy here in Izmir, and so lonely. This city literally consumes me like an infernal dungeon. I have no desire to do anything. Nothing interests me. The slightest responsibility weighs unbearably heavily on my shoulders. I think I have shouldered the heaviest responsibility by getting married, or rather by staying married, and have no more strength left to take on anything anymore.

Nili was devastated by the idea of moving from Karabük, but she seems to be happy here now. She hates changes, poor soul. "I wish everything remained the same," is what she keeps saying. I can see how scared she is of anything that might upset me.

Aziz says he has made up his mind and wants Lila to go to the American College for Girls in Arnavutköy. He says that she can stay with his mother. So, despite my objections, we shall be sending her off to Istanbul in September although, in my opinion, she's far too young to leave home. I don't know how we'll be able to survive so far from each other. On the other hand, I would never agree to send Nili away whatever the circumstances might be, given that she's so fragile and, unlike Lila, unable to survive being separated from us. Well, anyway, let's say that this might be an opportunity for me to come to Istanbul more often, and let's leave it at that.

Aziz, by the way, is so so. I can't tell if he's happy at his job. It's been so many years, but he still can't tolerate being a civil servant. He does, however, seem to be happy being in Izmir, where I belong exclusively to him since I know nobody here.

She could no longer carry on. Her hands were covered in sweat, wetting the paper, while her pen kept slipping away from her fingers. Asking after everyone's health and beseeching Anastasia not to leave her without her encouraging letters for too long, she finished her letter, "With fondest love, Alex." Wiping the sweat off her hands on her dress and then folding the letter, she placed it in its envelope and locked it in the drawer of her dressing table. She was dripping with sweat. She had to do something about this. There had to be a way to put up with this torture. She went to the bathroom again, filled the bath with cold water and soaked her bathrobe in it. She took off her dress. A chill ran through her body as she put on the wet bathrobe. Finally! She felt much better now. The coolest place in the house was her bedroom as it did not take the afternoon sun. She thought she might dare let in a trickle of light by opening the shutters a tiny crack, which were always kept shut to prevent the sun from turning the whole house into a furnace. As soon as she opened the window, the dry heat hit her face, leaving her breathless. It was burning outside. She quickly pushed one wing of the shutters a few inches open and swiftly shut the window before she dragged herself to a dim corner of the room, away from the stream of light seeping in and sank into the armchair there, which sizzled at the touch of her wet bathrobe. She felt the smouldering heat penetrate through the fabric and sneak into her body. Her blood pressure must have plummeted, for she did not have the energy even to move a finger. She made an effort to sit straight and, without getting to her feet, dropped onto her knees and then slid down onto the parquet floor, lying there motionless, face up.

They had celebrated their wedding anniversary two days ago. It had been seventeen years since she had married Aziz – on the twenty-eighth day of August in 1932. If I had married Rudi, she thought, I would have been Madame Takács now. I would have been the mother of Rudi's children. Two blue-eyed boys stormed into the room, running after each other, and circled around Alex a few times before they dashed out again. They were very naughty and created havoc in the house until their father came back from work in the evening. They ran back in again and, sliding on the parquetry floor, lay down next to Alex. She hugged her sons, caressing their short, light brown hair, running her fingers through their soft curls. She drew in their smell. How happy they all were.

11

The expression on Csaba's face was frightening. "Last ni ... last night ... my ... my Master ..." he stuttered. Then words streamed out of his mouth. "Last night, my Master took his life."

Károly felt his blood run cold. He froze. A maddening howling noise filled his brain, threatening to burst his skull. His knees gave in. Stumbling back a few steps, he held on to the edge of the marble trout pond to stay on his feet. He must have misheard it. He desperately searched for Csaba's eyes, silently begging for some denial. His eyes said nothing but remained glued to the earth. No, he said mutely. No! It can't be! He can't have. Sanyi! You can't do this to me. To your fatherland. You can't! His hands, clutching at the marble burning under the flaming August sun, clenched. He wanted to crush it to pieces. He wanted the heat to burn his flesh, to sear his whole being, to stop the bleeding in his heart, to prevent his wounded soul from becoming fatally infected, to keep him on his feet, to give him the strength to go on. His temples throbbed. He could not breathe. A wave of heat spread from his neck to his head. Csaba's words had stabbed him in the heart like a blunt dagger and were now turning round and round. Why had they left Sanyi here? All alone. They shouldn't have. He shouldn't have let him stay here. How could he kill himself? How could one take his own life? His mind refused to believe it. "Where is he?" he asked with great difficulty, trying to control his tears but unable to prevent his voice from trembling.

"He's at the hunting lodge, sir."

He clenched his teeth to hold back his sobs in front of all these people. Swallowing hard, he made to say something but stopped, feeling that his voice would waver. His eyes burned. Suddenly, with an unexpected urge, he turned around and threw his arms around Tamás, the gamekeeper, standing next to him. Then he grabbed the hands of the stable boy, who raised his head in surprise but, unable to get himself to look his master in the eye, immediately lowered his bloodshot eyes to the ground before bending in half in an effort to kiss Károly's hand. Károly pulled his hand back and squeezed the boy's shoulder in a gesture of consolation, a gesture that had been a taboo for centuries.

The villagers, initially shocked by the gesture of their Master – for they still considered Károly to be so – gradually moved ahead in timid steps to line up before Károly. They walked slowly, with their heads kept low and their caps clasped in their hands, diffidently expressing their condolences in hardly audible voices. Károly did not let any of them kiss his hand, shaking the hands of some, throwing his arms around some others and patting some on their backs. Encouraged, the villagers' voices gradually gained strength.

"Please accept our heartfelt condolences, sir. May the peace and blessings of the Lord be with you."

"Our Master will be sadly missed. May he rest in Heaven."

"God only takes the best. May he spare you."

None of them was here to demand land; they had come to convey their deepest sympathies to their Master.

Finally, Károly turned to the head butler. "Take me to him, Csaba."

They climbed onto the truck and drove through the iron gateway onto the acacia-lined road where they passed by the villagers walking towards the hunting lodge to bid their last farewell to their deceased Master. As he gazed at the farmlands extending as far as the eye could see, Károly let his tears gush out of his eyes despite Csaba's presence. Kengyel ... Kengyel where nothing ever changed; _Puszta_ where nothing disturbing, nothing shocking ever happened. At long last, it was surrendering to the winds of change as well. Would snow be falling, he wondered, the same this winter as before? Would people be gathering around the hunting lodge, dancing and singing till the early hours after receiving their share of the hundreds of salamis and sausages made of the boars hunted down at the first wild boar hunt of the season? Would they be coming to the manor house as they always did to receive their Christmas presents? Would the lambs be born in the first weeks of February again? Would the blossoming flowers smell the same this spring?

Károly's thoughts were interrupted by Csaba, who, ignoring that he would be trespassing the borders of respect, was lamenting in a voice filled with sorrow and tainted with a pang of anger. "They want to distribute to the people the only piece of land that was left to us, a tiny piece. This land already belongs to the people. To us! Aren't we the people?" He was lividly hitting his clenched fist against his chest. "This is our home. These properties, the horses, the carts, the cows, fields, pastures, trees, pheasants, partridges – they're all ours." The large half-circle he drew with his arm explained what he meant better than his words did. It included everything, the houses, the land, the future of their children, their place in society, every single thing in their lives. "For centuries we worked very hard to make this land what it is today. They took away our home, our beautiful Erzsebét. This is the end. It's the end of our pride and joy, of our honour, of our dignity."

He was venting his frustration towards the endless emptiness of the _Puszta_ in a vociferous tirade, giving expression to the opinions he dared not voice standing up against the founders of the new system. Praising the system that was no more as if Károly were a stranger, he talked about how, for generations, at least one person in every family in each generation, be it from Kengyel or from the neighbouring villages, had earned his bread at Erzsébet; how the Manor had eventually provided employment for thousands of families; and how everyone from the head butler to the youngest kitchen aid, from the head gamekeeper to the most inexperienced stable boy, took pride in being a part of Erzsébet and its lands. "We were able to save our earnings since all our necessities were provided for. We all had our own piece of land, albeit a small one. We had our own houses and our own stables built with the wood and the stones from the estate. There were days when one of our pigs died; next day, a pig was delivered from the pigsties of Erzsébet. There were days when we had a conflict between ourselves; we went to our Master for his advice because we had faith in his fair judgement, because for generations he had always given the most just decision. There were days when we had a problem; we told him about it, and he immediately saw to it. This was what our centuries-old traditions dictated. The strong were obliged to protect the weak and the needy. None of us ever envied our Master living in the luxury of Erzsébet because, as free Hungarian citizens, we were part of his nobility. We were an integral part of Erzsébet, a whole that proudly existed against the outside world." Csaba's eyes were shining like a mirror. "Our Master was one of the last representatives of a tradition that was about to disappear. Like us, he was a man of the land, dedicated to the tilling of our lands. He worked hard to improve the quality of the crops, to produce more and more each year, to manage our forests better and to ensure that such betterment was used to ameliorate the living standards of us all. He often came to the inn we frequented, drank with us and listened to our problems." He wiped his eyes, flooded with tears. "After the confiscation and the redistribution of our lands two years ago, he continued to help their new owners. Unlike many other masters, he didn't abandon us. He didn't hesitate to supply those in need with his remaining animals, machinery and tools required to till the land. They threatened him. They threatened to kill him. He took no heed." He was crying without restraint now. "He couldn't have possibly tolerated what is happening today. He wouldn't have survived losing his home. He did not survive it."

They had arrived at the hunting lodge. As soon as Károly climbed down from the truck, Edit, who had been waiting for them on the patio, grabbed his hands. "May his soul rest in peace, sir," she said, courageously raising her reddened eyes to look at Károly in the eye. "May God help us all. Who will run to our help when we have sickness in our house? Who is going to look after our old, our disabled? We have no one left to take care of us, sir. No one! Where shall we work to earn our living? Who will protect our rights?"

Most of the peasants who had become landowners through the land reform were unable to till their lands due to the lack of tools or funds. Edit's cousin Zoltán had started to till the land he had been given on the estate of Sovány Manor during the first wave of the land distribution back in the spring of 1945. He had tried to grow different types of crops but had been unsuccessful since he was in need of fertilisers, a tractor and machinery. "Not everyone was as lucky as us. Their Master had abandoned them." Zoltán had worked on his land from dawn to dusk with his wife and his brother but had had no yield. After having worked for others for years, he had finally become a landowner and the master of his own destiny, but only to lose all hope in as short as four years. They were hungry and very unhappy. The initial joy had long given way to a great sense of disappointment. As a matter of fact, it was obvious right from the beginning that these people, who did not have any tools, animals or money, would not be able to take yield from their lands. They hardly got together the minimum amount of produce they were obliged to deliver to the state – an obligation that included even the smallest landowners, although at different percentages. "We don't understand why the state, which announced the victory of the suppressed and the sovereignty of the proletariat, doesn't extend a more helping hand to the poor people in the countryside," Edit lamented.

"Our country is going through a very difficult time," Károly replied, without taking his eyes off the hunting lodge. "Everything will be all right, Edit. There is nothing to worry about." Crushed under the heavy burden of being able to help these people only by lying now, he walked towards the hunting lodge in a gait void of all hope. He opened the door timorously. The coolness of the inside sent a shiver through him after the suffocating heat of the outside.

He lay there on the sofa. Motionless underneath a white sheet ... Death! Those who fought not to die ... those who saw death as the only way out. What was the meaning of death, of life? He went down on his knees next to the sofa and extended his trembling hand towards the edge of the sheet. He gently raised it, as though scared to wake him up. Sanyi ... vulnerable, fragile Sanyi. He looked as if he had fallen into a deep and peaceful sleep, a pointless sleep devoid of all meaning ... lost in a cold dream from which he might wake up presently. He stroked his cousin's emaciated cheeks with his fingers, arranged his thinned hair and gave him a long kiss on his forehead. Sanyi ... Sanyi ... The tears streaming down his cheeks were wetting the cold body lying there, Sanyi's body. He suddenly burst into huge, wrenching, silent sobs. A piece of stucco, no longer able to hold on to the cracked ceiling, fell down, breaking the silence.

He understood Sanyi perfectly well. He must have felt that he had betrayed his ancestors, that he had been unable to take care of these lands, of the people living on these lands, the lands his ancestors had earned by shedding their blood for this country. He had been unable to protect the people he had to protect. He had failed to take care of them, to fulfil his most important duty in life, eventually losing his raison d'être. He was left with no means to help these people who had put their trust in him. People looking up to him for their livelihood were left unprotected and helpless. Bearing such a shame, he would no longer be able to look at them in the face, or face himself for that matter. It had become impossible for him to carry on with this ignominious existence, which had lost all its meaning.

"What about Hungary, Sanyi?" he asked, his soft breath caressing his cousin's lifeless body. "Didn't Hungary betray us?"

When Károly returned to the manor house, he jotted down a few words to be wired to Aziz, his hands still trembling.

Sanyi could not survive the humiliation STOP

12

She must have dozed off; she didn't notice Aziz enter the room. Is it already the evening, she asked herself? Have I been lying here that long? She glanced at the clock on the dressing table. It was a quarter past five. Aziz was back early.

"You're early. Is everything all right?" She raised her head slightly without getting up. There was something in Aziz's demeanour that she did not like. A chill ran through her spine. She shuddered in her wet bathrobe. The weather must have changed; it was much cooler now. She suddenly froze at the sight of Aziz's eyes and the expression on his face. "What happened?" she said, jumping to her feet. Her eyes darkened; her head started spinning. She held on to Aziz's arm. "Something has happened! Some terrible thing has happened!"

He put his arms around her, not minding that her wet bathrobe was ruining his suit. Something really bad must have happened.

In panic, she pulled herself away from his arms. "Something happened to Károly!" She grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and started shaking him. "Tell me, Aziz! Tell me! Has something happened to _Öcsi?_ " She was shaking.

"You need to be strong, Alex."

"What happened? Speak, for God's sake! Speak! Is it Károly?"

"Sanyi, Alex ... Sanyi. We lost Sanyi."

13

Károly walked out onto the balcony, pulling the turtleneck of his sweater up to his mouth to prevent the cold air from burning his throat. It had to be at least ten degrees below zero. Big chunks of ice had been floating on the Danube for some time now. He went back inside to put on his parka and went out again. Leaning on the wall next to the railings, he tried to remember the last time he had been on this balcony, which opened out from his mother's bedroom. It must have been ages ago, when he was a small child. He looked up at the roof, recalling playing "Opening Fire from the Keep of the Castle" with János there. He smiled before turning his gaze down to the garden, to their once beautiful garden; it was bleak and bare now, with nothing but a few withered trees, shyly trying to hide its pathetically desolate state beneath an innocently white veil of snow. Nothing, however, was enough to hide the destruction caused by certain calamities; nothing was enough to heal the wounds that were deepened more and more by bitter memories. He leaned over the railings to look at the veranda downstairs. It was covered in white, broken with stripes of light radiating from the Green Salon. He remembered the fiery arguments he used to have with his friends there till the early hours, the cigarettes they had smoked, the hearts that had been broken, the friendships that had been forged. His heart warmed at the memory of the night he had kissed Ada under the willow tree in a remote corner of the garden. He reminisced about their passionate kissing against the railings of the staircase leading from the garden up to the veranda, about taking her lips between his while she walked her fingers on the keys of the grand piano in the music room, the Márkus Restaurant, Ada's serious disposition offering an irresistibly attractive contrast to the femininity of her generous and full lips, the edge of her wine glass touching her slightly parted lips, a tiny sip, her lower lip hanging on to the glass for a brief second, the mark of her lips on the edge of the glass, her knee-length plain dress leaving her milky knees bare when she sat down, her smooth skin revealing itself through the small holes in the fabric ... the luscious silk fabric caressing her underarms as she raised her arms, lost in the excitement of expressing her views ... the irresistible desire he felt to kiss her, to smell her skin ... and then suddenly embracing her and kissing her underarms ... Ada, uncontrollably tickled, nestling her head against his chest, her seriousness vanishing into thin air, only to pull herself away the next second. "Stop it, Károly! Stop this nonsense! Can't you please be serious just for once?"

"You, all of you, bear witness. She considers my love total nonsense," he murmured to himself, his heart sinking deeper.

He indulged himself in the memory of her plain beauty amidst all the razzle-dazzle of Alex and Rudi's engagement party, her elegant silhouette resembling a mermaid in her black silk satin evening gown, its generous revelation of the contours of her slender body, the transparency of her pallid skin. He closed his eyes, trying to visualise how he would slip the thin strips of her gown off her shoulders and how her gown would cascade down to the ground, undulating around her feet. He imagined caressing her naked back with his fingers and then grabbing her by the neck before touching the tip of his tongue to the alcove where her ear met her neck ... taking a spoonful of caviar from the silver bowl snugly placed amidst the crushed ice on a tray carried by a waiter who had appeared by their side, placing the delicacy on the small piece of mildly toasted bread and inserting it into her tiny mouth ... taking her full upper lip between his to remove a few of the little grey pieces of caviar left on it ... and finally passionately kissing her lips ... Ada scolding him, "What are you doing, Károly?" ... her blushing cheeks whipping his sexual desire to uncontrollable levels.

God, it was cold! He went inside and sat down on the rosewood sofa with the golden angels on its armrests spreading their wings – one of the three most important pieces of furniture in their new drawing room, along with two worn-out armchairs. He looked at his mother sitting opposite him. She seemed to have remained somewhere in the past, in their glorious past, with her proud, straight posture, with her hair always coiffed in the same elaborate way and with her sapphire brooch, albeit a fake one, placed on the high collar of her discoloured white lace blouse. At that instant he saw Alex weeping convulsively, sitting on the floor by their mother's feet. Her desperate wailing reverberated in his ears. "No, Magda! No!" she shrieked. "You can't leave me! You can't!"

Nothing had any meaning anymore. Nothing!

"Please don't cry, my precious," he murmured.

"Did you say something, son?"

"No, _Anyukám_ , I didn't say anything."

His gaze returned to his mother's unyielding eyes. It will pass, she kept saying. This too shall pass. It was amazing how she could still find a necklace, a ring, a bracelet to wear, even if none of it had any value. She not only wore an excessive amount of ornaments, be it a string of worthless beads, a tin bangle or whatever she could get her hands on, sometimes quite out of place, but she also put on an exaggerated amount of make-up, a lot more than she ever did, as a sign of revolt against the regime after they had outlawed lipstick, nail varnish, hats and ties as spiteful habitudes of the bourgeoisie.

He stood up in an effort to whisk himself out of the deep despondency that had been oppressing him, and walked to the section he used as his bedroom. Flipping through one of his old notebooks, he found a few empty pages which he carefully tore off and, taking his pencil, returned to his place on the sofa. He took a book from the coffee table, placed it on his lap, ironed the sheets of papers with his hand and started to write.

Budapest, 26th December 1949

My beloved sister,

I do hope you'll forgive me for using such wretched pieces of paper and a pencil to write to you, but even ink is a luxury nowadays.

You complain about not hearing from Ada. Well, I presume she's extremely busy, working day and night, for they apparently like her at the photograph agency and keep her overloaded, so to speak. She's taking photographs for her own portfolio as well and hopes to show them in a group exhibition. I guess they're rather happy in Sèvres. Ada has to commute to Paris every day, but she says she doesn't mind it. Dóra is doing rather well at school. The only aim in her tiny life was to go to the same school as her sister, and she's over the moon at having realised her dream. Your nieces are students at École Sainte Jeanne d'Arc – a Catholic school, if you can believe it. God only knows how Ada made such a choice. Recently she does surprise me.

There is nothing new on the Rózsadomb front. Mother must be writing to you all about it. Our home has turned into a cheerful boarding house, swarming with people. We don't know any of them, but they seem to be nice people, peasants from various regions of our homeland. How very odd that Álmos preferred to return to his village, yet some others from the countryside preferred to move to the capital. Everything seems to have turned upside down.

I have some bad news for you: the lilac trees by the garden gate have long left this life. Our guests are no longer greeted by the sweet fragrance of our lilacs, but by a box displaying nine buttons serving as bells to nine flats. Ours is number six: Károly Kurzón. Our uncle lives at number seven: Filip Merse.

He dropped his pencil, suddenly weary. What else could he write that would not be blacked out by the authorities or, if they made it through the censor, would not grieve Alex? Was he to tell her that he could not get out of Hungary, that it drove him insane to know that he would never be able to see Ada or his daughters again, that he was trapped here, that his world had turned upside down, that everything was over? Was he supposed to write about how he was forced to paint murals on the walls of public buildings advertising the Soviet Union, how he secretly continued to paint Surrealist paintings, risking imprisonment, or how he purchased banned art books? Perhaps he could write, "It's the same thing as reading Melanchthon in sixteenth-century Holland under the Spanish yoke. They might not burn you at the stake for it, but rest assured that they will make you yearn for being burned at the stake." Should he be talking about the new values preached by the art critics? "It's clear what they would say if they saw my paintings, my sweet Alex," he might write, might he not, without being caught by the authorities? "His worthless paintings, ruled by forms and pessimism void of any meaning, do not sufficiently reflect the principles of Socialist Realism and are nothing but a waste of labour and materials." The rapprochement between politics and arts was nothing new for their group, the Avant-gardes. They all had leftist inclinations, but none of them could have ever imagined that the new system would require them to abandon their individuality, their avant-garde views and tastes. Would he find himself in trouble if he wrote, "It's no longer possible for us to live up to our name, to lead the way by forcing the borders of the values accepted as the norm or the status quo"? Or should he be talking about how he had been outcast as a "class alien" in his own country?

Well-educated aristocratic families, wealthy before the People's Republic, were branded as "undesirable elements" by the Soviets and classified as "class aliens," enemies of socialism and of the working class. The new government, looking for a solution to the housing shortages following the destruction of most of the country during the war, had decided that families with large houses ought to share their dwellings with other citizens, whereupon they had confiscated the Kurzóns' mansion in Rózsadomb. Károly and Gizella, who had been afforded the privilege of living in one room of their five-storey house, had settled in Gizella's bedchamber on the second floor. Nowadays this was their new home, consisting of their living room, Károly's bedroom and Gizella's bedroom. They had placed a bed for Károly in the section overlooking the conservatory, which used to be Gizella's drawing room, and separated it with a screen from the middle section, now serving as their living room. They had placed another screen on the other side of this middle section to block from view Gizella's bedroom, which had been substantially reduced in size. They were much luckier than many other "undesirable elements," since they did not have to share their bathroom with anyone. Gizella could not even consider sharing the kitchen downstairs with the newcomers, and organised a make-shift kitchen area in Uncle Filip's bathroom; he had been allocated the section that had once accommodated Sándor. They had their meals on a table placed in a corner close to their new kitchen.

Six other families lived in their home. They knew none of them. The bedroom that once belonged to Uncle Kelemen and Aunt Etel, the bedroom that was initially Károly's and later accommodated Aunt Irén and Uncle Filip, their playroom or the library as it had come to be known later on, Magda's and Alex's adjacent twin bedrooms, the basement impregnated with their wartime memories, even the rooms in the attic that used to house their head butler Álmos and Nanny Ildikó, were occupied by people they had never seen before in their lives. The salons and the dining room on the ground floor were given over to the Buda Office of the Education of Ethnic Minorities Department of the Cultural Relations Institute, operating under the Ministry of People's Education. Gizella said that she would never get used to the idea of having housemates, who were the poor relatives of the people who had once worked as servants in her house, and could not even look around when she had to walk through the lower floors to go out, not that she cared to go out very often.

Károly looked at his mother, who was busy mending a sock stretched around a wooden egg. She was no longer angry but unexpectedly listless. She still held her back straight, haughtily scrutinising everything and everyone around her, trying to make her centuries-old nobility survive in their tiny abode, but she could not hide from Károly how much effort she had to put into all that, and how much she suffered from a deeply felt sense of total destruction.

"Is that the door, Károly?"

They had not even got used to the sound of their new doorbell.

It was József and Éva. Their mansion, being in a desirable neighbourhood such as Rózsadomb, had also been appropriated, despite having less than four rooms – something that was supposed to hold them exempt from the obligation to share it with other families. The authorities claimed it was an appropriation, but in fact it had been pure confiscation without any compensation. József and Éva, refusing to share their house with strangers, had exercised their right to move to a small two-room flat on the Pest side, and as of yesterday had been living in one such flat which József preferred to call a mouse hole.

Károly pushed back one of the screens towards his mother's bedroom to create some space in their drawing room, which seemed to become overcrowded with as few as four people in it, and placed the chair he had brought from his uncle's bedroom in front of the balcony door.

"How is your new mansion, Józsi?"

József was too furious to answer. He raised his arm and whisked his hand as if to say, "Let's not talk about it, shall we?" or most probably to express that he was mutely swearing, using words that his manners would not allow him to articulate. Right at that instant, his arm froze in mid-air as he saw Filip, who had entered the room. Filip's hair, which, despite his seventy-five years, had refused to whiten to the amazement of everyone, had gone snow-white in one week. He settled comfortably on the sofa and gestured to József to sit by his side, happy to have found someone who might be willing to listen to him. Without wasting any time, he started to broadcast his complaints as he usually did, grumbling incessantly from dawn to dusk regardless of others' lack of desire to listen to him.

"I think they take us all for fools. The Education of Ethnic Minorities Department has moved downstairs. I have this strong urge to go and look through their files. Devil only knows what they're doing. Education of Ethnic Minorities, my foot! Why not say, Department of Brainwashing People to Join the Party?"

It was the doorbell again. Gizella, who was chatting with Éva, suddenly raised her finger to her pursed lips, whispering strongly, "Filip! Hush!"

Károly rose to his feet and went to answer the door. Filip listlessly continued to complain. "Just like they did at the People's Schools. They put a jacket over the bare shoulders of the poorest of the poor, stick the _History of the Communist Party in the Soviet Union_ under their arms and send them to Budapest, the centre of universe."

"Filip!" hissed Gizella.

They all looked at the door with apprehension, only to take a relaxing breath when they saw Fábián and Rozália.

Filip, momentarily silenced by Gizella, continued from where he had left off. "Their houses are already waiting for them – a room in one of the mansions that once belonged to the wealthy. They all pass the exams without studying because the Hungarian Communist Party furnishes them with the answers to the exam questions beforehand. Oh, I'm so sorry, I should have said the Hungarian Workers' Party. No, no, no! I meant the Hungarian Independent People's Front." One edge of his lips curled in irony. "Oh, what's in a name anyway? It would be enough to say the Party, wouldn't it? We have but one, haven't we?"

Károly brought in two more chairs and placed them side by side in the narrow passage between his mother and Éva.

For four months now Hungary had been a party state, where the Party held all the power of decision-making, and single-handedly directed the state institutions in the implementation of its orders. They had been nationalising private enterprises and sending most of their machinery, equipment and materials to the Soviet Union. There was an acute food shortage. Ration coupons were more valuable than the forint. Houses were raided to check on any hoard of food, and hoarders were sent to prison. Any contact with the Western world was forbidden. Permission for travel was almost impossible to get, and those who tried to leave the country without a permit were incarcerated. In schools, Russian had replaced Western foreign languages. There were no papers or magazines other than the Party newspaper, the _Free People_ , and its fortnightly journal, the _Party Worker_. The nation's cultural life was limited to Russian films and to books and plays by Russian writers.

With the fervour of having found a group of listeners, Filip continued his tirade without a pause, addressing alternately Fábián and József, even casting occasional glances at Éva and Rozália. "How dare they use our beautiful Opera House for the propaganda meetings of the Party! Such bad taste. Actually, we shouldn't be expecting any better, given that the cultural and art institutions are now being run by those who know nothing about art but have obsequiously proved their loyalty to the Soviets and to 'our great leader!' What they call education and culture is nothing but the impregnation of political doctrines."

"Things can't go on like this," Károly cut his uncle short. "The fight against Soviet imperialism will be carried on through intercultural conflicts. Since we're not happy with this system, nor can we leave this country to its fate, we shall have to change the system. There's no other way out."

Gizella, having lost all her fervour, no longer joined these discussions and said that Károly and Filip talked far too much. "You'll get us all in trouble, Károly. Lower your voice, will you?" she whispered as she stood up and walked towards the kitchen area with Éva and Rozália to prepare the afternoon tea.

"How is work, Károly?" asked József, intending to change the subject.

"Hectic! I'm supposed to finish the murals on Kálvin Square in three days."

János, who had been appointed to the Provocation and Propaganda Department of the Party, continuously sent work to Károly, although neither János nor Károly were happy with what they were doing.

"God, I hate it," he continued. "I hate it all. And most of all, I hate myself. Do you know what it means to do these paintings? Infernal torture. Preparing posters, preparing designs for slogans that will be used to brainwash people, to prevent them from thinking freely. The posters I prepared the other day were part of the pressure imposed on the peasants to transfer their lands to collective proprietorship. They flooded the villages and towns with these posters to support the threats they make. I was ashamed of myself as I made them and swore never to take on any such commissions again. Wishful thinking! János says that such refusal would make me a traitor. And we all know what the penalty for that is."

"How is János, by the way?"

"He's trying to hold together his shattered dreams, but it's no use."

"He's so tense, poor child," said Gizella, returning to the living room with Éva and Rozália, bringing in the tea and a plate of _pogácsa_ with no cheese filling. "He says Rákosi is still busy slicing up the Party like salami."

Having long forgotten that János was Jewish, and having curbed her animosity against the Jewish people, Gizella was deeply worried about János, whom she now counted as another son of hers. She was talking about Rákosi, who had been using his "salami tactics" to slice up his own party. In late September Rajk and those close to him had been accused of and tried for espionage, betrayal, collaboration with the imperialist powers to help their war plans and plotting to disrupt the democratic system of the state, whereupon they had been condemned to death. Rumour had it that they had confessed everything during the show trials, like parrots that had been forced to memorise their role-play.

"Rákosi is slicing even his most trusted comrades. Haunted by the wrath of Moscow, he's even scared of his own shadow. A minor blunder on his part might readily make him a victim of a purge, a spring cleaning so to speak. The Red Army is at his doorstep."

"I so wish they could get rid of him," murmured Gizella under her breath, almost to herself.

"Even if they get rid of him, they'll bring in another one like him, probably much worse than him, _Anya_. _We_ need to get rid of him, not the Kremlin."

"They say that they executed thousands of people, accusing them of treachery, and imprisoned hundreds of thousands of them," Filip began again, repeating the things everyone already knew very well, as though he wanted to torture both himself and the others.

The Secret Police suddenly appeared at people's doors in the middle of the night, saying that they had come for some "political conversation," and arrested those who gave the "wrong" answers to questions such as, "What do you think of the foreign policy of the Party?" It was no secret that those suspected of being involved in anti-Soviet activities were immediately taken to Number 60 where they were given electric shocks, deprived of sleep and food, force-fed with salt, beaten with sticks under their feet, had their nails pulled out or were tortured in other more atrocious ways for days behind the thick soundproof walls of the building, until they desperately signed the documents containing their confessions.

"Those who insist on not signing their confessions go missing somewhere in the depths of Siberia."

As Filip paused briefly to take a sip from his tea, Károly, seeing that his uncle's discourse had started to depress everyone's mood, turned to József, hoping to change the subject. He meant to ask about his job at the factory but readily gave up the idea. It was getting more and more difficult to find a topic that would not upset people. He decided to tell a joke. "One day," he began, quite out of the blue, "the Soviet archaeologists found a mummy and decided that it was most likely to be the mummy of Genghis Khan, although they were not hundred per cent sure. Receiving the news, Stalin was really excited and ordered that the studies be finalised as soon as possible. A few days later, still not hearing anything from the archaeologists, he ordered again, 'I'm losing my patience. Report to me at once!' The following day the archaeologists sent their report. 'Yes, it is the mummy of Genghis Khan.' The whole country celebrated the good news. At a reception held in honour of the discovery, they asked one of the archaeologists, 'How did you manage to prove that it's Genghis Khan's mummy in such a short time?' The archaeologist shrugged and answered, 'Very simple. The mummy confessed that he was Genghis Khan.'"

"Never, ever repeat this joke again!" whispered Fábián. "The walls have ears, you know. They say a joke is worth at least ten years in one of the _gulags_ – exile for both those who tell such jokes and those who listen to them."

Right at that instant, there was a knock on the door. Everyone fell silent. Rooted to the spot, they turned their questioning pupils first to Károly and then to Gizella. Károly walked to the door apprehensively and opened it. Their new neighbour was asking if they had an extra egg she could borrow. No, they did not.

"She must be out of her mind. In times of such food shortages. What does she take us for? A charity?" Gizella was talking to her neighbour, who was shut out behind the closed door, but she herself would have difficulty hearing her muted whispering. "The days when we extended our helping hands to the families of our servants are long gone by, my dear arriviste of a neighbour. We can hardly take care of ourselves, _mes chers nouveaux voisins_." She could hardly hide her embarrassment behind her exaggerated anger, meant to veil her inability to shoulder the weight of what she had just said. She could not tolerate the shame of being unable to help those in need, of being in such a state, of being as needy as them. "At the time of Horthy, they used to complain that there were two million beggars in Hungary. At least only the beggars begged then. Now the whole nation is begging."

"Do you know what lies at the core of the red terror?" intervened Fábián, returning to the subject Károly had been trying to change. "Unlike what everyone thinks, their aim is not to uncover anti-Soviet activities. There are other criteria that determine the fate of the people, such as the class they belong to, their ancestral background and how they were raised – in other words, the colour of their blood."

Gizella rose to her feet and, walking to the balcony door, said in her weary voice, "There can be nothing more natural than for the opponents of communism to make space for the chosen classes." She went out despite the freezing air.

Recently their summerhouse in Balatonfüred had been "allocated to the use of the government free of charge." They heard that it had been fenced off with barbed wire, put under the protection of a group of bodyguards lined up along the garden wall, and given over to the use of an important Party member. Gizella had not had the heart to hear any of it. She was gradually detaching herself from all that was going on around her, burying herself in a dream, or rather in a nightmare. She had started to live in a world that she had created for herself, acting as though they had never had a house called Erzsébet Manor, as though Eger had never existed, as though they had never had a summerhouse in Balatonfüred, as though they had lived here in this room all their lives.

Károly watched his mother with consternation. He was afraid that she might lose her sanity.
March 2009  
Budapest

Rüya was packing her bags in her hotel room. The shoot in Hungary had ended that day, and they would all be flying to Paris the next. She was somehow relieved to be leaving; this country had pushed her to a point where her vision was completely blurred, her heart was thrown into turmoil and her mind was in complete disarray. She wondered what kind of a Paul would be waiting for her in Paris. Would he be waiting for her at all? More importantly perhaps, she ought to ask herself what kind of a man she wanted to find in Paul. Might it be that what she sought was standing right in front of her, but her muddled emotions prevented her from seeing things clearly? Might it be that everything was as she had imagined, but she was somehow oblivious of it all?

" _You're charged with being a British spy and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison for your anti-Soviet activities."_

Another prison. Solitary confinement in another cell. Bombardment of noises again.

" _You're not in prison," says the voice. "This is an illusion that exists only when perceived. You must not let it alienate you from reality."_

"Hello? Rüya?"

Of course, it's me. Who else can it be?

"Hi, Mum."

"How are you, my love? Are you all packed?"

"Almost."

"What time is your flight tomorrow?"

"In the afternoon. I have loads of time."

"I might come over to Paris at one point. I do miss you, you know."

All I need is you amid this jungle, she thought. "Yes, why don't you?" she said instead.

"Rüya, sweetheart, why don't you give _Thicha_ Anastasia a call? She's been going on and on at me these last few days, saying that she ought to talk to you."

"Is something wrong? She's all right, isn't she? I hope she is."

"Nothing to worry about, dear, but I'm afraid she might not be feeling too well. She's too old, poor soul. Ninety-six years old. Easy to say. Lately she's been talking about nothing but you, Rüya. Please do call her, would you, darling? You know how much she loves you."

"She's not ill, is she?"

"No dear, she's not ill but I'm afraid she's slowly going senile. She's become exactly like Mami in her final days. She forgets what she had for breakfast but remembers her childhood as if it were yesterday."

As soon as they hung up, Rüya dialled Anastasia's number.

" _Thicha_?"

" _Yassu kuklamu._ "

She had immediately recognised Rüya's voice, being as sharp as ever and definitely not going senile.

" _Pos iste Thicha?_ "

" _Kala ime. Esi pos ise?_ "

" _Kala Thicha. Kala._ "

Following an exchange of the few phrases in Greek that Rüya knew, their conversation continued mostly in French, since Anastasia had lately taken to speaking less and less Turkish. At the end of their brief chat, Rüya decided to change her ticket and go to Istanbul for a couple of days before flying to Paris. "You must come, dear," Anastasia had insisted. "It isn't something I can tell you on the phone. I have something I'm supposed to hand over to you."

All of a sudden things had started to run smoothly. Rüya wondered what she would give her. Perhaps she had gone senile after all as her mother had said. It might well be something quite silly from Rüya's childhood. Perhaps she should not rush it. She would be in Istanbul in a month anyhow. No! A month would be too long. She couldn't wait. She was curious. She had to go. She had to change her ticket. Could she? She looked at her watch. It was half past seven. If she could not change it, she would just forget about it. Anastasia would not summon her for nothing. If ... if she could get the answers she had been hoping to get. If ... She noticed that she was smiling. It has been a very long time since she last did that while she was on her own.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Five  
1950 - 1953

14

Her brother's letters drove Alex crazy. He wrote practically nothing. Nothing that was of any consequence anyhow. He obviously could not. She could, however, figure out what was happening and what would not happen. Why didn't they try to flee? She was so scared that, after Sanyi's suicide, Károly too ... She should not think about such things. Nothing of the sort could ever happen. He was strong, her brother. What about her mother? How was she surviving it all? She must have been devastated after the occupation of her home, the focal point of her whole life. She must be suffering terribly being condemned to live in a single room and share the core of her whole existence with families she did not even know. She did not write anything in her letters either except for utter trivialities, as though nothing had changed in their lives. It was as if she had guessed what would happen and had prepared herself for this disaster by not leaving her room for years. How unbearably horrible it all must be, total strangers sleeping in Alex's bed, people whom she had never seen before in her life playing with their doll house, the director of such and such a department sitting in the armchair in the Green Salon where Rudi had kissed her for the first time. She felt her stomach turn.

"Mami?"

"Yes, _tatlım?_ "

"When shall we go to Istanbul to see Lila?"

"She's just left, sweetheart. But don't worry, we'll be going soon enough."

Lila had been home in Izmir for her term break and had just left for Istanbul. Nili kept complaining that she could not tolerate being away from her sister. "It's also difficult for Lila; it must be awful to be away from one's family. I can't even imagine how terrible it must be for Juli and Dóra not to be able to see their Daddy ever again."

"They can see him, dear, but only if they agree to be prisoners in their own country. And that's something _Öcsi_ would categorically refuse. Hopefully he'll be going to Paris soon. As soon as he saves some money, he will." Did she believe what she had just said?

"I wouldn't be able to live through such a calamity."

"One gets used to everything, Nili ... at least one tries to."

"All these years, how did you survive being separated from them, Mami? How long has it been since you last saw Grandma? Or _Öcsi_ _bácsi?_ "

Both Nili and Lila still used the peculiar expression _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ – Uncle Brother – to address their Uncle Károly. As children, hearing their mother call him _Öcsi_ – Brother, they had taken their uncle's name to be _Öcsi_ , and he had remained their _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ ever since.

"We wish you a very good night, Nilüfer. Sleep well," said Aziz, without raising his head from the rifles he was cleaning on the dining table.

Nili, knowing from the tone of her father's voice that it was past the time she went to bed, stopped playing with the box of lead shots on the table and, without any objection, kissed her parents goodnight and withdrew to her room.

"I can't stand it any longer, Aziz. I am simply unable to put up with this torture anymore. How many more of my loved ones do I need to sacrifice for Hungary? What am I paying for? What are we paying for?"

"We shouldn't lose hope, Alex." Aziz had finished cleaning his rifles and was filling the cartridges with the lead shots. He spotted a distorted one and discarded it into the ashtray. "Let's not forget that whichever class he belongs to, Károly has served the new system. They can't deny it. And then there is János, who will protect him, surely. He'll see that he's given some privileges. As a matter of fact Károly does say that, compared to the others, they've been allocated much more spacious accommodation. Everything will be fine soon. Please don't worry so much."

"I honestly wish I could believe you, Aziz, but I don't think you believe what you are saying. I know that you're only trying to ease my mind. It isn't so clear if János will be able to save his own soul, let alone help my family. Can't they flee and come here, or go to Paris?"

"They might be able to, if they wanted to. I don't know."

"How can they not want it?"

"I don't know, Alex."

"Would you prepare me another glass of _rakı_ please?"

"You've had enough. It's time for bed now."

"So what! I sleep better when I drink a little."

Aziz stood up after gently putting down the last cartridge he had filled on the table and walked over to Alex. "Let's go get some sleep, my love."

"Aren't you going to put away your rifles?"

"I'll do that in the morning. I'm not finished yet." He extended his hand towards Alex.

She held his hand and pressed her cheek against his palm. "Sleep with me tonight, would you, Aziz?"

They went up to her bedroom arm in arm and undressed in silence. She had no other choice than to take refuge in her husband's arms and try to get some rest.

A few minutes after going to bed, she had had enough of turning and tossing. It seemed as if hours had passed without winking an eye. She desperately needed a drink. She silently slipped out of bed, taking care not to wake up Aziz, climbed down the stairs and went into the kitchen to prepare herself a double shot of _rakı_. She walked through the living room out into the garden. The weather was pleasantly mild for a night in January. She lay down in her deckchair. Her heart wept, but she could not shed a single tear. It was as if she had no more tears left to shed. She noticed that her glass was already empty. So quick! She stood up. Her head started spinning. She did not care. Going back to the kitchen, she prepared herself another double shot of _rakı_. She wanted to get drunk. She wanted to drink until she was unable to think, until everything became unrealistically weightless behind a feather-light white veil. She wanted to be rid of those excruciating feelings of guilt, of bitter regrets and of that unbearable yearning plaguing at her brain and darkening her soul when she was sober. She needed to numb her whole being to be able to keep her sanity. She had to melt, disappear. Helplessness drove her mad. She took another sip from her _rakı_. I ought to drink this thing without water, she thought, so as to take a shortcut to the blissfully peaceful realm of intoxication. Diluted, it was for those merry dinners where people raised their glasses to some happy event while cheerfully nibbling on appetizers that taste delicious on palates not anesthetised by pain. She took a huge gulp and finished the rest of her drink. Perhaps I should be drinking vodka, she thought, only to give up on the idea and refill her glass with _rakı_ before leaving the kitchen. Back in the living room, she collapsed onto the sofa, feeling as small as an insect, low on the ground, being trampled upon. She hated herself when she was like this. "What am I doing here?" she hissed in her mind. Why am I not with them, with my family? I ought to be suffering as they are now. I have no right to be happy. She took another sip. Her mollified gaze came to a sudden halt on the rifles laid down on the dining table. She could just leave everything. To leave, to run away from it all, to free herself of all this agony ... pulling the trigger. Sanyi did it. Her father-in-law Halim _Bey_ did it. They had done the right thing. She finished her _rakı_ and made to stand up for a refill. Her head was spinning terribly now. She let herself down onto the sofa again, slumping like a rag doll. Her glass slipped out of her hand. She could not find the energy to reach for it. Her head fell on the armrest. She did not have the strength to raise it. A nauseating sensation grabbed her. She closed her eyes.

"Mami! Mami! Wake up! Have you been drinking again? Wake up!"

Nili's voice was coming from the depths of a well. She opened her eyes. Where was she? Why had she slept in the living room? She remembered last night, cringing in shame. She felt so small in front of her daughter.

"I'm so sorry. I must have fallen asleep here. What time is it?"

"Eight. I'm going to school. Gün is waiting outside. Daddy is in the bathroom. He'd better not see you like this."

What if he did? Would he be angry with her? Would he pity her? What difference would it make anyhow? Her head was splitting. A beer should do the trick, she thought. But first, she had to see them all off. Otherwise, they would just make a big fuss.

15

On a comfortingly warm evening in March, Aziz announced that they would be moving to Istanbul in the summer, as soon as the schools closed. Although Alex was truly offended and somewhat annoyed with him when he made decisions on his own about the things that concerned their family, she welcomed this change, because it meant the end of her lonely existence in Izmir. She even did not mind the fact that his decision was mostly influenced by his strong sense of responsibility, which urged him to be closer to his sisters, Ayla and Necla. She knew that, as the oldest male in the family, he felt he had to protect and keep a better eye on them, since he thought that they had been left on their own after the death of Mehpare _Hanım_ in January – obviously ignoring the presence of their husbands. Nili exulted at the news; it meant the end of her separation from her sister, although she did betray a certain level of sadness for having to part with her friend Gün, whom she had come to love like a sister during Lila's absence. Alex's heart sank at her daughter's joy in the face of this change, for she could see the real reason behind it. Nili, the most compelling witness to Alex's unhappiness in Izmir, actually hoped to see the end of her mother's misery once they were back in Istanbul. Realising how much she had upset her daughter with her problems filled her with self-hatred. And, although she initially objected to the idea of living in the same building as Aziz's family in Istanbul, she eventually agreed to move to their flat on the fifth floor of the Giritli apartment building, at least temporarily, because she felt for Nili, who desperately wanted to live close to her cousins, Yasemin and Azra. She hoped to make up for the lonely childhood she had spent among the grownups, suffering from an unending series of maladies. Aziz was planning to set up a partnership with Haldun to import tractors from England. It was the first time in years Alex had seen her husband so full of energy and so enthusiastic about his work.

In June they moved to Istanbul. Summer in Nişantaşı proved to be suffocating, not only because of Necla laying siege to her life, but also because of the unbearable humidity. She took her daughters to Polonezköy or to the summerhouse Anastasia rented on the Island of Burgaz, one of the Prince's Islands on the Sea of Marmara, and stayed there sometimes for a weekend, sometimes for a whole week when Aziz was away hunting. Occasionally she felt like painting, but mostly she forced herself to paint. All she could produce, however, were a few aquarelles impregnated with grief, allowing no space for the mood of the merrily luminous summer days. She neither had a purpose nor any desire to do anything. All her expectations had become impossibilities. She had no reason to live other than to share the happiness of her daughters, who were at the beautiful ages of fifteen and twelve now, and relive life through them. With the onset of autumn she gloomily watched nature fade away, reminding her that she as well was slowly rotting away.

She would be forty years old today. Life was over. Her life was coming to its end. She was an old woman now. Most unwillingly in her listless depression, she started to prepare dinner, having not the least desire to celebrate her birthday or anything else for that matter. She had invited Anastasia, her brother Hristo, her older sister Keti and Keti's husband Dimo, hoping that they would alleviate the burden of having the whole Giritli family for dinner. She had asked Anastasia to come over in the morning to give her a hand with the preparations. She was at the door at ten in the morning with the rice-filled vine leaf _dolmas_ she famously rolled thinner than her little finger, the mussel _dolmas_ she diligently prepared using the best mussels she had hand-picked after rummaging through the fish market in Beyoğlu and generously flavoured with cinnamon – perhaps a tiny bit too richly for Alex's taste – and her infamously sweet _şekerpares_ , which Aziz insisted was a must to end any meal.

"These are for Duman. They were so fresh, I couldn't resist."

Duman, provoked by the smell of the liver in Anastasia's shopping bag, was already purring against her legs, her whiskers trembling in excitement. Hera and Zeus, both quite old now, knowing that at this moment there would be nothing in the kitchen for them except for a good scolding, retired to their corners in the living room, after making sure that the new arrival paid them some attention.

"I found some fish roe as well."

Aziz would prepare a _tarama salata_. Lately he has been treating Alex quite differently, putting up with her every whim most patiently and understandingly. Alex thought that he most probably pitied her. He was not so restrictive now; he did not interfere with what she wore and insisted that she go out to see her friends more often. His jealousies had also become less frequent.

"I'm getting old, Anastasia."

"Come off it, Alex. You're still gorgeous. We're not even half-way through our lives."

"What makes you think we will live that long? I doubt if I can put up with this life for another forty years."

"Don't say that, Alex. You have two healthy, beautiful, clever, marvellous daughters. You're very lucky, darling. You must be thankful despite all the tragedies you've been through." Was she crying or was it the smell of the onions that had triggered those tears?

"Madam? Should I cut these lengthwise or breadthwise?"

"Have you forgotten Asiye _Hanım?_ We cut them breadthwise."

"How is Aziz's business?" asked Anastasia.

"He's very happy, thank Heavens. He wakes up before dawn and sometimes leaves for the office at five. I've never seen him like this before."

They worked in the kitchen all day. When Aziz arrived in the afternoon, they were both exhausted. Leaving Aziz to his _tête-à-tête_ with the fish roe, they went to the living room to relax with a cup of the dark Turkish coffee Asiye _Hanım_ had prepared for them. Nili, despite being only fifteen, had set the table better than many a good housewife. Alex and Anastasia admired her going through the final touches, still showering Lila with precise orders and making sure they were impeccably followed.

"How did they take it?"

"Who? What?"

"Nili and Lila ... How did they take the death of their grandmother Mehpare _Hanım?_ "

"Not too badly." Alex's gaze was fixed on the peculiar shapes created by the coffee grounds stuck on the walls of her empty cup. "Both my mother-in-law and Necla have caused my daughters too much pain, you know. I'm sure they continually talked behind my back for years, especially to Nili. They had respect for their grandmother, which also included some fear, but I can't say they loved her. They respected her for the sake of their father, and that was about it." She looked at Nili diligently organising the linen napkins on the table. "However, I can't deny that she learned a lot from Mehpare _Hanım_. All that table arrangement, for instance. I hate formal dinner tables, probably in defiance of my mother."

"She doesn't need to learn anything from anyone. It's in her blood," Aziz said as he walked in holding a tray with three glasses of _rakı_ and a plate of white cheese squares bathed in olive oil and liberally sprinkled with red pepper. "The blood of Gizella and Gusztáv is strong. The bluest you can ever find. Whatever you mix it with, it won't lose its hue for another ten generations, at the least." He was proudly watching his daughter.

"We've just finished our coffee, Aziz. It's not even six and rather early for _rakı_ , don't you think?"

"Today is not just any other day, _ma petite_." He turned to Anastasia. "I see that you've done wonders again. The fridge is packed."

"I haven't done anything, Aziz."

By eight everyone, except for Haldun and his new girlfriend Gül, had arrived. It was going to be the first time Haldun would be introducing a girlfriend of his to the family – if he had not already broken up with her, that was. He might show up alone again, like he often did. Mehpare _Hanım_ had died with an uneasy heart; her biggest concern in her last days had been to marry off her forty-two-year-old son. "He doesn't like any of the girls we introduce to him," she had been lamenting. "There isn't a single flower in Istanbul he hasn't smelled. It seems that he doesn't know what exactly he's looking for."

"If Mother were still here, she'd never allow such a thing. I can't understand how he couldn't find anyone better to marry than his secretary. And she's seventeen years his junior, into the bargain. Being so young, she might as well be a friend of Yasemin. Why don't we seat her at the children's table?" Necla and Ayla were settled in a corner, tearing Haldun and Gül to pieces. Or rather, Necla was speaking and Ayla was listening to her while her admiring gaze was glued onto her gorgeous daughter, Yasemin.

"It's all your fault that Haldun couldn't get married until now," thought Alex.

"She must be pregnant. She definitely is. Otherwise, why rush it all? He plans to get married in November. Aziz ought to take control of the situation."

"She lives with her mother in that wretched neighbourhood next to the Tower of Galata. It's a miracle how she went to the American College for Girls, really. God only knows where they found the money for it."

Alex hated them for gossiping so viciously. Rising to her feet, she quickly walked to where Aziz, Hristo and Dimo stood in front of the balcony door, sipping their _rakıs_. They were highly excited and in excellent spirits, talking about business as usual. Hristo was going on and on about the improvements they planned to make at the textile workshop he and Dimo had set up, while Aziz occasionally chipped in about how hard they had to work to meet the extremely high demand for tractors in Anatolia.

The doorbell rang. Alex ran to the door before Asiye _Hanım_ had a chance to answer it. Haldun and his much expected girlfriend were at the door. God, she was so beautiful! And so young. She was the spitting image of Lana Turner. God help you, Gül, Alex thought.

"Well, well, well. What an honour to have you at our humble home," Aziz said as he walked towards them. Even he could not be cross with his brother for his belated arrival. Haldun had a charm that no one could resist.

It was past nine when they sat at the table. Aziz, who would normally be quite acrimonious if he had not had his dinner by this hour, carried on cheerfully being the perfect host. Nili, despite her inexperience, had made the most clever seating arrangement, squeezing her aunt Necla between Hristo and Cevat while placing her husband Nezih right opposite her, since no one else would know better how to silence her. On the other hand, she allocated the seats to the left and right of Aziz to Anastasia and Dimo, thinking that he would be most pleased speaking Greek with them. Alex made only one minor change in this arrangement by giving the place of honour on her right not to Ayla, as Nili had deemed suitable, but to Gül, although she knew very well that this would irritate everyone except for Haldun.

Hüseyin, the butler, in his snow-white, starched-stiff jacket, entered the dining room to serve a wealth of _mezes_ – Turkish appetisers – decoratively presented on plates Asiye _Hanım_ kept handing over to him from the dining room door. After the death of Mehpare _Hanım_ , they had been calling her old butler Hüseyin to help with the service at crowded dinner parties. With a reserved smile on his face, he slowly filled their plates with the _mezes_.

"How is your mother? How is Károly?" asked Keti, not out of her usual politeness but with genuine worry. She called Alex every single day to ask how everyone was in her family.

"They're all right, thank you," said Alex, before continuing, with a forced smile to hide her hopelessness. "They have no other choice than to be all right and happy with what they have. My dear optimistic brother says that Szentendre is a replica of paradise. Well, Szentendre might be truly beautiful, but it's rather an exaggeration to call it paradise. After Budapest, after Rózsadomb ..." Alex's gaze was drowning in the depths of the _rakı_ in front of her as it swivelled in the glass she kept turning. "I dread to imagine what has happened to our home in Rózsadomb. It's probably no longer what it once was."

"Szentendre," cut in Aziz from the other end of the table, determined not to let his wife's mood sink, "is very close to Budapest, not even twenty kilometres. A quaint little town crowded by a colony of artists. Károly spent a lot of time there when he was a student. He says it reminds him of the Mediterranean villages and is a great source of inspiration for him."

"He says it's taken them quite some time and energy to convince Mother, who cried for days. I can't imagine how she tore herself away from Rózsadomb."

In August Károly, Gizella and Filip had moved to Szentendre, or rather they had been forced to move there upon some serious warnings from János, who had tipped them off about a new law to be passed very soon that would oblige all aristocrats, wealthy people, "those who had the wrong background" and "the unacceptable politicians" to move outside Budapest. They claimed that the "unwanted, capitalist enemies of the people" had to be moved out of the city to solve the housing problem created by the sharp population rise in the capital. János had said that they would not be given a choice as to where they would be going and feared that they might be exiled away into the countryside to work in the fields of _kulak_ families. He insisted that they move out of Budapest as soon as possible, while they had a chance to make their own choices.

"What does _kulak_ mean?" asked Azra, suddenly interested in the conversation, from where she was sitting at the smaller round table set up for the young members of the family at the other end of the dining room.

"At the turn of the century, that was what they used to call the rich farmers in the Russian Empire," replied Aziz, who believed that girls ought to fortify their beauty with knowledge. "Nowadays," he continued, " _kulak_ is anybody who owns more land than the communists tolerate. The middle-sized land holders, for instance."

"Károly says that he teases Józsi about how he might have been sent away to till the fields of our head butler Álmos's family. Typical Károly, taking everything so lightly. He's still a boy at heart." Alex turned to Gül. "Józsi – József Almás – is a very close friend of ours. He comes from a highly respectable family. They had to move to Szentendre as well." She turned back to the others. "Józsi and his brother Ákos are said to be on the list of those to be arrested by the Secret Police. They are charged with running a sawmill that should belong to the state, a crime that can be punished by incarceration. That sawmill was the only thing left from their estate in Martfü, and now they want to nationalise that as well. Apparently, they're confiscating every holding that employs more than ten people."

"How is Károly, by the way?" asked Haldun. "Has he found a job?"

"He says it's impossible. We have the wrong background, Haldun. Nobody gives any work to the old nobility, even to those who fought against the Nazis, risking their lives." Alex took a sip from her _rakı_. "He has no choice but carry on doing those posters and murals he hates. 'As a matter of fact,' he says, 'we don't need to bother with unimportant details such as looking for a job. Thanks to the system, our right honourable dignitaries dictate to us the jobs that would be most appropriate for us.' As far as ..."

Gül held Alex's hand as it rested on the table. Her eyes were in hers, smiling in a most sincere, tender and understanding way. Alex's heart melted. She loved her there and then. "As far as I can make out," she continued, "he spends most of his time painting canvases that he would never be able to sell." She looked at Aziz. "And I'm certain that he's secretly rebelling against the system. He's like a naughty boy who can't stay still, you know."

"I agree with Alex. He can't write much in his letters because of the censorship, but I'm sure he has yet another ideal, another dream that he's running after; he has long lost his faith in communism."

The dinner dragged on, and the table became livelier as people started talking in groups of twos or threes on a variety of topics. Alex was listening to Aziz talking to Ayla about Károly. Ayla continuously nodded as if to urge him to tell more, occasionally saying something Alex could not hear. Aziz's stentorian voice intermittently rose above the other voices at the table. "He talks about purges. 'They cleaned others' houses; now they have started a ruthless cleaning in their own dens,' he says. He refers to what goes on in the Party, of course. In April they arrested Árpád Szakasits, their second president – or rather the Chairman of the Presidential Council, I should say – and sentenced him to life imprisonment. The arrests went on throughout the summer."

They had finished their _mezes_. Hüseyin cleared the empty plates and served the fish.

"The best time of the year for _lüfer_ ," Aziz said, his eyes moving around the table as if he wanted to invite everyone to share his enthusiasm. " _Bon appétit_."

Asiye _Hanım_ , meticulously trained by Aziz, had become a master in grilling fish. For a brief instant they all stopped talking to enjoy the sight of the steaming _lüfer_ – the Blue Fish, a delicious delicacy of a fish that migrates through the Bosphorus – before carrying on with their heated conversations.

"The law they issued in July says that those who leave the country without a permit will be penalised by life imprisonment." Aziz's voice rose above all the chatter and slapped Alex's ears. She did not want to hear any of it.

"Are you all right?" Gül asked, holding Alex's arm.

Alex had unknowingly pressed her hands to her ears. "Yes, yes," she mumbled, pulling them away.

"I hear that your younger daughter goes to the American College for Girls in Arnavutköy. She's very lucky, you know. It's a lovely school. I studied there as well."

"I know," said Alex, only to add quickly, "It does seem to be a lovely school," somewhat embarrassed for having betrayed that they had been talking about her behind her back.

"Your Turkish is impeccable. How long have you been living in Turkey?"

"Since '32." How long has it been, really? Eighteen years? Eighteen years! She could hardly believe it. It seemed to have passed so fast when she thought of how she had wasted her life, reaching forty before she knew it. Her life had almost reached its end with not much time left to see the people she ached for, if she would ever be able to see them. On the other hand, when she thought of all her losses and suffering, her life seemed unbearably long, longer than an endless chain of infernal torture.

It was almost midnight when the last of the guests left. Alex cleared the coffee table, taking the ashtrays overflowing with cigarette stubs to the kitchen. Aziz followed her with a few empty glasses.

"What do you think of Gül, Aziz?"

"She's just a child. She won't be able to handle Haldun. I don't think it'll ever work."

"I hope it does."

"You liked her, didn't you?"

"She seems to be a nice girl."

"Don't hold your breath. Haldun is like a weathercock. You never know what he will do tomorrow."

"Her accent is rather strange, isn't it?"

"It certainly is. She is a Jew, couldn't you tell? She might call herself Gül, but her real name is Rozi."

"Don't say 'She's a Jew,' Aziz. She's Jewish."

"What difference does it make, for God's sake?" asked Aziz as he walked out of the kitchen without waiting for the answer to his question, which was not a question anyway. A few minutes later he was back with some papers in his hand and with Nili and Lila standing behind him looking at Alex, their faces lit up with bright smiles. Aziz held Alex's hand and led her towards the dining room. The girls cleared away the last few glasses left on the table to make space for the papers Aziz handed over to Nili. Not minding their daughters' presence, he held her head between his hands and gave her a long kiss on her lips. "A very happy birthday to you again, _ma petite_ ," he said softly, putting his arm around her shoulders. Standing more erect than usual, he proudly gestured towards the papers Nili was spreading out on the table. "You deserve much better than this, but for the moment that's all I can afford."

"What is it?"

"Our new home, Alex, or rather the plans of our new home," he said in a self-satisfied tone, looking straight into Alex's eyes with a proud smile.

Alex was lost for words, utterly surprised and overjoyed at this unexpected piece of news. "Aziz," she mumbled, "you're an angel." Unable to hold back her tears, she broke out crying, first embracing Aziz and then her daughters.

Aziz went into every minor detail of their house in Çamlık, explaining how their garden would be and where Alex would have her painting studio. She would love the view, he said with much pride. They would go and see the land first thing tomorrow morning, and the construction would be starting straight away. Alex was overjoyed, unable to believe that Aziz had given her such a birthday present, but she felt an unwished-for uneasiness that prevented her from fully enjoying this great piece of news, as if she were ashamed of her joy, of her happiness. She had no right to be happy, no right to enjoy life while her mother and brother were going through so much suffering.

After having discussed the smallest detail, be it important or trivial, as though they would be moving in the next day, they all withdrew to their rooms. Despite her head already spinning from too much drinking and maybe from too much excitement, Alex prepared herself another glass of _rakı_ and sank down in the armchair in her bedroom to read, yet again, the birthday cards from Károly and her mother that had arrived the day before yesterday.

Szentendre, 15th September 1950

My dearest and sweetest sister,

I painted this postcard for your birthday – a miniature painting, the decorative (!) sort of stuff you dislike.

Bear in mind that on the tenth of October, before I go to bed, I'll be raising my glass to your health and wish you a very happy birthday, my sweet little squirrel.

Always thinking of you,

Your brother,

Károly

P.S. Thank you ever so much for the parcel. Rest assured that the tea, coffee, chocolate and the eau de cologne are much appreciated.

She looked at the postcard her mother had sent, showing a beautiful shot of Szentendre. She wondered if they had the same view from their house. Her mother had written saying that their house, perched on the side of a small hill, offered a nice vista of the River Danube over some red-tiled roofs, while from another corner they could see the bell tower of the church. Szentendre had a special place in Alex's heart. She reminisced about its old crooked bridge. Rudi's voice rang in her ears. "You blew it, Alex. You blew everything for us. We could have had a completely different life. We could have had children." It had been eleven years, but it all seemed like yesterday. I don't think I'll be able to forgive you, he had said. "But that doesn't mean I'm not in love with you." He had then put the amber ring on her finger, the amber ring she could not keep.

Despite the chill in the air, she went out onto the balcony of the bedroom and raised her glass towards the piece of sky peeping through the new apartment buildings of Nişantaşı. It was full of clouds, without a single star in view. Her heart ached. Her soul sizzled. She heard Károly's distant voice, whispering from far away, from a time long gone by, "I wish you a very happy birthday, my sweet little squirrel."

16

Indifferent to the noise from the workers in the garden, Alex was enjoying the bright summer day on the veranda, lying in the deckchair she had placed close to the woods. Although the construction of their new house was not yet finished, they had moved to Çamlık at the end of July, upon Alex's insistence. After the suffocating air in Nişantaşı, it was like paradise here, an idyllic place among the pine trees with a splendid view over the Bosphorus.

With much joy, she started the first of a series of letters she wanted to write.

Istanbul, 23rd August 1951

My dearest Maria,

I have the perfect solution for your complaints, the ultimate cure for those who are sick and tired of the unbearably humid summer of Milan: an immediate trip to Istanbul, a trip that would please your old friend who misses you sorely. A room with an incredible view that you'll love is all ready and waiting for you. I can't find the words to describe the beauty of the Bosphorus; you have to come and see it to believe it. I hope that our pool will be completed before the end of summer. It will be even bigger than Magda's pool in Verőce, four metres long to be exact. Aziz had had its tiles brought from somewhere in Anatolia, thanks to one of his representatives there. The garden is slightly downhill, at the end of which we'll have a gazebo right next to some maritime pine trees. It all reminds me of Italy, especially of Albisola and of our childhood there.

As I've already written to you, the house is on two storeys. The living room and the dining room on the ground floor are at least twice as large as those in the Maçka Apartments. Our existing furniture looks pathetically scarce here, and I had to roam through the flea market to fill in the blanks, so to speak. Despite my dear husband's fervent objections, I confiscated the Chesterfields in his study, refurbished them with some excellent fabric and placed them in one corner of our living room. We have a new radio now and, more importantly, a record player. It's a chunky modern piece of furniture, but it looks all right with one of Magda's ceramic statuettes on it. At full volume, I can even listen to it from the garden if I keep the windows open, although listening to Liszt and Chopin might have a rather exhausting effect on the workers still busy with the finishing touches of the servants' quarters in the back of the garden.

Aziz's bedroom is upstairs between his two princesses'. He uses half of it as his study and is very happy to be sleeping next to his guns, books and files. He's also happy about being so close to the hunting lodge in Levent since he's literally two minutes away from his dogs. My bedroom, on the other hand, is on the ground floor overlooking my rose garden, which is flanked by my studio on the other side. Behind the studio, we have the servants' quarters for Asiye _Hanım_ , who will be living with us from now on. As to Hera and Zeus, they're having a ball. Duman seems intent on remaining a docile house cat, although she does occasionally have a good time with the birds in the garden. We now have a Sivas Kangal, a shepherd dog from Anatolia, a true warrior from the depths of the countryside. We named him Chaos and, true to his name, he did create chaos among the four-legged members of our household.

Çamlık has done me a world of good, like it has for everyone else. I literally can't stop painting although it's only been a week since we've moved here and there's still a lot to do in the house. Nili finds them all too sad and depressing, but I'm happy to be painting again whatever they might look like.

I can't tell you how terribly guilty I feel as I write about all these things. My heart sinks every time I think of Károly and Mother. They can't come here, Maria. They can't leave Hungary. They're practically imprisoned there. I sometimes feel so utterly sad that everything around me, anything beautiful I look at, become nothing but mere torture. I feel that I need to be as unhappy as them. My brother, on the other hand, seems to have lost none of his joyful disposition and in his humorous letters he implies that life will continue like this only for a short while before everything changes for the better. He brags about Szentendre, but I can no longer tell what he genuinely praises and what he ironically criticises. He says that they have ration cards for almost everything now and can't even find butter, soap, bread or meat. It all sounds worse than wartime.

You ask about János. Well, we're most grateful to him since my family would have been exiled to a _kulak_ farm, had he not warned them in time. Everything he foretold came true in May. As usual János doesn't write a single line. I hear about what he's up to from Károly. He still works at that state department bizarrely called the Provocation and Propaganda Department and still commissions my brother to do some posters. They both hate what they do. They're still against the existing order and they still chase after an ideal. They have lost everything they had, but they never lose their hopes, their energy or their rebellious spirits. As always they have a dream to realise.

Aziz is very happy with his life. Business is booming, thank Heavens. And he does everything he can to make me happy. He has turned into an angel with age. His only worry is that he has gained a little bit of weight, and he blames me for it, saying that I'm cooking food that is irresistibly delicious. Actually, I'm a little bit obsessed with the intricacies of the culinary art lately. You'd be surprised if you saw my kitchen. I can easily say that it's no less spacious or well-equipped than our kitchen in Rózsadomb – grand as a hippodrome, as they say in these parts. I spend hours in there. We invite friends over almost every single day, and when we don't, I insist that girls have some of their friends over.

Nili and Lila are all right, I should say. They're still enjoying their summer holiday, although Lila has already started studying, preparing herself for the coming term. Nili, on the other hand, has already started complaining. She detests her school, a girl's college in Kandilli, situated on a hill on the Oriental side of the Bosphorus right opposite Lila's school on the European side. She says that it has nothing to offer her but an excellent view. I so hope that she won't drop out in her last year.

I await your reply and, more importantly, yourself. Please don't forget to give my love to Beppe.

With much affection,

Your friend always,

Alex

17

Months went by, a new year arrived, but Károly was still in Hungary, unable to leave his country. Alex persistently begged him to get himself to Paris to his wife and daughters or, if he wished, bring them with him and move to Istanbul. In her letters, she repeated over and over again that a mechanical engineer like him would be very much in demand, even if he had never worked as an engineer. Károly could not leave Hungary; not because he was scared of the fact that any attempt to flee the country was punished by life imprisonment, but because he could not get himself to abandon his motherland in such a desperate state. They would, in time, put everything back in order, and then he would be able to bring his family over. That was the right thing to do. Throughout spring he frequently held meetings with his friends to discuss the ways they could save their country. They had one single aim: freedom.

By the end of summer these discussions between friends transformed into meetings they called the Freedom Meetings. They began organising themselves with a sense of youthful exuberance and unswerving conviction that augmented with each passing day. Finally in mid-November, the meetings turned into secret forums welcoming the representatives of university students, workers and farmers. Almost every day Károly came down to Budapest from Szentendre to join these Freedom Forums.

This morning, like most other mornings, he had taken the train to Budapest to attend another Freedom Forum, after which he had come to Művész Kávéház to meet his friends. He walked in through the narrow door of the café. It was nicely warm inside. He went straight to the back. Nobody had arrived yet. He took off his coat and hung it on one of the copper hooks on the wall before sitting down at their usual table in front of the mirrored wall. He ordered a beer and leaned back comfortably in his chair, taking out Alex's letter from his pocket and placing the photograph she had sent against the empty sugar bowl.

Istanbul, 10th January 1953

My dearest _Öcsi_ ,

Our second Christmas in Çamlık, like all other Christmases of late, was filled with our prayers to be with you for the next one. I enclose a photograph showing our garden under snow and the final configuration of my family. Believe it or not, it was Asiye _Hanım_ who took this shot, having learned not only how to grill fish but also how to take photographs. See how Lila has grown? She's so tall for her age that she must have taken after you. What you see on Nili's lap is our new Siamese cat, Kék. You can't tell from the photograph, but, as her name suggests, her eyes are a bright turquoise. Both Duman and Zeus, as you might notice, are getting really old now and hardly move. All they do is to laze around all day long, Zeus dozing in one corner of the veranda desperately pining for our late Hera, and Duman, miserably jealous of Kék, curling up in my deckchair with her back to the house. It was quite an effort to bring them all together for this photograph. Aphrodite, the Cocker Spaniel who is trying to climb up Aziz's legs, is still a baby, as you can see.

Your complaints about Nili being rather tight-fisted in writing letters to you are duly conveyed to the guilty party. Our sweet little daughter, however, is far too busy to spare any time for correspondence. She gave us a shock not only by graduating and starting university but eventually by studying with real enthusiasm. We have to admit that her newfound fascination for academics was greatly influenced by Gün, her closest friend from Izmir, who has moved to Istanbul to study at the same university. However, don't be fooled by the assumption that her busy schedule is solely due to her scholastic activities. Her true vocation, I suspect, is having a ball with Gün, meaning that, so far, they haven't made it home before sunset. Aziz goes berserk and tries to corral them, saying, "Gün is under our custody. She's a guest in our house, and we must protect and take care of her." There isn't a table left in the house that hasn't suffered from the impact of his angrily clenched fist. Every day he has a new phrase to express his fury and frustration. "The pear falls under the pear tree," he roars. "Check out the edge of the fabric before you buy it. Look at the mother before you marry the daughter," he grumbles. These are Turkish idioms, _Öcsi_. Briefly, what he is saying is that I too was rather keen on going out in my younger days. (I admit that I do exaggerate his reactions a bit, but never mind.)

As to my recent artistic quests, my dear brother ... they are rather pathetic, I'm afraid. The lethargy that autumn brought, incapacitating my whole existence, continues in its depressive glory. There are days when I can't draw a single line and feel like doing something without using my mental faculties, resorting exclusively to the physical use of my body, driven by an unconscious urge free of any pensive decorum. Even the aquarelles seem to demand a mental effort more than I'm willing or ready to expend. I want to use my coloured pencils, for instance, and do some meaningless scribbling, like painting a wall. It might sound silly, but that's what I feel like doing. Actually, I ought to do that – as soon as I wake up in the morning, for instance, before thoughts storm in. I'm sure that the results wouldn't be sheer scribbling devoid of any meaning.

Your letters are getting shorter and shorter. You no longer talk about your paintings. Please do tell me more about what you're up to. I can't wait for your news as well as your photographs if at all possible. Write me the bad news as well, I beg you. Longing doesn't discriminate between the good and the bad.

You advise me to read the poems of Nazım Hikmet. I loved the excerpt you enclosed in your last letter. They're so emotional and so beautiful. I couldn't find a single book of his here, but even if I can find one, I doubt if my Turkish would be sufficient to grasp and enjoy the deeper meaning of his work. I wish you could send me a few books of his translated into Hungarian.

I've written a few lines to Mother as well. How is she getting along after the loss of Uncle Filip? Is she all right? She says she's better than ever, but I hardly believe her since she's obviously exaggerating. She's all right, isn't she? ...

"Hello, there."

Fábián had arrived. Károly put the letter and the photograph away in his pocket. "Where is Rózsi?"

"She's taken to bed with a fever. She sends her love."

"Well? Shall we drink to your freedom?"

"Yes, I guess we should," beamed Fábián, joyfully spreading his arms wide as a gesture of his declaration of independence. He was in excellent spirits, carrying a permanent smile on his face, which made his tiny blue eyes shrink to a thin line. He waved at the waiter and, pointing at Károly's beer, indicated that he wanted a bottle of the same. He had finally obtained the permit required to resign from his post at the police force. Not everyone could resign of his own free will, and those who did without due permission from his superiors rarely found another job. "I'm not so sure, however, if it was a clever move since they will never leave me alone from now on. As a matter of fact, none of us is safe. ÁVO and the police hold files on more than one million people. This is a horrible thing, Károly." His forehead undulated in apprehension as his voice sank into a whisper. "They have a file on everyone, on every single one of us."

"No need to whisper. There's no one around, not even in the front salon." József and Éva had arrived.

"The walls have ears," whispered Fábián, lightly tapping his fist on the wall.

"Our dear friend is a free man now," said Károly, breaking the good news to the new arrivals, as he rubbed Fábián's back.

"The meaning of freedom has changed, hasn't it?" grumbled József while helping his wife off with her coat.

"Where is Rózsi?" asked Éva, disappointed.

"She's running a fever. She sends her love."

Encouraged by József's overture, Károly started complaining, hardly above a whisper, "In our effort to adopt the Soviet model, we've been ignoring our national identity so much that we've turned into their slaves. We've forgotten the true meaning of freedom." He pressed his hands against the cold marble table top and made to stand up but then changed his mind, shot a quick glance around the café and, seeing that there was nobody to hear him, continued, "I'd like to ask you one simple question. What is the difference between fascism and communism?" He did not expect a reply to his query. "Fascism is the oppression of people by the people, taking their freedom away. Communism is the opposite: people oppress people and take their freedom away."

Nobody even smiled. József and Éva ordered their beers.

Károly carried on. "Even someone like János, a born communist, is about to revolt. Is there anyone left who doesn't hate the Soviets, I ask you. Despite their hatred though, people seem to be stupefied, benumbed as it were, helplessly watching their dreams turn into a nightmare. They're swamped in an incurable state of lethargy, unable to move even the tips of their little fingers. No one believes the lies about 'our successful system' preached in the press or on the radio, or the stories of how we all love our Party and are most grateful to Stalin and Rákosi, but unfortunately they have no desire to raise their voices. They have all learned very well what to say, when to say it and to whom to say it. And most crucially, they learned what not to say. They yield to oppression without a murmur. All they care about is to live and let live, doing nothing other than praying that others will let them live. And believe me, it's not only fear that pushes them to such docility."

"They're sick and tired of it all," said József, wearily. "They've become used to it all. They prefer to go with the flow and abide with the Plan instead of fighting against it."

"It's what the system wants, isn't it?" scoffed Fábián with a bitter smile.

"Please don't criticise our Plan," broke in Károly, raising his hands and eyebrows in a gesture that invited everyone to be silent and get ready to listen to another one of his ironic remarks. "Our unique Five-Year Economic Plan. They wanted to turn Hungary, which is an agricultural country, into an industrial one and succeeded, creating a country of iron and steel – in all senses of the word. An iron curtain and a system harder than steel. And a Plan more unbendable than both. Unchangeable! It can't be altered even when reason says to do the contrary of what it preaches. They irrigate the city's parks even under a torrent of rain because ..." He tried to put up a serious face. "Well, because the Plan says, 'It must be irrigated every day.' The Plan doesn't change even if it means throwing our money down the drain. It has to be implemented to the letter."

"The system rewards those who work with their hands, not with their brains," grunted József. "A working mind is not much appreciated. You have to learn how to function like a machine, without thinking. I regret that Teodor worked so hard to enter engineering school and then worked even harder to graduate. Big mistake! He ought to have learned how to use a hammer, not his brain. They have no respect for those who do not hold a hammer or do not nail down a plank." József's eyes were dull with the despondency of people who felt betrayed. His eyes momentarily swished towards the mirror on the wall, which had darkened with the reflection of some new arrivals. He stopped talking and waited for a few seconds for them to leave before continuing, "Everything has lost its meaning behind a veil of propaganda. It's all talk, no action. There isn't one single decree or strategy towards meeting the needs of society. There might be in theory but in practice, nothing. Zilch!"

"Don't be so unfair, Józsi. You can't deny that we do have a strategy. For instance ..." Károly paused briefly and, with an almost involuntary turn of his head, looked at the mirror to check around the café. He then carried on in a barely audible whisper, "Stalin is most likely preparing for a great purge. We ought not to overlook the fact that the anti-Semitic campaign that broke out early last year was nothing but an overture to a most tragic symphony to be played all over the Soviet Empire."

They were ordering their third bottles of beer when János arrived. Lately Károly had been seeing his friend looking rather worried and apprehensive. His faith in communism had been gradually weaning off ever since Rákosi, right after becoming the prime minister last August, had initiated a series of radical changes and an extensive purge within the Party. "Rákosi trusts no one other than himself and that Soviet agent, Ernő Gerő," János often repeated, disturbed by the tortures, show trials and executions that had been going on. "The purge within the Party is shaking the hierarchical system in that when they pull down someone at the top, those under him fall like a deck of cards." János had joined the socialist group around Imre Nagy and was scared that they might presently pull the carpet from underneath his feet. He finished his beer in two large gulps and ordered another one. "And the thing is that when you fall down, you don't simply collapse where you are but tumble down into a cell, at best that is. If you fall a little bit more harshly, you might even find yourself in one of the _gulags_."

"We ought not to worry about going to prison, old chap," interrupted Károly, determined not to let go of his sense of humour. "Living in Hungary is but slightly different than being in prison, and that difference – or rather distinction without a difference, one might say – is that Hungary is a larger cell." He paused for a moment to make sure that everyone around the table was listening to him. "Besides, prison has become an integral part of our national culture. Do you wonder why?" This was another question for which he awaited no reply. "Let me put it this way, ladies and gentlemen. They say there's no class distinction anymore. Do you really believe it? Well, you shouldn't because people are still classified in three distinct groups: those who have been to prison, those who are in prison and those who will be in prison."

János did not even smile at Károly's joke and took up from where he had left off. "Currently the Party has over one million members. They're mercilessly chopping heads off, so to speak. Considering that even Péter has been eliminated on allegations of Zionist connections, we can easily presume that they'll have no pity whatsoever on anyone." Right after the New Year's Eve, ÁVO's chief Gábor Péter, of Jewish origin, and his group had been arrested. "The Party takes all Jews to be anti-communist on the assumption that we're not communists at heart but only seek revenge over the fascists. We might say that the majority is actually like that, but some true communists are also being condemned. They're watching me very closely."

Éva always said that they were all talk, no action. Her lips, having long forgotten how sweetly they used to smile once, had tightened again. Her delicate dimples nevertheless showed themselves with unflagging optimism. "What will you do? What's going to happen? You do nothing but complain."

"Socialism, Éva. Socialism," barged in János. "That is the solution. Our only hope is Imre Nagy."

József had his hopes elsewhere. "One is no different than the other. He's a communist as well, isn't he?"

"You seem to forget that communism is not a uniform system but a plural phenomenon susceptible to reappraisal, in which reformers and intentions of reforms may appear when the time is ripe. That's the way it's going to happen, or else we shall make it happen."

"There's only one thing I know for sure, my dear friend," József snapped as he jumped to his feet. Hitting the tip of his bony index finger on the table, he said, "No one can tell me that today we have a better system than the old one. No one, including the farmers, the leftists, no one! What can we expect from socialism, I ask. Our country is not a platform for trials and errors."

Éva grabbed her husband's hand and pulled it to make him sit down. "Are you out of your mind, Józsi? Come to your senses, please." Then she herself stood up, took her handbag and hissed at József. "Let's go."

"Come off it, Éva," intervened Károly. "Do please calm down."

"Nagy argues that we need a very slow passage to socialism. We're talking about decades, not just a few years. What we foresee is a transformation without having to go through what the Soviets have been through in the twenties and the thirties under the iron fist of Stalin. It's impossible to create a socialist society from a harassed and impoverished population. First, people need to fill their stomachs. We shall eventually have a collective system, but it has to be done very slowly." János was talking exclusively to József, trying to convince him, as though the transition to socialism depended on his approval. He carried on in a tone of voice that he was apparently forcing to be soft. "As I've already mentioned, it's a very long process. First, people need to be given the right to express their sovereignty more, and civil rights need to be categorically protected. Then the role of the Parliament needs to be strengthened. Excessive industrialisation must end. Private entrepreneurs ought to be given some ground, and commerce must be kindled. We need to have religious freedom. A larger budget for education, particularly for primary education, is a must. And more importantly, the small farmers ought to have their own lands and be allowed to continue with their production. This is very, very important indeed, especially in a country like Hungary, where half of the population lives on agriculture."

"I repeat yet again," József cut in, lividly hitting his fist on the table. "You've turned our country into a platform of trials and errors." He stood up and turned to his wife. "Let's go, Éva!" He threw his coat on and helped Éva into hers before rushing out of the café without looking back, dragging his wife with him.

A brief silence fell over the table.

"Do you really believe that all this can be done, Jancsi?" Fábián finally asked. "It all sounds like a speech in an election campaign. You're daydreaming again. Józsi is right about trial and error. We're going from bad to worse."

János was up on his feet, putting on his coat. "You'll see," he said. "Very soon it'll all come true, if only people stop taking slavery as freedom." He bent towards Fábián and, opening his eyes wide, said, "If only they woke up!" He swiftly turned around and left.

It was almost midnight when Károly and Fábián left the café. It was freezing cold outside. They hugged their coats. Károly's head was spinning. He must have had a beer or two more than he should have had.

"Please send my love to Rózsi. I'll drop by to see her tomorrow evening."

"Károly Kurzón?"

Two sullen-faced men had appeared from nowhere, dressed in civilian clothes but obviously members of the secret police as one could tell from the way they carried themselves and, more particularly, from the fact that no one else would be able to afford such impeccably tailored new suits nowadays.

"Fábián Katona?"

"Yes?" they said simultaneously in anxious interrogative tones.

"We have orders to take you with us."

Károly looked at Fábián with a sense of foreboding.

"There must be a mistake," Fábián kept repeating with a forced smile on his face. "We haven't done anything wrong."

"Stop grinning and move it!"

Before they could put up any resistance, they found themselves in the back seat of a black car that had appeared by the kerbside. The only reply they could get to their questions was, "You are required to provide testimonial evidence." They both knew what that entailed. Károly felt his palms sweating. They wanted information and would not stop until they got what they wanted.

18

They had been living in Çamlık for more than a year, but Alex still felt her spirits sink each time she looked at the magnificent view the Bosphorus offered. "Will it ever be possible that I look at this view and not ache for the Danube?" she mused. They were having an incredibly cold winter this year. It was February, and chunks of ice were expected to float on the Bosphorus soon. "Just like on the Danube," she thought with longing. Will the ice be coming down from the Danube? Will my brother have seen the same chunks of ice? Will I ever be able to watch the Danube with my brother and mother again? When will I be able to sit down to dinner with them? Perhaps never again. What kind of a punishment is this? What is their crime? Why have they become prisoners in their own country?

"Silvian Fontana is an excellent chef, I must admit."

They had been to the Liman Restaurant for dinner. Aziz was in excellent spirits as he usually was every time he ate well. They had just driven up the hill to Çamlık and entered the garden. The lights in the living room were on. Nili and Gün must still be up chatting, she thought. As soon as they went in, she smelled a faint odour of cigarette smoke. Aziz would raise havoc if he detected it. She slipped out of her fur coat, hurriedly fished out her packet of cigarettes from her handbag and took out a cigarette.

"You smoke too much, Alex!" Aziz grumbled, grabbing the packet and the cigarette from her hands.

"I meant to smoke one last one before going to bed."

"Good night," he said abruptly before peeking into the living room. "Why aren't they in bed? Tell them it's almost dawn, would you?"

"I will, don't worry."

She walked towards the living room, only to freeze as she heard what Nili had just said, her words penetrating her heart like a dagger. She leaned her back against the wall next to the door of the living room.

"She constantly complains about her life, Gün. She really gets on my nerves. We have everything. I don't know what else she wants. I can understand that she misses _Anyukám_ and _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ , but she is exaggerating. She has drained us all with her sulks. She goes around as if in a dream. And the way she treats Daddy is unbearably cruel. She's like an ice bucket. What does she expect him to do, for God's sake? It's not his fault that Hungary has become a communist country, is it? She doesn't love him, I know. I do wonder what she writes in those diaries of hers. They're always locked away."

"Nili, not everyone can survive what she has been through. Think about it. Imagine losing your father to war at such an early age that you hardly remember him. Imagine your most beloved twin sister dying at the age of twenty-nine, not seeing your mother for years – your mother who, after having lived in wealth all her life, is suddenly being forced to share her home with people she doesn't know, and is eventually kicked out. Imagine being forced to stay away from your brother who suffers in poverty and loneliness. For years, Nili, for years! Hard to even imagine, isn't it?"

Alex felt her knees giving way. She should not listen! She should not hear any of this. She knew she ought to go away but could not move. Her feet seemed to be glued to the floor.

"And on top of it all, imagine that you have to put up with a family coming from a totally different background than you, a family who doesn't like you very much. It's like fiction, a motion picture. The poor woman has survived it all and she still perseveres. Whatever you say, she is the mainstay of this house. She might be very fragile at times, but she doesn't break. You have to give her support, Nili. We all have to give her support. I think all she asks for is a little bit of understanding."

Alex tore herself away from the wall, rushed through the hall and threw herself into her bedroom. She was shaking all over. A cigarette! She desperately needed a cigarette. She walked to her desk, took out her packet of _Birinci_ from the drawer and lit one with trembling hands. Rachmaninoff! She ought to listen to Rachmaninoff. The beatings of Rachmaninoff! She scrambled through her records. Where was this damn Rachmaninoff? _Prelude Number Five in G Major_. Pounding! Hammering! Then suddenly broken-hearted and disconsolate Rachmaninoff.

"Mami?" Nili was peeping through the door of her bedroom. "You're back early."

"Alex!" howled Aziz from top of the stairway. "What is this music at this hour? Are you out of your mind?"

She could care less. Rachmaninoff played on. Thumping! Thrashing!

19

"We already know everything, but we need you to confirm what we know."

Károly was in Number 60 on Andrássy Boulevard, or Stalin Boulevard as it had been rechristened three years ago, in one of the large high-ceilinged rooms opening to a long and richly-decorated corridor. The floor, like in every other room in the building, was covered with thick carpets, absorbing all sounds and voices. A huge crystal chandelier cascaded down from the ceiling. "Who knows whose house it once illuminated?" Károly wondered. It might as well have been ours.

"Fill out this form!"

They left a form and a pencil on the low table in front of him. They wanted to know his name, surname and many other details they surely already knew. He carefully filled it out. As soon as he was finished, they tied his hands together behind the chair he was sitting on. Two uniformed men, older than those already in the room, came in. One of them stood in front of him and, shaking the papers in front of his face, hurled, "Where did you get hold of these?" Károly had no idea what he was talking about, nor did he know what those papers were. He looked more closely. He had never seen them before. They were a bunch of typed documents containing hand-written notes and stamps. He could not read what was written. The man continued shouting. "Traitors!" he finally hissed as he spat in Károly's face. Károly felt his blood rush to his head and his face redden in fury. He made to stand up and stumbled back a few steps with the chair. Trying to free his arms, he lost his balance and sat down. Without thinking, he raised his head and with all his might spat in the face of the man still standing in front of him. The reaction was a hard slap on his face. And a punch! And another one! And another! Another! With each blow, his brain jolted and shook, his ears went deaf with a vibrating sound. Another blow! He tumbled down onto the floor with the chair. Someone kicked him in the belly. His head! He had to protect his head. He tried to free his arms again.

"Untie him!"

He put his arms around his head. This time someone kicked his back. Again! And again!

"We know who you are. And you shall sing! Alfred! Nestor! I want to know their real identities."

What was he talking about? Another kick! He tried to move away from the blows. He tried to pull himself up on his knees and received another kick in his belly.

"I don't know," he said desperately. "I don't know them."

Another kick! He let himself go. This is the way they make people talk then, he thought: gradually increasing the dose of pain. Worse would follow if he resisted. Would they also pull out his fingernails in the end?

"The Dutchman?"

The Dutchman? He knew that name. Or did he? Another kick! He felt he would faint. His eyes went dark.

A torrent of water! Ice-cold. He opened his eyes. A young uniformed man was standing next to him with a bucket in his hand. What had happened? His body ached all over. They pulled him up to his feet. Unable to stand up properly, he lost his balance. He could not move his arm; they had handcuffed him. There was a constant ringing in his ears. "Throw him downstairs!" he vaguely heard someone shout. Two men took him by the arms and dragged him through the thick-carpeted corridor. He had a terrible feeling of nausea. They stopped in front of a door. He was going to throw up. His stomach turned and he retched. All of a sudden his whole stomach emptied itself. He was ashamed of himself. God, what a mess he had become. He tried to stand up on his feet, but his legs could not carry his weight. They opened the door. It was pitch black inside. A flight of stairs led down. They took off his handcuffs, pulled him by his hair and then kicked his back. He stumbled down the stairs. He tried to protect his head with his arms. His back. His back contracted into a block of stone. He howled in pain as he finally came to a halt. The floor was freezing. Unable to move, he lay there trying to make out where he was. His eyes refused to open. He felt his face bloating. He could not see anything. His stomach turned again with the stench of humidity and mould. "You'll be all right," someone whispered. He was not alone. He forced himself up on his elbows and turned his eyes towards the voice. Nothing but darkness! After a short while his eyes got used to the dark, and he noticed that he was surrounded by people. No one made a sound, sitting on the floor like statues. He touched his cheek. His lip was bleeding. Or was it his nose? His whole face ached; his ears throbbed. He felt he would faint again and let himself down on the cold floor. Would he ever get out of here? What had happened to Fábián? "Fábián?" he moaned without getting up. He raised his head. "Fábián?" Not a sound. He let his head down again. Was this the end? Was it all there was to it? Ada. To die before he could see Ada again ... He had always imagined having his wife and children next to him when he lay on his deathbed. He did not deserve to die like this, like a rat in a hole. No! You can't die like this, Károly. You have to live. You can't die in this hole. Get hold of yourself! You're strong. Think of Ada. You'll survive. You have to. Try to remember Ada's smell, the voice of your daughters ... Think of your mother, of Alex ...

Nothing had changed when he opened his eyes. How long had it been? A minute? An hour? A day? He pulled himself up with great difficulty. His pain has somewhat subsided. Would they be taking him upstairs again? Another interrogation? Another series of blows and kicks? When his eyes got used to the faint light, he saw some scribbles on the wall.

" _Árpád was here as well."_

He gave an involuntary smile.

Suddenly a flood of light flowed in, blinding him. He pressed his arm against his eyes. The door on top of the stairs had opened. "Mihály Dobos!" someone roared. A swollen-faced man sitting a few paces away from Károly slowly stood up and dragged himself up the stairs.

Mihály Dobos? Dobos? He forced his memory. His brain seemed to have stopped functioning. Yes, he remembered! Gábor Dobos. Mihály was Gábor's father.

The old man returned an hour, or perhaps three hours, later and threw himself on the floor, looking totally exhausted. Károly went to him and gently touched his arm. "I'm Károly," he said when he saw him open his eyes, "Károly de Kurzón. You wouldn't know me, but I guess I know you. You were a member of the Jewish Council during the war, weren't you?"

"Isn't it over? The interrogation?" the old man mumbled in a hardly audible voice, his eyes fixed on the dark ceiling. Then suddenly snapping out of his nightmare, "Yes?" he said in the interrogative, as though he wanted to know the reason for the inquiry.

"Your son helped us a lot during the war. The resistance, I mean. We're most grateful to him."

"My son, you said?"

"Yes. Gábor."

"You must have taken me for someone else. I don't have a son."

Had his memory played a trick on him? Rudi's friend was called Gábor, wasn't he? Gábor Dobos? Rudi did say that his father's name was Mihály. Mihály and Gábor Dobos who took care of everything.

"Did you know Rudolf Takács?"

"Of course, I did. Everyone knew the Takácses in our community."

"I meant, did you know him personally?"

"No, I didn't. We never met, but Ignác Sonenberg who was on the Council was a very close friend of György Takács. And his son Lajos was a very good friend of Rudolf. They worked together in the resistance against the Nazis. They did so much. It's a great pity what happened to both of them."

Lajos! Was Lajos in the resistance? They were all fighting for the resistance at the time and knew everything about each other, so it was impossible that he did not know of Lajos. Why had Rudi never mentioned him? Why did he make up the story about Gábor? He tried to remember what had happened then. Everything seemed to have been lost in a dark abyss. His head throbbed. He leaned his back on the cold wall, hugged his arms around his body and closed his eyes. How would he get out of here? Was there anyone who might save him? His mother was used to him not showing up for days on end, but eventually she would get worried and call János. János would definitely find him. Or Rózsi would worry about Fábián and ask someone at the police department. Did Fábián still have friends at the police force after his resignation?

He did not know how many days they kept him at Number 60. As he had anticipated, he was brutally tortured by various kinds of methods, both heard and unheard of, inflicting increasing doses of pain on him before one day he woke up to the sound of boots pounding the stairs. "Károly Kurzón!" someone growled. They pushed him up the stairs and through the thick-carpeted corridor to the main door of the building where they gave him back his coat, wallet, keys and Alex's letter, which they had taken away when he had arrived. He was told that if he talked to anyone about any of what had happened here, he would immediately be charged with disclosure of the state secrets. And then they said, "You're free to go." Just like that. As if nothing had happened.

He could not get himself to step out of the door, having listened to so many stories of people being let go, only to be taken away a few minutes later by the Soviet Secret Police to go missing, probably in exile in one of the Soviet labour camps called the _gulags_. He could not move, standing there frozen stiff. Then he saw János leaning his back on the wall of the building across the road. He thought he saw a slight gesture of his head that beckoned him to follow him before he turned around and walked into a side street. Was it his imagination?

Afraid that it might have been a trick of his mind, he walked out with apprehensive steps, slowly crossed the road and went into the street. When he turned the next corner, János was there waiting for him. They threw their arms around each other. His friend, his good old loyal friend, was not a dream but as real as he could be. They walked in silence down Király Street, their childhood playground, which had the misfortune of being adorned with a plaque saying Majakovszkij Street for the last three years.

A porter was walking towards them, his hair dishevelled and his face dark behind a stubble. He had an old tattered overcoat sewn together from rags full of holes and a large basket overflowing with vegetables. He walked past them dangling a chicken with a broken neck in his blackened hands. The door of the restaurant on the corner across the street banged open, letting out a flood of curses followed by a woman trying to earn a living by selling her flesh, with two drunkards at her heels who stormed out amidst a cloud of cigarette smoke oozing out of the dark restaurant. She tried to separate her drunken clients who were yelling at each other. And then all of a sudden they all stopped. From one of the side streets, a hearse drawn by emaciated horses came into view. The friends and family of the deceased slowly walked with their heads lowered in grief, their faces reddened by the cold and their eyes swollen from weeping. A young boy, his skinny body draped with a heavy overcoat inherited from an elder brother, was curiously looking around him, lost for what to do. The hearse was followed by some gypsy musicians playing a lively piece of music in contrast to all that mourning. Károly thought he recognised the violinist. Yes, it was Magyari. Imre Magyari. The Violin King. The Márkus Restaurant ... a hot night in August back in 1928 ... Rudi whispering in Imre Magyari's ear ... the musician twisting his lips in an ironic smile before he started to play and walked towards Alex, stopping right behind her ... Rudi standing next to the musicians ... something that meant only one thing: "I'm the one who asked for this serenade." Towards the end of the second song, Alex lit the candle one of the musicians had left there. The flicker of a candle lit by the beloved young girl and placed in front of the window of her bedroom was a sign that showed her acceptance of the serenade of her beloved waiting under her window – acceptance of his serenade and of his love. As soon as the candle was lit, the violinist broke into an enthusiastic _Csárdás_. Károly thought he saw a slightly perceptible sign of an inebriated victory in Rudi's eyes. _Csárdás!_ The exhilarating _Csárdás_ , the climax of the rhapsodies, the final explosion of soaring emotions before they were satisfied and died down. Not too many people knew about the ritual of a serenade anymore, but Alex and Rudi did and thus declared their love to each other without uttering a single word. Alex! Be careful, my fragile little Alex, please be careful. I must not let her get hurt, he thought. He then saw her turn her eyes towards him, shrugging her shoulders and pouting her lips as if to say, "What else could I do, _Öcsi?_ " Then they all vanished from his memory's window.

The hearse slowly passed by them. "Play the _Red Sarafan!_ " Károly mumbled.

They did not speak until after they arrived at number fifteen, climbed the two flights of stairs to János's flat and closed the door behind them. János started to explain as Károly sipped his soup. The Soviets were preparing for a trial, trying to prove the existence of an anti-Soviet Hungarian-British-American plot during the war, and were arresting everyone who had worked with Raoul. They had not yet touched János. For the moment they were only interested in those with the "wrong background," but anything could happen at any moment.

A week later, on 5 March, the morning news announced Stalin's death. By the afternoon the streets were filled with people dressed in black, trying to camouflage their disquietude behind their sullen-faces, unsure of whether a display of grief was actually the right thing to do at this juncture. Should they be sad or should they be rejoicing? How did they need to act to avoid the risk of being branded as traitors? Should they forget about all they had learned so far? No one knew anything anymore. Everything was about to change again; old martyrs would be considered traitors, and old traitors would become martyrs.
March 2009  
Budapest

Rüya finished packing and went out. It was her last night in Budapest. She wanted to stroll around in its streets, breathe its air and say her goodbyes to the Pearl of the Danube one last time, as if she would not come here ever again. It was, in fact, a little bit like bidding Mami farewell. The emotional intensity she had experienced during the last five years seemed to have reached its peak here. Andrássy Boulevard, the Opera House, Number 60, the apartment building at number 23, every single thing provoked her tears, and she hardly stopped crying.

She walked for hours, crossing the Margit Bridge to the Buda side, returning to the Pest side over the Lánc Bridge and, after ambling from street to street, finally ending up on Király Street towards midnight. She took out her iPod and, as if she wanted to torture herself, selected the list of songs she had named A Hungarian Rhapsody, Act Two. In her book, she had chosen a musical theme for each tableau and chosen different pieces on the same theme for the scenes in that tableau. In Tableau One, for instance, the most important pieces were in C minor. Beethoven's _Fifth Symphony, C Minor, Opus 67_ , " _Fate_." Tableau Two had compositions mostly in D major. She selected the list of Tableau Five. Rachmaninoff. _Prelude Number Five in G Major_. Pounding! Hammering! Then suddenly broken-hearted and disconsolate Rachmaninoff – the Rachmaninoff she had listened to hundreds of times while she wrote the scene where Károly was tortured. She suddenly broke into tears, gulping back her sobs.

She saw an old man further down the street, playing the violin. She watched him play like a silent movie dubbed with the music of Rachmaninoff for a while before she took off her earphones. The old man was playing a _Friss_. _Friss_ , the second part of the rhapsody ... roaring, destructive, ruthlessly burning everything down. Could he be the grandson of Imre Magyari, she thought, her heart sinking. She imagined a hearse on a side street slowly coming into view.

"Play the _Red Sarafan_ ," she mumbled as she walked past the old man.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Five  
1953 - 1955

20

Alex picked up the letters on the marble-topped side table in the entrance hall. The envelope with her brother's handwriting on it made her smile. She left the others back on the table and went out onto the veranda. It was not warm enough to sit outside, but she wanted to be close to her blossoming lilac trees. She had her favourites planted right next to the veranda where it gave on to the woods, close enough to touch them when she sat in her deckchair. She intended to cultivate a marbled lilac this year. A little bit of crossbreeding would do the trick. She settled down in her deckchair. Kék, extremely friendly, contrary to her racial characteristics, jumped onto her lap, determined to provoke further jealousy in the senescent Duman snoozing in the other deckchair. Around Alex lay Zeus, who longed for the day he would unite with his beloved Hera in the afterworld, and their new dog, the beautiful Aphrodite, whom Aziz decided not to take hunting since it lacked the nose for the shoot. They were enjoying their freedom during the absence of Chaos, who was kept on his leash in the daytime. Asiye _Hanım_ brought in her coffee and biscuits.

Szentendre, 10th March 1953

My beloved Alex,

I must offer my most sincere condolences to us all. I must say, "You can't imagine our devastation at the news of Stalin's death." You know that when it snows in Moscow, umbrellas go up in Budapest. The last couple of days, ever since it stopped snowing in Kremlin and the sun started to send its tentative rays, initiating a slight thaw, the umbrellas in Budapest went down. March has been very cold so far, but the climate is full of promises for a warm spring, signalling the slackening – if not breaking – of the iron shackles of our dark winter, heralding some ease of mind for us all. It augurs a breath of fresh air. The albatrosses are already migrating towards the north of the Danube. The winter is over, Alex. The dark winter is finally over.

How is the weather in your part of the world? Your lilac trees will probably be blossoming by the time you receive this letter ...

"Is it from _Öcsi_ _bácsi?_ " Nili asked, as she walked onto the veranda.

"Yes, _tatlım_ , yes it is," beamed Alex without raising her head from the letter. She was filled with joy. At long last! At long last, the nightmare was coming to an end.

"Mami, I'd like to talk to you about something."

Nili, accompanied by Gün, sat down on the sofa opposite Alex. Asiye _Hanım_ brought them their coffee with two glasses of water and placed them on the coffee table in front of them.

"I'm listening, _tatlım_ ," Alex said, putting down the letter on her lap and looking at her daughter.

"Hasan proposed to me."

Alex straightened her deckchair with an abrupt movement. The sound from the wooden slats frightened Kék, who jumped to the floor. The dogs perked up their ears, trying to figure out what had disturbed their peaceful repose.

"That's rather rushed, don't you think?"

"How do you mean?"

"You've only known him for a few months, dear. Marriage is not a game."

"I'm desperately in love, Mami. We want to get married straight away."

"You're not even eighteen yet. Besides, what about university?" She did not take Nili seriously. "It's a passing fad of the young," she thought, trying to ease her mind.

"I want to drop out."

She couldn't be serious. "Is this a joke for April Fools' Day?"

"What of it? You graduated and what good did that diploma ever do for you? At least I would be marrying someone I love." She paused before reiterating, "To someone I _love!_ "

"Does he love you back?"

"What kind of a question is that, for goodness' sake, Mami? Of course, he does. Why else would he want to marry me?"

"You don't know him well enough, sweetheart. How long has it been? Six months? Seven? Who is he? Where does he come from? What is his background? We don't even know his family." Suddenly she remembered her mother. I'm beginning to sound like Mother, she thought, cringing. You're being ridiculous, Alex. What is the significance of his background? Let her live her life to her heart's content with the man she loves. Let her be. No! She could not. She shooed away her thoughts. "You should get engaged first. No marriage before you graduate." No! She was wrong. She should let them get married right away. It might be too late if they waited.

"If it boils down to graduating, I can become a married student."

"I don't think your father will be very happy about this."

"You'll take care of it, Mami, won't you? Please."

"We'll talk about it when he comes back from the shoot on Sunday."

Nili, Gün and Lila joined forces to convince Alex to give her blessing to the marriage. Nili even threatened to run away. Alex, however, insisted that for the time being she would only let them get engaged and would not allow their marriage before Nili finished school.

Sunday evening they surrounded Aziz with their pleading and finally managed to convince him to meet Hasan. He accepted only to meet the young man and explicitly refused to promise anything further, offering not even a tiny hope of his blessing for such unacceptable matrimony.

With no further delay, they invited Hasan to dinner on Monday. Despite Aziz's ill-tempered attitude towards this young man, who would be taking his beloved daughter away from him, Hasan, a true gentleman with a refined sense of humour that never exceeded the borders of respect, survived the night. Through a torrent of compliments, he conquered the hearts of all the females in the household, including Asiye _Hanım_ , and when the night drew to a close it was no longer only Nili who adored him. By the end of Hasan's visit Alex, enchanted by his charisma, had already sided with Nili. The idea of such a man joining her family, a polite and well-mannered young man whom her daughter was madly in love with, a gentleman who wanted to marry her daughter without delay, and the images of beautiful and handsome children rejuvenating her house filled Alex with a great sense of joy that she had long forgotten. She made up her mind to do everything in her capacity to convince Aziz to give his blessing to this marriage. Initially, Aziz resisted, ignoring Alex's pleas. "They're madly in love with each other," she implored him. "You of all people can't deny the importance of love, Aziz," she rebuked. "They'll only get engaged for the time being, Aziz. There'll be no marriage until after Nili graduates," she persevered. All Aziz did in return was to remonstrate in anger, "Engagement is a promise. We can't turn back on our word. Once she puts that ring on her finger, it's not important which hand she puts it on. We can't break our promise." He grunted irritably that Hasan had neither a proper job nor a good education, came from a family that no one in their circle in Istanbul had ever even heard of, and had no worthwhile qualities other than being handsome. "If you leave your daughter to her heart's desire, she would marry either a drummer or a piper!" he complained grumpily. "She's walking into certain disaster!" he howled. But in the end, he yielded to Alex's entreaties to meet Hasan's family.

Adile _Hanım_ and Kerim _Bey_ , although they had been divorced years ago, joined forces for their son on this important day and proved to be quite helpful in softening Aziz, who could not help but be impressed by Adile _Hanım_ , a philosophy teacher of exceptional wit displaying an incredible level of wilfulness, as might be expected from someone of Albanian origin, and by Kerim _Bey_ , a charismatic gentleman who, despite his age, overshadowed Hasan with respect to his looks, which reflected all the physical advantages of his Bosnian heritage. At the end of their visit, which had proved to be longer than would be dictated by the rules of savoir-faire, they obtained the promise they had come to seek.

On a starry night in May, Nili and Hasan got engaged in a dreamlike party given in their garden at Çamlık, which Alex had turned into a red paradise. Everyone was talking about what a lovely couple Nili and Hasan made. Alex felt at least as happy as her daughter as she watched her melt in Hasan's blue eyes, walking on air in her happiness. A different sense of joy engrossed her whole being at the thought of Nili's marriage, offering her the chance to relive in her daughter's happiness the wasted moments of her own life.

Right after the engagement, Hasan started to work with Aziz and presently admitted that, after Nili, Alex was the only person he got along with in the Giritli family, complaining about Aziz being too oppressive, too domineering and too controlling. "Just like his daughter," he once said. Alex needed to talk to Aziz, who had been giving their poor future son-in-law a very hard time. She knew only too well how difficult it was to put up with Aziz's harsh and authoritarian stance, which literally crushed everyone around him. Justifiably Hasan did not survive long and six months later resigned from his job to start working as the head of a service station. Nili could not resist the appeal of her prospective marriage more than nine months, and, on a dark and cold afternoon in February, while large chunks of ice from the River Danube floated through the Bosphorus, she married Hasan between the four walls of a lacklustre chamber in the City Hall, despite Alex's insistence that a summer wedding in their garden would be an exceptional occasion and that she should wait until after her finals, when she would have much more free time to prepare herself for the most important day of her life. Hasan, although not with much enthusiasm, agreed to move to Aziz's flat on the first floor of the Giritli apartment building, taking into consideration Nili's desire to be close to her cousins and, probably more indicatively, taking in view his limited bank account.

Following Gün's departure from Çamlık to move to a small flat on Rumeli Avenue in Nişantaşı, Alex started to feel all alone in the empty house. More painful than her loneliness, however, were the things Nili had apparently said to her aunt Necla, implying that she felt so relaxed now that she was away from the depressive atmosphere in their house in Çamlık. It was as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, she had said, making her realise what an emotional baggage her mother had been to her. Necla had repeated what she had heard from Nili, not exactly in these words, and Alex knew that she should not believe a word Necla said since she would do anything to upset Alex, but her heart was nevertheless irreparably broken.

21

The centuries-old gigantic magnolia trees almost reached the balcony where Alex was sitting. She could, if she extended her hand a little, touch the leaves spreading their perfume far and wide. The church bells started ringing in the distance, their sound mingling with the voice of the muezzin, who began chanting his call to prayer from the minaret of a nearby mosque as though inspired by the church bells. The birds enthusiastically joined in from where they were peacefully resting on branches tucked away behind leaves slowly changing their colours in rhythm with the autumnal melancholy. What a delectable concert, thought Alex. There were all sorts, some hastily twittering away their short and brisk songs, some letting out a loud chirp before falling silent, as if scared of their own outbursts, others continuously serenading until left breathless, yet others chattering away with their friends perched on the other branches. A few responded to Alex's whistle with a sharp movement of their small heads, darting curious side glances around them to try and figure out where that peculiar sound was coming from. She was sure she had even heard the aria of a nightingale.

Anastasia came out on the balcony and sat on the chair opposite Alex with two cups of steaming hot Turkish coffee she had expended extra effort on to ensure a good froth. They silently sipped their coffee as they listened to the church bells, the muezzin's chant, the songs of the birds and the sound of the water jetting out of the fountain down in the garden and splashing against the water in the pond. Neither of them was in the mood to talk. There was no room for words. They just sat there. It was the year 1955, a dark day in September.

Last week a fire had broken out in the textile factory of Hristo and Dimo, burning everything to ashes within a few hours. No one knew how it had started. Three days later the radio news announced that the house where Atatürk was born in Thessaloniki had been bombed. The commotion that followed was further aggravated when members of a group called Cyprus Belongs to the Turks distributed throughout Istanbul the second edition of _Istanbul Express_ daily carrying the headline, "The house of Atatürk is bombed and damaged." After that the windows of many shops in the neighbourhood of Beyoğlu, including the textile shop of Hristo and Dimo, were broken, the iron grilles on their doors were cut with welding torches and everything inside was pillaged. They had arrived on trucks loaded with stones, and, after a nine-hour raid of vandalism and plundering of the shops that they had previously identified as being owned by non-Muslim minorities, they had left. Rumour had it that the following day there was a crowd carrying armloads of goods who boarded the train at the Haydarpaşa Train Station to go back to where they had come from. The icons, crosses and holy paintings they had stolen from the churches but could not carry away were burned in the streets. Anastasia was saying that they actually were very lucky in that neither they nor any of their relatives had been injured. Next morning Hristo removed their name from the doorbell of their flat in Fenerbahçe. There was not much else they could do. Heartbroken and disillusioned, they silently retreated to their corners in apprehensive trepidation for what the future had in stock for them.

The nightingale was still singing its merry aria. They carried on drinking their coffee as they sat on the balcony in silence. Alex was thinking about all the loved ones she had lost during her forty-five years. What else was in wait for her? What other tragedies would she witness? Enough, her inner voice revolted. "In the name of all my loved ones, enough!" she mutely wailed in helpless agony.

22

Károly was gazing at the shiny marbles, gold-laced murals, intricately carved frescoes and bronze sculptures adorning the rich interior of the New York Kávéház, the café that had been closed down after the war to be reopened first as a warehouse and then as a sports shop and finally last year, after a nine-year break, as a café. The September sun reflecting from the crystal mirrors danced on the Murano chandeliers to the rhythm of a sorrowful melody. Perhaps he ought to call this café Hungáriá Kávéház, since this was how it had been rechristened, but certain concepts could not be altered with the signs hung on the walls. Similarly, they could never stop saying, "Let's meet in front of the Centrál," their favourite café which had been closed down six years ago, because they could never get used to saying, "Let's meet in front of the Party Headquarters," or rather because they could not get themselves to articulate it.

Károly was in a terrible mood today. Alex's letter had stirred all his bad memories. "Thanks to the glass menagerie Aziz has put around me, Çamlık is a Wonderland," his sister had written. "But no matter how hard he tries, he can't keep some of the horrendous news from infiltrating. This last piece of news practically shattered the glass around me. As you might have already heard, what happened here is, in one word, inhuman! We're devastated, _Öcsi_. I can't help but think of all that had happened in Germany on that miserable November day back in 1938 and, worse still, what had followed. We're extremely worried about Anastasia and her family."

He saw József and Éva walk into the café through the door surrounded by the lamps on the bronze statues of half-goat, half-human decadent faunas extending their arms towards Erzsébet Avenue.

"What was it they called that treaty?" asked József with exaggerated sarcasm as he sat down at the table. "The treaty of friendship, cooperation and mutual assistance, was it? But of course! However, there must have been a slight slip of the tongue. I guess what they actually meant to say was the treaty of servitude and assistance to the Soviet Union." He looked extremely agitated.

József was talking about the treaty signed between the Soviet-bloc countries at a conference in Warsaw four months ago in May. The Kremlin, much disturbed by the gradual thaw triggered by the election of Imre Nagy as Hungary's prime minister after Stalin's death two years ago, had finally decided to put an end to the warm winds of liberalism.

For the last two years Imre Nagy, backed by the Soviet leader Khrushchev's Thaw policy, had been slowly loosening the reins of political oppression and taking steps – albeit tentative ones – towards raising the living standards of the population. People, hoping that they would be given some breathing space, supported Nagy, while newspapers talked about the start of the Thaw Era. Although Rákosi, the General Secretary of the Party, had not yet given up his fight in this power game, Nagy's policy, which he called the New Course, aimed at a socialist reformation. János's dreams were about to come true. The priority given to industrial development had ended, and heavy industry policies had been replaced by policies of agricultural development. The peasants were given the option of withdrawing from the agricultural cooperatives they had joined. The amounts and the deadlines of the compulsory deliveries of produce they were required to make were brought to realisable levels. Farmers, artisans and tradesmen were now allowed to own property. Despite the Iron Curtain, they could now travel to other communist countries, under special circumstances. Afraid of a return to the oppressive regime of the Stalin era, people were organising discussion groups while writers and journalists voiced open criticism. Nagy had relaxed state control over the media and allowed open discussion of the political and economic reforms. He was talking about redirecting funds to the production and distribution of consumer goods, promising free elections and the release of the incarcerated anti-communist intelligentsia. After Austria had become a demilitarised neutral zone, research was initiated for the possibility of Hungary adopting a neutral status on the Austrian model.

Then all of a sudden in April, the hopes of socialism embellishing the dreams of János and Károly, like those of many other Hungarian citizens, were shattered when Nagy, far too liberal for Moscow's taste, was forced to resign on the grounds that he represented "right-wing, anti-Marxist, anti-party opportunist views." János and Károly, disappointed by the oppressive regime of the Soviets, resisted with all their strength, driven by their rebellious nature and relentless energy, with which they once resisted the fascists. They were against any type of oppression wherever it came from.

"Where are Fábián and Rózsi? Absent again?" asked József.

"We can't get them out of their house. He sees no one. Lately he doesn't even answer the door. Sometimes, I think he'd be much happier if he had stayed in prison, feeling much safer there. Rózsi wants to move to Szeged, in fact to a village in Szeged. Röszke or some other godforsaken place."

Fábián, following weeks of torture at Number 60, had been charged with treason and incarcerated. He had been released the previous month after two and a half years in prison.

"They couldn't have chosen a remoter place. This is nothing but voluntary exile."

"How is your mother, Károly?" asked Éva, in an effort to change the subject.

"She's doing all right, poor soul. We haven't seen much of each other lately. She is usually fast asleep when I get back home at night. 'You have a new family now,' she says. We still have some way to go before Petőfi Circle gets up on his feet though."

"How is it going?"

"Meetings after meetings. And a lot of talking! For the moment, that's all we do. In other words, we are all talk, no action, as you put it, Éva." He smiled.

Éva held Károly's hand and gave it a tight squeeze, as if to show how proud she was of her friend.

Károly raised his glass to the future. "It will get up and go full steam very shortly. Currently we're preparing protest pamphlets like the _Cahiers_ on the eve of the French Revolution or, we might say, like the _Pesti Hírlap_ of 1848. In time we hope to spread to the countryside as well."

"I can help you start doing just that," said János, approaching the table.

Margit followed behind, looking utterly out of sorts. Her soft features had twisted into a sombre expression while she watched János with consternation in her brooding eyes. They sat side by side opposite Károly.

"Here I go again, my friends!" János continued, making a prodigious effort to give his voice a jolly tone but failing to hide his fury and disappointment. "Another season, another exile. They finally decided where to send me."

János had been appointed as the general manager of the Ganz Engine and Wagon Factory soon after Nagy's appointment as prime minister, and the previous year had joined the circle around him called the Party Opposition. Last week they had forced him to resign from his post at Ganz and yesterday informed him that he was to start working as the deputy factory manager at the Diósgyőr Rolling Stock and Machine Factory in Miskolc, a small town hundred and fifty kilometres to the northeast of Budapest.

"This came as no surprise. Everyone else in the Party Opposition has already been sent into exile. We're now classified as _kulak_." He waved at the waiter and ordered two glasses of _pálinka_ for Margit and himself. "When I started at Ganz, they wanted to give me a mansion in Rózsadomb. Now they confiscate my flat, which has been our property for I don't know how long, claiming that, since I wouldn't be needing it during my exile, they would be 'temporarily' using it to meet the requirements of our government. I can't believe that our ever-so-potent state needs my hundred square metres." His face contorted in a bitter smile. "But of course, it's crystal clear that they desperately need every inch of whatever belongs to the Party Opposition." He raised his glass to the health of everyone around the table. "Well, I should be happy that at least I'll be a bit closer to my few remaining relatives in Nyíergyháza."

"You, at least, have a job that suits your profession," cut in József. "We, on the other hand," he continued, moving his finger between Károly and himself several times, his hand seeming barely attached to his wrist, which had become frighteningly thin as he had lost too much weight lately, "we're required to work much harder than you lot – and at abominable jobs into the bargain – so as to be able to pay for the wealthy background of our families."

"Well, my friend, there were times when I, as an engineer, had to work at abominable jobs as well. Now it's your turn."

Seemingly indifferent to János's verbal onslaught, József extended his hand to some invisible place in the distance. "I would do anything; I would even become a garbage collector if only I could do it in the West, if only I could live abroad, if only I could get out of here. I'll do it, I swear, and with great pleasure. I would even work in the sewers. Count Almás, the sewer worker. When the people of the country you have founded and defended put you in such a state, you become willing to clean the sewers of other countries." His voice was shaking. "I'm sick and tired of it all. Tired of having to look at the pictures of that damn bugger Rákosi every single day, of the threats of ÁVO ... Oh, I'm sorry, should I have said ÁVH? Well anyway, it makes no difference. Different name, same shit."

Károly was playing with his glass, turning it around and watching the ice cubes in it swirl about. He would not be able to go anywhere, even if he were willing to lower himself to work in the sewers. In her last letter, Ada was saying that she had lost all hope of him coming to Paris. It had taken her only seven years to lose hope in her husband, in the father of her children. "I no longer have the strength to shoulder the responsibilities you dare not share," she had written, "either financially or emotionally. Your daughters need a father." She complained about the difficulties of being all on her own and mentioned a friend of hers, a certain Hans, a Dutch photographer. "I do hope you understand me, Károly," she had said. No! No, he did not understand. He could not possibly understand. And he did not want to. He was furious. He was frustrated. Helplessness gnawed at his soul, while an unbearable sense of panic tormented him. He could not leave his Ada and his daughters in the care of another man. He had to run away. He had to flee from his country. He had to be with his family. Would he be able to do that? Should he do that? Where did his responsibilities lie? Was it with his country or with his family? He could not abandon his fatherland to the hands of these monsters. He just could not. Hungary waited to be saved from the appalling state it had fallen into. Very soon everything would change. His country would no longer be a prison, and his family would be able to return. Ada would be able to come back to her beloved country, to her husband. All they needed was just a little bit of patience and a little bit of strength.

"We can't abandon our country," he heard János say. "We can't leave. We shall work at the most abominable jobs if need be. We shall go to jail if need be. And we shall save Hungary from being a dungeon."

"How lovely that you can still be so full of hope," retorted József with a sarcastic smile. "I thought you'd have learned your lesson by now. This country loves dictators. It can't handle democracy. Or perhaps it doesn't want it. Perhaps slavery has captured its mind and soul. Perhaps it no longer remembers the true meaning of freedom."

Károly thought of Sanyi, who had once said, "In the end, you tend to adopt a culture of submission and despair. Caught between your roots stretching out to the east and your heart reaching out to the west, you fail to have a firm identity and end up all alone." These words of his had been engraved on his mind.

"We all agree that a dictatorship, whatever its type, is an awful system, but the dictatorship of the proletariat is an utterly boring third-class dictatorship," joined in Éva. Lately she too had lost all control of what she said, and not only stopped silencing her husband who constantly shouted, but she herself had started raising her voice in protest. "We no longer have the freedom even to watch the operas we like. There's nothing but those boring Russian monstrosities! What is so anti-communist about _Tosca_ , if I may ask? How many times can one put up with _Boris Godunov_ , for goodness' sake, especially in the company of snoring workers occupying the front rows?"

In Károly's mind, Gizella joined Sanyi. "They say that one shouldn't applaud too loudly at curtain so as not to wake up the proletariat." This was one of the comments from his childhood he never forgot. "History does repeat itself," he could not help thinking.

He then turned to look at János and József, who were still engrossed in a heated argument. Their views on life, their political stance, their religion, their background, their upbringing, their looks, everything about them contradicted each other, but they still sat at the same table and drank to each other's health. They argued viciously, engaged ruthlessly in verbal feuds, but they did not kill each other. They lived in the same community. They did so because, despite everything, they loved humankind and had deep respect for their fellow human beings.
March 2009  
Istanbul

Rüya was looking out the window of the plane. Last night she had squandered her ticket to Paris and decided to head for Istanbul. She would visit Anastasia first thing tomorrow morning, somehow convinced that she knew much more than she had so far told Rüya. She hoped to finally get the answers to the questions that had been intriguing her all along, for she doubted that Anastasia had been true to her word when she had said she no longer remembered some of the details. It was impossible that more than half of Mami's life could be as insipid as everyone preferred to depict it.

And one day the wall spoke:

" _Anyone there?" .- -. -.-- --- -. . / - .... . .-. . ..--.. / "Anyone there?"_

Was it another farcical method the Russians used to extract information, or was it truly another prisoner in the next cell invoking help in Morse code? Moles were everywhere. He answered in any case. "I'm Uncle! Who are you?"

And then the wall fell silent.

"Chicken or pasta?"

The expression on the face of the stewardess was so fake it made her cringe.

"Nothing thank you, I won't be eating anything."

Perhaps I'm flogging a dead horse, she thought. Perhaps all that she had been dreaming in Mami's shoes was bound to remain nothing but a dream. In her book, she did her best to make Mami's dreams come true and thus add some colour to her faded life. She thought that she could at least do this for her Mami. And now she was desperately trying to make that dream, a dream that had never actually become the reality, come alive. She was literally trying to make dreams come true. Perhaps she was raising her hopes for nothing. Perhaps Anastasia would be telling her one of her own secrets, since her life too must have been more colourful than what had been revealed to Rüya. She could hardly wait to see her.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Two, Tableau Five  
1956

23

October was drawing to a close. It was a lovely day, reminiscent of the long-gone days of summer. Károly opened the window wide and drew in the fresh breeze carrying the smell of the Danube. He was in his new studio, which used to belong to his painter friend Béla before he had fled to France. It was only a small room, but had a marvellous location, giving on to one of the most alluring vistas in Szentendre. He had already thought of where to place his painting materials, where he would be painting and where he would be placing the secret section that would hold his work with the Petőfi Circle. Everything was exactly as he wanted it.

He sat on the sill to go through the letter he had written to Alex and Aziz one last time before he sealed its envelope.

Szentendre, 23rd October 1956

Dear Alex and Aziz,

I'm writing to you in my new studio, which I have taken over from Béla Bán, a friend who abandoned us and moved to other lands. I'm finally out of the attic.

Dear Aziz, let me start by answering your queries. After a ten-month political exile, Imre Nagy's Party membership has finally been renewed ten days ago, an encouraging development raising our hopes. A more encouraging development is that since July, when Rákosi tendered his resignation and took refuge in the Soviet Union, the students, writers and journalists have been rather more daring in their political activities and criticisms although Ernő Gerő, the new General Secretary of the Party, does not essentially differ from his predecessor. Last week 1,600 university students organised a mass meeting in Szeged and resurrected MEFESZ, the Hungarian Association of University and College Unions. Considering that in our country nothing is allowed to function independently of the Party and DISZ, the Union of the Working Youth (the formal communist students' union), the foundation of a self-governing organisation – and a democratic union which had been closed down at the time of Rakosi, into the bargain – is something of a revolution in itself.

As to the Petőfi Circle we founded last year, our activities continue at full pelt. We've become the spokesman of revolutionary demands and an adamant critic of the system, taking politics perhaps not yet out into the street but at least beyond the confines of the Party. We aim at helping to broaden the support for the incomplete reforms initiated by Nagy. The students, former wartime resistance fighters and members of the intelligentsia are on our side. The number of our members increases by the day. Even military officers attend our debates. Although we've been on a politically imposed break since June, last month we resumed our debates and discussion forums, which have been continuing seamlessly ever since. We've also assumed the main role in the organisation of today's meeting. The university students will be reading their manifesto of sixteen points. They've formulated their demands concerning national policies. Our hopes are truly raised after the Soviets' acceptance of Poland's demands for reform.

Dear Alex, presuming that I've bored you to tears with these political developments, I now switch to a subject that will be of interest to you. Although I hardly have any time left from my activities with the Petőfi Circle, I did manage to show three of my paintings in last month's exhibition organised by our Avant-gardes group. None of them were sold. Well, it doesn't really matter. I was not expecting any sales anyway. Out of all the paintings shown, only four found some buyers who were, of course, friends and family of the artists.

Please do send me some more photographs of our new pumpkin, Aslı. Being a mother must become Nili, I'm sure. How is she, by the way? I hope she's all right. And her husband Hasan, how is he faring? Does he take good care of his family? I implore you not to deprive your _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ of your news. _Anyukám_ can't wait to see her great-granddaughter and she will do just that very soon indeed. You can be rest assured of that. All the curtains are about to rise, my dearest sister ...

He checked his watch. It was almost one o'clock. He did not have the time to read the rest of the letter, for he had to get going if he wanted to make it to the train to Budapest where he would be meeting János, who had come down from Miskolc this morning to join the meeting. He stopped by the house to give the letter to his mother to post and told her not to worry if he did not come home this evening, as the meeting might be a long one. He hurried down the narrow cobble-stoned street onto the square, his stride impatiently accelerating, and finally broke into a run on the old crooked bridge towards the train station. Brimming with excitement, a wave of joy thrilled through him. He was in exuberant spirits and felt an uplifting sense of lightness.

The tired carriages of the Budapest train overflowed with people heading for the meeting, a stimulated crowd of young and old, men and women engaged in animated conversation. He went and stood next to the window at the very back of the carriage as there was not a single seat empty.

János was waiting for him at the station in Budapest. They started walking towards the embankment.

"We'll make it, old boy!" Károly said, putting his arm around János's shoulders. "We'll finally make it happen. I can smell freedom," he shouted, taking in a deep breath as an exhilarating feeling elevated his spirits further.

They walked past an old man playing the clarinet on the pavement, leaning on a wall covered in copies of the manifesto. There were copies posted everywhere, on the walls, on the street lamps, on the windows and doors of the buildings.

"How are the forums going?" asked János.

"Three days ago we discussed the problems of the applied arts, mainly its inapplicable aspects, or rather the aspects which are banned from being applied. Dozens of discussions, forums, demonstrations and panels are held all over the city every single day. Thousands of people join them. Budapest is on fire. Flaming! The day before yesterday student delegations arrived from Szeged and Debrecen. In the evening we, as the leaders of the Petőfi Circle, held a meeting with the students. They read their manifesto. Neither the press nor the radio is willing to read their demands. They've been waiting in front of the Radio Building since last night. They intend to read their demands on air today."

"What are their demands?"

"They want to see Imre Nagy as our prime minister. That's the first one," replied Károly, sticking out his thumb from his clenched fist, and continued as his index finger followed suit. "Secondly, they want restoration of the multi-party system." Then he opened both his hands wide. "And most importantly, they demand the immediate withdrawal of the Red Army from Hungary. Then freedom of the press, the freedom of private ownership, the freedom of speech and thought. In short they want freedom, János, freedom to be a human being. They're more demanding than our Petőfi Circle. And ..." He suddenly stopped and turned around to look at his friend in the eye. "I'm ashamed to say this, but they're also much more courageous than us."

They were walking on the embankment now. Károly was so full of happy energy that he could not help but scamper like a child despite his fifty years. He jumped up on the stone wall by the riverside, only to jump back down after a few steps.

János was saying that Nagy had come out strongly against the demonstration. "He thinks several points in the students' demands go beyond what he envisaged. He fears that the radicalism of the young might jeopardise the gains already made. The Party intends to implement the reforms of three years ago, but everything is dangerously fragile."

"What is the situation in the factory?"

"They're ready, Károly, ready for anything. All they need is a small flame, and they will burn. You see the strength of the masses in the factory. They act as if they were a single body. They're ready for the reforms. First and foremost, they never forget that they are Hungarians before anything else and trust Nagy to come up with a solution. On the other hand, I talk to people in Nyíergyháza. The farmers are extremely unhappy about this new wave of collectivisation. The compulsory delivery quotas for the _kulaks_ are back to impossibly high levels. They're more edgy than the workers and would fire up at the slightest provocation."

Approaching Bem Square, the square carrying the name of the heroic general József Bem, they saw the vans of the Petőfi Circle parked on the two corners of the square by the river, squeezed among the mass of people filling the square. A throng of people was flooding into the square from Pest and Buda under the pale afternoon sun, and the ever-growing crowd was slowly spreading onto the embankment. There were tens of thousands of people, and the numbers were rapidly increasing. The workers arrived after their morning shift. More and more people kept joining the cheering chorus, shouting slogans under the guidance of voices rising from the loudspeakers of the Petőfi vans. The shouts gradually became stronger and louder. The housewives, civil servants abandoning their posts, pensioners leaving the comfort of their homes, all came along in support of the students and the workers. The mothers with young babies, the sick and the elderly who could not go out, leaned out from the windows and from the balconies to give their support to the demonstrators with boisterous shouts of approval and encouragement. Neither Károly nor any of the other members of the Petőfi Circle had expected such a crowd when they had undertaken to lead the demonstrations. After a short while the sound from the vans' loudspeakers became inaudible, the vans themselves becoming invisible. People were smiling, their eyes no longer cringing with fear but twinkling in hope. They were shouting in unison at the top of their voices, reciting the banned poem of Petőfi, the unforgettable poet of the 1848 War of Independence.

" _We swear!_

We swear!

We swear that we will no longer be slaves!"

Károly and János, never having lost the inexhaustible energy, passion and enthusiasm of their younger days, joined the chorus. Free-spirited as always, they resisted any system that did not work, even if that system were communism in which they had believed all their lives. They had the courage to unsparingly amputate the arm that had become gangrenous, crushed under the oppressive weight of a burdensome rock. They were communists no more but simply Hungarian citizens, compatriots who strove to save their country from the Soviet occupation.

"That's Veres over there, isn't it?"

Péter Veres, the president of the Writers' Union, was reading out the demands of their union. His words were not so clearly heard, but, every time he paused, an explosive wave of applause rose from the crowd. People were carrying red, white and green armbands, and some the national flag. Veres finished his speech, triggering another wave of applause, whereupon the crowd started to drift towards the Margit Bridge, driving Károly and János with it. Once on the bridge, they saw a young woman raise her arm to show the pair of scissors in her hand before she reached over to the flag the young man next to her was holding and cut out the red star, the hammer and the wreath of wheat. "Margit!" shouted János, his voice drowning amidst the cheers of the applauding crowd. Károly could not believe his eyes. He proudly watched Margit pass the scissors to the others. Suddenly the image of Ada came before his eyes. Why was she not here now? It was incredible that someone like her would not be here – would have chosen not to be here – at a time like this. The pair of scissors passed from hand to hand, finally reaching another flag at the head of the crowd. After a short while all of the flags flying above the crowd had holes in them. Pushing their way through the crowd, they caught up with Margit and, after throwing their arms around each other in great excitement, moved ahead arm in arm along with the excited crowd over the bridge towards the square in front of the Parliament Building.

The square was packed with people. Margit climbed on János's shoulders, and they all joined the cheering crowd. "Nagy! Prime Minister! Nagy! Prime Minister!"

Towards six o'clock they shouldered their way through the crowd, heading for the New York Kávéház where Károly was to meet László, Anna and Jákob from the Petőfi Circle.

At the café László recounted what he had seen before the Radio Building. Students who had been waiting since the previous evening for their sixteen-point manifesto to be broadcast on the radio were about to lose their patience. The crowd had become more animated when other students had joined them around five. The police force defending the building had been fortified, while several soldiers had sided with the students, giving them support.

"It's discouraging that Nagy refuses to leave his home. He must respond to the urgings of his followers in some way."

"He's supposed to give a speech at nine," said Jákob.

Impatiently, they waited for the hours to pass. At eight Ernő Gerő came on air to give his scheduled speech, calling the demonstrators a reactionary mob and denouncing the demands put forward by the writers and the students. At the end of Gerő's speech, they rushed out of the café and, after organising to meet again in Margit's flat later on, split up and went their separate ways. László and Anna walked down Erzsébet Avenue, alias Lenin Avenue of late, heading back towards the Radio Building. Jákob pedalled away towards the gigantic statue of Stalin on Dózsa György Avenue; Károly, János and Margit hopped on the tram that would take them back to the square in front of the Parliament Building where Nagy was expected to make his speech.

What they saw through the windows of the tramcar on their approach to the square resembled more a celebration than a protest. The square was dark, for they must have cut the power. People were waving torches, still cheering, "Imre Nagy! Imre Nagy!" As they made their way through the crowd, they noticed that the torches were actually made up of rolled copies of _Szabad Nép_ – _Free People_ , the official daily paper of the Hungarian Workers' Party. A few minutes later the lights were switched on again, but the torches kept on burning for a while longer. In response to the calls from the crowd, the light illuminating the red star on top of the Parliament Building was turned off, triggering a glorious cheer. People applauded their victory, albeit a seemingly insignificant one. As the applause died down, a few shouts were heard.

"Here he is!"

"He's here!"

"At long last!"

A much stronger roar of cheering and applause followed.

"Imre Nagy! Imre Nagy!"

Nagy appeared on the balcony of the Parliament Building. When the applause subsided, he shouted, "Comrades!" Whistles rose from the crowd. A few booed him. "Friends!" he reiterated. People cheered in exhilaration, accompanied by another wave of applause for the man who, for the first time in eight years, had addressed them properly. Nagy implored everyone to go home and keep themselves informed of further developments. After singing the national anthem in chorus with the crowd, he made his long-awaited speech. There were hundreds of thousands of people in the square and in the surrounding streets, but the drop of a pin could be heard, for it was in absolute silence that they listened to the speech they had been waiting for hours, for days, for months, for years.

To the disappointment of everyone, Nagy promised no more than the consistent implementation of his '53 reforms. Unsatisfied, people did not want to leave. Károly, János and Margit decided to go to the Radio Building. News came that the statue of Stalin on Dózsa György Avenue had been toppled over, and a Hungarian flag had been placed in the boots – the only part that had remained erect.

The streets around the Radio Building were swarming with people. They elbowed their way forward, finally reaching the corner where Sándor Bródy Street met Vac Street. The students, some waiting since yesterday evening, some since this afternoon, were about to lose their patience, wanting their demands be broadcast. The Radio Building was defended by the Secret Police carrying Russian-made machine guns. One of them said that the manifesto was being broadcast at that very moment, and they had received orders to ensure that everyone went home. A woman appeared on one of the balconies in an apartment building across the street, holding up her huge radio with difficulty and shouting, "They're lying! There's nothing but music on the radio. They keep denying that we want to cut our ties with the Soviets."

A sudden wave of panic ran through the crowd. The Secret Police had started to throw gas bombs. The narrow street, packed with people, offered no escape route, but people had no intention of running away anyway. They coughed and covered their mouths, noses, eyes with their cardigans, sweaters or jackets, but they did not move an inch. Károly saw a boy of around ten take one of the gas bombs and throw it back at the police. People refused to be crushed; they refused to be terrorised. A slight surge of panic seemed to grasp the police officers. The crowd lunged forward towards the building. A few made for the door, waving sheets of paper that contained their manifesto. The police blocked the doors, crossing their guns in front of them. Undeterred, the people pushed ahead but were butted back. They would not yield. They tried again. A rattle of machine gun fire was heard. They had opened fire on the crowd. A sudden silence followed, an impatient silence lasting only a few seconds, a brief pause that was immediately replaced by a furious howling as the crowd charged towards the police. They were yelling and shouting like mad. Someone fired a shot towards the building. More gunfire followed suit. A group of demonstrators, including a few with berets indicating that they were workers from Csepel Island, had opened fire on the police.

At that instant, a commotion broke out at the other end of the street. A police car had been set on fire. People fled in panic as flames rose from the vehicle. A deafening explosion followed; a cloud of dark smoke spread over the crowd. A huge wave of applause. Shouts of jubilation. One of the Hungarian soldiers who had come to help the Secret Police tore down the red star on his cap and, siding with the demonstrators, began shooting towards the building. Dozens of soldiers followed his example. A few of them were busy distributing the guns they had taken out of the trucks to the crowd.

They heard the siren of an ambulance struggling its way through the crowd. As it reached Sándor Bródy Street, the young man sitting next to the driver stuck his head out of the window, shouting that they were there to pick up the injured people in the Radio Building. János pushed and shoved the people around him, squeezing his way towards the ambulance, shouting, "Stop the ambulance! Check inside!" His words were carried from mouth to mouth like a sound wave. A few men opened the back doors of the ambulance. It was loaded with ammunition, guns, hand grenades and gas bombs. They distributed them all to the crowd before shooting both the driver and the young man next to him.

The street started to empty. Károly, János and Margit drifted with the crowd to Vac Street and then onto Rákóczi Avenue. Word came that Ernő Gerő had asked the Soviets for military intervention and that the Soviet special corps stationed in Székesfehérvár were on their way to Budapest. The demonstrators had already started to build barricades with amazing speed, loosening and pulling out the cobblestones from the pavements, dismantling tramlines and piling everything they could get their hands on across the main arteries of the city. News came that people from nearby villages had taken their guns and were now flowing into Budapest to give their support to the uprising. They said there were clashes in various parts of the capital, with raids on the gun factories, printing houses and telephone stations. Towards three o'clock in the morning, news came that the Soviet tanks had entered the city. Károly, János and Margit went to Margit's flat on Üllői Avenue. They heard the sound of gunfire coming from the streets leading to the Radio Building.

At seven the day began to break. None of them had had a moment's sleep, for they were far too tired and far too excited. The radio was constantly on. János said he had to go back to the factory in Miskolc. Károly needed to go out and find a public phone to call his mother, since the phone in Margit's flat did not work. He looked out of the window. The Soviet tanks were patrolling the streets. A dozen or more young civilians, armed, ran along the road and turned into a side street. They must be protestors, he reasoned.

At quarter past eight they heard on the radio that Imre Nagy had been appointed the prime minister, though Ernő Gerő had remained at his post as the General Secretary of the Party. Half an hour later they declared the situation in the country to be an emergency, immediately followed by the announcement of a curfew. No one took any notice of this restriction, and people, armed or unarmed, carried on roaming the streets.

24

"Madam, I'll be planting the red peppers right here if that's all right with you."

"Go ahead, Yaşar _Efendi_. That would be perfect."

"Have you seen the artichoke shoots, madam? There are so many of them. We'll have a much better yield this year, _inshallah_."

Alex was in her vegetable garden, enthusiastically planting some seeds. Her bare feet and hands were soiled, the earth filling even her fingernails. She loved the smell of the earth. Sanyi was right, she mused, one ought to be close to the earth, close enough to smell it.

"Madam! You shouldn't get your hands dirty like that. Let me do it."

"It does me good, Yaşar _Efendi_. When you're finished with the peppers, would you please pick some curry and lemongrass for me?"

She had her herbs planted at the very back of her vegetable garden between the twin olive trees, right below the windows of her studio, where their life-giving fragrance permeating the air healed her soul whenever she painted. They offered a spectacular feast for the eye, a semi-circular canvas depicting a clump of dishevelled parsley at its epicentre contrasting with an array of slender chives, all encircled by an untidy gang of dill. Next to them lived a large constellation of fat-leaved basil, midgets compared to the overshadowing tall cluster of oregano. Ice-green needles of curry, thyme with its tiny lilac flowers, lemongrass, tarragon and sage to complete the picture and finally a ring of knee-high rosemary elegantly framing them all like a garland – a herbal symphony of delectable smells and perfumes.

"Mami? Have you seen Aslı's soother? I can't get her fingers out of her mouth."

Nili, despite Hasan's fervent objections, had stubbornly continued with her studies and in May, as a very pregnant mother-to-be, had graduated with a degree in psychology. Aziz kept saying that what had given her the urge to persevere so diligently in her studies must have been a desperate effort to analyse and understand Hasan. "Poor girl, she had no other choice than becoming a psychologist to put up with that man!" he often grumbled. A few months later, in the relatively cool early hours of the scorching twenty-fourth day of August, Nili gave birth to Aslı who, just like her mother, was born without causing much pain. She was exactly two months old today and for the last two months had been the light of Alex's life.

"I haven't seen it, Nili. Ares might have snatched it; he is ever so jealous of her. I have several soothers in the top drawer of the dresser in Aslı's bedroom upstairs. Why don't you take one of those?"

Alex had lost no time in turning Nili's old bedroom into a fully-fledged nursery, provoking a few sarcastic remarks from Hasan. "My daughter doesn't have so many things at home," he had once said, incurring Aziz's wrath. "If it were up to Hasan, my granddaughter would have nothing to wear!" he had grunted later on, and continued to exhort Alex to go shopping more often, adding that anything she could not find in Istanbul, he would ask Haldun to bring from London next time he went there on one of his business trips. He had used all his resourcefulness in search of a Silver Fox pushchair, pulled a few strings and eventually found one. On one of those days when Hasan had really gotten on his nerves, he had bellowed that it had cost him twice the salary of his beloved son-in-law, only to rebuke himself for having spoken like that as soon as those words had escaped his mouth.

"Ares!" shouted Nili. "Naughty, naughty boy! I wouldn't be surprised if one day you munched up Aslı."

Ares, happy to be the centre of attention again after having lost his privileged status in the family to Aslı, was excitedly circling around Nili, wagging his tail so fiercely that it made his whole body move. Every now and then, he jumped up in a futile effort to join Aslı in Nili's arms.

"How can I be cross with you, you little monkey," said Nili, bending over and stroking the whisky-coloured fur of the Cocker Spaniel, shining beatifically in the sun. Not missing such an opportunity, Ares started to lick Aslı's face, now in easier reach.

"Well, thanks to you Ares, Aslı doesn't need to take a bath today."

They giggled. Alex held Aslı's bare feet with her soiled hands. "You should make her feet touch the earth, Nili," she said before taking a handful of earth and rubbing it against her granddaughter's tiny toes.

They heard the phone ring.

"Can you take it Nili?" said Alex, showing her dirty hands.

Nili went inside, only to rush back a few seconds later.

"Mami! Come! Come quick! It's Daddy. He says we should listen to the ten o'clock news. There's been an uprising in Hungary!"

Alex jumped to her feet and, trampling over the seeds she had just planted, dashed through the kitchen into the living room. She turned on the radio, her hands still soiled. A few minutes later the voice of the news presenter came on air.

" _Based on information received from Budapest Radio, it appears that the demonstrations that started yesterday in Budapest, the capital of Hungary, have turned into an uprising against the Soviet Union, with the participation of two hundred thousand people. Disaffected troops helped arm the insurgents while Imre Nagy, who has been appointed prime minister as of this morning, gave a speech on the radio at eight a.m. promising reform. It has been reported that the demonstrations organised by the students were initiated on a decision made by the Petőfi Circle the day before yesterday."_

"They finally did it! They're finally free. We're all free. We're slaves no more." Alex was hugging and kissing her daughter and granddaughter, oblivious of her dirty hands soiling their clothes. "That's it. It's over. The nightmare is over. Károly is free. _Anyukám_ is free. They're all free. Hungary is liberated. I'll be able to go to my country. We all will."

"Calm down, Mami. This is only a demonstration organised by the students. It means nothing."

"Stop being such a pessimist! Why do you have to be so discouraging? What else do you want? They're revolting against the Soviets, against a giant!"

The news continued on the radio.

" _As reported by the Hungarian News Agency, the violent clashes between the groups of demonstrators and the gendarmes turned into street warfare after midnight and carried on till dawn. There has been news of casualties."_

"We have to call _Öcsi_. I'll book an urgent call. Most urgent!" she stormed towards the phone.

She was informed that all telephone and telegraph lines with Hungary were cut. She started pacing the living room, rushing out onto the veranda and then coming back in, saying the same thing over and over again. "There's nothing to worry about. Nothing will happen to him. He knows how to protect himself. He should be safe and sound. We're liberated. We're all free. We can all be together again. All together. No more yearning, no more yearning ..."

The phone was ringing. It was Adile _Hanım_ , Nili's mother-in-law. "I'm so happy for you. I heard that there had been a revolution in Hungary. Let's hope for the best."

There had been a revolution. Yes! A revolution! There had been a revolution. It was not a simple demonstration of the students. Hungary was going through a revolution. They would all be free soon. Károly, Mother, Rudi ... Rudi! Was he still in Hungary? Was he still alive? Of course, he was! Alive and free. At long last, she would be able to see all her loved ones.

25

At ten in the morning Károly, ignoring the curfew, went out to call his mother but, unable to find a telephone booth that worked, came back. Jákob had arrived; László and Anna were as yet nowhere to be seen. They began preparing Molotov cocktails. Every now and then they threw one of these petroleum bombs onto the tanks passing by. Jákob told them that the Radio Building was now in the hands of the protestors.

"There was no one inside other than a bunch of ÁVH officers. Apparently, they've been broadcasting from the emergency studio in the Parliament Building."

"János, why don't you tell Károly what you did while he was out?" said Margit, her voice brimming with pride, albeit with a touch of anger, before she turned to Károly. "Your dear old friend is still a child playing the game of 'what you might call it' on the roof."

János told how he had seen a group of protestors attack the tanks on the main road with stones they had plucked from the pavements before running into one of the side streets. A tank had followed them. János had taken a box of matches and one of the petroleum bombs they had prepared – a bottle filled with petrol with a piece of cloth tucked at its opening – and climbed onto the rooftop. Running from roof to roof, he had reached the side street and stopped when he was sufficiently ahead of the tank. Shaking the bottle to make sure that the cloth was well soaked in petrol, he waited. And then, a strike of a match, a bottle in flames twirling about as it fell down, a deafening explosion! The back of a tank going up in smoke! Flames reaching the roof. Two soldiers trying to throw themselves out of the tank. János leaving the scene when he felt the roof underneath his feet start to give in.

All day long they listened to the radio. On the news bulletin, they announced that the curfew would be temporarily lifted the following day to let people do their food shopping. Towards midnight they went to sleep with their hearts in their mouths.

At four thirty in the morning they woke up to the sound of the radio they had kept on all night.

" _Gangs of rebels have been suppressed."_

"This is not a rebellion. It's our fight for freedom. We're not rebels. We're not a gang. We're freedom fighters." János was pacing up and down the room, furiously thumping the floor. He obviously found it hard to contain his explosive energy.

Two hours later an official announcement was made.

" _The attempted counterrevolutionary coup has been successfully routed. The counterrevolutionary gangs, who had started to pillage the city, have been largely eliminated."_

They ran out to the street as soon as the curfew was lifted. The streets were already teeming with people while more and more poured in. Contrary to the announcement made that morning, the armed struggle continued. Unlike the claims they had made, the "counterrevolutionary gangs" were not looters who had pillaged the city. The shop windows had been broken, but everything inside was untouched. The protestors were neither a gang of vandals, as had been claimed, nor were they fascists, but consisted of ordinary people, workers, students, housewives and old age pensioners. The Radio Building was still in the hands of the protestors. Groups were being formed, approaching the Soviet tanks on the streets, gesticulating to tell the Soviet soldiers that they were not fascists and that this was not a fascist uprising but a nationwide democratic, as well as a socialist, revolution. They heard that a couple of Soviet tanks, carrying the Hungarian tricolour and accompanied by people walking at its flanks, were rumbling towards the square in front of the Parliament Building.

Towards eleven Károly, János and Margit entered the square on one of the Soviet tanks, János victoriously waving a Hungarian flag. Flocks of people, joyous, enthusiastic and confident of victory, were rushing into the square. Before long, thousands of men, women and children filled the square. The soldiers coming out of the Soviet tanks acted incredibly friendly towards the crowd, for they must have finally realised that the Hungarian people were not their enemy. Károly noticed signs of panic on the faces of the two young soldiers, almost boys, coming out of the tank, looking lost as to where to turn their stupefied gaze. The Hungarian soldiers defending the government offices around the square were obviously more stupefied than the Soviet soldiers at the sight of this unexpected turn of events, unable to figure out which army those tanks with people holding Hungarian flags belonged to. A wave of rumour spread that the Soviets had changed sides. Everything was going for the better.

"That's it, folks! We've done it!" shouted Károly, throwing his arms first around János and then around Margit. He had to call his mother to give her the good news. He checked his pocket to see if he had a coin for the public phone before jumping off the tank and squeezing his way through the crowd towards the telephone booth on the corner of the Ministry of Agriculture. Once in the booth, he picked up the receiver. It was working. A miracle! He quickly dialled home. It was ringing.

" _Anya?_ "

He heard a series of gunshots. Putting his hand on the mouthpiece, he looked around in panic. The sound of gunfire increased. He let go of the phone and squatted, folding his arms around his head. He could hear his mother shrieking on the other side of the line. "Károly! Károly?" He reached for the receiver. "Don't worry, _Anyukám_. I'm all right. Everything is all right. I'm coming home," was all he could manage to say.

They had opened fire on the people in the square from the roof of the building behind him. He saw unarmed people trying to run away in panic, getting shot, collapsing to the ground right in front of his eyes. The friendly attitude of the Soviet soldiers spurting out of the tanks had suddenly vanished, and, taken aback by this change of events, they were now shooting randomly around them. After a few seconds they raised their guns towards the roof from where the initial shots had come and then, in panic, aimed back at the crowd in the square. They were shooting at the people they had been friendly to a few minutes ago, most probably thinking that they had been pulled into a trap.

Károly went out of the telephone booth, shouting, "János! Margit!"

He started at a deafening sound right behind him. A bullet had hit the glass door of the telephone booth, shattering it to shards. He threw himself on the ground, burying his head underneath his folded arms, and dragged himself towards the back of the booth for shelter. For a moment the crowd in front of him thinned out; through the gaps he saw Margit collapse on her knees on the tank. "Margit!" he yelled at the top of his lungs as he jumped back to his feet. "János!" He saw János turn around, kneel beside Margit and, taking her in his arms, start kissing her cheeks, her hair and her hands. He was stroking her head and her face, hugging her tightly and then showering her face with kisses again. Károly could read János's lips begging, "Margit!" as if he implored her to hang on. "Margit!" He then threw himself off the tank, took Margit in his arms and stormed his way through the panic-stricken crowd running frantically, not knowing where to run for protection while waving the bloody flags in their hands and shouting "Murderer ÁVH!" János was heading for one of the streets leading away from the square. Károly plunged into the crowd and, pushing and pulling his way through it, rushed towards the street after his friends.

Margit was shot in her thigh. A bullet had seared through it, leaving a deep wound behind. János was constantly repeating the same thing in her ear as he held her tightly in his arms, "It's nothing serious, my love. You'll be fine. Just fine. A bullet just hit and missed you. Nothing important. We'll take care of it in no time," he kept whispering, pressing her head tightly against his chest and caressing it. Being a nurse, Margit surely knew what her wound entailed, but she, nevertheless, listened to János in silence with a soft smile on her face. She looked so small between his arms. Károly's heart sank at the smile she wore despite her pain, a pain that must be unbearably agonising.

As soon as they arrived home, they put Margit to bed and, in line with her instructions, prepared the materials necessary for dressing her wound. The slight hesitation and the hardly visible trembling in János's hand as he pulled up Margit's skirt, uncovering her slender legs, told Károly that he had to leave them alone. János's pride in little Margit's bravery must have stirred a passion that had been sleeping in the depths of his heart.

"I'd better boil some more water," said Károly as he walked out of the room, although he knew that neither of them would hear him. When he returned, he saw János leaning over Margit, whose fingers were moving through János's hair. Thank you, God! Good for you, Margit. Little Margit with a big heart. He went back to the living room.

In the afternoon János went out to join the delegation from Miskolc to meet with Imre Nagy. Földvári, the Party Secretary at Miskolc, had accepted the demands of the workers. This was excellent news in that a manifesto in line with the manifesto of the students in Budapest had been prepared in one of the heavy industry forts of Hungary and accepted by the Party representatives. It was not "the intrigues plotted by a handful of counter-revolutionaries in the capital" as the officials had claimed, but the sign of the start of a nationwide revolution.

Finally, the phone in Margit's house started to work, and Károly managed to talk to his mother. She said she was fine and everything looked calm in Szentendre now, although there had been some commotion earlier on. She insisted that he bring Margit to Szentendre without further ado.

"I'll bring her tomorrow, _Anyukám_. Today I've got to attend a meeting. As members of the Petőfi Circle, we're expected at the Budapest Police Headquarters."

When Károly returned from the meeting, János was still nowhere to be seen.

26

Alex was thinking that she needed to pack her bags, for they would be going to Budapest soon. All of them. They should take Aslı along as well. When would they go? Next week perhaps. Or in a fortnight, at the latest. She had waited for so many years, but these few days ahead of her seemed unbearably long. She had been in an exceedingly joyful mood since yesterday, constantly making plans. She would take everything with her, all her clothes, everything. They would stay in Budapest for a very long time, a very long time indeed, a month, a year. Aziz would have to return, but they would stay there, mother, daughter and granddaughter. "Has her beloved city changed?" she wondered. How much? It probably was in a mess but would pick herself up in no time. It definitely would because it was beautiful in its essence, because beauty had been ingrained in its soul.

"We'll take Aslı as well, won't we, Aziz?"

"Take her where?"

"To Budapest, of course."

"She's far too young to travel."

"I must show my granddaughter to _Anyukám_. To Károly. To all of Budapest. And Aslı should see Budapest, Kengyel, Balaton." She suddenly fell silent. "Or rather whatever is left of it."

"One swallow doesn't make a summer, _ma petite_."

"Please, Aziz. Both you and your daughter do nothing but depress me with your pessimism."

"Holding a demonstration is something, throwing the Red Army out of their country is another. The Soviets won't give up on Hungary so easily."

Alex had invited Anastasia and Hristo over to share her happiness. Throughout dinner Aziz had talked about the latest developments, and he still carried on heatedly.

"At noon Nagy spoke on the radio, appealing for an end to the violence, promising that he would initiate the political reforms. The British press finds Nagy's approach to all of this rather unsatisfactory. And they're right. His entourage is distancing itself from him, which is pretty dangerous because, according to some, he might give up on everything if he's left on his own – or perhaps I should say he might be _made_ to give up on everything."

"What do you think he should do?" asked Hristo.

"First of all, Hungary should immediately withdraw from the Warsaw Pact and declare its neutrality. Then Nagy should demand that the United Nations deal with the conflict between Hungary and the Soviet Union. By moving out of the Warsaw Pact, they would be eliminating the Soviets' right to intervene. Any intervention would be considered not military assistance but an attack on a sovereign, neutral and independent country." He pointed his finger to the newspaper lying on the coffee table. "Did you read Ömer Sami Coşar's article in today's _Cumhuriyet?_ "

"I didn't have the time."

Aziz took the paper and found the article. "He makes a very good point," he said, as he started reading it. "'For instance,' he says, 'what would happen if there were a communist uprising in West Germany, and the American troops there intervened, suppressing the uprising as per the demands of the German government? Undoubtedly, Moscow Radio would lose no time in announcing that the people who wanted freedom were being suppressed by American imperialism. Therefore, how can it be possible to justify the Soviet Union's latest actions in Hungary, when we consider the fact that the Soviet leaders have been talking for months now about their intention not to intervene in the internal affairs of other countries?'"

"That's all well and good, Aziz, but even if Hungary left the Warsaw Pact, what might possibly prevent the Soviets from attacking an independent country?"

"You can talk all you like, but nothing will overshadow my happiness," Alex cried. She was determined not to let anything change her good spirits. "Come along, Anastasia, let's see if dinner is ready," she said as she stood up, hoping to put an end to this unpleasant conversation. "Aziz, why don't you let Lila know that dinner will be ready soon. She'll ruin her eyesight studying so much." She paused briefly before she continued. "Will you be having salad as a starter again?"

"I'm sick and tired of grazing! I declare this very day the independence day for my stomach. There's no way I can diet when we have Anastasia's vine leaf _dolmas_ on the table."

Aziz had put on some weight and, upon Haldun's insistence, had finally gone on a diet. Initially, he had made fun of Haldun, saying that he was obsessed with his health. "He's a total freak, he is! He says he has to eat so many grammes of walnuts and so many grammes of fibre-rich vegetables every day. He weighs everything. No fat or oil other than the best quality extra virgin olive oil is allowed in his house, and whatever olive oil finds its way into their kitchen doesn't even go near the stove. No frying! His cook is about to go insane, complaining that for a chef like him, a chef from Bolu, it's a disgrace to cook like that. I do hope Gül survives this health crusade." Despite his initial objections, Aziz had eventually agreed to see Monsieur Acemyan, a physician heartily recommended by Haldun and well-known for his successful diet programmes. After having listened to the advice of Monsieur Acemyan, Aziz had smiled ironically and asked if he were to eat the things on the diet list before or after meals. The physician must have taken Aziz's remark as a joke, but unfortunately Aziz had been deadly serious. He actually did eat whatever was on the list before the meals to curb his appetite. "He said that at dinner I should fill my stomach with lots of salad; he did not say that I should _only_ eat salad," he kept repeating as he grumbled over a huge bowl of mixed salad before he carried on with his usual dinner. "I do eat much less, haven't you noticed?" he told Alex after each meal. This evening, however, he had no desire to curb his appetite with salad.

Hristo, on the other hand, was saying that he had invented a new method to lose weight. "I'm having my inner organs removed," he said, alleviating the seriousness of the operation he had had a month ago to have his gall bladder removed.

When Alex and Anastasia returned from the kitchen, they found Aziz and Hristo standing by the radio.

"The news bulletin is about to start."

" _Budapest Radio has made an announcement about the civil war that has been going on in Hungary for the last three days ..."_

"Civil war? They don't hesitate to exaggerate if it means providing a sensation for people to listen to."

"Hush, Aziz. Hush up, please."

" _... Kádár referred to the events of the last two days as a counter-revolution. According to an official source confirmed by Budapest Radio, Soviet armed forces have intervened to suppress the uprising in Budapest. As reported by generally well-informed sources, around fifty people have died during the clashes. Prime Minister Nagy said that they would soon start negotiations with the Soviets to ensure the removal of the Soviet troops from Hungary."_

"The cheese turnovers are cooked, madam. Dinner is ready to be served whenever you are."

Alex felt her knees giving way. Should she be happy or should she be sad? "What's going on, Aziz? What on earth is going on?" She grabbed Aziz by his collar and started shaking him. "What's happening, for God's sake?"

"You need not worry, _ma petite_. I've already told you. It won't be easy." He took Alex in his arms. "But it will happen. Don't you worry. Károly will soon be free. They'll all be free." He was stroking Alex's hair.

"Let's call him, Aziz."

"The lines are cut, Alex. You know that. Just a little bit more patience, and everything will be fine. Believe me."

"We should call the Hungarian consulate." She pulled herself away from Aziz's arms and ran to the phone. "The number! What was it?" She started flipping through the pages of the telephone book. "Where is the wretched number?" she hissed as her trembling fingers searched through one of the pages.

"What will you ask them, Alex? Will you be able to get an answer to your queries?"

He was right. What would she ask? Is Károly alive? Where is Rudi? Is he alive? Is _Anyukám_ alive? When will you throw the Russians out? When will you save our country? When will I be able to return to my homeland? When will I be able to see my loved ones? She snapped the phone book shut in anger. She felt so utterly ineffective. There was nothing she could do. She felt miserable. Frustrated! Infuriated!

"Leave me alone!" she shouted at Aphrodite, who was circling around her. "Enough! I've had enough of all of you!"

27

Next morning there was still no sign of János. Margit did not want to leave for Szentendre before he came back. She was in no condition to go anyway. All day long Károly prepared Molotov cocktails and every once in a while looked out the window to see what was going on outside, recounting what he saw to Margit, who was not supposed to move too much.

"Someone is placing some round things on the road," he said, squinting his eyes and moving closer to the window to see what exactly they were. "They look like frying pans. Yes, yes they are. Frying pans placed upside down. They look like mines from a distance. Mines for the tanks!" He burst out laughing. "Where is your frying pan, Margit?" he asked as he ran out of the room.

"In the cupboard underneath the sink."

He walked over to the counter Margit used as her kitchen in one end of the living room, took the frying pan out of the chipped cupboard and returned to the bedroom. Opening the window, he called out to the protestors and threw the frying pan towards them. A few paces ahead, another group was spilling oil at the entrance of a side street. The Hungarian citizens were displaying all their resourcefulness in their fight against the Soviet tanks.

"I'm worried about János. I hope he's all right."

"I'm sure he is, Margit. He should be here any minute now. Don't worry."

He saw a Soviet tank further ahead on the road. It was moving closer. The protestors scattered to hide in the apartment buildings where they waited in silence. Finally when the tank was close enough, they opened fire. As the tank turned its gun towards them, they came out of their hiding places and ran towards the side street. Károly threw a couple of the Molotov cocktails he had prepared onto the tank but without any success. The tank slowly turned around and followed the protestors into the street. Károly knew exactly what would happen next. The protestors would let the tank follow them from street to street, hoping that one of the Molotov cocktails thrown out of the windows would hit it and immediately turn it into a barricade. If the worst came to the worst and the tank was not hit, the protestors would go into a street too narrow for the tank to enter, and disappear.

A few minutes before nine the doorbell rang. At that ordinary sound, the expression on Margit's sullen face, betraying her deep anxiety, suddenly changed, giving way to a huge and luminous smile, while Károly, who had been no less worried than Margit about János's delayed return, but had been trying his best to hide his apprehension lest he worsened Margit's fears, let out a sigh of relief. "At long last!" they both exclaimed simultaneously. János was finally back.

"They say it was the Secret Police who opened fire from the roofs on the crowd in the square yesterday. They don't have the exact figures, but the estimated number of fatalities is frighteningly high. As to the casualties, they say they were carried away by the busload."

János looked exhausted. He lay next to Margit, taking her in his arms, and gave her a long kiss on the lips. Károly found it hard to believe his eyes. János was in love! He loved her. For a moment he saw his own love for Ada in the way János looked at Margit.

"The Party might be trying to provoke the workers against the protestors, but the students have already united with the workers. I talked to the representative from the Lenin Metallurgy Works in Miskolc in a meeting at the university." His eyes had a sparkle that denied his exhaustion. He pulled Margit closer to him in the excitement of all that had been happening, then, realising that he had hurt her, he bent over and planted a compassionate kiss next to her wound before carrying on with his animated discourse. "These are not sparsely scattered instances of leaderless uprisings. We're talking about a nationwide democratic movement. The demonstrations and armed clashes in other cities are swiftly growing in numbers. More and more workers support us. They're tearing down the red flags all over the country and pulling down the red stars on the buildings. They're burning piles of pro-communism books in the streets, toppling the Soviet monuments, tearing down the portraits of communist idols and smashing their statues. They hung Rákosi's bust from a lamp post on Kálvin Square." He jumped out of bed, having recuperated his strength in a surprisingly short time. His energy was once again overflowing from his body. "The Revolutionary Committees are spreading all over the country. The National Guards are quickly organising themselves. Csepel is leading the way. They've already occupied the police station there." He went into the bathroom and washed his hands and face under the trickling tap water.

Károly followed him. "How about Nagy? What is he doing?" he asked, leaning on the bathroom door.

"He'll have his cabinet by tomorrow, but there are more important things he needs to do. We told him that, first and foremost, he needs to call this protest officially a 'National Democratic Revolution' and come forward as its leader. And most importantly he has to move his office from the Party Headquarters to the Parliament Building to show that it's the government that is running the country, not a single party."

"Has he agreed?"

"He doesn't promise anything," said János, shrugging his shoulders. He dried his face and went back to lie down beside Margit, taking her in his arms. "How did your meeting at the Police Headquarters go?" he asked, without taking his eyes off Margit.

"They promised to release some of the political figures who are being kept under surveillance."

Margit's dressing showed signs of bleeding. János went to the bathroom and returned with the materials he needed to change her dressing.

"I want to go to Szentendre tomorrow," said Károly. "I'm really worried about Mother. I'd like to take Margit with me and leave her there with my mother. What do you think?"

János sat on the bed. "I've just found you," he said in a tender voice, stroking Margit's cheek. "How can I possibly leave you so soon?"

Károly was dumbfounded by what he was witnessing. János's seriousness and the harsh tone of his voice, which had remained unchanged ever since his childhood, seemed to have melted away. Enfolding Margit in his embrace, he whispered something in her ear.

"I'll come back on Sunday," Károly said as he walked out of the room, although he was sure that neither János nor Margit would hear what he said. "I need to attend the founders' meeting of the Revolutionary Committee of the Hungarian Intelligentsia." He gently closed the door and lay on the sofa in the living room. Everything was changing for the better and would soon go back to normal. Everything would be as it once was. Ada would return. His daughters would come back. They would all be together again. Ada, his one and only beloved, his wife, the love of his life, she would finally be able to come back.

On Saturday Károly took Margit to Szentendre and left her in the reassuring hands of Gizella before returning to Budapest on Sunday. On Monday evening, soon after its establishment, the Revolutionary Committee of the Hungarian Intelligentsia held a meeting with prominent figures from the police and the armed forces. It was almost eleven at night when Károly returned home.

He was nicely surprised to find János lying on Margit's empty bed, cuddling her pillow. After a series of questions from his friend about Margit's health, mood and comfort, they started talking about the events of the last three days. János's voice, which was back to its original harsh tones, amusingly contrasting with the emotional look he offered as he embraced the pillow of his sweetheart, made Károly smile. "I understand that you've finally convinced Nagy," he said, trying to put on a serious face.

"We did indeed. We're no longer simple protestors but the official leaders of a broad national democratic movement, freedom fighters struggling to set our country free and bring democracy to our politics." János threw aside the pillow he had been cuddling and jumped out of bed. "Are you hungry?" he asked, dashing into the living room without waiting for Károly's reply.

Károly got up and walked to where János had already started to prepare something to eat, whistling a merry melody. "Does Nagy himself believe he can keep his promise?" he asked, sitting down at the small dining table.

"He can keep it. It will all come true, Károly. It already _is_ coming true. The Red Army is preparing to retreat from Budapest. Liberation is very close at hand, old chap." János looked over his shoulder at Károly. "The Police? What are they saying to all of this?"

"They want a ceasefire. We told them that we shall resist until all our demands are met. No one will bury his hatchet until a multi-party system is well established and the Soviets are out of Hungary. Nagy demanding their withdrawal doesn't mean anything. He might say that there will be a peaceful settlement, but I still find it hard to believe that he'll be able to do some of the things he claims he'll do. He might be riding the horse now, but I don't think he's the one who holds the reins."

János put a plate of pickled cucumbers and a few slices of stale bread on the table. "Well well. My pessimism seems to have passed on to you," he joked as he pulled a chair and sat down. "The single-party system is over, Károly. Our new government was sworn in yesterday. Their programme is ready. Nagy has moved to the Parliament Building, signalling the end of the Party's hegemony. You must have heard that Gerő and his entourage fled last night. The Hungarian soldiers are replacing the Soviet soldiers guarding the government buildings. What else do you want?"

"These things mean nothing. The resistance still has no direction. We don't have a leader. Why doesn't Nagy officially assume the leadership of the revolution?"

"Patience, my friend, just a little bit of patience. First, they'll close down the Party. They have to because it has a bad reputation. A new party will be born, a new party to represent the new policy."

"Why don't you say that they'll only be changing its name, hoping that with a few strokes of fresh make-up they'll be able to cover up the stains on its credibility. I can't understand why you're still a member of this party."

"Do you think I have any other choice?" said János, his eyes suddenly blackened behind one of those dark clouds from his youth.

28

During the course of the whole weekend, Alex practically lived by the radio and read all the newspapers word by word. She had been unable to eat much of anything these last days, not sleeping before the early hours of the morning and getting up at dawn. Aziz, ignoring his usual sleeping hours, had accompanied Alex in waiting for the news bulletin at midnight. Yesterday Prime Minister Nagy demanded that the Soviet military troops immediately withdrew from Budapest and its surrounding areas. Very soon, hoped Alex, it's very soon now.

She lit a cigarette and settled down at one end of the dining table to write to her friend Maria.

Istanbul, 29th October 1956

My dearest Maria,

You must have heard what has been going on in Hungary since last Tuesday ...

She started at Aziz's voice.

"The Red Army won't remain a passive spectator to all that is going on."

She put down her pen. He was talking on the phone. She hated these pessimistic comments of his.

"There are rumours that Kádár might have taken asylum in the Soviet Union."

Unwilling to listen to any more of his disheartening comments, she turned back to her letter.

... Károly will soon be free, Maria. _Anyukám_ will be free. I'll be able to go to my country, to my Budapest. You can't imagine how agonisingly painful it is to be separated from your loved ones, from your family, from your roots; how incurably sorrowful it is to be away from the places you were born in, from the fragrances you grew up with, not being allowed even a visit to the tombs of your loved ones. This exile has been going on for seventeen years, Maria. It will, however, be coming to an end very soon. My only wish now is that Károly survives this hurdle unscathed as well. You know how hot-blooded he is. I'm truly scared that, ignoring his age, he would ...

She heard Aziz put the phone down.

"Who was it, Aziz?"

"İskender. He called from London."

"İskender? That's a nice surprise. What happened? Have you forgiven him?"

Aziz's eyes were fixed on the phone he had just hung up. "Though rather belated, he says he's made up for the mistake he committed back in 1944. He says he did all he could to ensure the return of the shooting star he once ..." he mumbled before cutting short and turning his eyes to Alex. "However, I haven't completely forgiven him yet."

"What did he do, for goodness' sake? I do wonder what could be so unpardonable."

"He trampled on my honour, Alex. He made me lose my self-respect."

"I'm sure you are exaggerating it all. When it comes to your honour, your tolerance level is rather limited. Well, whatever. I'm glad that you'll be seeing each other again, him being the first one of your friends that I met." Alex checked the time. "The news bulletin should be starting now. Shall we listen?"

Aziz walked to the radio and raised its volume. The commentator's voice spread into the room.

" _The Soviet Defence Secretary Marshal Zhukov, who attended the reception given at the Turkish Embassy in Moscow today to celebrate the thirty-third anniversary of our republic, said, "The Soviet forces have ceased fire in Hungary, but their withdrawal depends on the decision to be made by the members of the Warsaw Pact." On the other hand, the Hungarian Defence Secretary made an announcement on Budapest Radio this evening, saying that the Soviet troops are preparing to withdraw from Budapest. The news, which has not yet been confirmed by the revolutionary sources, might be taken to mean, if they prove to be true, the actual collapse of the communist regime in Hungary."_

"Liberation," whispered Alex. "They're really pulling it off." She was so excited she could not stand still. "Hungary will be liberated, Aziz!"

The news bulletin continued.

" _According to a British source, the Soviet forces have no intention of pulling out of Budapest. The same source claims that new Soviet forces have entered Hungary and are now moving in the direction of Budapest. It has been reported that certain Soviet troops and the Hungarian Secret Police are acting rather ruthlessly."_

"Turn it off, Aziz! Turn it off! Enough! I've heard enough."

" _However, the Hungarians seem determined not to give in easily. The revolutionaries have established control over a large part of Hungary."_

Alex flung herself out onto the veranda, ran straight to the gazebo and collapsed into her rocking chair. With her trembling hands, she took out the packet of cigarettes and lighter from her pocket and lit a cigarette. She leaned her head back, blowing the smoke towards the dark sky. Ares and Aphrodite had followed her and curled up by her feet. She turned her blank gaze to her dogs. Encouraged by her mistress's unexpected interest in her, Aphrodite jumped to her feet and started licking her hand. Alex stroked her soft fur, looking into her eyes always hungry for love.

"What's going to happen, Aphrodite? Will they be liberated?"

She leaned her head back again and looked up at the sky. "Where are you, Rudi?" she asked the stars. "Are you in Hungary? Are you alive?"

Aphrodite was murmuring as if in reply to Alex's questions, trying to give her mistress some peace of mind. Alex turned her gaze back to the loving eyes.

"Don't worry, you're saying, aren't you, my love? Nothing will happen to him, you're saying. Shall I believe you? Shall I?"

She wanted to believe it. She should not let her hopes abandon her. There had been a revolution. A revolution in her country. Slavery was over. This time, it was really over. Károly would be able to leave Hungary. He would be able to come here. Here! To her! They would be together again, just like in the old days. Rudi should be alive, and he should be in Hungary. Even if he were not, he would return, and they would finally reunite.

She watched the Bosphorus, a ritual of lights in the dark night, illuminated by the twinkling lights on the anglers' boats in search of some late night catches. A tiny source of light, she thought. She would hang on to any remaining light of hope, however tiny it was, until the very end.

29

In less than two days, on Wednesday towards noontime, the last remaining troops of the Red Army withdrew from Budapest. "Perhaps," Károly thought, "Nagy does hold the reins of the horse he's riding after all." Everything would be fine. Things seemed to be going back to normal. The Soviet oppression would be coming to an end. Would it really end? And when it did, would Budapest be able to shoulder the destruction of this tragedy as well? Under what conditions would it be able to do that? Most of the buildings were in ruins. The streets were full of destroyed Soviet tanks, guns, military trucks and dead bodies. Keeping up their hopes, people were trying, yet again, to clean up the debris of the war in their capital and put the Pearl of the Danube back on its feet. Everybody was working hand in hand to clean the rubble in the streets and clear away the barricades, enthusiastically tearing down the red stars on the buildings. Revolutionary committees, revolutionary youth organisations, workers' councils, local and national committees were mushrooming all over the country. They were emptying the cells in the Győr prison. Rumours spread that the same thing was being repeated in other prisons. Foreign aid was imminent. A large number of newspapers were back in press and the films from the West were now being shown in the movie theatres.

Sensing that János would no longer survive Margit's absence, Károly told him that he wanted to go home, as he had left his mother alone for too long. They went to Szentendre in the afternoon.

Margit had recuperated with amazing speed, either because of Gizella's impeccable care or because of her love for János kindling her desire to get well so that she could go back to Budapest sooner than later. Károly was surprised at János being so much in love, but what surprised him even more was his mother Gizella showing an incredible level of tolerance to Margit and János kissing and embracing in front of her. "I've known Margit since she was a baby," she said while showing unbelievable affection towards János, admitting that they both were like her own children now. The love between Margit and János was the only blissful event in their life at the moment, and everyone, including József and Éva, who had joined them towards seven in the evening, hung on to that love like a drowning man to a life jacket.

Éva was terribly worried, for she had not heard from her son Teodor since Monday. Teodor, ignoring his father's objections, worked at the organisation of MEFESZ, the Hungarian Association of University and College Unions. No one knew where he had been sleeping or what he had been eating for the last two days. Despite all her apprehension and József's angry remarks, Éva could not hide how proud she was of her son.

Károly felt a shy revival of his old optimism. "Our committee assumed the leadership of the revolution. We're trying to join up with the other committees. Everything is gradually going back to normal. In our meeting with Nagy yesterday, we saw much more clearly that our country had been on the verge of a disaster. They say that, because of the incidents in Győr, the country was about to be divided in two just like in Korea, were Nagy a few days late in setting up the government."

József carried on with his laments, looking determined not to let the black clouds hovering above Károly disperse. "You can't assume that the danger is no more. It's beyond me why everyone presumes that the Soviets have withdrawn from Hungary. So far they've only pulled out of Budapest, and Budapest doesn't mean Hungary. They haven't yet left our country, have they?" He was standing by János and Margit, spreading his arms wide and then furiously slapping his legs. "How can you be so sure that the Soviets won't make a U-turn and come right back? I do wonder how long Khrushchev will wait. Do you really believe that he will accept raising the Iron Curtain from Hungary? It's like the silence before a thunderstorm. I'm afraid military intervention is right at our doorstep." He collapsed onto the sofa, his face gone livid.

"The United Nations will step in," said János calmly without taking his hand from Margit's wounded leg. "Hungary is now a democratic country run by the Hungarians. A Soviet intervention into our internal affairs will be considered a criminal act. This time they won't be able to put on the mask of a 'saviour' either."

"Forget about the United Nations!" burst in József, jumping to his feet. "That organisation has a much more important deal on its agenda: the negotiations over the Suez Canal. They will undoubtedly forget about Hungary."

On Monday Israel had launched an attack on Egypt in Sinai.

That night Károly, having left his bedroom to the new lovers, slept very uneasily and uncomfortably in the attic amidst the intense odours of thinner and oil paint and woke up very early, before everyone else, to be the first one to hear the upsetting news: the Soviet troops had changed direction and were now moving not towards the country's borders but towards Budapest.

They kept close to the radio the whole day. Nagy made a speech in the evening, announcing Hungary's withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact and declaring that he had asked the United Nations to handle the conflict between Hungary and the Soviet Union. It was, however, extremely questionable whether this would stop the Soviets. An uneasy and apprehensive waiting commenced.

On Saturday afternoon Margit said that she was feeling well and, despite Gizella's objections and insistence that she stay with her, returned to Budapest with János. Károly remained in Szentendre, thinking that it would be better to leave János and Margit alone and not to leave his mother on her own. The Red Army was moving closer and closer to the capital. They had set up their headquarters at Szolnok. Yesterday the government had dispatched a delegation to Szolnok to renew its demand for the withdrawal of the Soviets from Hungary.

Feeling the cold breath of the Kremlin on their necks, people dared not enjoy their victory, frequently questioning if they really had gained a victory in the first place. That night Károly and Gizella, like the rest of the country, fell into an uneasy sleep filled with nightmares provoked by the Soviet threat and sporadically embellished with the rose-coloured dreams evoked by the hopes blossoming in their hearts.

A few minutes after midnight they both woke up to the sound of their phone ringing. It was János. A few hours ago, the KGB had arrested the head of the Hungarian delegation sent to the Soviet headquarters at Szolnok. The whole country was talking about this most dangerous development, but they should not lose hope. The victory was theirs. They would resist. Besides, the United Nations would never allow such an intervention. Everything was already going back to normal. Order had been restored. They now had a multi-party system and a coalition government. Most of the workers' councils had already agreed to end their strikes. The Government had taken everything under control. The crisis in Hungary was over, and no foreign intervention was required. They retired to their rooms with a tinge of hope tentatively warming their hearts.

A few minutes later both Károly and Gizella were back in the living room as they found sleep impossible. They turned on the radio and started to wait in silence.

What they heard on the news at five in the morning froze their blood. It was announced that Kádár, who had taken asylum in the Soviet Union, had set up a government-in-exile in Moscow. Everything was clear now. There was no longer any doubt as to who was holding the reins of the horse Nagy was riding.

" _The Hungarian Revolutionary Workers and Peasants Government has been established. As the mass movement of October 23 has turned into a fascist uprising, it has been deemed necessary to demand the assistance of the Red Army."_

Fifteen minutes later they heard Nagy's voice on the Free Kossuth Radio.

" _This war is the Hungarian people's war of independence against the Soviet intervention. Most probably, I only have a few more hours at my post as prime minister. The world will witness the suppression of the uprising of the Hungarian people by the Soviet armed forces, ignoring all agreements and conventions. They will also witness how they will be kidnapping the prime minister of a country which is a member of the United Nations. I demand that the leaders of the revolution leave the country, if at all possible, and turn this speech of mine, along with all the issues we decided upon, into a memorandum. The leaders of the revolution must demand assistance from other countries and make them understand that what is happening in Hungary today might happen to their countries in the future, since the imperialism of Moscow knows no bounds."_

About an hour later it was announced that Kádár had landed in Szolnok.

Neither Károly nor Gizella uttered a sound. Károly was standing dead still in front of the window, his frozen stare fixed on the horizon. A monotonous metallic sound, the sound of war, was constantly reverberating in his ears. The sound of the cannons, the sirens, the nerve-racking whizzing of the planes, the thunderous rumbling of a building collapsing, the footsteps of those running in panic to the shelters, shrieks, wailing women, howling men, crying children mixed with the smell of burning flesh he knew so well, scorching his nose. The groups of people unearthing the pavement stones, pulling down the tram lines and spreading them on the roads paraded in front of his mind's eye as barricades rose, only to be crushed minutes later by the ruthless tanks.

On November 4, 1956, at eight in the morning, Budapest surrendered to the Red Army.

They were reciting a poem on the radio.

" _Nations surround the grave_

where a country lies,

Millions cry and mourn

With painful sighs."

"God damn it! God damn them all!" he shouted. "Everything was a set-up. A set-up by the Russians. The demonstrations on October 23, everything, every single thing was nothing but a set-up. A trap to clean up the revolutionaries. And we all fell for it."

"What's wrong, Károly?" asked Gizella, coming out of the bathroom.

Károly raised his arms above his head and placed his palms against the window, repeating the same thing over and over again with his head hanging down. "No one can help us anymore. No one! It's all over. It's really over now." He briskly raised his head. "I'll never be able to see Ada. I'll never be able to see my daughters. Never! Never again!" He pulled his hands away from the window, clenched his fists and banged them on the glass with all his might. He did not even try to move away from the shattering glass. He felt a burning sensation on his forehead, on his head, on his hands, but he did not care. The pain made him forget the suffering that burned his heart. He tightened his fists, pushing his fingernails into the flesh of his palms, raised his right hand and smacked a remaining piece of glass on the frame. Then another one! He howled his agony at the top of his lungs. The mist of his burning breath disappeared into the cold and dark air of the night.

"Károly!" his mother shouted in a pleading voice. She had run to him and was desperately trying to hold his bleeding hands. Her trembling hands stroked his cheeks. "Come on, son," she implored, as she sought to pick out the pieces of broken glass from his face. "Don't despair, Károly. We've seen much worse, son. It'll pass. Believe me, this too shall pass."

Two days later József and Éva had made up their minds. "Apparently, the borders are open, Károly. They cleared the barbed wire and the mines in most areas. They say there's a passage to Austria. We're leaving, and we want both of you to come with us."

Károly did not answer. He was looking at his mother. Gizella, most probably pretending not to have heard any of their conversation, was engrossed in mending a cardigan.

József carried on enthusiastically. "Nagy and a group of his closest aides have taken asylum in the Yugoslavian Embassy this morning. Have you heard from János and Margit? Do you think they might have defected as well?"

"János would never flee. He would never abandon Hungary."

30

Károly was packing up his paints and brushes in the attic. Did he really want to move to Béla's studio? He was not so sure. He was not sure of anything anymore.

On November 10, the last pocket of resistance at Csepel Island, unable to resist the bombings from the Soviet planes any longer, had also demanded a ceasefire. However, their resistance did continue on a political level. KMT, the Greater Budapest Central Workers' Council, had been set up the day before and already started negotiations with the new Kádár government, although there was not much hope. For the first time in his life, Károly felt completely hopeless. He had no desire or energy left to do anything. He picked up the telegram on the table. "We've received your parcel intact," said Ada, meaning that József, Éva and Teodor had arrived in Paris safe and sound. Paris! Ada ... his daughters ... He had to go. He had to flee as well.

With a sudden urge, he took out the paints and brushes he had just packed and went to the table he used as an easel. He placed his last empty canvas on the table, first on its short side then on its long side, and finally, deciding to keep it on its short side, he leaned it against the wall. He tore the last piece of dressing off his right hand. His wound must have healed by now. He squeezed whatever paint was left in the tubes onto the piece of glass he used as a palette. Oranges, darker oranges, reds. Irregular planes of white and dirty blue, vaguely visible behind a bright red veil. The silhouette of an imaginary tower opening up to other worlds with different boundaries. _The Phantom Tower_.

He had to flee. They all had to flee. The borders were still open, and this was probably their last chance.

"Dinner is ready, son," he heard his mother call.

\- CURTAIN -
March 2009  
Istanbul

Rüya arrived in Istanbul late that night and first thing next morning went to see _Thicha_ Anastasia who, instead of answering her questions, gave her a nylon bag full of faded old letters, saying that everything she wanted to know was in that bag. Her visit did not last very long; Anastasia soon sent her away, as she must have seen how impatient she was to go home and indulge herself in her newfound treasure. "It was well worth coming all that way," she thought, lovingly embracing the bag of realised dreams as she left her flat. "Some of them are Alex's letters to me, mostly from Paris," Anastasia had explained. "There are other letters as well. Take your time, sweetheart. Read them slowly, as it might be hard to digest it all." Rüya remembered what Mami had said some time ago in the hospital. "Open my lilac wardrobe, Rüya, and take whatever you fancy. Dried apricots are delicious. So are the dried figs. However, you won't be able to finish them all, so don't rush. Consume them slowly, dear, or else you'll have a severe case of indigestion. Do you understand what I mean, _tatlım?_ "

She smiled. The elevator had arrived. Once inside, she took out a letter from the bag. It had Anastasia's address on it, but the handwriting did not belong to Mami. Secret love letters written to Anastasia? She could not even imagine _Thicha_ Anastasia having a secret love affair! No, they had to do something with Mami. A peculiar surge of excitement seized her when she saw the stamp on the envelope showing that it had been posted from Paris on March 25, 1959. Her heart started pounding as her trembling hands took out the sheets out of the envelope.

Another curtain is rising, revealing a brand new stage.

" _The Highest Council of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics has pardoned you. Whatever you have seen or experienced during your imprisonment is a secret of the State. Therefore, anything you disclose in relation thereto shall be deemed an act of espionage and constitute the grounds for your conviction."_

"Good morning." The elevator had stopped on the fifth floor on its way down, and Hüseyin _Efendi_ , the concierge, had stepped in.

"Good morning," said Rüya offhandedly as she hurried to tuck the sheets of paper and the envelope back into the bag.

"Have you been to see Madame Anastasia?"

Of course I've been to see her. Who else lives here that I know? "Yes. She seems to be in good form."

She felt a new surge of energy rejuvenating her as things promised to take on a new meaning, or perhaps to reveal their inherently true meaning that she had so far failed to see. There was one more thing she had to do before she left for Paris: she would talk to her grandmother. It was rather incredible that Mami, who had kept a diary registering the events of almost every single day of her life, had suddenly given up this passion of hers and, after 1959, only filled a few thin notebooks. Rüya was convinced that there were closets in Çamlık other than the lilac wardrobe that were kept under lock and key. Just as she had imagined, Mami must have lived a more colourful life than had been recounted, not only in her youth but all through her life. Otherwise, she would not have stayed in this world for almost a century.

Suddenly she remembered what her grandmother had once said. "I recall the day she was taken to the hospital. It was a few days before the war broke out. I was only four years old then, but I remember everything as if it all happened yesterday. 'She is deranged,' they told me. I thought it meant she had a cold. Poor soul. She had tried to kill herself. After that, she could never pull herself together again. With the onslaught of the war, her whole world turned into a nightmare ... and nothing changed much after it had ended. She exasperated us, always slumped in deep dejection with an unbearably sullen face that went on and on for years ... We didn't see her smile until 1959." How come I missed that detail, Rüya thought in self-reproach. Did Mami's mood really change after 1959? Did she really smile? Was she actually happy after that? Was her life as Rüya had imagined it in her book?

She had to go Paris right away. There was no time to lose. They would be filming Act Three. Act Three! _Csárdás!_ Another realm where emotions soar to their climax. A _Csárdás_ that is no longer a dream, like the happy ending Rüya had imagined for Mami. Perhaps Alex did have a _Csárdás_ after all. Perhaps her rhapsody was not a broken one.

Everything was changing. Dreams were turning into reality, and perhaps the reality was turning into a dream. Everything was coming together again, just like at the very beginning. Finally, the scattered threads of Alex's life were being braided together again.
ACT THREE

_Csárdás_ , the third and final part of the rhapsody, is another realm where emotions soar to their climax.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Three, Tableau Six  
1959

Tableau Six

31

They stopped in front of the Hôtel Ritz. The snow had started to fall heavily again, disguising everything behind its white veil. They waited for the valet to come with his large umbrella and provide them with some protection. The revolving doors of the hotel spun. A man dashed out, his coat carelessly thrown over his arm in defiance of the strong wind sending splashes of snow onto his exquisite, and obviously tailor-made, light grey white-striped double-breasted suit, a declaration that he did not have to wear dark colours in wintertime. The valet, in due respect, ran with his umbrella to shield this important client of his against the whipping snow. They practically flew over the slippery pavement. The valet proudly opened the door to a '59 model brand new white Cadillac and, clearly taking great pleasure in what he was doing, helped his prestigious client get in. Lila dreamily watched the car shoot out onto the road.

"Daddy should buy one of those, Mami."

"Come on, Lila. Let's get going."

The valet opened the door of the taxi and extended his hand in courteous anticipation. They got out of the taxi and carefully walked towards the revolving doors. Lila stuck her head out of the protective cover of the umbrella, looking up at the sky. "Paris!" she exclaimed, spreading her arms wide as though she wanted to embrace the snowflakes hitting against her face. "I love this city. Everything about it is so special."

Alex smiled as she ushered her daughter towards the door. "Come on now. It's freezing. Let's go in."

Last year in May Lila had graduated from the American College for Girls in Istanbul and in September had come to Paris to improve her French. She had been here for four months, staying with Ada. After Alex's arrival in Paris three days ago, she had moved to Alex's room at the Hôtel Ritz.

Following her daughter through the revolving doors, a smell, a fragrance rather different than the usual odours of the hotel, filled Alex's nose. What was it? She did not go in but carried on turning with the door, taking a deep breath. She suddenly felt dizzy. Back on the street again, the wind-swept snowflakes hit her face. She waved away the valet rushing towards her with his umbrella and pushed the door to go back inside. Lila was waiting for her, gesturing to her with her hand as if to say, "What on earth are you doing?" A peculiar sensation grabbed her heart. Was it uneasiness? No, it was not. Her stomach twisted in a knot. She stopped breathing for a brief instant. The same thing had happened last night at the concert. It was not a sinking feeling, neither was it anxiety. She could not exactly figure out what it was.

Lila dropped their shopping bags at the concierge to be taken up to their room and came back. They walked towards the Espadon Restaurant on the ground floor, which had opened three years ago. Alex had invited Ada and her daughters for lunch, assuming that they had never eaten there. Passing by the windows further ahead on the winding corridor that overlooked the courtyard known as the Vendôme Garden, she remembered their first stay at the hotel. The manager had proudly shown them the fountain in the middle of this courtyard, elegantly decorated by marble statues made in the Trianon-style. Trianon! Like all other Hungarians, this word had only one meaning for Alex, a meaning deeply ingrained in her mind: the dismembering of her country. The beginning of the end. It all seemed so far away now, belonging to another lifetime, to another reality.

Alex left her fur coat and hat along with Lila's tweed coat at the cloakroom before entering the restaurant. Ada and her daughters were sitting at one of the tables by the window. Alex had seen them every single day since her arrival here, and each time she saw a little bit more of Károly in Ada, in Juli and in Dóra. She even smelled him in them. Ada was pretty much saying the same thing, with obvious longing in her voice, "I see his eyes in yours, Alex."

"Well, if you miss him so much, why don't you leave Hans and go back to your husband?" Alex wanted to say, but thought better of it. Juli was eighteen years old, and Dóra sixteen. They were old enough to manage on their own in Paris. Ada could leave them, but it obviously did not suit her to go back to Hungary. It was not an easy option, of course. "Well, anyway," Alex cut her thoughts short, "it's her life." She could not help, however, being angry with Ada, for it was her who had ruined Károly's life and still carried on doing it.

They ordered their food. Alex chose an exquisite bottle of red wine. They drank to the health of those who were not there with them.

"How is your mother? Károly hardly writes these days."

How can you expect him to write, Ada? You're living with another man, for Heaven's sake!

"She's all right ... as much as she can be." She noticed that she had raised an eyebrow. In panic, she lowered it, recalling the arrogantly raised eyebrow of her mother and then of her mother-in-law and finally of her sister-in-law Necla. "Do you hear from János?" she continued, wiping the eyebrows out of her mind.

"There is talk of a general amnesty. We're desperately waiting for it. In a way, we may consider ourselves lucky, you know. They are hanging everyone, Alex. Everyone! The prison won't kill János. He's tough. He's resilient. He's been through so much; I'm sure he'll survive this as well."

"Margit, our quiet, sweet Margit. How deeply she must love Jancsi. I can't believe she even followed him to prison."

Three months ago János and Margit had been arrested and tried on charges of "voluntary treason against the democratic state of the Hungarian people" whereupon János had been sentenced to ten years and Margit to five years of imprisonment. After the revolution of '56 János had been dismissed from his position at Diósgyőr upon his refusal to join the party Kádár had set up. He had carried on as the leader of the Miskolc Workers' Council for a while before joining KMT, the Greater Budapest Central Workers' Council. As KMT, they negotiated with the Kádár government, demanding the withdrawal of the Soviets from Hungary, free elections, secret balloting and the recognition of the Nagy government and of the workers' councils. János secretly worked for the reorganisation of MSzMP, the Hungarian Socialist Workers' Party, and for its reformation from the very lower ranks to the very top while ousting Rákosi's supporters. In a very short time, KMT turned into a forum coordinating the resistance on a national level, organising strikes and meetings. Margit was always by János's side, also working at KMT, organising and leading women's marches, proudly carrying the revolution flag. Kádár kept on defaming the revolution and the revolutionaries and declared KMT an illegal organisation. János and Margit, however, never gave up fighting for their freedom, despite the arrests without charges, unexplained deaths, murders covered up as suicides, intimidations and threats. Finally a few months after Nagy's execution, they were arrested and convicted of treason.

"Margit never loved anyone else," continued Alex. "In fact János didn't love anyone else either."

Ada smiled cheekily, raising her eyebrows as she cut a piece from her _saignant_ steak. "Come on, Alex, we all know how it is," her eyes seemed to say.

"No, Ada, he didn't. He thought he loved me, but what he felt for me was not love. I was the trophy in the battle between him and Rudi, his eternal competitor. I was the proof of the superiority of the winner in that power game, the prize he would never win. I might not have seen it then, but now it's quite clear to me."

"Listen to this, girls!" said Lila, almost ironically, before turning to Alex. "Was there anyone who was not in love with you, Mami?"

Alex barely smiled in response to her daughter's remark and carried on with her conversation with Ada. "He truly loved Margit. Did you ever meet a girlfriend of János's? Well, I didn't. He never loved anyone strongly enough to introduce to us. We always took him to be somewhat haughty, full of amour-propre. No, that was not it. He only loved Margit, in the true sense of the word. However, he was loved so much that he could not realise how much he loved her. Margit was always by his side. It was she who waited for him to come back from the front, and when he did, it was she who took care of him. He found Margit right by his bedside when he returned from the labour camp. He realised how much he loved her only when he saw that he might lose her forever."

" _Quel amour!_ "

Alex swished her head towards Lila in anger, thinking that she was making fun of János and Margit's story, but the instant she saw her gaze absently lost in her wineglass, she realised that Lila was in love. Her little baby. In love. Her heart skipped a beat in elation. She lovingly stroked her hair before turning to Ada again. "By the by, I couldn't believe my ears when I heard how much Lila's French has improved in four months."

"She had no choice," giggled Dóra.

"Dóra!" hissed Lila, gently nudging her cousin with her elbow.

"You said you were going to tell her. Come on! Tell her!"

Alex looked at her daughter, trying to encourage her with a smile. Lila shyly straightened the edges of her jersey twin set, adjusted her pearl necklace, took a sip from her wine and, without taking her eyes off her plate, mumbled, hardly above a whisper, "I met someone."

"Well, well, well. That's some good news. However, please don't tell me that you want to get married straight away like your sister did. I shan't survive it, really."

"No, Mami. We've only been seeing each other since November." Lila was suddenly relaxed. She grabbed her mother's hand. "You'll love him, Mami. You will."

"Is he French?"

"Yes. His name is André. He's incredibly handsome and a perfect gentleman. He's twenty-nine years old. A writer."

"A writer?"

"Yes."

"What does he live on?"

"How do you mean what does he live on? I don't know, Mami. He writes books."

"I'm sure his books are filled with his love for Lila," Dóra said, smiling sassily. "He hardly speaks, you know. Only Lila can make him talk."

Leaving the girls to carry on picking at each other, Alex turned to Ada. "Did they finish framing your photographs?"

"Half of them are ready. Eleven more to go."

"Will they be ready in two days?"

"They will. No problem."

Ada was preparing for a group exhibition that was to show photographs taken during the Hungarian Revolution of '56. She would be participating with a series of photographs she called _The Escape_ , photographs she had taken in Austria to throw light on the difficulties encountered by those who had escaped from Hungary after the revolution had failed.

"We actually meant to open this exhibition on October 23, on the anniversary of the revolution, but we couldn't."

"Mami, may we leave? We'll be late for the movies if we wait for you to finish."

"What about dessert? Won't you have any?"

"We're going to miss the movie," complained Lila.

"Aziz is right," Alex said, addressing Ada. "Both of our daughters are very promising prospective vagabonds." She then waved her hand towards Lila as if to shoo her away, "Fine, fine. Go ahead. Go, go, go!"

Both Ada and Alex proudly watched their giggling daughters leave the restaurant. Lila had changed her hairstyle again, wearing a short fringe. Aziz would say that she looked like a handmaid, had he seen her, but it nevertheless did become her. Dóra's hair was, as usual, very short, making her look like a naughty boy, in contrast to her elder sister Juli's sober bun. Alex looked at Lila's and Juli's pointed stiletto shoes and Dóra's ballet flats. They would be freezing, and those balloon-like short skirts did not help either. They apparently could not care less about the cold or the snow. They all looked fresh out of a fashion magazine. Fashion, thought Alex, had changed so much for the worse, if there was any sense of fashion left that was. It had become so eclectic. The youth came up with some peculiar trend every day. Elegance was something of a long bygone past. No one even wore a hat nowadays.

She finished her wine. Her eyes remained glued on her empty glass for a while. "I'm so lonely, Ada," she finally muttered. "Nili's gone ... and Lila is here."

"Come on, Alex! She's been here only four months. She'll be back in May. Can't you even survive that?"

"I guess I've used up all my strength to tolerate separation from my loved ones. I can't take it anymore. Thank God, there is Aslı who makes me forget everything. Such a chatterbox, now that she's started talking. Ever so sweet. You should see her. She looks exactly like Nili when she was a baby, but I think she'll be much more beautiful than her. Her eyes are getting lighter, almost golden brown now. In the sun, they even betray a green streak. Her nose is like a tiny button." She suddenly paused before carrying on in a voice devoid of its former tenderness. "Unfortunately, Nili doesn't let me see her as much as I'd like to. She practically makes us beg to bring her over. Aziz is crazy about Aslı, spoiling her rotten. I've never seen him like this, not even with Nili or Lila."

"How come Aziz agreed to you coming here?"

"Well, he had to. I'm not going to let him deprive me of my daughter just because he can't be away from his office. Initially, he did object to the idea though creating a myriad of excuses. He's still so possessively jealous of me, if you can believe it. He hasn't tired of me despite our twenty-seven years together. I'm forty-nine years old, but, for him, I'm still a young girl men might readily fall in love with. He's impossibly mistrustful of all creatures of the male sex. Believe me, I'm not exaggerating. I sometimes think that he's even intolerant of my attention to Aslı. Would you envy your right eye for its closeness to your left eye? Well, Aziz does. It's as though he doesn't want anyone but himself to make me happy. The woman he's in love with must be happy, as happy as a clam at high tide, but it has to be him who brings in the high tide. I wonder if you can call such an obsession love." She took out a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and offered one to Ada. "You won't like these, but I'm so used to them that I can't smoke anything else." She took out a cigarette and lit it. "Well, anyway, I used every trick I knew and convinced him to let me come here. I'm sure he won't even notice my absence, for he's either at the office or on a shoot."

"Does he still hunt?"

"And how! Thank Heavens he does, mind you. My life would have been rather difficult if he didn't. He leaves all his worries on the hunting ground and comes back an angel." She held Ada's hand. "He told me to buy as many of your photographs as I can carry back home. We'll take them out of their frames, so do please reserve at least four or five of them for us."

"You won't believe it, but fifteen out of the total twenty-two are already sold – to one single person or rather to a company."

" _Mashallah_ , as the Turks say."

"Would you like to have dessert, _Mesdames?_ " The waiter was back with the menus, waiting politely. Alex ordered _Crêpes Suzette_ , Ada a _Crème Brulée_.

"Juli and Dóra look good," Alex said, hoping to divert the conversation towards a topic she dared not open. She hesitated, unsure of whether or not she should ask if they missed their father.

"They really miss their father," Ada blurted out, relieving Alex of her curiosity. "In time their yearning has gradually transformed into hatred. They want to hate him so that they can get over their longing but they can't." She took a deep breath. "None of us can," she added as she pressed her cigarette into the ashtray. "We miss him a lot, Alex," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the ashes.

Alex held her sister-in-law's hand. Yes, she was still her sister-in-law and still Károly's wife – his beloved wife. "Why don't you go to him then, Ada?" she wanted to say but could not.

"I'm really worried about him. It's been so long since he last wrote to us, even to the girls. A phone call is almost impossible. Even at Christmas."

"Don't worry, Ada," Alex cut in. "It'll all pass. We'll soon go back to our old days. Mother writes that everything is fine. She says Károly paints night and day. We can all guess what other things he must be up to. He might no longer be a young man now but still hangs on to his dreams." She forced a smile. "His blood is bluer than blue, Ada. We all know that he'll never give up his quest to save Hungary. He'll never forget his duties. I remember Uncle Kelemen drilling into our heads the obligations we had as members of the nobility. ' _Noblesse oblige_ ,' he used to say. And it was those obligations that ruined our family. I want to curse our nobility, I want to curse Hungary, but I can't. I simply can't."
March 2009  
Paris

It was so real for Rüya that she watched the shoot with her heart in her mouth, although it was the fifth take. She had arrived in Paris two days ago, and they were well into shooting the scenes in Act Three.

She thought how well he played his role, how perfectly natural he was as he put on his cufflinks, grabbed his coffee cup and sat down in the Mackintosh armchair in front of the window. Opening the newspaper, he skimmed through the headlines before swiftly flicking through its pages, obviously pressed for time. A smile touched his lips when he saw the notice on the fifth page.

HUNGARIAN REVOLUTION OF 1956

Photograph Show

Opening: 10 January1959, 18:30

GALERIE CLAUDE BERNARD

7-9 Rue des Beaux Arts

His eyes, excited yet faintly aloof without being supercilious, reflected his impeccable acting as he put down the paper and hurried out of the living room.

On her last night in Istanbul before leaving for Paris, Rüya had spoken to her grandmother. She had approached Nili, playing solitaire on the dining table, and had silently put the letters Mami had written to Anastasia from Paris next to the cards laid on the green baize. The look her grandmother threw at the letters and then at Rüya explained a lot, but she wanted to hear her say it.

"I talked to _Thicha_ Anastasia," she had said. "Please, Grandma. Please tell me everything, why don't you?"

"I already did, my dear girl. You know everything there is to know. Mami and Rudi came across each other in 1939, just before the war, and wrote to each other despite my father's jealousies and threats." Nili nervously picked up the cards and started shuffling them, her eyes following the cards that slid over one and other.

"I know that, Grandma," Rüya pressed on. "What I really want to know is ..."

"Mami and Daddy had these rows, rows that we – me and Lila – took very badly. We went to bed each night, dreading that we might wake up in the middle of the night to the noise of their fighting again. Hearing our father howl at Mami, we would hug each other, immobilised with terror. I can't find the words to describe the sense of panic those fights used to instil in us. When we were really small, I used to think that they fought because of us, suffering from an unbearable feeling of guilt. When I was a bit older, however, that feeling of guilt was replaced by fear, the fear that one of them might leave us. Later on all I felt was an acute sense of shame. They used to fight in front of the neighbours, the guests, our friends, everyone." She stopped shuffling the cards. "As you know, Rudi disappeared at the end of the war." She raised an eyebrow before continuing with a hardly perceptible sarcasm in her voice, "And the rest, dear, you imagined it perfectly well in your book.

"Cut!"

The director's voice dispersed Rüya's thoughts. They were about to shoot the next scene, which was probably one of the most important scenes for Rüya: _A Hungarian Rhapsody_ , Act Three, Tableau Six, January 1959.

"Scene 139, Take 1."
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Three, Tableau Six  
1959

32

She was gazing at the photographs on the walls of the art gallery with tears brimming in her eyes and a huge knot growing in her throat. Little Margit, so very tiny on that gargantuan tank. How happy she looks standing by János. And Károly, giant-like, indestructible Károly! Optimistic _Öcsi!_ So full of hope, so ...

"Mami, we're leaving."

"Don't be late!" she snapped, wiping her tears away.

"Is midnight fine? Please?" implored Lila before she stopped short. "Are you crying?"

"Don't tell your Daddy, all right?" She took out her handkerchief from her handbag and dried her cheeks. "I mean, don't tell him that I let you stay out till midnight."

Lila gave her a hasty hug, planting a kiss on her cheek. Alex watched her move away towards the door of the gallery in a few hurried backward steps, the uneasy expression on her face betraying her feelings of guilt for having left her mother alone. She was twenty-one years old. Twenty-one! She thought of herself at twenty-one. It was 1931. Italy. The hunting lodge. The year she had met Aziz. The year Rudi ... Don't, Alex! Don't think! She turned back to look at the photograph again. Károly ... János ... Margit ... They were gazing at her from another world. She touched the glass covering the photograph and stroked their faces. God, she missed them so much. Poor János and Margit suffering in a dark corner of a prison cell ... What were they doing? How could they survive it all? Her dear, dear friends. Tears were trickling down her cheeks.

Suddenly she felt a chill run down her spine. Someone must have opened the door of the gallery, letting in the freezing cold along with the distant voice of Edith Piaf singing in agony somewhere out there. A shiver shook her body. She hugged her arms around her chest and rubbed her shoulders for some warmth. Her eyes were still glued to the photograph, although this time they were not riveted on the photograph itself but on its glass, on the reflection on its glass. I must be losing my mind, she thought. Slowly but surely I must be going mad. She had come to a point where everything bore an image of him; whatever she looked at, he was there, looking almost real. She closed her eyes. I must forget him, she said to herself. I must get him out of my mind, out of my heart, out of my soul, or I'll go mad. She opened her eyes with much consternation. He was still there, a little bit closer, a little bit clearer. These photographs had revived all her memories. She did not want to suffer any more. Stop thinking of him, Alex! Stop musing over the past. Her heart sank deeper. She had to get out of here. Edith Piaf was still singing.

" _Tu me fait tourner la tête_

Mon manège á moi, c'est toi."

You make my head turn

My merry-go-round, it's you.

She turned around. He just stood there right in front of her, dead still. Her head spun; her knees weakened. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, he was still there. Don't think, Alex! You're losing your mind. Your imagination is playing another trick on you.

"Alex." Her hallucination was walking towards her.

She lost her balance and leaned on the wall. He was next to her. God, I've gone mad. I've lost my sanity. This is it. I'm a lunatic! She held out her hand and, with much trepidation, gently touched the tips of her trembling fingers on the face of the image standing before her. The cold cheek under her fingertips vaguely moved. The image had not snapped out of sight. He did not disappear. He was still there, looking straight into her eyes. Her stomach twisted in a knot, which slowly rose towards her throat. She swallowed with difficulty to try and untangle it. Her fingers were still on his cheek.

"Rudi?" she whispered softly, afraid to disturb a pleasant dream.

Rudi's image held her hand and gave it a kiss, a kiss that was warm, a kiss that was very real.

"Rudi?" said her trembling voice, imploring for it to be true.

It was him. This time it was not her imagination but really him.

She felt her breath shortening, knots lining up in her throat, almost choking her. Suddenly a gush of tears poured out of her eyes, and, the moment she felt Rudi's hands on her cheeks, her breast heaved under a torrent of sobs like a storm breaking out after a suffocatingly silent summer day. "Rudi," she kept repeating as though she wanted to make herself believe that it was really him touching her. Her eyes shut of their own accord and opened again. He had not disappeared. He was still standing there next to her, his eyes in hers. Rudi had not abandoned her. He was alive. She held his hands enfolding her cheeks. His eyes, his passionate eyes ... how much she had missed them. She threw her arms around him with an unbridled surge of emotion, drawing in his smell. Many things might have changed, but his smell was exactly the same as before. And his arms ... She sunk herself in his strong embrace, so strong that he almost hurt her. The knot that had been choking her for days slowly unravelled. Her sobbing gradually turned into sporadic showers of laughter.

"You're alive. Alive! Thank all Heavens, you're alive." She wanted to say it again and again. She wanted to shout it out loud. She wanted to make sure that it was not a dream, not a hallucination. "You're alive. You're alive."

She stood motionless in Rudi's arms, scared that a tiny movement, even a deep breath, would break the spell and that the warmth she had been pining for would suddenly turn cold. She wished she could stop time. She wished everything could stay as it was now. Unable to control her tears, her body shook every now and then with a tide of sobs erratically mixed with snappy and uneasy giggles.

"Don't cry, my love. Please don't cry."

She did not want to cry but could not help it. It was as if she had lost her touch with reality, with where she was, whom she was with or who she was. The ground slid away from beneath her feet. Dizzied, she nestled deeper in Rudi's arms. It had been twenty years since she had last felt his skin against hers, twenty long years of bleak existence that felt like a century. She remembered the day when Rudi had come to their house in Rózsadomb to express his condolences after they had lost Magda. "We can start again, Alex," he had said, caressing her cheek as they sat in the conservatory. "We can start again from where we left off."

"Don't ever let me go again," she whispered. "Please Rudi. Please don't let me go. _Maradj velem_ – Stay with me. Please."

At the same instant, Rudi was whispering to her ear. "I'll never let you go. Never again."

She was now crying her heart out, unexpectedly breaking into a laugh before tears choked her again. Rudi silently held her in his arms, temporarily loosening his embrace to shower her hair, her forehead, her temples with kisses before folding her tightly in his arms again.

"Why did you stop writing to me, Rudi?" she murmured. "Do you know how awful it was not to hear from you, not knowing if you were dead or alive? Not even a line, not a single word of news for fourteen years, nothing! They were excruciatingly painful years of torture for me. I believed that you were dead, otherwise, I kept telling myself, you would definitely find me or you could at least get in touch with Károly."

"I could have ... but that wouldn't have been a very wise move."

"Why?" she asked, pulling her head away from his chest to look at him in the eye. "Why?" she repeated as her whole being begged for his answer not to hurt her.

Rudi remained silent for a brief moment, stroking her cheek with his fingers. "I had to be invisible," he said at last. "Wasn't it what you once asked me to do?"

He had not said he was married; he had not said he had a wife and several children; he had not said he had a girlfriend. With a great sense of gratitude, she took refuge in the safe haven of his embrace once again. Her shoulders quivered at an occasional snivel. This was what happiness was all about, standing here in his warm embrace with nothing else on her mind. This was sheer bliss.

"Are you all right? Shall we get some fresh air?"

Alex dreamily glided away from Rudi's arms, went over to Ada, who was talking to a group of people behind a cloud of cigarette smoke in front of a photograph, and told her that she wanted to go back to her hotel as she was not feeling very well. She put on her fur coat and walked towards the door. Rudi was not there! A sudden pang of pain latched onto her heart. Her eyes went black. It was as she had dreaded. Her mind had played another trick on her. She had imagined it all. It had all been nothing but a series of hallucinations. She was going insane. God, please help me. Please. Rudi is no more. He is no more! Then the door opened and Rudi appeared. He was holding out his hand, smiling.

"Rudi?"

"Come, my love," he said as he placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tightly towards him.

They went outside. The cold wind slapped her face. She still could not believe that what was happening now was real. With much apprehension, she bit her tongue. She did not wake up. This was not a dream. Rudi was there next to her. She put her arm around his waist. They walked in silence, heading nowhere in particular. Unable to take her eyes away from him, she mutely kept repeating to herself, "Rudi is alive. He didn't leave me. He is alive."

"And Károly? Is he still in Budapest, Alex?"

"Unfortunately, he is."

"Why doesn't he come here? After the revolution, it shouldn't be so difficult to get out of Hungary. We must look for a way to bring him over to Paris."

"He won't come."

"Why? Is he still hoping for a better Hungary? Hasn't he lost his optimism yet?"

"He wouldn't come unless he's sure about Ada's desire to have him here." Alex sighed as her longing for her brother clutched her heart again. She so wished that he were here now.

Rudi squeezed her shoulder, obviously understanding her agony, and pressed his lips against her hair. "We'll get him out of there, Alex. Don't you worry, my love. We'll bring him over here."

Rudi must have been thinking the same thing. The heart of the matter was somewhere else: did Károly want to be brought over?

They turned left on Rue Bonaparte. Still unable to believe that the man walking by her side was Rudi, Alex looked at his face every now and then to make sure that she was not daydreaming. He had not changed a bit. "You haven't changed at all," she said, moving her fingers through his hair, elegantly whitened in places. Was she entitled to caress his hair? Who was Rudi? What was he to her? An old friend? Her ex-fiancé? The biggest love of her life?

"Neither have you. Actually, you're more beautiful than I remember." He pulled her closer to him and planted a kiss on her temple. Rudi was her friend, an old friend sending shivers down her spine and creating turmoil in her heart, an old friend she was in love with.

"Do you recall the day we met, Alex? At the tennis club? I found you to be spoiled and far too childish. I don't know what made me think that way. Watching you and Károly sit down on the chairs by the court, I told myself that this girl must be mine. You had an arrogant air about you, something I liked. It was a bit later that I realised you were in fact trying to hide your timidity behind that air of haughtiness." He had turned his head and was looking at her. He caressed her chin with his hand resting on her shoulder. "Years later, many many years later, each time I closed my eyes, the Alex I saw in my mind's eye was always that timid girl holding tightly on to her brother's hand, desperately trying to hide her feelings while every limb in her body betrayed her trembling heart, and her shy eyes, which she could not tear away from the ground, gave away her true emotions for the man standing before her."

For Alex, all that was going on was more like a dream from which she feared to wake up if she tripped over a cobblestone. She nestled her head against Rudi's chest, drawing in his smell. Dreams had no smell. Rudi was real. He was there in flesh and blood. How strange it was that they were carrying on from where they had left off years ago, as though nothing had happened in between. Life, painfully cruel at times, might be full of sweet surprises at others, making one forget about all the suffering.

Arriving at Saint Germain des Prés, they walked into Deux Magots hand in hand, just like two lovers who had been frequenting this café every day for years. With their hands still interlaced, they squeezed through the tables crowded by people chattering under a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. Alex's mind had gone completely blank to everything else in her life other than this very moment. Rudi helped her slip out of her fur coat before hanging it along with his own on one of the brass hooks on the wall. They sat down at the table beneath the statues of the two Chinese merchants, perched on their chairs close to the ceiling from where they watched the packed café with scrutinising eyes. Alex preferred to settle down on the leather seat, while Rudi took his place on the chair opposite her. They just sat there with their hands interlocked on the table, their eyes lost in each other's, their faces so close as to feel each other's breath on their lips. Rudi did not relax his grip on her hand, which she had no intention of pulling away.

A waiter popped up through the mist of smoke like a figure from another century with his wide side-whiskers and white apron, holding a tiny tray that seemed to have been glued to his hand. They ordered red wine and nothing to eat, as neither of them had much appetite for food.

"I had great difficulty in getting myself used to the idea of marriage," said Rudi, breaking the silence exclusive to their table.

Alex did not want to talk either about the past or about the future. All she wished for was to live the moment, to touch, to look, to kiss, to be touched, to be looked at and to be kissed.

"Now I can see that I was impossibly scared, first of letting go of my freedom and then of losing my self-respect. It was the first time someone had been unfaithful to me. I took it as betrayal and could not bear the shame of such treacherous behaviour. I was too proud to marry the woman who had been disloyal to me. I lacked the courage to forgive her no matter how much I loved her." His sentences were interrupted by the clattering of cutlery echoing on the high walls of the café. The shrieking sound of a plate shattered on the floor reverberated in Alex's ears. Rudi offered her a cigarette, lighting hers first and then his own. He drew in a deep puff and blew its smoke towards the ceiling. "I finally picked up my courage but ... but it was too late. The bird had flown away. You had decided to spend the rest of your life with another man." He whisked off the non-existing ash of his cigarette. "And then years later, I committed the same mistake again. I acted like an incurable coward, once again. At the onset of the war, I shouldn't have listened to you and should have come to Istanbul to fetch you and your daughters. I had become a British subject, and, in those peculiar times in which we were living, it was only a matter of a few hours to get you a British passport under a new name. But I did not have the courage to do that. These things only happen in the movies, I kept saying to myself. Be patient, I repeated over and over again. Then there came a point when everything went haywire. Eventually, I paid very dearly for my cowardice." He raised his glass towards Alex. "I drink to having found you again, Alex. And I swear never to let go of you. Ever again!"

"It was so unbearably painful to lose you a second time."

"The first time you did not lose me, Alex. You left me, remember?" His voice had taken a cruel tone as though he wanted to hurt her, as though he hoped that her pain would offer him some relief from the pain inflicted by his self-accusation.

A group of people entered the café through the revolving doors, the sound of which felt like slaps magnifying Rudi's words.

"In any case, I had lost you, Rudi. In our first separation, there was anger, a broken heart, shattered dreams, hatred, sorrow ... terrible feelings. But ... I at least _had_ some feelings, strong feelings I felt deep in my heart, although they consumed me. The second time, however, everything went dark ... empty. It seemed that my life had come to its end. I made myself believe that you were dead. Otherwise, he would call me, I kept saying to myself. He would find a way to send me a message, even a brief one. He can't have forgotten me, I consoled myself. There can be only one reason why he doesn't call me: he's dead. How very sad, isn't it? To believe that you were dead so as to forgive you."

Rudi's eyes were fixed on the blue leaves twined around the branches embellishing the mosaics on the floor. "First, I was taken to Lubjanka," he said with a deep sigh.

"Lubjanka?"

"The Lubjanka prison in Moscow." His brows furrowed, his eyelids looked heavier, as if crushed under the weight of many a painful year.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Alex said, touching his lips. "Nothing is more important than you being alive, than having survived it all, than being here with me now."

"It's rather tragicomic that," Rudi carried on as if he had not heard Alex, "quite a large number of Jews, after having escaped the wrath of the Nazis, were victimised by the communists whom they had trusted and waited for with open arms because they considered them to be their saviours. Some of them were taken away for 'a small task' in the repair of the bridges and returned home after a couple of days while some others were exiled to the labour camps in Russia, to be released five years later according to hearsay. I guess I was among the most unfortunate in that I spent twelve years in three different prisons."

Alex took Rudi's trembling hand to her lips and kissed his fingers wet with her tears.

"They finally released me two years ago in exchange for a few communists who had defected to England." His voice lacked any emotion, as though he were recounting the finale of someone else's story. He slowly turned his blank stare to Alex and caressed her lips and cheeks with the back of his fingers, drying her tears off. "I should have listened to you, Alex. I should have remained invisible like I did during the first few years of the war. Initially, all I tried to do was to protect myself and my family. I was scared and thought I had better remain insignificant, invisible even. My only objective was to be able to survive the war, keeping as low and quiet as possible. I was waiting for you, for our future life together." He took one last puff from his almost finished cigarette before he pressed it into the ashtray. "And then Károly returned from Paris, which slowly changed everything. At the beginning I found it difficult to understand why he wanted to act so chivalrously. He was not Jewish and it would be more than enough if he helped Ada and her family. Why would he care so much about what happened to the other Jews, I kept asking myself? Károly had this – how shall I put it? – this magical touch, a strange power on people." He smiled as if in self-mockery. "Actually, I'm talking about this energy of his which you already know so well. I'm talking about his never-ending stamina, about his love for life, about his optimism, about his infectious energy that eventually spreads to all those around him and encourages you to regain the strength you think you have lost, the energy that inspires and encourages you to stop watching and take action, the energy that makes you remember you're a human being. He wasn't Jewish, but he nevertheless did not think twice about helping those desperate people." He paused as if to underline what he was about to say. "He did all that for the sake of humanity. He was like the symbol of goodness hidden deep in the human heart amidst all that villainy. He was an ordinary person and showed what ordinary people could achieve. In a world where even the smallest mistake was punished with death, his unwavering courage reminded me that I was a human being.

"Eventually, I decided I should do something. It was in 1941, after the mass murder at Kamenets-Podolski in September ..." He gestured to the waiter to refill their glasses. "... that I started to think that I needed to take action against the Nazis. I ought not to wait for the war to be over, sitting there doing nothing, which was driving me mad. I had no trust in the Jewish resistance that Károly and János had joined, thinking they were nothing but ignorantly courageous naive idealists, so I joined another resistance group that I took to be more reliable, a group set up by a friend of mine, a group that was one of the anti-Nazi organisations supported by the British. I had been sworn to secrecy, therefore could not tell any of you – you, Károly or anyone outside the organisation – anything about my activities."

You should have, Rudi. You should have at least told me, so that I could understand what happened to you.

"I'm sure they thought I was making it all up, that I was scared and fabricated this story to avoid joining their group." They raised their refilled glasses to each other. "We did help a lot of people in our own insignificant way. Those were really dire times, Alex. I was going through an unbearably painful inner struggle not to lose my hope, my desire to go on living, my belief in humanity, amid a war that ruined everything around us. Often times I asked myself what I was doing. You must be out of your mind, I kept saying to myself. What's all this for? Don't get involved! Let others take the responsibility. You just wait. Be invisible and wait. You must survive this war. And then I looked at Károly. 'We can't accept losing our freedom,' he used to say, 'our freedom to be a human being.'

"The dilemmas are fatally consuming at times. You torture yourself in an effort to find the right way, to stay on the right path. You do it risking your life. You do it at the risk of losing your loved ones. Then there comes a point when those who are not so keen on staying on the right path betray you. Everything changes from one day to the other. You don't understand anything. They take you away. Your questions remain unanswered. You begin to doubt your sanity. You revolt."

Alex enfolded Rudi's hands tightly in hers.

"Prison is worse than death, you know. It's the death of one's pride, of one's self-respect as a human being. In prison you learn that the most difficult of all fights is the fight you give to digest all that unfairness, to free yourself from the doubts that gnaw at your brain and to keep on living as a human being with your self-esteem intact. You can put up with the physical work, but it's very hard to survive the difficulties that crush your soul." He was squeezing Alex's hands.

Our life could have been so different, thought Alex. I could have changed everything twenty years ago if only I could have been a bit braver. This man sitting with me now could have been my husband, the father of my children, the grandfather of my grandchildren.

Hours glided by or perhaps only a couple of minutes, minutes that felt like a lifetime ... hand in hand, eye to eye, breath to breath ... talking, watching each other in silence, touching each other, crying, laughing ...

When they finally went out of the café, Alex neither wanted to know what time it was nor had she any desire to guess what would happen from that moment on. They walked towards the River Seine. Alex did not ask where they were going. She did not ask what they would do. She did not ask what would happen tomorrow, a week later or next year. None of it had any importance. This moment was so beautiful that she did not want to think either of the past or of the future, not even of a second ago or of a second later. She took a deep breath, drawing in the reviving cold, and took Rudi's arm. Her eyes were blinded with tears. She was so happy.

They walked towards the Pont des Arts, one of the bridges connecting the two sides of the river like elegant necklaces. The Louvre Museum, beautifully illuminated, stood on the other embankment in all its glory. She looked at the Pont Neuf, the bridge on their right that led to an island on the river, Ile de la Cité, a sight that made her reminisce about Margit Island in Budapest. She mused over how on that island in Márkus Restaurant, she had lit the candle to tell Rudi that she had accepted his love. She smiled.

Words surrendered to thoughts and emotions. Drifting along the walkway extending under a canopy of trees on the right bank, she listened to the almost imperceptible flutter of the excited branches, through which winked the lights dancing on the river, still casting an emerald tint in resistance to the darkness of the night sky, a moving tableau that flowed by her eyes like the setting of a love scene. She did not know for how long they had walked when they stopped in front of an apartment building. They must have crossed Place Vendôme a while ago, or maybe she was mistaken. She could not exactly figure out where they were and did not care. They took the elevator to the fourth floor.

"Charles Chandler," said Alex, reading the name written on the doorbell. "Whose flat is it?"

Rudi looked at her in the eye. "Mine, Alex. Rudolf Takács doesn't exist anymore. There's no one by the name of Rudolf Takács. I'm known as Charles Chandler." He caressed her lips as he continued softly. "But for you, I'll always be Rudi." Turning around, he unlocked the door. "One can never change his nationality. What changes is only a piece of paper, a name, some documents."

They entered the flat. It was the absolute antithesis of his flat on Andrássy Boulevard, decorated with modern dark brown leather sofas and metal framed armchairs lined up in military order. It was cold, ice-cold, and impeccably clean. The huge salon housed no accessories, not even a vase, except for an excessive number of photographs on the walls and a very tall statue in one corner. This was another life that bore no sign of the old Rudi.

"Do you like the photographs?" he asked.

Some of them must have been taken in Africa. "They're very nice. Did you take them?"

"They're Ada's work."

Alex was perplexed.

"Would you care for some cognac?" he asked, as he opened the drinks cabinet and, without waiting for her reply, took out two cognac glasses. "She doesn't know that it's me who buys them. She doesn't even know that I exist. I use a friend as an intermediary. I'm investing. Ada is a very promising photographer."

"Was it also you who bought half of her photographs at the current show?"

He smiled, nodding. "I never go to her shows; I've never been to any of her openings. But today – actually for the last few days – I had a very strange feeling. My feet just dragged me there. I had no intention of going inside though. But then, through the mist on the window, I saw your image ... I saw you."

Alex sat on one of the sofas. Life must be so difficult for Rudi, she was thinking, it must be a horrible thing to be cut off so drastically from one's past. How did he feel that he existed, that he belonged somewhere? Didn't he feel like an uprooted tree that might soon topple over? She jumped to her feet, suddenly feeling an urge to stand up, to check that she could stand up firmly. The French windows framed the lights of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. She went out onto the balcony, not minding the cold. Rudi followed her a few seconds later, holding two glasses of cognac.

"What did you do afterwards? After you were released? Why didn't you call?" After a brief pause, she hastened to add. "Please don't take my question as an accusation. I simply wonder why you didn't ask me or Károly to help you out. No matter what had happened between you and me, we were your closest friends. How did you manage it on your own?"

"As a matter of fact I did think about writing to Anastasia to let you know where I was. And I did actually write once. I sent her an unsigned letter, a very short one. I thought she would figure out who the sender was. I don't know what happened. Perhaps she didn't receive it, or perhaps she did but was unable to make sense of it, or perhaps she did not want to understand. I got no reply. Later on I repented the fact that I had written that letter anyway, because it was wrong of me to get in touch with any of you. I had no right to put you in danger, either you or Károly. The fact that I had been released did not mean that everything was all right. And it still doesn't." He took a sip from his cognac. "I had a friend in Switzerland, one of my brothers whom you met in the Kárpátia Restaurant in Budapest once. They gave me a helping hand." A smile flitted across his lips. "My 'mercenary' to whom I had transferred my law office was also one of those brothers. Do you remember? Those were such terrible times."

The memory of that wretched evening in the Kárpátia Restaurant flashed in Alex's mind, clutching at her heart. She hated herself. She hated herself for all the stupidities she had committed. She had ruined both her and Rudi's lives. She drew a deep, shuddering breath as her body started to shake. Hoping for some relief, she took a sip of her cognac.

"You're cold. Let's go inside."

Rudi carried on talking as they walked in. "Raoul's family also gave me great support businesswise." He closed the balcony door. "The Wallenbergs." He turned to look at Alex before he continued. "After staying in London for about three months, I decided to move to Paris." He paused as if he had read the question in Alex's eyes. "I couldn't have returned to Budapest. It's not easy to go back to a country that betrayed you, Alex. Besides, I gathered that the communists in Hungary wouldn't be too pleased to see me there. Once you're on the list of the KGB, be it on the basis of justified or unjustified reasons, they never tire of following you at regular intervals. An insurgent of the past always poses a threat for the future – no matter against what he might have resisted. I had to be invisible again. And I still have to be."

Rudi turned his gaze to the lights of Paris.

"In '56, the world turned a deaf ear to the pleas of Hungary, Alex. And now there is something everyone knows only too well: the world will not help our country. The future of Hungary is at the mercy of the Soviets. They continue to 'liquidate' everything anti-Soviet. Yes, there have been some reforms, and they have this diluted ideology called goulash communism, but it's still dangerous for the 'undesirable elements' who are even vaguely affiliated with the resistance." He turned to Alex with a bitter smile. "I would never be able to know exactly who is at my heels. At first I could not even buy a car, for one of the areas of expertise of the KGB is to fiddle with cars to cover their assassinations as accidents."

Alex felt her head spin. She put her glass on a side table and leaned her back onto the window.

"Sounds so simple, doesn't it? So brief."

"Please, Rudi. Please hush. It only makes me feel more guilty than I already do."

"It's not your fault what happened to me."

"If I didn't break up with you," she said, finding it very difficult to express her thoughts, "if I didn't give up on you, if we had got married, if I could have at least found the courage in my heart to get a divorce before the war, if we could have gone away, you wouldn't have had to live through any of this. I'll never forgive myself, Rudi. Ever! It's all my fault. It's all because of my spoiled nature, my impatience and my cowardice."

"Don't be so unfair on yourself. All of that is over now. Gone! Finished. We should think of what will happen from now on." Rudi put his glass on the side table next to Alex's and stood in front of her with his eyes in hers. Suddenly he grabbed her shoulders and made to say something. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He let go of her shoulders and, averting his gaze towards the window, he whispered, "Marry me, Alex." He then turned back and fixed his eyes in hers, taking hold of her shoulders again. "Marry me. Please."

"I'm already married, Rudi."

He was squeezing her shoulders tightly now. Alex felt her body shake slightly in his grip.

"You have to get a divorce. Immediately! As soon as you're back in Istanbul. I'll come with you if you want and stay with you until you're divorced. You ought to get out of that house."

"I'll take care of everything, Rudi. This time ..."

Rudi gently touched her lips, cutting her words short. "I shall never let you leave me. Never!"

Her whole body was shaking like a leaf. She closed her eyes and opened them again when she felt Rudi sliding his hand around her neck, slightly pulling her to him. For a brief moment she stopped breathing, trying to control her shaking. When she felt Rudi's lips on hers, a wave of warmth enfolded her body. He kissed her gently as if scared to hurt her, a soft touch that lasted only a few seconds, before he passionately took her lips between his, almost hurting her, letting all his bridled desire roll down from the peak it had reached after so many years of longing.

She felt every cell in her body coming alive, but she was unsure of whether she wanted to surrender to the passion that had taken her breath away. Her heart trembled. Was it in fear? Was she scared of losing him again, of being hurt? Or was it a sense of guilt that shook her heart, a sense of guilt inflamed by the forbidden love that had triggered all those emotions she had long forgotten? Forget about all that, Alex! Forget about the past. Forget about the future. She needed to love. She desperately needed to love Rudi. To her heart's content! She needed to forget all that suffering that had been incarcerating her heart and soul for years. She needed to make Rudi forget about the suffering he had been through. She needed to make him forgive her, to free herself from that torturous sense of guilt that had plagued her soul for years. A sudden, unexpected feeling of compassion embraced her, and she noticed with a certain degree of surprise that it was not only Rudi that she pitied but also herself. She burned with an irresistible desire to surrender herself to him, aching to belong to him, to be owned by him. She responded to the fervour of Rudi's lips with a passion no less intense than his. A few seconds later she felt her feet swept off the ground. She was in his arms. Her heart fluttering, she put her arms around his neck and watched it like a movie rolling before her eyes as he carried her through the door into his bedroom, gently let her down onto his bed and started to undo the buttons of her blouse without taking his eyes off hers.

She heard him say, "I have waited so long for this moment."

And they kissed again with unbridled passion. She saw that Rudi no longer wore the chain with the amber ring. An uneasy sensation squeezed her heart. Had he given it to someone else? She was enfolded in a sudden surge of jealousy, which she immediately sent away with a smile. How can you be so immature, Alex? After all these years! Have you not learned your lesson? She sent all her thoughts away as none of it had any significance anymore. She embraced her lover, body and soul.

The day was breaking when they left Rudi's flat on Rue Saint Honoré. It took them no more than five minutes to walk to the Ritz. They kissed each other goodbye in front of a jewellery shop next to the hotel, fearlessly oblivious at being in a public place, before Alex reluctantly dragged herself in a slow gait towards the hotel. He was still watching her, leaning a shoulder onto the wall of the shop, as she walked through the revolving doors of the hotel. Once inside, she felt a pang of anxiety fanned by the uncertainty of when she would be seeing him again.

Lila was sleeping like a baby. Taking care not to wake her up, she started to undress. Unbuttoning her blouse, she smelled Rudi secretly emanating from its folds. She buried her face in its softness and deeply inhaled him. What was going to happen now? Questions for which she did not care to seek answers crowded her mind. Her heart cringed in consternation. She went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Quickly taking the rest of her clothes off, she put on her nightgown, walked back into the room and silently slid into her bed. She was not sleepy at all. Has she really lived through today? Or, come the morning, would everything continue from where she had left off yesterday morning? She should not sleep. Tomorrow, or rather today, in a few hours, they would be leaving for Istanbul. Istanbul! How far away it all seemed now. And Aziz ... She did not want to think of Aziz. What are you doing Alex? What have you done? What on earth will you do? Oh, God, please help me. Help me! She looked at Lila sleeping peacefully in the bed next to her. I would give so much to be her age. So much. Ah, Alex. What a stupid young girl you were, sweet Alex. Perhaps what she was doing right now was a much graver idiocy. She could not think. She could not judge. Her mind, her heart, her whole life were in turmoil.
March 2009  
Paris

Rüya was watching the lights of Paris, leaning her elbows on the balcony railings. Her thoughts about Paul had been changing at an accelerating rate after her arrival here. Whatever had happened in these last days had apparently made Paul decide to melt the wall of ice between them, whereupon he had broken his vow of silence, which had been going on for three weeks since the shoot at Mátyás Cathedral. He said that he had been trying to get used to his father's absence and was feeling a little bit better now. This magical city must be gradually soothing his wounded heart.

Paul lived on the uppermost floor of an old apartment building on Rue Saint Vincent, a small thoroughfare tucked in a corner of the Eighteenth Arrondissement, away from the hubble-bubble of the capital and, with its tiny one-storey houses, little gardens and surrounding narrow streets, evoked a sensation that it had been stuck in time, back at the turn of the twentieth century. Right below her, the hanging gardens of Paris. And extending before her eyes, Paris in all its glory. Just like the Tower of Babel, she thought. Around the corner, Sacre Coeur, where she had burned several candles yesterday. Do you seek the help of a few candles, Rüya? How pathetic.

She remembered, yet again, her conversation with her grandmother the evening before she had left Istanbul. "And the rest, dear, you imagined it perfectly well in your book," she had said. Yes, she had imagined it all right. The letters Anastasia had given her partly confirmed what she had imagined, but that was not enough. She wanted to see Mami's diaries – the diaries her grandmother Nili had hidden.

"I'm sure that after 1959 Mami wrote more than just a few thin diaries. Grandma, do please tell me that what I imagined in my book is the reality. Please! Please tell me that Mami's life was at least a little bit happier than what I was told."

"There might be some details that I did not tell you, but I don't think they have much significance. Years later Rudi came onto the scene again, so to speak, and, after explaining why he had disappeared from the face of the earth for fourteen years – a story only Mami believed, of course – swept Mami's feet off the ground. From an emotional angle, she was having a very taxing time then, poor soul." Her voice was loaded with a feigned indifference, an indifference that she must have hoped would alleviate the pain of what she was about to say. And then the words suddenly streamed out of her mouth as though, with one blow, she wanted to amputate a gangrenous limb. "In other words, your dear Mami was unfaithful to her husband, to cut a long story short! I wonder if that was what you were so curious about."

"How can you be so judgmental, Grandma?" she wanted to say, but remained silent. She should not ask any more questions. Perhaps her grandmother did not want to help disclose Mami's life, a life which she found embarrassing and which obviously caused her much pain. Rüya did not push her any further and, picking up the letters she had put on the green baize, withdrew to her room. She was filled with an inexplicable sense of joy, a peculiar surge of excitement. Mami's dreams had come true. The life she had imagined for Mami did actually reflect the reality. That night she could neither read nor write a line, dreaming of the day she would be going to Paris and of the moment she would see Paul again. Next morning there was a huge stack of diaries left on the desk in her bedroom – Mami's hidden diaries.

Now she was trying to figure out why she had been so excited and filled with so much joy. Was it that her hopes had been raised? Had she thought that her own dreams might also come true, that she might also be happy in the end, just like her Mami had been? What were her dreams? What was it that she called happiness? What kind of a price did she need to pay for that happiness? Was it that she could not give up her freedom, as she had often been told? "What is freedom, Rüya?" her inner voice asked. Isn't it to love without fear? Isn't it to open your heart and to open it freely? What is it that chains your heart? What are you waiting for to break those chains? A miracle? A disaster? What kind of a Tower of Babel are you trying to build for yourself? Which tower would take you to heaven? What is it that you haven't done so far and would wish you did if you were on your deathbed? What do you want, Rüya? What do you expect from this life? What are you running after?

" _When all the knots in your heart are undone_

The mortal becomes immortal in this very life."

Where had she read these lines?

The darkness, no longer pitch black, gradually transforms itself into a deep blue. I raise my head to look up at the sky. Is the day breaking?

" _Unless you're free yourself, you can never give others their freedom," says a distant voice._

"You're freezing."

Paul was behind her, rubbing her arms with exaggerated vigour to give her cold body some warmth. His hands slowly lost their speed, his vigour turning into a gentle caress. "Freedom shouldn't mean running away from your responsibilities, Rüya," he almost whispered in her ear. "Chaining your heart doesn't give you the freedom you seek but, in some conversely sneak way, turns you into a slave. Freedom, if won by running away from the responsibilities love imposes, becomes meaningless after a while, worthless even." He enfolded her in his arms, his cheek pressing against her hair. "Losing my father taught me something very important: the child in me had to grow up. The reason I chose to become an actor was not because my father was an actor. Quite the reverse. Initially, my fear of competing with him, of failing to become as good an actor as he was, pushed me to try my luck in other professions. At one point I even wanted to join a circus, to become a tightrope walker. Eventually, however, I chose to act because the child inside me didn't want to stop playing. Always a new game, a new wave of excitement, a new challenge." He released his arms from around Rüya, held her shoulders and turned her to face him. "These four weeks have been torture for me, Rüya. The fight I carried on was, at times, more difficult than my effort to cope with my father's death. The child in me resisted for days, stubbornly objecting and then yielding, but eventually he decided to grow up." He held Rüya's hand and raised it to his lips. He was looking straight into her eyes. "You're shivering. Let's go inside."

They went inside hand in hand. Most of the guests had already left. The remaining few came over to bid goodbye. The coffee table, the dining table, the floor were crowded with an army of bottles and glasses, some half-full, some empty. Paul had invited everyone on the crew, and they had been drinking since six in the evening.

He closed the door behind the last guest, went to the CD player to change the music and came back with two glasses of red wine.

"I've got to go, Paul."

"You're not going anywhere," he declared, putting the glasses on the side table.

"I really ought to be going. Giselle and Alain expect me to dinner, and I'm already late. I hadn't realised it's already nine."

He was standing right in front of her now, his gaze intently fixed on her. "Rudi gently touched her lips, cutting her words short," he whispered, caressing her lips with the tip of his finger.

She closed her eyes.

"When she felt Rudi's lips on hers, a wave of warmth enfolded her body."

She opened her eyes in alarm. His eyes were threateningly close. Their lips were not touching, but she could feel his warm breath on her lips. Then she heard him whisper again, this time in her ear.

"He kissed her gently as if scared to hurt her, a soft touch that lasted only a few seconds, before he passionately took her lips between his, almost hurting her, letting all his bridled desire roll down from the peak it had reached after so many years of longing. She felt every cell in her body coming alive."

He suddenly slid his arm under her knees and picked her up.

"A few seconds later she felt her feet swept off the ground. She was in Rudi's arms. Her heart fluttering, she put her arms around his neck and ..."

She hesitated for a moment and then put her arms around Paul's neck. She could feel her heart trembling. Was this real or were they acting? Their eyes were interlocked.

"... watched it like a movie rolling before her eyes as he carried her through the door into his bedroom, gently let her down onto his bed and started to undo the buttons of her blouse without taking his eyes off hers."

Paul gently put her down on the bed as if he were scared to spoil a dream. Without touching her, he started to undo the imaginary buttons of her imaginary blouse. Rüya could feel the warmth of his fingers approaching her breasts. She briefly closed her eyes and let her head back. His hands glided further down. Her body moved to the rhythm of a melody it had just improvised. A sweetly knotting feeling rose from her belly to her breasts. She let herself back on the bed, feeling more naked than she had ever felt before in her life. Her whole body shivered, as Paul, placing his hands on the bed on each side of her chest, leaned over her. She felt an irresistible desire to be kissed. Their bodies hardly touched each other, but Paul's breath was caressing her neck. He was kissing her all over with his eyes.

"She heard him say, 'I waited so long for this moment.'"

Rüya wondered if he saw the throbbing of her excited heart through her blouse.

"And they kissed again with unbridled passion."

She lay there transfixed under the spell of his captivating eyes.

"I made up my mind when I realised that it was you I was searching for in others' eyes, in their words, on their skin ... and that everything carried me to you."

He suddenly rolled over onto his back and lay down next to her. This last sentence was neither in Rüya's book nor in the script. Had they changed the script? Or did Paul just improvise it now?

"I think I'm ready for this scene," he said, staring at the ceiling before he turned to look at her again. "Thank you, Rüya," he whispered softly.

"You're most welcome."

"I wish I'd met Alexandra. Do you look like her?" he said, leaning over his elbow and placing his head on his hand.

"No, unfortunately, I don't. She was a real beauty when she was young."

"More beautiful than you are?"

"First of all, I'm not beautiful. Second of all, her beauty can't be equalled in that it was rather extraordinary. Apparently, her melancholy made her mysteriously beautiful."

He stroked her cheek. There was no acting in the way he was looking at her now. She felt a warm sensation engulfing her whole body.

"A hidden treasure, a tightly secured box of gemstones that no one is allowed to unlock. You won't let anyone into your heart, will you, Rüya?"

Rüya was desperately searching for what to say when Paul jumped to his feet. "Now let's go eat something." He held out his hand to help her get up. "Then I'll take you somewhere where you can shake it all off. Giselle should excuse you for this once."

"Shake what off?" she asked, feeling somewhat uneasy at the threatening prospect of her heart freeing itself from its chains.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Three, Tableau Six  
1959 - 1960

33

She looked at the clock on the wall of the Sirkeci Train Station. It was twenty past five, and the train was almost two hours late. She could feel her heart galloping away in excitement, its throbbing rising to her throat. Pressing her hands on her chest, she took a few deep breaths, but her heartbeat would not slow down. She tried to control the trembling in her hands. They wouldn't listen to reason. Her whole body was preparing itself for the moment when the years-long yearning would finally come to an end. How long had it been since she had last seen Károly? It was in Budapest, on that wretched day in March after they had lost Magda. It had been twenty years. Twenty years! It sounded so short in words. Nili was only three then, and Lila not even one. A lifetime had gone by. They had been through so much, through so many painful moments, and some happier ones. Not sharing any of it, other than in letters they scribbled in a desperate effort to bring their lives together, made all their suffering more unbearable and their happiness less joyful. Looking back now, she was amazed that she had not lost her mind. How did she survive this separation? Forget about it, Alex! Forget the past. You're going to see your brother in a few moments. Károly will be here shortly. He's coming. Within the span of four weeks, you'll have seen the two people you love the most in your life. "Is he still handsome?" she wondered. Is he still strong? Will she still be lost in his arms? Will she still be cross with him for teasing her with his jokes, only to forgive him the next instant? Will they play games together? "We're playing Danton, _Anyukám_ ," she murmured.

"Pardon me, madam?"

"Nothing, İsa. Nothing."

With trembling hands, she searched her handbag for the packet of _Birinci_ and took out a cigarette. She could not care less if she was in a public place. İsa, the driver, lit her cigarette with a match. They started to pace up and down the platform together. She had waited for so many years, but was unbearably impatient to go through these last moments.

Suddenly she thought she heard the rumbling of the train in the distance. Yes! Yes, it was coming. She gave her cigarette to İsa to get rid of it. She checked if she looked all right, straightening her trousers, picking up an imaginary piece of thread on her blouse and throwing it away, arranging the collar of her fur coat, running her fingers through her hair to shape it up and pressing her lips against each other to make sure that her lipstick was well spread. She took a deep breath. The train was slowly entering the station. She broke into a run, wondering which carriage he might be in. Stopping every few steps, she rose on her toes and checked through the windows in search of a glimpse of her brother among the crowd in the compartment. He was not there. She ran again. Not in this one either. At one point she thought she saw him, and her throbbing heart came to a halt. She was lost for breath. A sweet pain grabbed her stomach. And the next second she felt her heart in her mouth again. Károly was standing on the steps of the carriage, holding a small worn-out suitcase – an old man with his hair almost all white. He was only fifty-three but looked at least ten years older. He had nevertheless lost none of his proud stance that made him look taller than he already was, nor any of that noble way in which he carried himself that made his thin coat resemble an exquisite fur-collared cashmere overcoat. When she saw him smile, she burst into tears. " _Öcsi_ ," she mumbled to herself.

"Alex."

They threw themselves in each other's arms. She was once again a little girl, an irresponsible young girl warmly nestled in the safety of her brother's arms. She pressed her head against his chest, drawing in his smell. She then took another much deeper breath. He smelled of Budapest. He smelled of her family. He smelled of her past, her wasted past.

"Time has treated you well, my angel. You're more beautiful than your photographs do you credit."

"You too, _Öcsi_. You're as handsome as ever."

Károly took Alex's face in between his hands and, without taking his eyes off hers, wiped away her tears before pressing his lips against her forehead in a long kiss. They tightened their embrace, so full of longing.

"My sweet baby. My sweet little baby."

Alex prepared a small banquet for Károly that evening, with a variety of Hungarian and Turkish dishes she herself cooked, refusing any help. She watched her brother with a sinking heart as he ate from everything with great appetite, wiping his plate clean with a piece of bread and then running another piece around its rim where traces of gravy remained. Throughout dinner Alex talked incessantly, frequently breaking into a hearty laughter, spasmodically dissolving into tears of happiness when her heart overflowed with emotions and continuously displaying a joyous mood that came as a most welcome surprise to Nili and Hasan, and even to the three-year-old Aslı, who had never seen her in such high spirits. They reminisced about the days of their childhood, of their youth, of Alex's friends whom she ached to see and of Ayla's untimely death three years ago at the ripe age of forty-nine – a most unfortunate loss that Károly took rather badly. They placed a telephone call to Paris. After several hours the call was connected. First, Alex talked with Lila; then Lila talked with her _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ ; and eventually Károly talked with Ada and his daughters, whom he had been missing terribly. They drank another round of _rakı_ to relieve themselves of the rekindled pain of yearning. Even Aziz, who had the habit of going to bed at ten, stayed up until well past midnight. Aslı, categorically refusing to sleep in the room allocated to her upstairs, fell asleep on Alex's bed, and Nili and Hasan had to do some convincing before she agreed to leave with them towards two in the morning. Finally left alone, Alex and Károly went outside and sat under the gazebo despite the freezing cold. It was February and the garden was covered in snow, but the warmth of being in her brother's arms made Alex oblivious even to the cold.

"What if we weren't here, _Öcsi?_ "

Károly had let them know of his arrival in a telegraph one day before his departure.

"It's not like I came here for a day. I'll be here for two months, my love. Sixty days! Before letting you know, I wanted to be sure that I would actually come. You know how the bureaucracy is in our dear country – as changeable as a weathercock. The authorities might have changed their minds at the last moment. After the show we had two years ago, they have their eyes on us. As the Avant-gardes, we're walking on a tightrope."

Yes! Her brother would be here for sixty days. And she would use every single moment of those sixty days to show him how beautiful Istanbul was and to introduce him to the most attractive aspects of their life here.

Károly was talking without a break. "I guess that our good old Department of Propaganda, though functioning under a new name now, wanted to promote the art of goulash communism in Turkey. As a matter of fact it is rather unusual that in a country like Hungary such a generous fund is allocated to send someone of the old nobility to Istanbul to paint and to open an exhibition, but ..." He smiled cheekily, raising his eyebrows. "Perhaps I came here as a secret agent. Once playing Danton, now playing the Secret Agent. Why not?"

Alex listened to her brother as if quenching her thirst after a long drought. He was now talking about János and Margit. "We expect a general amnesty in April. They'll be initiating collective agriculture, which means that they will definitely declare a general amnesty – something to sweeten the bitterness of the blow, so to speak." The lines on Károly's forehead deepened, reflecting how his thoughts darkened his spirit and tortured his mind.

Alex did everything she could to convince Károly not to return to Hungary. She insisted. She shouted. She cried. She implored. Over and over again. Tirelessly. Squeezing his hands tightly between hers. Throwing her arms around his neck. Going down on her knees and begging. "Don't go! Please don't go back, _Öcsi_. Stay here with us. You'll seek asylum. And then you can go to Paris whenever you want."

"How can I leave Hungary?" he retorted each time she begged him. "We gave it a try in '56; we failed. But it will happen sooner or later. I can't abandon my country," he repeated again and again. Once he fell silent, lost in thought, before carrying on, "I do sometimes think of leaving. There are moments when I ask myself if my responsibilities for my fatherland are so important. Were they ever? Was it worth leaving my family? Is it worth it now?" only to conclude in a subdued and offended voice, "Now it's too late anyway. Even if I wanted to leave, Ada doesn't want me."

Her heart sank as she listened to how much he still loved his wife. She saw his devastated pride and his wounded soul, far too fragile for a man of his physique and sturdiness. She listened in agony to how he could not get himself to beg Ada and therefore avoided writing to her knowing that he would not be able to stop himself from begging, how desperately he wrestled with a guilty conscience for having left his daughters alone for so long, how unbearably ashamed he was of himself for not being able to take care of his family, and how useless he felt under the burden of his inability to do something about it. Hoping that it would give him some relief, Alex repeated again and again that Ada still loved him, that she saw it in her eyes and that she even heard her say that she missed him terribly and would welcome him with open arms. She reassured him that his daughters would never give up on him. "Please don't go. Please stay here with me," she begged time and again. "You'll be free to go to Paris from here," she kept saying in an effort to convince him.

"It's not that easy, Alex. Not being able to return to Hungary, ever again ... to be forced to stay away from your homeland ... I can't tolerate even the thought of it." The lines on his forehead deepened even further. "One day soon, Hungary will be what it was before, and my wife and my daughters will be able to return to their country, to a country that will be free once again."

At those words, Rudi's voice reverberated in Alex's ears. "The world will not give Hungary a helping hand, Károly!" she burst out. "Stop hoping. Stop being so impossibly optimistic. Think of yourself. Think of your family. Leave. Give up. The future of Hungary is at the mercy of the Soviets," she yelled under the astonished gaze of her brother.

"Well, well, well. Listen to my little sister. How long have you been interested in politics, if I may ask?"

"Rudi is alive," she snapped. Just like that. Out of the blue.

Károly froze. His eyebrows furrowed and his questioning eyes stuck on Alex as if on a puzzle impossible to entangle.

"Excuse me? Have I heard you right?"

"Yes, _Öcsi_ , you've heard me right. Rudi is alive."

Károly suddenly jumped to his feet, laughing in a torrent of bursts that racked his whole body. He opened his arms wide, threw his head back and shouted towards the night sky, making a celestial announcement of the good news. "Rudi is alive. Rudi is alive." With the ecstasy of the relief he felt as one of the most painfully entangled knots in his heart finally untwisted, he grabbed Alex and, picking her up in his arms, started to pirouette under the gazebo too small to contain his joy. Chaos ran over to join the excitement and, rising on his hind legs, tried to put his huge front paws on Károly's back, barking in participation of their happiness. Károly slipped over the step, and they all tumbled over onto the snow. Károly put his arms around Chaos. "Rudi is alive, Chaos! He's alive!"

They finally stood up, whisking the snow off their chests, arms and legs before returning to the gazebo while Chaos, with his remorseless sense of responsibility, went back to his place of watch.

"When did you learn about this?"

"Last month, in Paris. I saw him at the opening of Ada's show."

"Ada never mentioned it." He had a sudden scowl on his face. "We haven't been corresponding for such a long time, mind you. However, she would have definitely written to let me know about this."

"Ada doesn't know. And even if she did, she could not have written to you."

"Why is that?"

She gave him all the details of what Rudi had told her and why he had not called them. "He's well settled in Paris, leading a perfect life as Charles Chandler. He's once again a successful businessman." She hastened to add that Rudi would be able to help Károly out, had he gone to Paris. "Don't go back to Hungary, _Öcsi_. Seek asylum. Go to Paris. Rudi will take care of everything. Please. I beg you. Please."

"You must give me Rudi's address. We've got to let Ada and Józsi know. We must write them a letter right now." He paused. "Rudi might not contact us, but we must get in touch with him. I don't care if it's dangerous. Life is full of dangers anyhow. Rudi is our brother. We can't leave him all alone. Being away from your country is an unbearable burden, Alex." He took her in his arms. "You, more than any of us, know what it means to be alone in a foreign land, my love."

"I haven't told Aziz anything, just so as you know. The fact that I've seen Rudi would only cause him pain. It's better that he didn't know."

Károly did not ask, "Are you writing to each other?" He did not ask, "What did you two do in Paris?" He probably guessed, knowing Alex so well. He would read what lay in her heart by looking at her eyes. He would easily interpret the meaning behind her eyes that said, "What should I do, _Öcsi?_ I don't know what to do, please help me."

A while later they left the gazebo, for Alex could no longer tolerate the cold, and went to sit on the veranda. When the cold became too intense, they moved into the living room, where they sat until the break of dawn. Finally, Alex went to bed, and Károly lay down on the sofa in her room where they talked each other to a sweet sleep.

The following evening Alex invited everyone to the dinner she gave in Károly's honour. Haldun and Gül came with their sons Esad and Cem; Necla and Nezih came with their son Osman; and Cevat came with his daughters Yasemin and Azra. Nili had taken Aslı and come over in the morning. Hasan and his mother Adile _Hanım_ joined them in the evening. Anastasia, Hristo, Keti and Dimo arrived, as happy as their dear friend Alex, their arms loaded with the stuffed vegetables bathed in olive oil and the _şekerpares_ , the Turkish dessert richly soaked in the sweetest syrup of all times. Initially, Alex had wished she could have invited the whole world to entertain her brother, but, before they reached the dessert, she started waiting impatiently for the moment when everyone would leave and she would be left alone with her _Öcsi_.

Károly made everybody's eyes fill with tears, talking about his mother's trauma on the day they had left their room in Rózsadomb and moved to Szentendre, and how, ever since that day, she had become a different person. He told Yasemin and Azra that he had met their mother Ayla when she was only a little girl, and how she, with her sweet and soft emotional disposition, made his heart skip a few beats every time he looked at her, quickly adding that those had been the days when Cevat was not even heard of. Yasemin and Azra fell in love with _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ as well. Necla insisted that Károly come to dinner with them as soon as her twenty-two-year-old daughter Selma, now happily pregnant with her second child, came from Ankara, where she lived, the day after tomorrow, to stay for two weeks. Alex did not take her eyes off her brother the whole evening and, after seeing everyone off, stayed up with him till dawn, talking, listening, laughing and crying.

In the weeks that followed, she did not leave her brother alone, not even for a second, trying to entice him to move here by showing him the most attractive corners of Istanbul and the most pleasant features of her life, the extended family and the large circle of friends he would become a part of, the jobs he could do, her studio where they would paint together and the galleries where they would show their work. She introduced him to all her friends who flocked to Çamlık to meet him and to share Alex's happiness. She took him to the Prince's Island, where she cried her heart out in his reassuring embrace as they sauntered around the places she had once been with Magda. They went to Polonezköy to watch the folk dances of the Mazowsze group freshly in from Poland, to get drunk on the sour cherry vodkas, to enjoy Chopin's mazurkas and cry to the rhythm of his polonaises. They isolated themselves in Alex's studio and painted for hours, sometimes well into the night, laughing madly at nothing in particular and munching on Asiye _Hanım_ 's delicious dishes amidst odours of oil paint, turpentine and thinners, odours Alex was not accustomed to and generally detested. They listened to Beethoven at full volume. Károly made Alex listen to his jazz records at full blast. There were times when they even argued over trivia, shouting at each other, which sent their young cat Nyx, black as the night, and Kék, well into adulthood, looking for a place to hide. Aphrodite and Ares, not quite sure of what exactly was going on, anxiously ran about. Károly drove Alex crazy with his teasing, and Alex could not get cross with _Öcsi_. They wrote letters to their friends. Károly painted fifteen oil canvases, and Alex, to the surprise of everyone including herself, painted twenty-five colourfully cheerful aquarelles. In early April they invited the crème de la crème of Istanbul to the _vernissage_ of Károly's show. Alex asked Selma and Sema to ensure that the news was well spread in Ankara and Adana as well. She used all her resourcefulness to make Károly love Istanbul and Turkey. She had to make him love it and stay here with her.

34

They were sitting under the gazebo, relishing the invigoratingly crisp rays of the bright April sun. Károly's show had ended the day before, and all of his work had been sold. He was in excellent spirits. Alex was down on the lawn, pacing up and down, talking excitedly.

"I feel I need to experiment, _Öcsi_. To discover. I want to mix watercolours with other materials. Whatever I can get my hands on. You're right. I should stop limiting the use of this beautiful medium to pretty landscapes and tedious still lifes. I should use and abuse my precious paints in every which way possible, explore their limits in the most Promethean way and try not to be too gentle with them. I have loads of photographs. I plan to turn them into soft and almost invisibly transparent paintings. On the other hand, I want to explore every corner of the human body. Initially, I need to find a nude model and make hundreds of quick, small sketches. Then I should focus on a tiny portion of the body, just an eye, a nail, a toe, an elbow, a nipple ... and draw them over and over again from different angles. Draw them on very large papers. Work on them patiently. Constantly. Draw the bone structure, then the muscles, and finally cover them all with a thin layer of skin. In the end, I should be able to give the whole impression I want with a few dots or a line or two. After a certain point I must try everything in colour. Boldly! Without fear! A stroke of indigo blue and that's it. Finished. Painting colourful bodies in every possible position. Painting them big, painting them small, painting them distorted. Yes, distorted. Distorted in a way that accentuates the features I like or dislike. Doing this in watercolours, ink, charcoal, fabric, whatever I can get my hands on. Using them all together or separately on a piece of paper, on card, a canvas, whatever. Yes. This is where I want to go. Produce. And produce. Produce without letting the results disappoint me."

"Alex? Are you quite well?" cut in Károly, letting out a cheerful laugh.

"You can't believe it, can you? Well, I can't either. I don't know what is happening to me. I feel as if I've just started to learn how to paint."

"Excuse me, madam," Asiye _Hanım_ called out as she walked towards the gazebo in hurried steps, despite her old age and excessive weight. "Madame Anastasia is here."

Alex's mood lightened even further with her friend's arrival. She asked Asiye _Hanım_ to prepare the tea and, after a brief exchange of pleasantries with Anastasia, left her alone with Károly, with the lame excuse of, "I need to check the cake." She knew that her dear friend would lose no time in praising Istanbul, in line with Alex's earlier instructions, and would use all her cunning brainwashing manoeuvres; she had been well-informed by Alex about the difficulty of enticing Károly away from his one-and-only-love Budapest. Alex hoped that by the time she returned from the kitchen, Károly would have already made up his mind about staying here. Anastasia would do everything she could to ensure he did because Alex could see clearly that the only drive behind her efforts was not her Samaritan urge to see Alex happy. In recent weeks even Aziz had noticed the subtle changes in Anastasia. She always dressed impeccably, not allowing herself to leave her bedroom to go into the living room before her dress was perfectly ironed, but lately there was something more to her attire, something more feminine. She somehow seemed more provocative in the way she kept one more button of her blouse undone and more inviting in the way she crossed her legs. Alex had never before witnessed her look at anyone with such adoration, and her observation was confirmed when Anastasia shyly averted her eyes the instant her admiring gaze met Károly's eyes, in a gesture more like that of a naive and timorous young girl than of a forty-six year-old mature woman. She further betrayed her true feelings when she smiled cheekily at Károly's compliments, unwillingly tearing her eyes away from him. Dear Anastasia had fallen head over heels in love with him. Sweet Anastasia. Will you be a solution to yet another problem of mine? Come on, my dear friend. Sweep my _Öcsi_ off his feet. Intrigue his mind. Make him fall in love with you. Make him stay here. Make him become an Istanbulite. Even the thought of such bliss filled her with _joie de vivre_. _Öcsi_ living in Istanbul. Right by her side. Every single day. Being able to see him every single day of the year ... a dream coming true. How different their lives would be. So wonderfully different. I too have to do something, she thought. I have to help Anastasia make Károly fall in love with her. What does _Öcsi_ like? What does he look for in a woman? What will conquer his heart? What was so special about Ada? What did he find in her? Suddenly dark clouds started hovering above her spirits. Anastasia was the antithesis of Ada. She shooed away the dark clouds in panic. In fact she was not quite so, if one looked deep enough. And even if she were, Károly might find someone her opposite attractive after all that had happened.

When she came back to the gazebo, following Asiye _Hanım_ carrying the tea and the cake, her hopes were somewhat raised upon hearing what Károly was telling Anastasia.

"You're quite right, Anastasia," he was saying, "Istanbul has this magic charm, an enchantment about it. What I find most alluring, however, is that its people don't have fear in their eyes. They boldly look at each other, straight in the eye, freely joke with each other, say hello to a total stranger on the street. Do you know what it means to live with the fear that your neighbour might turn you in?"

The conversation had come to a critical point. Alex worriedly looked at Anastasia, who was silently sipping her tea. She surely knew what it meant to live with such fear.

"Do you know what it means," Károly carried on, "to go to bed, not knowing for sure if you did something that might eventually lead to someone banging on your door in the early hours of the morning, accusing you of being a traitor, arresting you and taking you away? Sometimes freedom simply means the liberty of not having to keep your curtains closed all the time, not having to think if the step you're about to take might be considered a fatal mistake, not feeling all alone. I'm talking about a different type of loneliness, about everyone around you looking at you as if you were their enemy, about all your friends gradually disappearing, about all your friendships disappearing, about everyone becoming your enemy. I'm talking about being alienated from the people with whom you share the same fate." He suddenly excused himself and dashed to the house.

Taking advantage of Károly's absence, Anastasia produced the much awaited envelope from her handbag. Alex snatched it from her hand, tore the envelope open and read the two long pages in a flash. Throwing a furtive glance over her shoulders toward the house and seeing no sign of Károly, she read it once again. "My precious," he had written. "You have to get a divorce and come to Paris. Without further ado!" She hurriedly folded the letter, put it back in its envelope and handed it back to Anastasia.

"Thank you ever so much, Anastasia. I don't know what I would do without you."

"You might have been better off, actually."

"How do you mean? These letters are my only consolation, the only solace giving me the strength to go on."

"Alex, dear, perhaps it's about time you changed your life. This lie you're living is consuming you, my dearest. Don't be so scared. Why should you be? Aziz is living in his own world anyway. And your daughters ..." She paused. "I do hope you're not still thinking about your daughters."

"I thought you liked Aziz," said Alex, smiling.

"I love you more, Alex. You ought to think of yourself a little."

"I believe I always thought of myself, and myself alone."

"Girls! Look who's here!" Károly was walking towards the gazebo carrying Aslı in his arm and holding Nili by her shoulders.

Károly, or _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ to Aslı as he had always been to Nili, had conquered the little girl's heart from day one. Aslı climbed down from her great uncle's arms, ran to Alex and jumped onto her lap. Before long she scrambled down from her grandmother's lap as fast as she had climbed there and, darting after Aphrodite, who had been licking her legs, started scampering around with the dogs.

"Does she like painting?" asked Károly.

"Yes, she does. Actually, she isn't bad at all. Nowadays I'm teaching her how to observe."

"That's not enough, Alex. You should also teach her how to forget all that she has observed and add her own interpretation to it. The whole point is to be able to really see what you're looking at and then freely express your feelings about it. Freedom, Alex. Teach her how to be free, to see the essence beyond the rigidity of those fixed norms." He then turned towards Aslı, who was capering around the gazebo and playing with the dogs. "Come here, my little pumpkin," he called out, extending his arms. "What about playing a game with me?"

Aslı skipped back to the gazebo and sat on Károly's knees.

"Do you see the clouds?" he asked, showing the clouds drifting high up in the sky over the Bosphorus.

Aslı nodded.

"When we were little, your Mami, me and our sister Magda, we had a nanny called Ildikó," he started, his eyes hanging on the clouds. "We were living in Italy then. We had a beautiful garden with huge trees. We used to play in the garden every day. And sometimes Nanny Ildikó used to make us watch the sky. She often asked what colour the clouds were that day." He lowered his eyes to Aslı. "What colour are the clouds today, sweetheart?"

"White."

Aslı, who seemed not too impressed by this new game, left her great uncle's lap and, squatting beside Ares snoozing by Alex's feet, took its head between her hands and started to squeeze its cheeks. Károly turned to Anastasia, who was sipping her tea, and carried on. "Nanny Ildikó used to draw our attention to little things, to insignificant details. Actually, those details were not insignificant at all. It was just that we were so accustomed to seeing them that we took them for granted and failed to notice their significance or beauty. The orangey red, coppery red streaks underneath the clouds, the sun rays shining through them in silver linings." He turned his eyes to Alex. "We still do it today, don't we? Don't we talk about the things that we know we both see perfectly well? We want to share all the extraordinary or even the ordinary things we observe, don't we? And sometimes even the ugliness triggers that desire to share. We describe what the other one already sees or perhaps fails to see. At times these observations lead to huge discussions that go on for days and at others go no further than a few brief remarks."

Nili's eyes were fixed on her uncle. "How can you bear being away from Juli and Dóra, _Öcsi_ _bácsi?_ " she blurted out. "How did you survive it all these years?"

"My dear," Alex cut in, "would you please ask Asiye _Hanım_ to bring some fresh tea?" Nili could be so inconsiderate at times, she thought. Did she want to torture him, rubbing salt in his wound like that?

"I must admit that nowadays I've realised how little I've known my mother," said Nili as she stood up and walked over to Alex. She hugged her, kissing her hair. "She's always been very sad and sulky. We've never seen her childish side. She's never been so cheerful before. I can now see how much she loves you, and how much she suffered from being separated from you all these years."

Alex felt her eyes burning. Nili would make fun of her again if she let go of the tears standing in her eyes. She turned her back to the others and saw Aziz waving from the veranda. "Your Daddy is here, Nili."

Aziz was back from work and was gesturing that he would change and join them in the gazebo. Nili ran to him; Aslı followed suit.

"Don't forget to tell Asiye _Hanım_ to bring some fresh tea," Alex called out after her daughter.

"I'll take care of it," said Anastasia as she rose to her feet. "Aziz being here now, we might be switching to something stronger."

As Anastasia left the gazebo, Károly walked over to Alex and put his arm around her shoulders. "This house is like the temple of Aziz's love and respect for you, Alex. Have you ever noticed the things he did to create a replica of your life in Hungary so as to make you happy? The house leaning its back onto the woods and the trees that you see through the rose garden when you look out the window of your bedroom ... don't they remind you of our manor house in Kengyel? He brought you the best view on the Bosphorus so that you don't miss the view from our summerhouse in Balatonfüred. The house itself is no different than our house in Rózsadomb except for having one storey less."

"Why don't you stay here with us _Öcsi?_ "

Károly took his arm away from her shoulders and held her hands, looking at her in the eye. "I miss you, Alex. I miss all of you terribly much, but I can't leave Hungary. I can't abandon my country. She needs me more than anyone of you does. You have a family here. You have your daughters. You have a granddaughter and another one on the way. You have Aziz's family, even if you don't like them very much. No matter how distant they might be, they are, after all, your family too. As for Ada, she has settled well in Paris. My daughters are happy there." He suddenly fell silent, his thoughtful eyes staring past her. "Our country is all alone in Europe, Alex," he continued in a compassionately tender voice. "She has nothing in common with her neighbouring countries. She's all alone amidst the crowd. Nobody hears her; nobody understands her. And Budapest, the apple of my eye. She isn't just a city for me. She's my closest friend, my confidante. The perfume of the roses that spread into my soul, the chill in my bones when its cold wind hits my face, the ruffling of the leaves flirting in the breeze ..." He let go of Alex's hands, his eyes absently fixed on the Bosphorus. After a brief pause, he grabbed her hands again. "Everything will change, Alex. You'll see, everything will change very soon. We tried it back in '56, we failed, but it will happen. There will come a day when the ladies of Budapest, smelling of violets, will be promenading along the Danube again. Come spring, the lilac trees, the wisteria and the acacia will blossom the way they used to, somehow differently than they do now. You'll see. We'll be together again to witness it all. Believe me. In autumn we'll go out for a walk on the road to Buda Castle, arm in arm, hand in hand, trying to protect ourselves from the chestnuts falling off the trees. And this time we'll have our children and our grandchildren with us."

The tears were rolling down Alex's cheeks. She closed her eyes and nestled her head in her brother's chest. For an instant she thought she smelled the lilac flowers. "Will it come true?" she asked herself in hope. No, it won't. It can't. It's only a dream. A dreamlike painting that he created to make her happy.

"I learned in the most painful way that freedom doesn't mean running away from your responsibilities, Alex."

Aziz arrived, carrying several glasses of _rakı_ on a tray, accompanied by Anastasia and followed by Asiye _Hanım_ bringing the appetisers she had prepared on his instructions.

"A very good evening to you all," he sang in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone. He seemed to be in excellent spirits.

"There's no way I can convince Károly to leave Hungary, Aziz. Please do help me, would you?"

"I drink to our happiness," Aziz said, raising his glass before he turned to Károly. "You brought joy into our life, Károly. I'm sorry to admit that Alex has not always been so cheerful. You've swept her off her feet. Our house is large enough for all of us, and you would give us great happiness if you cared to stay here with us."

35

Neither Alex nor Aziz nor Anastasia could convince Károly not to return to Budapest. Nothing would. He could not leave Hungary. He would not. However, it was not only Hungary that he could not leave. _Öcsi_ had another responsibility that he might not have been aware of, or perhaps could not articulate even if he were: he could not leave his mother, who was seventy-three years old now; he could not leave Gizella, who categorically refused to leave her country. Despite their eternal conflict, all that suffering they had been through together had somehow drawn them closer. Like their country, they were alone, a loneliness that had been strengthening the bond between them more and more with each passing day.

Helplessly watching her brother slip away from her hands in April to return to Budapest, Alex plunged into her loneliness again. During the entire summer she tried to cope with the tides of her moods that corroded her spirits, sometimes isolating herself in her studio at the service of an occasional surge of undulating creativity, sometimes trying to cheer up Lila, who ached for Paris – or rather for André – ever since she had returned in May, and sometimes indulging herself in her granddaughter Aslı whenever she could convince Nili – very moody lately due to her pregnancy – to let her stay overnight at Çamlık, but mostly sitting under the gazebo for hours, watching the Bosphorus, thinking about Rudi and musing over what she should do. She could not do anything but while her time away until the day she hoped she could make a decision. There were days when, blissfully filled with optimism, she picked up all her courage and thought that she should just leave everything and go; and then there were days when, painfully drowned in pessimism, she feebly let all her dreams shatter into millions of pieces like a fine crystal mirror, as ambiguities tightened her heart. Yet a few days later a scent, a colour, something from the past shed a light of hope on everything, whereupon she decided that she could after all leave, thinking that it was only a matter of finding the right time and the right words to say to Aziz.

The summer came to an end, but Alex's tidal moods continued. Her state of mind changed several times in the course of a single day. Similarly, she had been in the clutches of an unstable mood since this morning. Hoping to pull herself away from the crippling vicissitudes of her humour, she had come to sit under the gazebo where she had been listening to the barely audible sound of the drizzling rain. Warmly wrapped in her shawl, she was not feeling cold at all despite the occasional gusts of wind. She had woken up in a terrible mood that morning, impossibly depressed by the pallid face of autumn. Just before noon, however, when the postman had arrived with Károly's letter, her day had lightened up, oddly accompanied by a positive change in the effect nature had upon her.

The autumn, she thought, has this peculiar beauty. Not a glimpse of the sun, something that should be quite unpleasant for me, but somehow the sorrowing grey sky evokes serenity. I would never have thought that a sunless day might conjure up such warm feelings. How I have missed the rain, the freshness it brings, the invigorating smell of the wet lawn it leaves behind and the strong odour of the bathed earth. The change in nature triggers a sense of awe, making you realise that nothing is permanent and everything might change from one day to next. The wetness around you refreshes your heart and soul. It all depends how you look at it all. Autumn can be very charming after all.

Károly's letter was still on her lap, a letter full of hope, a letter containing the news that Ada had broken up with Hans.

Szentendre, 2nd September 1959

My dear sweet little baby,

Ada says she's broken up with Hans. She's written a letter full of much longing. You were right, Alex. You said that she still loved me and that my daughters would never give up on me. I can't put into words how happy I am. Back on my feet and filled with fresh energy, I'm ready to go on fighting to bring all my loved ones together again.

I started a new series of canvases called _Istanbul_ , based on my inspirations in that intriguing city. I'm flirting with the non-figurative, but I certainly haven't abandoned my Surrealist approach. I'm only trying, my dear Alex. An excursion, if you will. I've just finished a painting, which I entitled _The Slanting Horizon and the Forms_. I might as well call it _The Bosphorus and the Seagulls_. By the by, quite a number of reviews came out about my show in Istanbul. Not too shabby either. I enclose one for your perusal.

We carry on our correspondence with "Charles." I can hardly tell you how happy it makes me to reunite with those whom I believed I had failed to protect. Now I want nothing more than to see the day that János and Margit get out of prison and are free again. Mother and I, we often go and visit them. They're all right, all right only as far as their health is concerned, of course. They say that there will definitely be an amnesty next year. We were rather unfortunate last year since that amnesty covered only those sentenced to less than two years, something that caused a lot of reactions and still does. We're hopeful, Alex, very hopeful indeed. As always, Mother keeps repeating, "It'll pass, son. This too shall pass." You won't believe it, but she is more optimistic than I am now.

Everything is so beautiful, my little baby. Life is beautiful despite everything. The nightingales might have been replaced by the blackest of all ravens, but one day they'll go back to where they have come from and our silenced nightingales will start singing again among the branches of our acacia trees.

Already with much longing,

Your brother,

Károly

The letter contained a cutting from the _Valóság_ – _The Truth_ magazine.

" _In Károly Kurzón's paintings, the objects sometimes transform into humorous beings, the figures recall non-existent animals, and the compositions constructed with laconic simplicity resemble absurd aphorisms or unsolvable picture puzzles. He applies letters, numbers, abstract signs and objects simplified into symbols. In his paintings, the geometric forms come to life, inviting the viewer to witness an event with an unknown ending._

The artist produced the most authentic works of his artistic career with an energy triggered by the new tastes he discovered through the new vision Istanbul had opened up for him. It is particularly praiseworthy that he saturates the Surrealistic elements with his personal experiences and presents his coherent insights in deeply radiant colours."

Károly's struggle to find his own style would probably last a lifetime. He still had not given up on geometric forms. Gizella might have been right in saying that he should not have given up engineering. Or perhaps he should have chosen to study mathematics right from the beginning. "Would things have been different if he did?" Alex wondered. Would he have stayed in Paris and become a world-famous mathematician? A Nobel laureate? There were so many Hungarian scientists like that. Would he have been happier?

The sky had darkened again. She heard the vague rumbling sound of distant lightning. The rain became heavier. A dark cloud she spotted over the edge of the gazebo foretold the imminent start of a torrential downpour. A chill ran through her. She did not want to go inside. She wrapped herself tighter in her shawl. She had to make up her mind. Anastasia was right. This lie was consuming her. In his last letter, Rudi had repeated the same thing again, imploring her to trust him. She did trust him, and the reason for her procrastination was no longer because she did not have faith in him. Whenever she was about to make up her mind, she remembered what Aziz had told her years ago. "I'll let you go. I will. You'll go to your lover. However, don't you forget that you'll never, ever, be able to see your daughters again. I'll shoot them first, and then I'll shoot myself. Do you understand me?" Aziz was not the type of person to kill his own daughters. That was impossible, but he would not hesitate to kill himself. It was not difficult to kill oneself. It was only a matter of minutes, an instantaneous surge of insanity. It was not even that for Aziz, who had always taken his father as his role model. "This is what we learned from our father," he always said. His father Halim _Bey_ had shot himself after carefully planning his actions. He had pulled the trigger in coldblooded determination after having written his farewell note in his impeccable handwriting, saying that no one was responsible for his death. She could not leave Aziz, at least not now, not when he was going through a very difficult period at work, which he said was the worst period of his business career. Yes, she was living a lie and it was consuming her, but the price she had to pay if she were to tell the truth was too dear.

36

A few days before Christmas, André proposed to Lila. In _Lila_ , a short story he had written and added to the last of his letters, usually epic-like in length, he, albeit somewhat indirectly, explained how he could not imagine a life without Lila and asked if she would agree to become his wife.

Aziz's initial reaction to this proposal was a series of grunts, for he was obviously much distressed at the prospect of losing his other daughter as well and, to make matters worse, of having to send her away to live in another country – an undesirable venture that would entail long periods of separation. He objected to the idea with all his might. "This is beyond my ken. What kind of a marriage proposal is this, if I may ask? I've never heard such a ridiculous thing, a proposal in correspondence. What does he take us for? She has a father, doesn't she? Can't he be bothered to come here to ask for her hand? This is unacceptably rude. I've never seen such lack of manners!" he roared. "I shall not consent to it before I meet his family. Not in this lifetime! I have to know where I'll be sending my daughter, in whose hands I shall be trusting my little angel. Who is this André Bonnaire? Will he take care of our Lila by writing novels? If he's so much in love, he should come and live here. I'm sure he'll write great fiction in Istanbul," he grumbled for days. "Not before I meet his family!" he carried on insisting. Eventually, however, unable to resist Lila's unflinching determination and Alex's persistent pleas, he gave his consent. Despite Aziz's objections, it was agreed to hold the wedding ceremony in Paris where, much to Aziz's disappointment and fury, Lila and André had decided to live. Aziz continued to grunt and grumble, rattling Alex's head with his complaints. "I can't believe that you so readily agreed to be separated from your daughter," he scolded her, shouting that he could not understand why she was so extremely happy about this prospect and bellowing that he now very much doubted her love for their little Lila.

Alex was certainly extremely happy that her daughter would be marrying someone she was in love with, but that was not the only aspect of this marriage arrangement that made her spirits rise so high. From now on she would have a legitimate reason to go to Paris: to see her daughter. She would be able to go to Paris more often, which meant she would be able to see Rudi more often.

Shortly after New Year's Eve, Alex and Lila went to Paris to help with the wedding preparations, leaving Aziz and Nili behind, the former because he was submersed in an excessive load of work which had not let him take any time off, even for Christmas and New Year's Eve, and the latter because she was unwilling to leave her new-born baby Nur for too long.

On the evening of their arrival, Alex and Lila attended a dinner party at André's parents' house, although they were exhausted from their long journey. Next morning Alex woke up at six to the sound of the telephone ringing. It was Aziz. She told him how unfounded their worries were since André and his family were well worthy of becoming the in-laws of the Giritli family, and assured him that they would definitely not let Lila miss either Istanbul or her life there. They had organised a perfect ceremony for the wedding, taking care of every little detail, and all that had remained for Alex and Lila to do was to approve the arrangements.

That evening, after seeing Lila off on her date with André, Alex got dressed and went down to the lobby. The trembling of her heart as she waited for Rudi, whom she had not seen for a year, and the surge of excitement inflamed by the sight of him as he walked through the revolving doors, were much more intense than anything she had felt before, even on their first encounter years ago at the tennis club in Budapest.

In the days that followed, she created an excuse almost every day to avoid the endless programmes of André's family so that she could be with Rudi. She had no appetite for sightseeing or for dining and wining. Trying to make up for all that time wasted away aching for each other, they did not leave the privacy of Rudi's flat for hours, losing track of time, sometimes in heated conversation, sometimes in absolute silence, with their eyes doing the talking. There came moments when they forgot about everything under the spell of their unbridled passion that rumbled like thunder, followed by a stillness conjuring up the cool waters of a serene lake. They danced as though they had never danced before. " _Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear. And it shows them pearly white._ " They listened to Bobby Darin over and over again. Their hearts throbbing with _Mack the Knife!_ Swinging and twirling. Rolling about. Tirelessly. Again and again. Going for the kill. " _Look out! Old Macky is back!_ "

On some days, when they felt they could keep their hands off each other for a few hours, they met with their friends. Through Károly, Charles Chandler's circle of friends had come to include József, Èva and Ada as well. Ada, who most probably guessed what was going on between Alex and Rudi, continued to pretend she did not know anything.

Today, leaving Lila to help her future in-laws with the preparations and to enjoy her day with André, Alex met with Rudi and Ada. They were having dinner at a bistro called Benoit in Marais, a tiny restaurant with twenty tables and mirrored walls that made it look larger than it actually was. According to Rudi, it was the best place in Paris to taste the traditional French cuisine. It looked very traditional indeed with its floor tiles, lace curtains hanging from shiny brass poles, wooden chairs and sofas upholstered in red velvet. Alex ordered snails in garlic for a starter and sole à la Dieppe for her main course, oblivious to what Ada and Rudi ordered since, Rudi's hand caressing her knee under the table made her lose all her concentration. She wondered if Ada could guess what Rudi was doing right now. Had she seen them kissing while she was away to powder her nose a few minutes ago? Had she noticed how Rudi's fingers were caressing her back as they were shown to their table? Did her face betray how happy she was? Yes, she was happy, happier than she had been for years. The two weeks she had spent in Paris, the fourteen unforgettable days lived to the full, had carried her away to another realm, a realm where dreams reigned.

"Happy birthday, Károly," said Rudi, raising his glass to drink to the health of his absent friend.

Throughout dinner they kept raising their glasses to Károly, going back in time to their youth, to the picnic in Balatonfüred where Károly and Ada had met. Rudi talked about how sullen-faced and serious Ada used to be as a young woman, scaring off all men except for Károly who, being so head over heels in love with her, succeeded seeing through her sulkiness into the beauties hidden deep in her soul. These reminiscences put a smile on Ada's face, no longer sullen but now rather sad.

What Ada said that evening, on the other hand, not only put a smile on Alex's face but made her heart, soul and whole being lift in exultation. "Every time there is a delay in Károly's letters, I take it as a sign that he's coming. This time he has finally left Hungary and is coming to me, I say. He's coming. He will come tonight. I can't sleep at nights, waiting for a knock on the door. I hear a sound and rush to the door. I will open it, I say to myself, my hopes rising, and there he will be, standing there right before me. Each time somebody taps on my shoulder in the street, my heart skips a beat. I turn around with my heart in my mouth, expecting to see him. Perhaps this time, I say, perhaps this time it's him."

That night when they dropped Ada off, it was well past midnight. Alex had to part with her prince on a white horse before they arrived on Place Vendôme where the Hôtel Ritz was, for she did not want a chance meeting with Lila. They sat in the white Cadillac and kissed like teenagers, trying to make up for not having kissed all evening as much as they had desired.

"I can't forgive myself, Rudi. I try to, encouraged by your love, but then that same love makes me realise, in a cruelly bitter way, what I lost, what I have been deprived of for years. And I despair. I desperately wish we were back in the 30s."

"We don't need to go back in time, my love. We have today. We have tomorrow. The future is ours. We are together, aren't we? We'll always be together."

Alex reluctantly left the car and walked to the hotel. Entering through the revolving doors and going up to her room, she was still feeling elated. Lila was not back yet. She surely knew nothing about Rudi and was far too much in love, happy and excited, to wonder where and with whom her mother was spending her time.

She was not sleepy at all and did not want to waste her time sleeping anyway. She turned on the bedside lamp and started reading. She read two pages, only to realise that she remembered none of it. Her mind was busy reliving everything she had experienced today, yesterday, the day before yesterday and the day before that. She got out of bed and lit a cigarette. Sitting in the armchair by the window, she turned her gaze outside. Although occasionally interrupted by short-lived thoughts, her mind was constantly on Rudi. Every single thing carried her to him, and her musings about him took her to their future. What was she to do? What should she do?

She heard the door open. It was Lila.

"What's wrong, Mami? Why are you still up?"

"I couldn't sleep. How was your evening?"

"All right, I think. We exaggerated with the drinks a little bit, I guess. How is Ada _néni?_ "

"She's fine, _tatlım_. As much as she can be."

The next day Aziz, Nili, Hasan, Aslı, Haldun and Gül arrived, and Alex did not have a chance to see Rudi again. Lila and André tied the knot in a marvellous wedding ceremony, although Alex could enjoy neither the celebrations nor her daughter's beauty, nor any of the compliments they received as a family, for her mind and heart were somewhere else altogether.
March 2009  
Paris

When Rüya entered the flat on Rue Vavin where Lila _néni_ 's daughter Giselle lived, the morning was about to break – or rather she guessed it was, for she had lost track of time. Having been completely intoxicated for the last couple of hours, she only had a blurred recollection of what had happened after the fifth song Etienne Daho sang in the concert Paul had taken her. She must have had a glass too many of that very strong drink, the name of which she no longer remembered, and whatever effect it had inflicted upon her must have been boosted by her highly active dancing style, which had left Paul somewhat flabbergasted.

"I see that you can let go when you want to."

"I think dancing is an important art, a performance art where you can express all your feelings with your body."

"You don't need to turn everything into a serious discussion."

After the concert, Paul had accompanied her home. She vaguely recalled their journey towards the Jardin du Luxembourg and then onto Rue Vavin, the difficulty she had had with the unyielding lock of the main door to the apartment building, and finally making it inside where she felt the walls tilting towards her while she tried her best to walk in a straight line, focusing all her attention on the threateningly steep steps ahead of her.

"I don't understand why you're trying so hard to look sober, Rüya."

Wondering when the three steps at the entrance hall of the building had become six, she had stumbled and, in panic, grabbed Paul's arm, pulling him to the floor with her. She could not quite remember what had happened after that. The smell of Paul's black leather jacket, his grey sweater, black jeans, his hand extending towards her, holding on to his hand to stand up, thinking, "He loves black, just as I do. Good." Thoughts quite out of place, time out of joint. She had somehow managed to make it – on her feet – to the elevator, which had taken them safely to Giselle's flat. She did remember rather clearly shutting the door of the flat on Paul's face at a speed that might have intensified the ruthless look of his nose, which, having been broken once before, already gave a harsh expression to his face. She had reopened the door in panic, rising on tiptoes and planting a furtive kiss on his nose before closing the door again no less forcefully. In the meanwhile, Paul might have kissed her on the lips. This last bit, however, was not so clear in her memory.

Next morning or rather when she woke up from a two-hour sleep that was more like passing out, the thing she carried on her shoulders did not feel like her head but a heavy iron pot of boiling water. Someone kept tightening the iron belt around the pot. She was horrified at her appearance in the mirror. Her hair! God, she looked awful. It took her a couple of hours to get herself ready to walk out of the house.

When she arrived at the Hôtel Ritz where the shoot was to take place that day, her headache had somewhat subsided.

"What did I drink last night? A tornado? I hope I didn't say or do anything silly."

"You only said you wanted to kiss me?" Paul said in the interrogative, fixing his eyes on the ceiling in feigned surprise.

"I couldn't have said such a thing?" That was a question as well.

"Right. Kissing me is a very bad thing."

"Did I say that too?"
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Three, Tableau Six  
1960

37

She did not remember how her feet had carried her to the gazebo, where she took refuge every time a disaster hit her. Her eyes had been glued on the boat struggling its way through the mercilessly strong current of the Bosphorus, as it moved sideways like an obstinately determined crab towards a pier on the Anatolian side. How very futile, she thought. All that effort to hang on to life, how very futile it all was.

She immediately knew that another disaster had struck them when she had heard Aziz arrive home untimely a few minutes ago. The way he took her in his arms and held her tightly without saying anything, the way he averted his bloodshot eyes while he gently dropped the crumpled telegram onto the marble side table in the entrance hall, told her that something had gone terribly wrong. With the listlessness of having tasted the bitter pain of death many times before, her mind had blocked itself off to prevent agonising thoughts from entering. She no longer had the strength to wail, or to cry even. "Who is it this time?" she asked in a frozen tone of voice, not in the least desirous of hearing the answer to her question. She had to run away from the reality.

"Your mother," she vaguely heard Aziz mumble. "We lost your mother."

She remembered slipping away from Aziz's arms, and then everything going blank.

She was standing on the edge of a cliff, on the verge of a dark, endless precipice. She had to run away, run far far away. A few timorous steps back. Emptiness. A pitch-black void. Where has the wall gone, the wall that she had been leaning on all these years? She was scared. She had to run as fast as she could. Another void. She had no place to go now.

"Save me!" she shouted in fear, her voice echoing away into the depths of the woods.

The boat was now safely tethered to the pier, letting out its passengers.

Her mother was fifty-three when Alex had last seen her, twenty-one years ago. She had thought of her as being an old woman then, but, now when she came to think of it, she was actually not old at all. "Only three years older than I am now," she thought. How much she had suffered, poor soul. How had she survived losing the man she had loved so early in life, having to shoulder the responsibility of raising three children all on her own, living for so long without loving anyone else, without falling in love, without being loved? What sort of a life had she led? Lately she had not been writing to Alex at all, as if she suffered from an incurable disease and tried to keep away from her loved ones so as to avoid pulling them into her monstrous world filled with fears, pessimism and hopelessness. It was as though she wanted to get Alex used to the day when she would irrevocably disappear, as though she wanted to wean her off her motherly love, as though she wanted her to hurt less at the unavoidable event. Alex, on the other hand, had not been writing to her much, perhaps because she did not quite know what to write, or perhaps because of the shame she felt for being unable to do anything to save them from their misery. She tried to remember how she smelled. Even that had been erased from her memory. She thought she smelled the perfume of the lilac trees that greeted those approaching their garden gate in Rózsadomb. Her lilac trees. She had to be near her lilac trees. Right now, before all her ties to the past were ruptured.

Two weeks later, when she heard Károly's voice on the phone, she tensed up with apprehension. "What else?" she involuntarily thought. "Another disaster? Another punishment?" And then the heavy hand that had been clutching at her heart for days suddenly loosened. He was saying that he had arrived in Paris the previous day. They had finally given him a passport. "They must have decided that I'm too old to be a threat, or of any use to the state," he joked. His intention was to stay there for a long time, perhaps for a few years. "Now the heart of the matter is to be able to make it out here in Paris."

Alex could not believe her ears. Did she get it right? Had he said a few years? He had to be joking. No! No one would make a joke like that at such a time, even _Öcsi_.

"I'm coming to Paris as soon as I can. I'm coming right away. Tomorrow!"

She hung up the phone. At long last. At long last, he was free. _Öcsi_ was free! He was finally with the woman he loved. He was with his daughters. Alex could go to him whenever she wanted. She could stay with him as long as she wished. She let out a hearty laugh and then broke out in a series of laughs until she had tears in her eyes. Tears of joy. Suddenly her laughter turned into a wail of regret. "Why?" she sobbed in revolt. "Why didn't you go to Paris before, _Öcsi?_ Why didn't you take _Anyukám_ and go? Why didn't you force her to leave? Why didn't you run away? Why didn't you bring her here? Why? Why?"

She was crying hysterically, in gulping sobs.

38

Károly hung up the phone and went out onto the terrace. He had arrived in Paris less than twenty-four hours ago, but he was already feeling as free as a bird. Ada, his daughters, Paris, the freedom, how strangely unfamiliar they all seemed after all these years. Freedom in particular would need some getting used to. He felt a peculiar uneasiness at being free, a certain edginess provoked by the sensation that he might be doing something wrong, a sudden wave of alarm arresting his heart with that deeply ingrained sensation that someone would presently grab him by the arm and take him away just because he was thinking of freedom.

He remembered the day his mother had been interred. It had been only two weeks earlier, but to him it seemed a lifetime ago. They had engraved "Kurzón Gizella" on her tombstone. She had insisted that there was no need to add her maiden names. "But you must at least put De Kurzón Egerlövö Szarvaskó Gadány Gusztávne Gizella." They would have it written one day soon. Was it important? Perhaps it was. "To make those who visit my tomb remember who they are and what their responsibilities entail," she had said. After the funeral Károly had gone to Rózsadomb, his feet carrying his hopelessly despondent and heartbroken body up Vérhalom Street, before he stopped in front of the rusty garden gate and, with his heart sinking, looked at the appalling state of the house, which stood there like the tombstone of an era. He dreamed of his mother, still sitting in her majestic armchair placed close to the Christmas tree in the Blue Salon ... then relaxing up in her bedroom on the second floor on her rosewood sofa with the golden angels spreading their wings on its armrests. She was not dead. She must still be sitting there. Obstinately, fearlessly. With perseverance. Keeping her back straight. Waiting for the day when once again the enticing perfume of the lilac trees would be welcoming the guests approaching the iron garden gate.

Now looking at Paris, everything seemed so far away, blurred in a distant land, a different realm. He felt a great sense of relief. His effort to fill up the space his father had left, the way he had to fight against his mother's pressure, his responsibilities towards his sisters, his wrong background, the future of his country, all that weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His life was as light as a feather now; his only problem was to win back his family. His daughters, whom he had not seen for twelve years, were total strangers to him. It would take some time for them to get to know each other, to get used to each other, but they would because they were his flesh and blood. He could feel that it would not be easy to win beautiful Juli's heart, since she was unfortunately at least as pessimistically serious as Ada. She was heartbroken and offended, but would get over it. "This too shall pass," he murmured, smiling. Dóra, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Károly. She was too tall for a seventeen-year-old, so much so that it would be difficult for her to find a boyfriend who could see the top of her head. Ada said that she was sick and tired of their young daughter's jokes, which were no less teasing than Károly's, but that she never tired of her amber-tinted green eyes, where she had always found Károly. Ada was neither heartbroken nor offended, but displayed a peculiar lack of emotion. Károly, however, did not despair, knowing that she was using her serious disposition as a shield to hide behind and protect herself. It would not take him long to win his Ada's heart. The moment they had met at the station, he immediately knew that his wife was still in love with him. He could tell from the way she tried to be unnecessarily serious and the way her blue eyes shone, betraying her feelings of remorse. Perhaps there was a slight tinge of pity in those eyes as well. But what for? For all those years spent away from each other? Or for the old man standing in front of her? Károly was an old man now. He was fifty-four. They were all old. But Ada had only matured. Her skin was a much more transparent white than ever before, and her slightly greying hair, which she did not dye, enhanced her attractiveness. He had missed her so very much. They would start from where they had left off. "Will we?" he thought involuntarily.

Their first night in the small fifth-floor loft perched on top of a narrow apartment building on Rue Gay Lussac next to the Jardin du Luxembourg, had given Károly a satisfaction that he had probably never tasted before. Ada, his one and only love, was like a waterfall of sensations after all those years of drought in the occasional company of nocturnal diversions with no smell worth remembering, of wordless encounters with meaningless touches lasting no more than a few hours. Ada was a torrent of crystal clear water cascading over him, rejuvenating his soul, enfolding his whole being. How did he survive without her for so long? He remembered the first time they had come to Paris. It was another month of April, exactly twenty-eight years ago, back in 1932. La Ruche, their beehive home, their first love nest. If they had stayed in Paris then, if they could have made it here, would things have been different? Paris had not changed at all. Well, hardly. Paris in the spring ... spring in Paris. That was still the definition of paradise, he thought. He now felt it more intensely than ever. Paris was his paradise. It was their paradise.

He leaned over the railings of the terrace. Ada had gone to work; Juli and Dóra had gone to school. Ada had created a paradise here, reaching out towards the sky. The terrace was a green oasis, feeling larger than it actually was because of the smallness of the flat. He lit a cigarette. He had started smoking after returning from Istanbul last year. God only knew why he wanted to start smoking at his age. He drew in a puff and blew the smoke towards the Paris sky. He still could not believe he was finally here in Paris. He was in the City of Lights and extremely happy to be so, but there was something that still gnawed at his mind. He had abandoned his country – the happy barrack of the Soviet Block, as some called it – to the hands of a few vandals. They could not liberate their country; they failed to oust those who did not deserve it. He took it very badly to have been forced to run away from his homeland, to be indirectly expelled from it. He felt as if he had betrayed his ancestors. It would not, however, go on like this for much longer. Communism, unable to wither the joyful nature of the Hungarian people, their love of music, their adoration of food and passion for wine, had finally turned into a diluted goulash, but that was not enough. It should not be enough. The noble Hungarian nation ought not to forget its heritage. Károly and the likes of him had to make the Hungarian people not forget their gloriously honourable past. They ought not to surrender.

A week later Alex came to Paris, leaving Aziz in Istanbul in the care of Nili, as his business was going through a dreadfully unpropitious period. Despite Lila's insistence, she stayed at Károly's house, sharing the slanted-ceilinged attic bedroom with Juli and Dóra. In the evening of her arrival, everyone gathered in the loft on Rue Gay Lussac. It was an evening as soothing as a magical pomade, somewhat taking away the pain of the loss of their mother, an evening brimming with emotions triggered by the joy of finally coming together after years of separation, an evening when utterances of happiness won over condolences as new love affairs blossomed and old ones were rekindled, broken bridges were repaired and Juli and Dóra rebuilt their relationship with their father. It was as if the memory of Gizella, still the mainstay of their family, was trying to hold everything together.

"I wish I had the honour of meeting your mother," said André, addressing Károly, as he put his arm around his wife Lila, sitting next to him on the worn-out wicker sofa on the terrace. "From what you've been telling us, I understand that your niece has taken a lot after her."

"One might think such a resemblance to be an advantage for you, André, but I'm afraid that same resemblance might sometimes turn into a disadvantage," said Károly, from where he was sitting in the wicker armchair next to André and Lila. "Let me say no more than that she was a tough cookie who would not listen to anyone." He blew the smoke of his cigarette and then watched it disperse. "Except of course to the dictates of communism. And even that was only to a certain extent." He turned to Lila, smiling. "However, Lila is much more accommodating than her grandmother. Although she might, at times, look tough, she has a very soft heart."

Lila's eyes were fixed on those sitting at the dining table at the other end of the terrace. She was watching her mother. "It must be an awful thing to lose one's mother," she said. "It's much like the tumbling of a wall that you've been leaning on, a wall that prevented you from falling down when you stumbled. It's like wavering on the edge of a cliff."

Károly felt his heart sink. "A wall you once tried to break down, thinking that it was casting a sombre shadow onto your world, a wall you wished did not exist so that you could go ahead freely to follow your own path. You realise its value when it exists no more. You lose your self-confidence along with it. That feeling of self-assuredness, that inner strength making you think that no one can harm you, that you can shoulder anything, that you can overcome any difficulty ... it all disappears the very instant the wall crumbles down. You see how one day even the strongest may fall."

Lila seemed not to be listening to Károly. She was lost in thought, staring at Alex with a hint of anger in her eyes. Suddenly pulling herself together, she slipped away from under André's arm. "My mother might be distraught, but fortunately there is someone to make her forget her agony," she said as she reached for her glass on the coffee table. "Who is this Monsieur Charles Chandler?" she asked, raising her eyes to Károly.

"He's an old friend of ours, Lila."

"He must have been a _very_ close friend of my mother."

"He was a very close friend of us all." Károly looked at Alex and Rudi sitting side by side on the wooden bench behind the dining table. "And he still is."

"Why do you call him Rudi? What has it got to do with Charles?"

"I don't know. It must have been his nickname from his childhood. He wants to be called Rudi."

Neither Alex nor Rudi uttered a word, sitting in silence. As was his habit, Rudi had spread his arms wide and placed them on the back of the bench. Alex was sitting motionless right next to him, with her arms akimbo and her shoulders slightly stooped. It was as if she did not even breathe. She had taken their mother's death with unexpected serenity. " _Anyukám_ is liberated," she kept saying, perhaps in self-consolation, trying to ease her pain. Károly thought she saw a glint of a smile behind that sad expression on his sister's face. Were the edges of her lips slightly curved upwards? Yes! Yes, they were. Somewhere deep underneath her sorrow there was a flame of happiness that her agony could not extinguish. She was happy. He could tell from every little corner of her body that the relationship between her and Rudi was about to go beyond pure friendship, or perhaps it already had. The light in her eyes was the light he had seen years ago at the tennis club in Budapest. "My sweet Alex," he whispered below his breath. "My sweet little Alex."

"All we miss now is Jancsi and Margit," said Ada, addressing Lila as she put down the tray of freshly brewed coffee and empty cups on the coffee table. "They were not entitled to benefit from the partial amnesty this year." She shrugged her shoulders in frustrated disappointment. "It was a special amnesty for a handful of prisoners anyway. But we shall have them out of that hole sooner or later." She was carelessly pouring coffee into the cups. "Lila, dear, would you please fetch the cognac your mother brought?"

Settling down where Lila had been sitting, József turned to André with the enthusiasm of having found someone to share his fury, which had almost become his trademark. "The Soviet oppression in Hungary has only one meaning: the death of the Hungarian people, the death of its soul, of its pride, of its humanity." He took the cup Ada was handing to him. "They used to put blinkers on the horses that turned our sawmills in Martfü so that they would not notice they were turning round and round in the same direction. Hungarians are looking at the world through blinkers. Everyone's attention is fixed exclusively on his own little individual target. They don't care about anything other than realising their own small dreams and satisfying their short-term wishes. They can't see the big picture. They don't have a clue about what is going on in the rest of their country or in Europe or in the world. They're not interested. The only question in their little minds is, 'Where am I going and how fast can I get to the point I want to reach?' The question that none of them is interested in, on the other hand, is, 'What is happening to Hungary and what can I, as a Hungarian citizen, do to change her course?' They have three very simple objectives: a two-bedroom flat, a car and a one-bedroom summerhouse in the countryside. Their ultimate goal in life is to own these three things. It's their raison d'être. Their philosophical outlook on life can go no further than, 'Every man for himself.' They don't give a shit about what happens to their country or to the world. They forget about everything when they eat a delicious dish, get intoxicated or dance. They don't want to work more than required because if they earn too much, it would all go to the coffers of the treasury. They don't want to think more than required because if they do, they'll go straight into jail."

"And us," interrupted Károly, "you and me, Józsi, and those like us, we can't do anything about it." He was staring at his hands. His heart clenched seeing his noble and heroic country, their thousand-year-old pride and joy, pushed into such a despicable state, from which they still could not save it. "My mother used to say," he started, turning his eyes to André, "that Hungary's fate, very much like the fate of my cousin Sanyi, was drawn in 1921 when Károly IV failed to claim his throne back. Losing all hope of a monarchy, the young people from the nobility distanced themselves from politics. The alienation from diplomacy and politics of this multilingual and widely-travelled youth, well-educated in finance and political science, not only led Hungary to the present quagmire it has fallen into, but it also led to the gradual demise of the aristocracy, ignorant of what to do with the heritage of their ancestors who had not been involved in any other profession for centuries."

Éva, who had come over to sit on a chair squeezed in between Károly and József, leaned towards Károly and whispered in his ear, "Do you see what I see?" Her voice quivered with the excitement of a young girl. "A new love is about to be born."

Károly involuntarily turned his eyes to Alex and Rudi.

"Károly," continued Éva in the same thrilled tone. "We might become in-laws very soon."

Károly switched his gaze to Juli and Teodor standing side by side in silence in front of the living room window giving on to the terrace. He thought it rather odd for these two childhood friends to be so silent, for they usually giggled together and constantly teased each other. Juli, a natural chatterbox, never stopped talking, especially when she wanted to prove herself to Teodor, who was nine years her senior. However, her mouth was sealed now as she fidgeted with a strand of her hair while casting her eyes around, not knowing where to look. Teodor, on the other hand, seemed to have finally realised that the nineteen-year-old Juli was not a little girl anymore. Éva was right, thought Károly. On Juli's face, he saw a glimpse of young Ada. Just like her mother, she was trying to hide her love behind a veil of seriousness totally unbecoming of a young girl like her. Would Teodor, a gentleman like his father, be able to remove Juli's veil?

His thoughts scattered as Alex hugged him. She had perched on the armrest with her arms around his neck and was kissing his temple. She then took his face between her hands. There was compassion in her eyes which shone with tears. "You never told me these things, _Öcsi_."

"What things? What is it that I haven't told you, sweetheart?"

"What did they do to you? What on earth did they do to you?" Tears were streaming down her face as she continuously stroked his cheeks.

"What are you talking about, Alex?"

"I was saying that they can't change certain things," joined in József, in an apologetic tone of voice for having been inconsiderately blunt, "that, no matter what they do, they won't be able to change us. They won't be able to make us forget who we are, even if they oppressed us, even if they tortured us."

Alex was now sitting on Károly's lap, crying like a little girl.

"Please, Alex. You're exaggerating. Every one of us has been to Number 60. What we went through in that building was an integral part of our lives. We all had the honour of being tortured in that hole. There's nothing to be sorry about. And there's nothing to talk about. They kicked us about a little bit, so to speak. But all that is buried in history, my love." He held Alex by her chin and looked at her wet eyes. "I'm in Paris now. We are all in Paris. It's all over." He gave her a long kiss on the cheek before sitting up straight on his chair and taking Alex in his arms, squeezing her tightly. "And I'm still as strong as a lion as you can see."

Alex was mumbling below her breath amidst sobs. "I couldn't see her, _Öcsi_ ," she was saying, "she's gone. _Anyukám_ died before I could see her ... at least for one last time. What sort of a system is it? How can it be so cruel? I can't even remember how she smelled. I so wish she were here with us, _Öcsi_. I so wish she would raise an eyebrow and drive us mad. I so wish she would drill into our heads who we are and where we come from until we could take it no more. I so wish we could be angry at her."

Alex was weeping copiously. Károly knew that her tears were not only for the loss of their mother. She was also crying for their father, for Magda and, most importantly, for the pity she felt for herself, for all her unrealised dreams, for the life she had wasted, for the lives that had been wasted.

Alex's sobs gradually subsided. She was exhausted. Slowly standing up, she almost dragged herself toward the door and went inside. Károly gestured to Lila, who was standing there holding the cognac bottle, to follow her mother. Éva was already up on her feet to follow her friend inside.

"The pain of Mother's death is slowly dawning on her," mumbled Károly as he stood up. Leaving József and André, he went to the other end of the terrace, took a cigarette from the packet on the table and lit it before walking over to the railings and leaning his arms on them. It was difficult. Extremely difficult. It felt as though he had buried an era along with his mother, and a new era had started, a new era where his country had set off on a journey with no return. No matter how strongly he resisted, he could not prevent this thought from creeping into his mind, intent on making him yield to it. It was very hard for him to accept such a possibility, immeasurably harder than yielding to the thought of death.

"I need your help, Károly." Rudi was standing next to him, his eyes fixed on the new-born moon, a silver crescent in the sky, and his voice no more than a hardly audible whisper.

Károly smiled without intending to. "I wish I could, Rudi. I wish there might be something, anything, I can do to be of any help to anyone. Currently I am unable to help even myself."

"Please Károly, please help me convince her." Rudi turned to look at Károly, his harshly shaped eyes now softened in an expression that begged for help. He then averted them and gazed at the lights of Paris twinkling in the night. "She still can't trust me. Please convince your sister. Please."

39

Once in bed that night, Alex started watching the stars through the small window on the slanted ceiling. _Öcsi_ knows, she thought. They both do, both him and Ada.

She remembered their conversation with Károly and Ada as they had sat on the terrace to smoke one last cigarette after everyone had left that night.

"I don't want to go back to Istanbul," Alex had said.

"I do hope that you'll come to see us often, my love. We need to make up for the time we spent away from each other."

"Most of your loved ones are here, Alex. Your brother, your daughter, your nieces ..." said Ada before she fell silent for a brief second, "me ... Very soon Lila surely will have children, and then you'll have your grandchildren here as well."

"She will, Ada. She will come. There is no other way to make up for all that we lost. And who knows, perhaps she'll move here altogether one of these days." Károly said, kissing Alex's hair. You must come, he was saying. She ought to come! She ought to leave Aziz and move here.

She fell into a sweet and dreamless sleep, daydreaming of the life waiting for her in Paris, of the life she would be sharing with Rudi, of that long-forgotten feeling of security, of being close to her brother.

Three days later Aziz called saying that they had declared martial law in Istanbul and Ankara and that the situation was very unpleasant. "You'd better stay there a while longer. All hell has broken loose here. I'll somehow need to find a way to go to London with Haldun. Business is not too bright. We're trying to pull ourselves out of a bottleneck, Alex."

Alex would stay here forever, and most willingly. Nothing mattered anymore. She was ready to announce her love to the whole world. Lila must already be suspecting something, since she constantly asked who Rudi was, indignantly adding, "I don't understand how we never heard about such a close friend of yours."

"Yes, Lila, he's a very close friend of mine. We thought he died during the Second World War."

"If you ask me, he's desperately in love with you."

"Please, Lila. What on earth makes you say that?"

"The way he looks at you. I'm not blind, am I? And the way you look at him ..."

"You're being ridiculous, Lila. Rudi is a very special person for me, for all of us. Do you have any idea how much he helped Ada? He will surely give a helping hand to your uncle as well."

With each passing day, she became increasingly determined to carry out her decision. The moment she returned to Istanbul, she would talk to Aziz and tell him that she wanted a divorce. She would leave everything and move to Paris, even if he did not give her a divorce.

Two weeks later, in the darkness of a suffocating night, when she was finding it impossible to fall asleep, tossing and turning in bed, she jumped at the ringing of the phone. It was Nili on the other end of the line, sobbing. "Daddy ... Daddy ..." she kept stuttering.

"What is it? What happened Nili? What's happened to him?" No! Enough! That's enough, she yelled in mute rebellion. "Speak up, Nili! What's wrong with him?"

"He's dying, Mami." She was shouting at the top of her lungs. "Where are you, Mami? Where the hell are you? The poor man is on his deathbed. Where are you?" In broken sentences, she told her that Aziz had not felt well, and they had taken him to the hospital. "The doctors said he had a heart attack. You've got to come right away. Right now!"

Alex collapsed to the floor. Aziz! You can't do this to me! You just can't!

"Do you hear me, Mami? You've got to come here right away!"

40

She was sitting by Aziz's bedside, staring at his pallid face in anguish. She felt nothing but a shameful repentance hurting her like a dagger turning in her heart, and a sense of fear that made her shiver. Remorse and shame. She hated both herself and Rudi. How could she have betrayed Aziz so callously? I'm an awful person with no morals. Weak. Shameless! No, she was not shameless. She was impossibly ashamed of herself. And how. She was a disgrace. She had to put an end to it all. Rudi was nothing but a dream, and he should remain as such. She had to keep away from him. He gave her nothing but pain. He never had. Tears were gushing out of her eyes. She hated herself for crying. Why was she crying? Was it because she was sorry for Aziz? Or was she sorry for herself? What were these tears truly for?

She remembered Maria, who had lost her husband Giuseppe last year. Alex thought she would have been devastated by his death. Her life companion for thirty-two years, the only man she had ever loved, had left her forever, but Maria had miraculously got over her pain. "Those women who are happily married," she had said in one of her letters, "accept the death of their spouses much more easily; their wounds heal much more quickly. The fact that they had a happy life consoles them. The pain of those, on the other hand, who think that they married the wrong man never subsides, because what lies beneath their pain is remorse. They can't stop feeling sorry for themselves and for the years they wasted. Those who can't cope with death are the ones who could not live their lives as they wished, remaining prisoners in the clutches of their unrealised dreams."

Maria was right. Alex was crying for herself.

"What a pity it would be if I couldn't wear that new suit I had made, not even once." Aziz was drying the tears on Alex's face with his tired hand. "But don't you worry, _ma petite_ , I'll be able to wear it now."

Alex smiled, kissing Aziz's hand. "How dared you even think of leaving me all alone."

"I'm right here, Alex. My heart changed its mind. I'm right here with you." He closed his eyes again as his hand fell onto the bed.

"Aziz?"

With his eyes still closed, he started to speak, in a hardly audible voice. "I only wanted to share my problem with my closest friend. I never guessed that he would take things that far. I never could have."

She stroked his forehead and pressed her hand against his cheek. "Please Aziz, don't tire yourself. You need to rest."

"It never occurred to me that İskender could act so treacherously. And I still can't believe it. What he did was inhumane. He ruined our lives. He must have thought he would be saving mine, but no! He ruined it."

"Aziz, stop worrying about these things. Whatever has happened has happened. Think of your heart. Please. Don't you have anything worse on your conscience than having driven your best friend out of your house?"

"What he did was nothing but a pathetic effort to prove his power. He had the opportunity to win against someone more powerful than him. What he did was the ultimate treason. He not only betrayed me but the whole of our brotherhood."

A few days after they had left the hospital, they started at the voice of Alparslan Türkeş on the radio announcing a military coup d'état.

" _My fellow countrymen! Today, in view of the late unfortunate turn of events and the crisis our democracy has fallen into, we, in our effort to prevent bloodshed between brothers and sisters, have ..."_

41

She was so used to the view that she no longer saw its beauty. The passenger boats zigzagging across the Bosphorus between the European and the Asian shores, the youngsters hiring small rowboats to swim in the bay of Bebek, the tankers tirelessly carrying goods between the Black Sea and the rest of the world, the trawlers, the hopeless anglers, the hopeful seagulls had paraded in front of her eyes throughout the summer while she listlessly watched, doing nothing but thinking how very meaningless life was.

It was her fiftieth birthday today. Half a century! How many of these fifty years, she asked herself, had been happy ones? What did happiness mean for her? How could she gauge its intensity, how happy she had been? How happy was she as a child? As a young woman? After she had married? Thinking of the past hurt her, but she still could not tear herself away from it. She did not want to. She desperately tried to reminisce about the happy moments in her life, as if sucking on a carob pod for brief instances of sweetness. She felt her roots loosening as her ties with the past snapped one after another, the smallest wind threatening to topple her over. How could she carry on living like this? It was sheer madness. What was the point of running away from the first and the last man she had ever fallen in love with? Was there any sense in turning her back on the only chance she had to be happy? Did she not deserve to be happy after all those years of suffering? What pushed her to behave like this? Was it because she was sorry for Aziz? Feeling sorry for someone is not a good emotion, she scolded herself. Aziz is not a man to be pitied. He hates to be pitied.

She leaned over and took Indigo, meowing by her feet, on her lap. They had bought this Siamese beauty after losing hope that Kék, who had disappeared four months ago, would come back. Kék was ill and she must have gone away to die as cats usually did, so as not to cause pain to their owners. Cats were noble animals. Indigo was very sweet, but every time Alex looked at her, her heart sank in memory of Kék. Perhaps it would have been better if they had bought a different breed. In fact they should get another one. The house felt so empty now, making her feel lonelier than she already was and dampening her mood even further. Her only consolation was a visit from her daughter and granddaughters, although Nili had been treating her rather badly of late, hardly ever leaving Aslı and Nur to stay overnight at Çamlık. She did not even let her take Nur on her lap. She obviously did not trust her, getting cross with her for drinking so much. She knew she was cross, for she constantly scolded her. "Have you been drinking again? _Rakı_ , at this hour? I can't believe it, Mami!" she berated her. "The girls will get drunk if they stay too close to you!" she railed at her. "Please try to be on your feet for a change when Daddy comes home!" she said. She drank because that was the only time when her brain stopped buzzing. She drank because that was the only time when she stopped blaming herself for all that had happened. It was all her fault. She always made the wrong decision at the wrong time. Lives were ruined because of her. Do you want to kill Aziz, Alex? What are you doing? What else are you ready to sacrifice for your love? Nili was right. "You're so selfish, Mami," she kept saying. "Do you think you're the only one on this earth who is unhappy? Doesn't anyone else in this household have the right to be unhappy? What about Daddy? Don't you feel for him at all? You haven't a clue about what he's going through at work. He almost died! And you're rubbing salt into his wounds with your sulking and depression. You're making things impossibly difficult for him. The more he hovers over you, the more you torture him. What do you want? What is your problem, for God's sake? If you're sorry about _Anyukám_ , well, she's liberated, Mami. Hers wasn't a life she could tolerate any longer; you say so yourself. If you miss _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ , you'll be able to go and see him whenever you want. What else do you want?"

Her heart melted in agony. She did not know what she wanted. No, that was not true. She actually knew exactly what she wanted. She knew but did not have the courage to realise it. Every time she talked to Rudi on the phone, every time she read his letters, she plucked up her courage and made up her mind. He had called her this morning again to wish her a happy birthday. He was saying that he would never accept losing her again. He implored her to answer his letters. "You're not to blame for Aziz's heart attack, my love," he repeated over and over again.

She felt someone stroking her cheek and opened her eyes. Aziz was sitting next to her. Indigo jumped to the ground. "Nili will be arriving soon. You'd better get ready, _ma petite_."

She had not wanted to go out tonight. The atmosphere in Istanbul was most unpleasant. So was Alex's mood. She preferred to be with her granddaughters and Nili, even if she acted unbearably rudely towards Alex. She had not cooked anything. Having no enthusiasm left to do anything, she had let Asiye _Hanım_ take care of it all.

Aziz put his arm around her and gave her a long kiss on her temple before gently taking her lips between his. "Many happy returns, Madame Giritli," he whispered softly, as he placed a red jewellery box on her lap.

Don't Aziz! Don't do this to me! Don't make me feel so small. Don't remind me of how cruel I am. She opened the box. It contained a beautiful sapphire ring. "Aziz ... Thank you so much, Aziz," she muttered. She was crying. Why are you crying, you silly girl? Are you crying because you're ashamed of yourself? Or because of the things you have done to this man? Are you crying because Aziz's good heart imprisons you? "At such dire times," she mumbled without taking her eyes off the ring. "You shouldn't have, really. You're so kind."

She watched Aziz put the ring on her finger and then felt his fingers gently caressing her cheek. She could not raise her eyes to look at him. She did not want to see his love for her in his eyes. She was so ashamed of herself. When he slipped his finger down, held her chin and turned her face towards his, she could no longer evade his gaze. Their eyes met. There was so much love in his eyes.

"You're the only light in my life, Alex. You might not shine so brightly at times, but even a tiny speck of sparkle left in your eyes is enough to brighten up my world, _ma petite_. Life is too short, too fragile. I beg your forgiveness for having put you through so much torture, for having left you all alone at times, for having failed to understand you. Please forgive me, Alex."

Please Aziz. Please don't do this to me. Please don't imprison my soul.
April 2009  
Istanbul

Rüya was sitting in one of the wicker armchairs, waiting. Neither the exceptionally warm April sun gently sinking towards the horizon, nor the serenity of the lilac flowers swaying calmly on the lawn close to the veranda, helped her stop the trembling in her heart. "What am I doing for crying out loud?" she thought. Paul, her mother and her grandmother! What a combination! Couldn't she find anything better to do to divert Paul in Istanbul than taking him home? She was such an idiot.

Paul had arrived last night for the shoot in Çamlık and would be leaving in three days' time. She recoiled as she remembered the bizarre conversation they had had this morning, cringing at the thought of how very sleazy it was.

"After your hospitality in Paris, I can't think of anything I can possibly do to amuse you. My creativity doesn't cover diversions. Particularly when it comes to entertaining someone who has done everything, seen everything. It's totally beyond me. But then again, perhaps I should take you to the moon or something ... on my bicycle, shall we say?"

"An excellent idea. Shall we meet behind the shed?"

"You mean the shed next to the lobby?"

"That's where you park your bike, right?"

"At seven thirty, then?"

"Perfect. I'll be waiting at seven thirty ready for anything and everything."

"I guess you'll be hungry by then. Just one more question: would you prefer privacy or do you wish to mingle, have some people at the table as accessories? However, the latter would be difficult since I don't have that many friends on the moon. Rather a limited potential for parties there."

"Then it'll have to be the two of us. Shall we say a _tête-à-tête_ then? But before you sweep me off my feet and we take off – to the moon I mean – I would very much like to meet your family."

Despite Rüya's resourceful manoeuvring, he had succeeded in getting himself invited to Çamlık. "A hunter who wants to get to know his prey," Rüya could not help thinking. Then the sweet memory of how nice he had been towards her in Paris during the last two weeks somehow softened her thoughts, making her reason that his urge to meet her family was a purely professional one.

It would, nevertheless, be a most absurd encounter. The more she thought of it, the more she tensed up. They should leave as soon as they finished their drinks. The titbits her mother had prepared, saying, "Well, just a few nibbles to go with the cocktails," were more than enough to make Paul feel under pressure. She felt her breath shortening when she put herself in Paul's place. She should take him straight to the gazebo – the farthest point from the house – the instant he arrived. It would be chilly once the sun set, but they could at least have their drinks in some relative peace and quiet. She glanced at the gazebo. Fortunately, the film crew had not yet invaded that part of the garden. There were cables, all sorts of electronic equipment and an army of other gadgets Rüya did not recognise spread around the house and the garden. She was surprised at how her grandmother tolerated all this mess, taking it ever so lightly, saying, "I love the new decoration of our house."

Rüya heard the sound of the tyres crushing the gravel in the back garden, followed by her mother's excited voice.

"Rüya! Monsieur Brechon is here, darling."

She rushed to the kitchen window and peeped through the curtains to let her sense of sight get used to the image of "Paul in Çamlık." He was walking behind Bedri, the driver, towards the main door. He was really well-dressed and, in his light grey double-breasted suit, white shirt and dark grey tie, looked more like Rudi than Paul.

As soon as the much-awaited guest stepped over the threshold, Aslı and Nili began showering him with questions and carried on talking gibberish in progressively boring doses, going into familial topics that would be of no interest to Paul at all. After about an hour of this nonsensical charade, Rüya had reached the end of her patience, but Paul did not look as if he had any complaints. He seemed to be genuinely interested, telling Aslı how perfect her French was and asking her where she had learned to speak it so well.

Rüya could see her grandmother Nili straightening up in her armchair, her chin almost invisibly lifting in pride, while she stroked the head of her fifty-three-year-old daughter as though she were a little girl. "You see, Aslı sweetheart, it wasn't for nothing that you suffered all those years among the sisters of Notre Dame de Sion."

Rüya wondered if her mother had ever had the freedom to be less than perfect in anything. She looked at her green pair of trousers ironed to a level of perfection that she found almost irritating. Even her clothes did not have the right to be imperfect. God only knew for how long she had them ironed.

Her grandmother was still talking like the uncontrollably unwinding spring of a broken watch, disclosing all the details of their family, which she thought would help Paul better assimilate his role. Almost surreal in her fervent eagerness and shockingly comfortable openness, as though she were talking about another family, she tried to give Paul as many details as fast as she could, no matter how absurd or irrelevant they might be. Eventually, as soon as Aslı went inside to check the preparations in the kitchen, she manoeuvred the subject towards her daughter. "She was the one to leave them, you know. It was always Aslı who filed for the divorce. She left her first husband despite their twelve-year-old daughters, the wealth and the comfortable life. As to her second husband, I guess she herself did not quite know why she wanted to divorce him. And the third one, her childhood sweetheart whom she had once loved desperately, well, she said she had to leave him although she still loved him, because she could not find the peace of mind she was looking for. There was always something she somehow missed in her marriages – marriages others might have considered to be flawless. She says she can't find the peace of mind she needs. She constantly searches for what she calls peace of mind. She would be able to have a long-lasting relationship if she could learn to look for that peace within herself."

"Grandma," intervened Rüya, "I don't think this could possibly be of any interest to Paul. If you insist on disclosure, you might at least talk about Mami, who would be more relevant for our current subject." She suddenly rose to her feet to shoo away Scarlet and Chestnut, the Irish Setters, pirouetting around Paul. "All right, that's enough now!" she shouted, leading them to the lawn. Considering themselves members of the family with an obligation to show their utmost hospitality to the guests, they would surely come back in no time and, blissfully oblivious to the possibility of Paul having had enough of their exaggerated friendliness, display all their resourcefulness to make sure that their new guest loved them. When Rüya returned to her seat, Paul was talking about Pierre. "How did the conversation jump to Pierre?" she thought uneasily. "He's the art director, someone who makes life very difficult for all of us," she cut in sharply in Turkish before explaining to Paul in French. "I'm saying how difficult he makes life for all of us."

"We need to be understanding, Rüya," said Paul and then turned to Aslı, who was just back from the kitchen. "We're talking about a friend of ours who lost his parents in a sea accident three months ago."

Rüya felt tears rising in her eyes. "Let me refresh our drinks," she said as she started picking up the empty glasses. She knew that she would not be able to hold back her tears. Trying to hide her face, she hurried into the living room and walked to the drinks cabinet. Control yourself, Rüya! She left the glasses there and almost ran to the guest bathroom, where she waited for her bloodshot eyes to go back to normal.

When she came back to the living room, she saw her grandmother on the veranda talking heatedly to Paul. She could not hear but could guess exactly what she was saying. She must be talking about the accident. Why did she have to tell him that? She quickly prepared their drinks and went out to the veranda.

"Are you all right, dear?"

Rüya nodded.

Her grandmother must have adroitly changed the subject and was now talking about _Öcsi_ _bácsi_. "In 1998 both my uncle Károly and his wife Ada were formally included in the list of 'The Righteous Among the Nations' prepared by the Yad Vashem Foundation in Jerusalem. This is a great honour, Monsieur Brechon, an honour given to non-Jewish people who risked their lives to save the Jews during the Holocaust, without any compensation in return, an honour given to fearless heroes who, despite being well aware of the fact that they could be instantly executed by SS bullets, helped those in need. This list has only seven hundred people from Hungary. By the way, they say there is also one Turkish gentleman."

"Shall we go to the gazebo, Paul?" interrupted Rüya, thinking that Paul was most probably pretty tired of listening to Nili's monologue. "The view is spectacular from there."

"I prepared a few things to nibble," said Aslı in a disappointed voice. "Shall I have them sent over there?"

"Fine, Mother," snapped Rüya in Turkish. "Stop insisting, please. We'll be going to dinner from here."

"I don't understand why. You have the best food and the best view of Istanbul right here. I'd stay here for dinner if I were you." She did not wait for the end of her sentence before turning around and rushing to the kitchen.

Paul was on his feet. "If you would excuse me, I'd like to wash my hands."

Rüya ushered Paul towards the guest bathroom and returned to her place on the veranda.

"Open your eyes a little bit," whispered Nili, leaning towards Rüya without taking her eyes off the window that gave on to the living room. "And try to see the people with whom you might manage to have a relationship that would last more than a couple of months," she continued in a hurry. "You're thirty years old, darling."

What was it to her grandmother, when her mother did not interfere with her life at all? She would not let her stick her nose into her life like she did into everything else. "Please leave me alone, Grandma! You lived quite well all these years all on your own, didn't you?"

"I wasn't all alone, I had my family with me. I had a job. I preferred to live that way, but ..."

"And I prefer to live _this_ way," snapped Rüya.

"I said that I preferred to live that way, but I didn't say I was happy. And I'm not saying I'm happy now." She was picking at the imaginary crumbs on her yellow skirt. "Loneliness is a terrible thing, Rüya. The loneliness of the heart. You once asked me why I was so harsh and cranky towards Mami." She turned her absent gaze to the lilac flowers. "I envied her. I envied her because she had found love, because she had finally found the courage to listen to her heart. She was very brave. I couldn't do it. I couldn't be like her. I was angry at her because she had done something I would never be able to do, something I could never dare."

Paul returned just at the right moment. Leaving his jacket and Rüya's emotional baggage on the veranda, they walked to the gazebo and settled on the comfortable cushions of the wicker sofa next to the coffee table, where an abundance of appetisers meticulously prepared by Aslı awaited them.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Three, Tableau Six  
1961

42

Alex was in her rose garden next to her bedroom, checking her new hybrid favourites. "Just about," she thought. "Will I be able to breed lilac roses within a few years?" She would. She was at least trying to.

Her spirits lifted even more when she saw Nili leaning on the French windows of the living room, watching her.

"Good morning, _tatlım_."

"Morning."

Three days ago, only four months after celebrating her seventh wedding anniversary, Nili had returned to Çamlık, carrying her daughters, a few suitcases and her pride, which had been trampled on by the heavy burden of a failed marriage, when she was betrayed by the man she still loved desperately.

"Shall I give you a hand?"

"Yes, why don't you? I didn't have a chance to even look at these beauties for the last few days. Unless you cut off those who shed their leaves, new buds will not be able to come out."

Nili went inside and came back with a pair of garden gloves and scissors. "What do I need to do?" she asked.

"You should cut off the faded ones right where they join the main stalk. Like this."

"Aren't you cutting them too close to the stalk?"

"New ones will sprout, don't worry."

Initially, the brownish petals of the once-yellow rose fell onto the bright-green lawn, then its remaining parts followed suit.

"I know each and every bud that is born after the trimming. I talk to them every morning. The roses talk to you in their sweetly scented way, reminding you how transient everything is, be it good or bad. 'This too shall pass,' they say, 'sooner or later this too shall pass. Life is pregnant to a new dawn at every step of the way.' Everyone ought to have a flower." She looked at her daughter, squinting under the strong sunlight. "Make sure that your children have a flower of their own, Nili, a flower that will help them understand that their efforts will be rewarded, a flower that will help them learn that sometimes they won't be rewarded, because there are things which might be beyond their control and that they will have to live with it, a flower that will teach them not to grieve over the things they lose, that will remind them that the new day comes with many novelties; tell them that they should not be too attached to the things they think they possess because, like everything else, such possessions might also be transient, and one day they might lose what they have. Only a flower ... It's very important, isn't it? To the discerning eye, of course."

Nili hesitantly cut off several faded roses, watching their petals scattering on the lawn, her gaze dulled in grief. She cut another one. Suddenly tears sparkled in her eyes. She squatted, breaking into tears.

"What's the matter, dear?" Alex dropped the scissors in her hand, took off her gloves and knelt down beside Nili, stroking her hair. "Don't worry, my love. Please don't cry. Everything will be all right, you'll see. It will pass."

"Not everyone can be as lucky as you, Mami," mumbled Nili in a hardly audible voice between her sobs. "Not everyone may be loved as much as you are. Do you know what it means to love someone who doesn't love you, who looks for love in others? It's unbearable, Mami. It shatters your pride. I can't take it."

"And you don't need to take it, Nili. This is your home here. You ought to stay away from each other for a while. Hasan will come back to his senses. Please don't worry so much."

"There's a call for you, madam," Asiye _Hanım_ called out through the French windows.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. It's a man."

Leaving Nili in the garden, Alex went inside and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Alex?"

It was Rudi! Her heart started to beat thunderously. In panic, she leaned back to look over her shoulder towards the garden to check if Nili was still there. She was. Squatting on the lawn, she had her head buried in her hands, probably still crying.

"Hello? Alex?"

"Rudi, I can't speak now. Nili left Hasan. She's back home. She's in an awful state."

A silence followed. Was the line cut? "Rudi?"

"Why did she leave him?"

"She's had enough. He's been unfaithful to her, and more than once. Many times in fact. She can't take it anymore."

"Is she sure?"

"How do you mean is she sure? Of course, she is."

"He'll come to his senses, don't worry."

"I don't think so. And she doesn't think so either. She's really upset, you know. Her whole world has turned upside down."

"She'll be all right, Alex. You need to think of yourself, of your own life."

"Please let's not talk about it now. I can't possibly go anywhere at the moment. I can't leave her alone in such a state."

"These are lame excuses, Alex. You don't love me. Nili is a twenty-six-year-old woman who should be able to take care of herself. You seem to forget how much she hurt you. Please think of yourself for a change. Think of us."

"Give me some time, please. Just a little bit time."

"How long, Alex? How many more years? Life is too short, and we're wasting it away."

A short silence followed. Alex felt tears welling up in her eyes. She could not say anything.

"Everyone has a life. Everyone ought to have a life. Don't expect to be happy hanging on to the lives you borrow from others. Don't hang on to Nili. Neither she nor your grandchildren are the antidotes to your loneliness, Alex. Don't you try to prevent Nili from returning to her husband because of that."

"Are you out of your mind? What are you talking about for goodness' sake?" She collapsed into the armchair by the phone.

"Yes, Alex. It was you who told me that we would not have had to live through any of this, had you been a bit braver. You still can't be brave. You still don't trust me. You're still dead scared of being left all alone. Think! And think hard. Try to see the things you have lost throughout your life because of that fear and, worse still, what this fear might push you to do."

She did not want to hear any of it. He was being unbearably cruel.

"You have to get over this fear, Alex. You're not alone, my love. And you'll never be alone. If you still want to be with me, that is."

"What is that supposed to mean? Of course, I want to be with you, Rudi. I'm in love with you."

"Then be a little bit brave."

Nili entered the living room.

"I'm waiting for your letter," Alex said and put down the phone.

"Who was it?" asked Nili.

"Józsi. I also talked to Éva. They're really excited. We talked about the details of Teodor and Juli's engagement party preparations."

"They're making a grave mistake, if you ask me. They've been dating for less than a year. I don't understand why they want to rush it."

"They've known each other since their childhood, Nili."

Nili suddenly burst out crying again. "No one can understand me. No one!" she wailed as she ran out of the living room. The sound of her steps hurrying up the stairs melded with the sound of her sobs, which eventually faded from Alex's ears.

She understood her daughter. She understood her so well. Some things could not be cut off as easily as roses. Can you, Alex, she thought, can you cut him off? Can you do it? If only life were as easy to understand as roses. If only she knew which one to cut off. If only she could be sure. If only she could take her scissors and cut it right off. Fearlessly ... in one swift move with the knowledge that there would be flowers again, that she would be loved again, that she would not be left all alone.

Aphrodite and Ares, running about in confusion, finally decided to stay next to Alex. She bent over and hugged them. How happy they were. There was a lot she might learn from them, Aphrodite and Ares.

43

They were sitting on the veranda, waiting for lunch to be ready. Aziz was saying that he did not feel too well and might not go back to the office in the afternoon.

"I'll talk to the real estate agent tomorrow. I really don't have the energy for it today."

When they had lost all hope of Nili and Hasan making up, they had decided to rent out the first floor of the Giritli apartment building. "The wall between Nili and Hasan has risen faster than the Berlin Wall," Aziz had commented once.

"Have you talked to Nili, Alex? You must convince her to give up the idea of sending Aslı off to kindergarten. I can't understand why she wants to do such a silly thing. Everybody sends their children, she says. So what? We're not everybody, are we? She's only a baby. She's only five, for God's sake!" His eyebrows furrowed even more. "I wouldn't be surprised if she sends Nur as well next year."

"I'll talk to her. Don't worry about it. She's not herself lately. She can't think properly, poor thing. She's had a terrible summer, Aziz. She'll be all right soon, but I'm still a little bit worried about her."

"They don't listen, do they? It was obvious that Hasan was not for her. I knew it from day one." The veins on Aziz's neck had grown in anger.

"Have you been to the hunting lodge this morning?" said Alex, changing the subject.

"I have. One of the new English Setters I bought – Gilda – she's exceptional." Aziz's furrowed eyebrows relaxed; the vein on his neck went back to normal. "You ought to see her at the shoot, Alex. One could tell that she's a pure breed from her stance. As to her nose ... she even smells a bird that had been there hours ago."

He talked a little bit more about his dogs and then stood up, saying that he wanted to take a short nap before lunch.

"It'll be ready soon. It's not worth going upstairs."

Aziz went inside without a comment. Gazing after him, Alex thought how old he had become these last eighteen months. He could not fully recuperate after the heart attack and was now an old man of sixty-four. I should turn off the stove, she thought. "He'd better rest for a while." She went into the kitchen to tell Asiye _Hanım_ that they would be having their lunch half an hour later. When she was back in the hall, she heard Aziz snoring. He had been snoring too loudly lately. She walked into the living room and lit a cigarette. Before she finished it, she heard Aphrodite and Ares run down the stairs. They must be really hungry; it was very unlike them to leave Aziz and come down. She put out her cigarette, stood up and walked to the kitchen with her dogs circling around her legs. She opened the fridge, took out the saucepan containing the meat and rice mixture she had prepared for them, and generously filled their tin bowls before putting them out on the patio in front of the kitchen door.

"There you go, you hungry souls!"

Aphrodite and Ares did not show any interest in their food, making noises which sounded as if they were complaining.

"You're not happy with this after the lamb chop leftovers you had yesterday, are you now? You're spoiled little brats, you are. You'll have to make do with this for today. Tough luck."

She went in. The dogs followed her, still complaining. "Go and eat your food now." She walked into the hall. Aziz was no longer snoring. Perhaps he couldn't sleep. "Aziz?" she called out, leaning over the railings. "Will you be coming down? Shall I heat the lunch?"

There was no answer. He must be in the bathroom, she thought. Climbing up a few steps, she called out again.

"Aziz?"

Perhaps he was asleep after all. Should she heat their lunch or what? Wearily, she climbed the stairs and went into Aziz's room. He was sitting in the armchair in front of the window with his back to the door. She could not see his face, but he must have woken up since he was not snoring.

"Aziz?" she called out again.

His favourite cat Nyx, black as the night, raised its head from Aziz's lap where it had been snoozing and, turning its cold green eyes to Alex, meowed in a strange voice. Aziz did not even move.

"Aziz?"

He did not hear her. Was he asleep? Nyx jumped to the floor, making yet another peculiar sound.

A surge of anxiety swept through her. "Aziz?" she said a little bit louder.

Still no answer. She went to him and gently touched his cheek. His head dropped towards his chest. She quickly pulled away her hand.

"Aziz?"

He would not wake up.

"Aziz!" she shouted in alarm. "Aziz! Wake up!"

She held his shoulders and started shaking him. No Aziz, no! Wake up! Please wake up! Please! I beg you!

"Asiye _Hanım!_ " she bellowed as loudly as she could. "Asiye _Hanım!_ Asiye! Call the doctor! Quick! Asiye!"

He did not wake up. He would not open his eyes. He was gone. He had left her as well. He had deserted her too. She collapsed onto the floor next to his lifeless body. She hugged his legs.

"Aziz ..." she begged. "You can't do this to me, Aziz. You can't leave me. You can't! You can't just leave me all alone."

44

She had lost her sense of time. They said it had been a week, but it seemed like months had gone by. Her whole being suffered in the throes of her agony, which, much like a calloused wound, let out an eerily dull pain that darkened her soul. Then came a moment when an ashtray, a _rakı_ glass or his empty chair at the table aggravated her wound, making her twinge in raw anguish and draining all her energy as though she had lost Aziz only a few minutes ago. Time seemed to have a mind of its own, like in a dream. Perhaps it all was a dream. She would presently wake up and realise that none of this was actually happening. Maria Callas was singing. She turned the volume right up. "She's listening to opera instead of joining us to pray for Aziz," they must be saying behind her back. She did not care in the least about who said what. She did not hear any of it. She saw nothing either. She felt nothing. None of what she had been living through in these last days seemed real to her.

The icy door of the morgue. Cast in iron. White as a shroud. Death lying beyond it. Cold. Stony. Hard. A freezing weight on her shoulders. A bird waiting for its offspring to hatch with its wings spread wide over its eggs in the nest it had made behind the iron bars in front of the window above the door. The Teşvikiye Mosque. The wind blowing, leaves falling like huge raindrops. Too early for leaves to fall. Only September. A coffin covered in white roses. People crying. Hands trembling. Bloodshot eyes. Who are these people? I want to go home. To my room. The cemetery in Zincirlikuyu. A huge opening in the ground. A shroud ... a few shovelfuls of earth ... and that's it. The rest is absolute loneliness. A dark, eternal loneliness.

People hanged on an island off the coast of Istanbul at dawn the next day. Another one on the day after that. Life was so meaningless. What did death entail? Or life? Was there a meaning to it all? Leave it, Alex. Just leave everything.

_Öcsi_ , completely broke and unable to phone Alex, let alone come to the funeral, had wired her.

Cannot reach you on the phone STOP Impossibly devastated at the unfortunate news STOP

She had called him the instant she had received his telegram. "You must come to Paris. I don't want you to stay there on your own, not even one second more," he had insisted.

Alex could not think clearly. Her mind, like her feelings, was frozen. She had not shed a single tear for days. Her eyes were as dry as a dead well. Why had she become so insensitive? Had she no feelings left? Had she not felt sorry at all? She did not know. She did not feel any pain, her senses were like fingers benumbed by the cold. None of this could be real. He could not have left her all alone. She could not get used to not seeing him sipping his morning coffee after breakfast in the living room, not hearing the moaning of the garden gate opening in the evenings when he came home from work, or not being teased by his remarks. "Madame Beethoven!" she heard him call out. It was only a few weeks ago that they had been having their drinks here. And now Aziz was no more. No more! Nothingness ... the void ...

Had she ever loved Aziz? Perhaps she had, perhaps when she had first met him. Or was it his love that she had fallen in love with? She never wanted him to die, but was it because she loved him? It was not the time to lie to herself. It might be unbearably ugly and selfish, but she had to admit one thing: she did not want to lose Aziz because she did not want to be left without love. And now if she had any pain, it was mostly triggered by self-pity. She had lost the only person who had selflessly given her the thing she most needed in life – love. That love, which she had taken for granted and therefore had even forgotten that it existed, was no more. No one had loved her as much as Aziz did and perhaps no one ever would. Aziz, whom she was sure would never leave her, had also abandoned her. He had gone away. She felt so vulnerable, so lonely, so very alone.

Despite her loneliness, she seemed to have a strange sensation of lightness that she could not describe. She no longer had to carry the weight of a lie she had to live with. From now on she would not be crushed by the heavy burden of her shame. The mirror, which reflected the lie she had been living in and chipped away a little bit more of her self-respect every day, was shattered. She was free. She was liberated from a suffocating, crushing bond that she could not dare give up even though she did not want it. Liberation? Independence? Are you so ruthless as to see Aziz's death as your liberation, Alex? Are you so cruel? Is this your way out? Are you really free? Do you think that freedom which comes not from choosing to be truthful, but from the shattering of the mirror of truth, is actually freedom? What will happen now? What has changed? Will you be able to do what you could not do before?

Her head was splitting. She did not want to think. Sleep! She had to sleep.
April 2009  
Istanbul

"I hope you don't mind them being so ..." Rüya muttered. "They feel so lonely in this house, and hang on to every guest they can get their hands on. I honestly hope they did not suffocate you." She paused briefly, before blurting out in feigned anger. "But you asked for it. I told you it wasn't a good idea to meet my family."

Paul remained silent, his eyes surprisingly tender. Then in an equally tender voice, he said, "Just like your mother and grandmother, you're scared of being left all alone, aren't you?"

What made him think that? "Quite the reverse, I'm dying to be left alone so that I can have some peace and quiet and do the things I want to do."

"You know exactly what I mean, Rüya."

Of course, she did. She was dead scared of being left alone, of being abandoned. She turned her eyes away from Paul and towards the Bosphorus. "Have you ever felt abandoned?" she asked, before tearing her eyes away from the turbulent waters down below. "Have you ever felt utterly lonely in the middle of a crowd?"

"In that case, why don't you let anyone open the lock to your heart? What are you so scared of?" He pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen on her cheek as he gently caressed her skin with the tip of his finger. "Your dreams will never come true if you turn your back on the happiness you come across today, fearing that you might lose that happiness tomorrow."

This was not a good time to enter into such perilous waters. She hated being attacked like this. She threw back her hair with a slight movement of her head, as though flicking the thoughts off her mind. She briefly closed her eyes before setting off to change the subject. "What did Grandma tell you for God's sake?" she said smiling. "She lives in the past, you know, in another time, in a dream. You shouldn't listen to what she says." She reached for the plate filled with a mountain of vine leaf _dolmas_ rolled as thin as a child's little finger, and offered some to Paul. "You've got to taste these since they are totally different – much better than what you'll have during the shoots. The recipe is from _Thicha_ Anastasia. My mother diligently follows it, to the letter."

She was hoping to have made Paul forget what they had been talking about, but was not so sure how long she could keep his attention on the _dolmas_. She could feel those impossibly magnetic blue eyes wandering over her. Stop drilling into that topic, Paul. Please, I beg you not to go into that. "Please do take some _tarama_ as well," she said. "Its recipe is family heritage too – from Aziz ... Grandma's father ... Mami's husband." Stop this nonsense with the recipes, Rüya! Find something better to talk about, would you? Her eyes restlessly darted about before they came to rest on the lights twinkling on the Oriental side of the Bosphorus. "It's hard to believe that Mami could be so unhappy in such a beautiful place, isn't it?" she blurted out of the blue.

"The view doesn't talk to you, Rüya. You have to listen to it with your heart if you want to understand it or enjoy its beauty. That would be difficult if you had chained your heart." Paul's eyes were fixed in hers. "We're all actors and each of us has the liberty to write the script of the role we're to play in life. Some of us, however, let others choose the role they're to play, accept the script written for them and give up the freedom of making their own choices. They live the life others write for them. Their roles are chosen for them. Such people are not obliged to shoulder the responsibilities that would be imposed upon them if they made their own choices, but on the other hand they give up their freedom, leaving it in the hands of others. When you don't dare make your choices, when you're scared and run away from the responsibilities such choices bring about, then you become a slave. Your life turns into a dungeon. You chain your heart. And at that point you become blind to all the beauties, to all the happiness around you."

Rüya thought she saw something in Paul's expression that she had never seen before.

The day is breaking. Behind the deep indigo of the clouds lined up along the horizon, the sky slowly takes on an amber hue tinted with pink. As my eyes move up, the colours change. The pinkish blues, a band of cerulean, then a more intense blue still somewhat pale and dull. And suddenly the horizon catches fire. Tiny flames winking through the clouds announce the imminent arrival of the sun. A golden crimson embraces the sky. Finally, everything is bathed in a paint of soft violet. The day is breaking.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Three, Tableau Seven  
1961

Tableau Seven

45

Lila and André had been married for almost two years and were in the habit of moving house. This was already their third and exactly what they had been looking for, so they said. It was a tiny flat, but the high ceilings made it look much more spacious than it actually was. Their rather small living room also served as their dining room and as André's study. His desk, which was placed in front of one of the two French windows giving on to a small square crowded with trees, was obviously well used, as one could tell from the clutter on it – a typewriter squeezed in between piles and stacks of books, sheets of papers spread about, notebooks, a chipped glass used as a pencil-holder, several pieces of paper crumpled into balls and left next to the typewriter, and a huge photograph of Lila in an antique frame that also contained several of her smaller shots tucked in on its sides. The dining table, usually occupying a corner in the living room, had been pulled into the middle and extended to a size large enough to accommodate their guests for dinner, which meant that it reached from the desk at one end of the living room to their only sofa at the other end. Everyone was seated, albeit somewhat knee-to-knee, at the table Lila had resourcefully prepared. Ada was talking, in all seriousness, about the latest developments concerning the hearings held in Jerusalem to try Adolf Eichmann.

"Forget about the past, Ada," thought Alex. Whatever has happened has happened. Don't rub salt into people's wounds. She then looked at Juli, at her eyes lovingly watching Teodor. They were so much in love, their little Juli and Teodor; no longer so little, being twenty and twenty-nine now. They had been engaged for six months. She thought of her own engagement party and, turning her eyes to Rudi, smiled. "Life is so beautiful," she said, "Just like in the twenties." Tearing her gaze away from Rudi, she smiled at Károly sitting on her right and then at József on her left. "We're all together again." She reached out and held Éva's hand.

"Sadly, we suffer from the barely noticeable absence of some people," said Nili in an ice-cold tone; she sat closer to the other end of the table, next to Ada.

Alex cringed from the pang of uneasiness under her daughter's hateful stare. In a panic, she looked at Rudi again, knowing that she would find the comfort she needed in the eyes of her lover – yes, her lover! The light in his eyes would immediately soothe her mind, not letting the slightest trace of uneasiness cloud her soul. I'm right here, his eyes said. Don't you be scared of anything. I love you. And I'll always be by your side.

"Very soon, they'll join us as well," Ada said. "We're doing everything we can. We have to carry this issue to an international platform. There are thousands more like Jancsi and Margit. On October 23 this year, we organised another big demonstration. Similar demonstrations were organised in New York, Rome, Buenos Aires and many other cities."

Ada clearly understood that Nili was talking about her father but, with her usual acumen, had changed the subject before it became bitter.

"It's been three years and two months since they were thrown into that hole," said Károly, distressed. "The last two amnesties didn't cover them. I sometimes think, what the hell ..." He took a cigarette from Alex's packet, rolled it between his fingers to soften its tobacco and tapped one end of it on the table. "We saved so many people from so many holes. I sometimes think, what the hell, get them out of there one way or another." He was still tapping his cigarette on the table. "A new criminal law was passed five days ago. 'Leaving the country illegally' is no longer a crime against the state. From now on we can say, 'It's not going to kill us, is it?'"

Rudi drew in a deep pull from his cigarette, lifted his chin and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. "Even if it kills you; sometimes death is better than prison," he said almost to himself, his absent gaze following the cigarette smoke dispersing into the air.

Nili leaned over and turned her blazing eyes to Rudi. "You seem to know too well how it must be – apparently you are an expert in understanding the sufferings of others you never had yourself?"

"I don't understand what you're saying. Why don't you speak Hungarian?" Aslı complained to her _Öcsi_ _bácsi_.

"André doesn't speak Hungarian, my little squirrel. It's best if we speak French. I'll tell you all about it later."

Aslı turned to look at her mother Nili to say something, but she was talking to Ada, so she raised her impatient eyes towards Dóra sitting next to her. "Dóra _néni_ , did you know that Aphrodite died?" she said. "She was nine years old. That means sixty-three for us. She was one year younger than my Granddad. Mami says that she wanted to go where my Granddad is. I think Nyx wants to do the same. She's very ill, poor thing. I don't want her to die. She's too young to die."

Károly was telling Alex about what they had been doing in Paris and Strasbourg for the release of János, Margit and their other friends. "We're in touch with the Hungarian Freedom Federation and the Hungarian Revolutionary Council in exile. We shall make ourselves heard. The world will eventually show some reaction to it."

Alex barely concentrated on what Károly was saying, for she was trying to hear the conversation between Nili and Ada. "Everything might not be as it seems," whispered Ada. "Some people prefer not to talk about what they've been through. They try to forget the pain inflicted upon them because that's the only way they can find the energy to hang on to life. But that doesn't mean that they didn't suffer."

"Juli and Dóra are so lucky," said Nili. "They've finally reunited with their father. They might have missed him for years, but they always had hope. I have no hope, Ada _néni_. I've lost my father for all eternity. I can't get used to being without him. I feel so utterly lonely. There's no longer anyone I can look up to. Daddy did not deserve to die. A person like him ... I can't accept it." She wiped her tears and turned her bloodshot eyes to Alex. "And yet some of us don't care at all. That's what hurts me the most, you know. I can't take it!" She angrily picked up the napkin on her lap and flung it onto the table before she rose to her feet and left the living room.

Ada was looking at Alex, her eyes saying, "Don't worry."

Alex could not help but worry. What upset her more than having lost Aziz was the possibility of losing Nili. "It's not easy, my dear girl," she thought, her gaze fixed on the door through which Nili had disappeared. I know how difficult it is. I went through all this when I was a little girl, _tatlım_. My life started like this, Nili, all alone, suffering terribly from the pain of an irreplaceable loss. It's not easy to lose your father, but you eventually get used to it because the suffering other tragedies inflict upon you pushes that pain into the depths of your heart. I do hope that you won't have to go through any more tragedies, my love. She took a sip from her wine. Rudi's blue eyes intently watching her captivated her gaze, the eyes that made her forget everything, the eyes that made her hopes persevere.

For months now her mind, in self-inflicted punishment, had been forcing her imagination to transform the warmth in Rudi's eyes into a frozen stare, the strong bones of his face into bulkiness, his powerful chin into a symbol of his ruthlessness and his groomed appearance into a display of his vanity. She had been inclined to think that he had put too much brilliantine on his hair to conceal its whitening, and that his proudly straight posture was the result of his effort to hide his belly and throat, which had started to show signs of old age. What nonsense, she thought. His eyes were still as deep as they had always been, melting Alex in their blue profundity like they did when they had first met. The few white streaks in his hair made him much more maturely handsome. His self-assured posture, the way he bent his head to one side when he looked at Alex, and the tone of his voice, took Alex back in time. Don't you worry, my precious, said his eyes. Everything will be just fine. I won't let anything hurt you. You must be strong. I'm right here, right by your side.

She loved him so much.

"Dear old Alex. Same as ever. Lost in another world again, are you?" It was József, sitting next to her. "Once a dreamer, always a dreamer. An old girl now but still a daydreamer," he said, putting his arm around Alex's shoulders.

"Come on, Józsi," cut in Éva. "Don't be so cruel. We're still in the late spring of our years," she continued, squeezing Rudi's arm before turning to Alex with a compassionate smile on her soft lips.

"Éva also guesses what is going on between me and Rudi," thought Alex. No need to play this game any longer. We're not children, are we? Her eyes searched for Nili. She was not back yet. Nur had disappeared as well. "Has she gone to put Nur to bed?" she asked Lila.

"Yes, Mami. Hadn't you noticed?"

"Let me go and check," she said, rising from her seat, trying to avoid Rudi's eyes. She walked out of the living room and went to the room where Nur was sleeping. She gave her a kiss on the forehead and stroked her hair. She had started to talk recently and become so much sweeter. "You'll also fall in love, won't you?" Alex whispered. "Will you be able to marry the man you love?" Will the man you love become the father of your children, the grandfather of your grandchildren? Her heart sank. It had to be like that. It had to be. They had suffered enough in this family and deserved to be happy. She tucked her in and drew in the smell of her hair before she silently left the room. As she walked past the kitchen, she saw Nili washing some glasses. After a brief moment of hesitation, she stepped inside.

"Is everything all right, Alex?" Rudi was behind her, grabbing her by the waist.

Nili swiftly turned around and looked at Rudi with burning eyes. She rinsed the water from her hands in an unnecessarily strong gesture, as if she wanted to tear them off her wrists. Her fingers collided with the tap. That must have hurt. She seemed not to mind. "Don't let me disturb you," she hissed, walking past them. Her eyes were still bloodshot. Alex wanted to follow her, but Rudi's grip did not let her.

"Don't, Alex!" he said firmly. "Don't ever feel guilty. Don't ever let her make you feel guilty." He was looking straight into her eyes, holding her cheeks between his hands. "Nili is a grown-up woman and the mother of two. You shouldn't take any of what she says right now too seriously. It isn't easy for her. She's lost her father. Of course, she'll be angry, particularly with you." His voice was tender. "However, you're not to blame for Aziz's death. Please get that idea out of your mind. And stop thinking that you have to beg forgiveness from anyone for that." He paused briefly, taking her between his arms. "As soon as your mourning is over, you will be coming here. And you will be marrying me. You will marry me, my love." He was kissing her hair. "You will come to me. Promise me that."

"Please don't ask me to promise anything right now. Please."

Rudi suddenly pushed her away. "You only want to torture me." His voice had gone stone-cold. Alex saw his jaws twitching.

Please don't be angry with me, Rudi. Please don't.

"Are you taking revenge on me, Alex?"

"How can you say such a thing?"

"I don't want to wait for years before I can see you again." He grabbed her shoulders. "Why Alex? Why don't you want to be my wife?"

"I want to be your everything, Rudi, but ..." She turned her eyes to the empty glasses lined up on the counter, "but we don't need to get married for that." Then she timidly looked back at Rudi. "The wild bird has flown out of her cage," she blurted out. What made her remember that now? Go on! Say it! "She's fluttering her wings in a sky painted in blue, a virgin blue that has never seen a drop of rain, a blue slowly turning to violet. She has no intention of being captured again, be it in a gilded cage or a glass menagerie." She had memorised those lines. The wild bird flying away from her cage had been a permanent image in her mind's eye.

"I'm not Aziz, Alex," he retorted, releasing his grip on her shoulders. He turned his back to her and pressed his palms on the counter. "I have no desire to put you in a cage." He let out a nervous burst of laughter. "Marrying me is your declaration of independence, Alex. Can't you see that, for goodness' sake?"

Of course she did. She knew exactly what Rudi meant. He thought that she would not be able to shoulder the storms that would be triggered following their marriage, that she was scared to lose Nili's love altogether and that she was being a slave to that fear. He was trying to tell her that she needed to overcome her fear and act freely. No, Rudi. That's not all. The day you decide that you want to have a child, you shoulder all the responsibilities your decision entails, and these responsibilities continue even when your daughter becomes a mature woman and a mother of two. You can't leave her all alone when she needs you. You can't run away from your responsibilities. If you did, you would never find the freedom you seek. Quite the reverse, you become a slave, a slave to agony.

She gently touched Rudi's back and caressed him with her fingers. "I thought you knew more than any of us what freedom truly means, Rudi."

Rudi suddenly turned around and held her tightly in his arms. "I don't have the strength to survive if I lose you again," he whispered.

"You never lost me. Never. And you will never lose me. My wish not to marry you does not mean that I'm not in love with you. Everything will be much better this way. Believe me."

Károly was knocking on the open kitchen door. "I demand a hearing," he declared in his usual cheerful tone of voice, which lightened all cares.

"Do join us, Károly. Join us and bring your sister to her senses, please," said Rudi, loosening her arms around Alex.

"Well, her mind is somewhat muddled, I'm afraid. You have to be forgiving for a while, my friend." Károly came over to Alex and stroked her hair.

Rudi took a step back and went down on one of his knees in front of Alex. He brought his palms together in front of his chest and looked at Károly. "Bear witness for me, Károly," he said before turning to Alex. "I beg you, Alex, yet again – I say yet again, since I have long forgotten how many times I have done this before – I beg you, yet again, to marry me."

Alex felt her cheeks blushing. "Rudi, please," she implored, holding his hands and pulling him towards her, intending to help him to his feet.

Károly had taken a few steps back towards the door and opened his arms wide like an eagle, pressing his hands on the doorframe. He was looking at Rudi getting up on his feet. "It took her some time to gather the strength she needed to declare her freedom, Rudi. It took some time before she freed herself from her addiction to being loved and learned how to stop being possessive. Her heart suffered so much from being a prisoner that she found it very difficult to tear herself away from that impulsive desire of hers, the desire to imprison others' hearts. You ought to be patient, old chap. She needs to enjoy her freedom now. You both need to."

As they followed Károly back to the living room, Rudi pressed his lips against Alex's hair and whispered in her ear, "Please marry me."

Everyone was engaged in a heated conversation at the table. Ada, who was talking about her latest show, looked at Rudi as he sat next to her. "I wonder where you put all those photographs," she said, smiling while her eyes beamed with gratitude.

Károly pulled Alex's chair out to help her sit down.

"Mami?" called out Aslı, "when will you take us to the palace? What was its name? I've forgotten."

"Versailles, _tatlım_. You've got to be patient. We've only been here two days. We'll do all that after Christmas. These days we have to prepare for our dinner party."

"Will you make apple _rétes_ for Christmas?" she asked enthusiastically.

"Of course, I will. And we'll do a lot more."

"Let's bake some _şekerpares_ ; Granddad loved them. He's not here but he watches us all the time. He'll be happy in heaven."

"You have to cook us some Turkish food as well," cut in Károly, as he sat down between Alex and Aslı. "What do you call those vine leaves filled with rice?"

" _Dolma_ , _Öcsi_. Where on earth am I going to find vine leaves here in Paris? Besides, we need Anastasia for those. You leave the menu to us. Cooking is not your strong suit. You'd better keep your mind on your painting."

"That's all I do anyhow. Thanks to Rudi's contacts, the entire Jewish community in Paris filled their walls with my paintings." A smile flitted across his lips. "Or most likely they fill their basements with them. All my work shown under the sponsorship of the Foundation of Intellectual Freedom has been sold. I also showed in an exhibition in Amsterdam where all the paintings were hung with a sticker saying 'Sold'." He drew on his cigarette. "And what is more, at the beginning of this month, the United Nations decided to give financial support to the 'Most Valuable Artist' Károly de Kurzón." He was looking at Rudi. "These brothers of yours do have very long arms, don't they? The Hungarian authorities will regret having given me a passport. I'm sure they thought that Socialist Realism must have crept into my creative vein, blunting it so much so that it would not be sufficient to let me survive in Paris. I can hear them saying, 'He will return.'" He raised his glass to some invisible souls. "I'm terribly sorry, comrades. I'm staying here. This time I'm staying for good."

"For a year now he's been moving towards Lyrical Abstraction," said Ada, proudly looking at Károly. She obviously took great pleasure in explaining her husband's work over and over again to all who knew or did not know about it. "More precisely, he brings a new interpretation to the Lyrical Abstraction of the fifties. He widens its scope. In his paintings, there is a clutter of materials. He stands right against New York's Abstract Expressionism. His answer to the question of 'What was on the artist's mind when he did this painting?' is very clear: 'Everything that makes up my life.' They call it anti-Surrealism, but it actually is very close to the automatism of Surrealism. Informal, ingenuous, without boundaries, improvisatory. Károly calls it 'Abstract Surrealism'."

"Yes, it's the perfect combination for me."

"He's been very productive ever since he came here. He's finished two series in six months. He's getting excellent reviews. They say that he presents his subjects intricately, in an emotional and unusually poetic way, without ever straying too far from Surrealism."

"What the critics say is, as usual, more abstract than my paintings."

"Don't say that," interrupted Ada before turning to others. "He's always had that condescending stance towards his work. His reviews, on the other hand, are very much to the point."

"I must admit that sometimes they do analyse me rather well." Károly paused for a second, before carrying on in an ironic tone, "Well... 'We observe the fingerprints of a silent fury reminiscent of a darkly grey sky pregnant to a thunderous storm. His brushstrokes seem to reflect the sombre moods of the artist.' _Touché!_ "

"I recall one particular comment, a crucially indicative one, if you ask me." Ada squinted, apparently trying to remember the exact wording of the review so as to make sure that she conveyed its true meaning. "In his emotion-laden strong compositions, we see the freewheeling usage of paint by a master. Moreover, a unique pleasure emanates from the power of his dynamic visual expressions, which add a sense of rebellious playfulness to the mathematical genius of an engineer." She raised her glass towards Károly, her eyes shining.

"Did anyone get that? Most of it is beyond me, I must admit. But when you simplify all that gibberish, one can say that they have really unravelled me, which is rather surprising." He smiled at Rudi. "I suspect that someone might be dictating all this to them. However, they do miss one point. They find my work more disciplined and more intensive. I, on the other hand, think that my whole being, after having been sequestered for years under the yoke of Socialist Realism, is as undisciplined, as volatile and as free as it can be." He turned to André, who had not uttered a single word all night. "Or we might think that the French understand me better than I understand myself."

"Certain concepts do change from one country to another or from one period to another," said André.

"There is one thing that doesn't change, however," added Rudi, in a serious tone of voice quite at odds with the mood at the table. His voice was calm, his eyes absent. "Freedom does not mean running away from one's responsibilities. Quite the reverse; when you do, you become a slave."

Alex thought of herself, of her own responsibilities. She felt Rudi's gaze on her. He did know what freedom meant. He knew it better than any of them. And he did understand Alex. He did, but the pain and all the suffering that had gone on and on for years somehow made him forget certain things. He no longer remembered that he ought to let go, that he ought not to enslave others because of the pain his own slavery inflicted upon him. But he would remember. He would remember and regain the strength required to be free. He would because he too was a wild bird at heart.
April 2009  
Istanbul

Rüya was listening to Paul, whose gaze was lost in the view.

"I'm really sorry, Rüya. Sorry for having been so blind as to have once called it a simple love story. Meeting your mother, and particularly your grandmother, made me see everything in a very different light. With you, it all seemed like fiction – a script."

"Thank you," said Rüya, her voice hardly above a whisper.

"I understand Alex much better now, and therefore Rudi." He was caressing Rüya's fingers as she fidgeted with her wine glass on the coffee table. "And more importantly you," he said, as he took her hand in his.

Rüya made to pull away her hand, but her inner voice stopped her. Don't be silly. Don't be so presumptuous. She put a smile on her lips, which she hoped was serious enough to close this subject and give her the opportunity to free her hand.

Paul seemed determined not to give up so easily. "From a very early age, Rüya had dreams. Like every other child. But the thing is that she never stopped dreaming. 'A rebel' they call her. But all she does is to follow her dreams. She has already realised some of them, and there are some others yet to come true. No doubt she'll overcome her fears when the time is ripe, make her choice and realise those dreams as well."

Paul tilted his head and, keeping his eyes on Rüya's, took her hand to his nose and breathed in the smell of her palm. A shiver ran through her as she felt the warmth that caressed her skin. An almost uncontrollable urge to touch his lips gripped her. His penetrating gaze once again captured her eyes, making it extremely difficult for her to focus on what he was saying.

"First, your eyes meet," she heard him whisper. "A photograph perhaps or a fleeting glimpse from a distance. Your sense of vision is provoked in every sense of the word. You try to get to see into her. Then you hear her voice. Everything becomes a bit more meaningful. You get closer and begin to read into her. Gradually an irresistible desire to touch her possesses you. You want to feel her. Perhaps without even realising you do, you burn with that unquenchable need to touch her. You need to because you think that's how you'll get to know her better. You ache to touch her hand, her shoulder, a strand of her hair ... The first time you feel her skin against yours, you are fooled into believing that you now know her. But it is only after you smell her skin that you realise that you don't know her at all. All your perceptions of her take on a real meaning with her smell. You know that everything might be erased from the memory, but her smell, something that will never change, will remain with you forever."

She felt an impossibly strong desire to embrace Paul and draw in the smell of his skin, nestle in his arms and breathe him in for a very long time. Her hand was still in his. She watched him gently raise it and take her little finger between his lips. First, the wetness of his lips embraced her finger. She felt him open his teeth a little and slide her finger into his mouth, caress it with his tongue, suck it as though he wanted to take it all in and then slowly pull it out.

"Once you taste her, you realise that you'll never give up on her."

He was pressing her wet finger onto her lips now. She slightly parted her lips and tasted Paul. Everything was about to go completely out of control. Not knowing what to do with herself, she clumsily tore her hand away from Paul's grip, placed it on her lap and averted her eyes from him. Carbon was standing by the gazebo like a saviour. He meowed and walked towards Rüya as if he had understood her plea for help.

"I'm not very keen on cats," she blurted out. "Or rather, I used not to be very keen on cats. Or rather, as an avid dog lover, I always felt I would be betraying dogs if I loved cats." She was rattling on like a machine gun. "I did, in fact, grow up with both dogs and cats. Before Carbon and Snow White, we had Arap and Tırmık. And before them, Night and Day."

Paul was now stroking her hand on her lap. She dared not look him in the face, but could feel his eyes moving on her. She should not stop talking. "Night and Day," she went on. "True to their names, one was as dark as the night and the other as white as the daylight. Two heartthrobs of gargantuan proportions, or they seemed huge to me as a little girl. Whatever. I nevertheless was a dog lover at heart. I always preferred them to the feline race. That was the case until this character arrived." She stroked Carbon, who was purring against her feet. "Carbon is not pitch black, as you can see. We found him in a dustbin in the street. He was so dirty that we took him to be black and named him as such. However, we were soon to see that he in fact had white patches and deserved the name Zorro more than anything else because of his black mask, but he has continued his life as Carbon." Scared to let Paul intervene, she went on and on almost without a breath. "Carbon is a rather nervous character. Or perhaps I should say that we take him to be nervous. He is in fact the king of the woods. A Tarzan. He spends most of his time outside in the woods, hunting insects and other animals that he finds weak enough to be his prey, or chasing after other cats of the neighbourhood. He is, therefore, always alert. When he's at home, the smallest sound or movement triggers the same instinctive reaction in him, which is rather swift to our minds, so we take him to be a rather nervous cat. 'A rebel' if you will. He's a very happy cat though, because he didn't lose his natural instincts. He doesn't spend his life curled up at the feet of a human being on a bed. And he couldn't care less what we call him."

Paul was on his feet, standing right in front of her. He bent over and put his hands on the sofa on both sides of Rüya's legs. Their eyes met for a brief instant, and, as she felt Paul's lips touching hers, the words she had long forgotten were imprisoned in her throat. She surrendered herself to the warmth of his mouth, pleasantly realising the futility of her efforts so far to avoid this moment. The smell of his skin so intensely close sent a sudden wave of apprehension that made her pull away in panic only a few seconds later. She turned her head towards her studio.

"Would you like to see my paintings?"

"Of course I would."

Rüya knew that he did not mean it and preferred to stay under the gazebo, but it was nevertheless the answer she sought. She laid aside one of his hands that had encircled her and stood up. Without looking back, she stepped down onto the lawn and hurried towards her studio, the studio that had once belonged to Mami. She stole a glance at Paul to see if he was following her. He was still where she had left him with his hands on the sofa, watching her with his head slightly bent to one side. The way he bit his lower lip told her that he would not readily let her go. She waved her hand to beckon him to follow and walked on.
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Three, Tableau Seven  
1962

46

It had been over a year since Aziz had died, and for over a year Alex, trying to enjoy her freedom, the freedom she thought undeserved, vacillated between her love for Rudi and her responsibility towards Nili, rocking like a tired ship struggling through tempestuous waters without knowing exactly where it was heading.

That morning she had gathered all her courage and decided to invite Rudi to Istanbul for Christmas. Rudi and Istanbul! Rudi and Çamlık! It was a most difficult decision to make as she would be flouting a taboo. After hours of dither while she waited for the call to be connected, she finally made up her mind when, in the afternoon, she heard his voice. "What about spending Christmas with us here in Istanbul?" she blurted out without any further thought.

When she hung up, Nili was waiting behind her, looking utterly morose.

"Mami! How can you do such a thing?"

"What do you mean, Nili? How can I do _what?_ "

"How dare you invite your lover here, to our home so full of Daddy's memories! I forbid you to do that. I can't let you betray my father."

"Now you listen to me! Open your ears and listen well, Nili. I can do whatever I like. Do you understand? I loved your Dad. And, God bless his soul, he's no longer with us. And Rudi is a very dear person to me. Someone who helped me, my whole family, _our_ whole family. This means a lot to me. Can you understand this?"

"I can't believe it. God! I shall never accept such a thing. I shall not. Have some respect, for God's sake."

"I do have respect, Nili. Great respect, in fact. So much so that it nearly killed me. But you don't understand any of it, do you? You don't _want_ to understand."

Alex walked furiously out of the living room, crossed the hall, climbed the stairs and went into Aslı and Nur's bedroom, where they were taking their afternoon naps. She sat on Aslı's bed. Her heart was throbbing in anger. She pressed her hand on her chest. How dare you, she hissed almost inaudibly. How dare you, Nili! Stroking Aslı's hair, her nerves slowly calmed down like an over-stretched balloon finally letting out some air. She kissed her granddaughter, sleeping so peacefully, and lay down beside her.

When she opened her eyes, a chill ran through her. She must have dozed off. Her granddaughters were still sleeping. She got out of bed and left the room on tiptoe. Nili was talking with someone downstairs. Were they expecting anyone? No, she was on the phone. She went down the stairs and walked into the living room. Nili was sitting on the chair next to the side table where the phone was. Alex gestured to her, asking who was on the line.

"Lila."

"Let me speak to her when you're finished."

She settled to wait. The flowers in the crystal vase on the buffet had almost withered. I should trim their stalks, she thought, and change their water. She looked at herself in the gilded mirror behind the vase and arranged her hair. Nili finally finished chatting with her sister and extended the mouthpiece to Alex.

As soon as they finished asking after each other's health, Lila, apparently fired up by Nili, started scolding Alex for having invited Rudi to Istanbul and, as if that was not enough, for having asked him to spend Christmas in their house. "How dare you, Mami! This is betrayal," she kept saying.

"Lila, you don't understand anything. Either of you!" Alex cut her short, regretting ever wanting to talk to her. "You're not even aware of what I've been sacrificing. Neither you nor your sister."

"What sacrifice are you talking about, for Heaven's sake, Mami? You always did what you wanted. As Daddy used to say, you're impossibly headstrong. You only do as you please. Your actions are the proof that you have no consideration for others. He had a heart attack because of you."

"Don't say that. Please don't say that, Lila. Some things are not as they seem to be."

"Daddy is dead, Mami! He's gone. Forever. And you live your life just as you please. What else do you want?"

Alex would not be able to take it anymore. She hung up in agitated panic.

Next morning she had finished cooking and was sitting in her bedroom, sipping her morning coffee and listening to music while she admiringly watched her rose garden and stroked the soft fur of her new cat Eflatun, which she had christened after the colour of its lilac grey fur, if not after the philosopher Platon – Eflatun being a Turkish word that meant both. She heard Nili come down the stairs and go into the living room. Between the fluctuating notes of the music, she could hear her talking on the phone to Lila again.

"Uncle Haldun called a few minutes ago. They've made up their minds about moving to Switzerland."

The rising notes of Tchaikovsky's _First Piano Concerto_ followed by a few seconds of serenity.

"You ought not to worry, Lila. The nausea will stop at the end of three months."

The glorious Tchaikovsky. Then calmness again.

"What did you talk about with Mami yesterday?"

Deafening _Opus Twenty-three_.

She could put up with it no longer. She went to her bedside table and picked up the phone on the parallel line.

"I'm really sorry for her, you know," said Lila. "I'm not sorry for her now but for what she had been through in the past. I'm afraid I was too harsh with her yesterday. I couldn't sleep all night, thinking. I regret everything I said. I remember her in Paris last Christmas. I've never seen her so happy before. She's always been someone with sadness in her eyes. Now they sparkle. Was she always unhappy?"

"You shouldn't be sorry. You did the right thing, Lila. Aren't you sorry for Daddy? As you said, it's him who died, not her."

"But Daddy was happy. He was madly in love with her. He had a happy life with the woman he adored. His family was always with him. He had his hunting, his business, his friends, you, me, his grandchildren. He was a happy man. It was Mami who suffered, if you ask me."

"Well, well? Now you're protecting Mami, are you? You seem to forget that she's been unfaithful to Dad. She threw herself into someone else's arms before his husband's scent evaporated from her bed. How can you accept that?"

"We don't know, Nili. It's always easy to judge. We'll never know how she feels, what she's been through. Please try to be a little bit more understanding. She loves you very much. You're her favourite child. Please don't torture her by depriving her of your love. Try to be a little gentler with her, would you? Please? We lost our Dad. Let's not lose her as well. Don't worry, you won't be betraying Dad."
April 2009  
Istanbul

As soon as she went into her studio, Rüya started sorting out the drawings she thought would be worth showing Paul. A few minutes later when she heard him walk in, she practically buried her head in them.

"What are these?" she heard him call out from the other end of the studio. He had disappeared into the dark section at the back.

"Which ones are you talking about?"

"The paintings here."

"Never mind them."

"Where is the light switch?"

He must have found the switch, for a hesitant and dusty light bulb started to shed its feeble light as Rüya made her way towards him. He was standing in front of a dozen or so canvases leaning against the wall, some of which were almost as high as the ceiling. He picked one of them, not minding the thick layer of dust on it, carried it to the main studio and leaned it against the wall. He did the same thing with all the other paintings. The walls of the studio were lined up with these huge canvases.

Rüya watched Paul's strenuous exercise with a slight sense of uneasiness. "Your comments, sir?" she finally asked in a condescending tone.

"Is this another test? Art criticism is not one of my stronger suits."

"Feel free to say anything you like."

Paul stopped in front of a painting. "1993." He paused for a moment. "You painted these when you were fourteen?"

She did not answer.

Paul took a few steps back, bending his head slightly to one side. "She's been painting stones for years," he started as if talking to himself. "Or rather rocks. Huge rocks. When you first look at them, you think they'll crush you. Purple, red, orange, bright yellow rocks squeezed into huge canvases of two meters by a meter and a half. Their shapes are clearly defined by thick black lines. Their forms will never change. They're square, hard, overpowering. There are deep, sharp, pointed, stinging, hurting crevices between some of them. These are also shaped by definite and sharp black lines. It seems impossible to close the gaps. These crevices are darker, more obscure and gloomy. There is no light in these paintings. No gradations. No shades. The perspective comes with the black lines and the shapes of the rocks."

Paul was walking around slowly, looking carefully at each painting.

"The prominent detail in each painting is the tiny rocks, either three or two in number. One of these rocks is bigger than the other two – the other two being exactly the same size, by the way. When there are three of them, one is always separated from the others by a crevice. When there are two, there is a dark gap between them, seemingly impossible to close. They're always either about to disappear behind a huge rock or anxiously peeping at you from between two massive stones or about to be crushed underneath a gigantic rock that is too big for the canvas and might collapse onto them at any moment. They are squashed, oppressed, tiny, weak, fragile and frightened. At times they're on the verge of falling down a crevice. They're trying very hard to be strong among all this harshness, but they're really too small. No matter how hard they try to look firm, they still don't look strong enough."

Paul walked towards Rüya, who was standing by the window watching the rose garden.

"After looking at them for a while, however, you notice the strength of those little rocks, which are present in each painting. They haven't been crushed and have persistently survived all those years. They don't let themselves get contorted. And perhaps, in the next few canvases, they will grow up to become huge rocks."

He was standing behind Rüya, facing the rose garden. He then gently held the tip of her chin, turning her head towards him. Her eyes tore themselves away from the roses where they had been fixed on for the last few minutes.

"Many happy returns," he whispered, handing her a small box.

Rüya felt herself blushing. "How did you know it was my birthday?"

Paul did not say anything but watched her open the box and then helped her put the amethyst necklace it contained around her neck. His eyes were on hers. Before she could say anything more, his fingers caressed her neck, and his lips gently touched hers. Their eyes were still interlocked as she enjoyed the irresistible taste of his lips. Finally, she let herself go as he started kissing her lips, neck, cheeks, eyes with a passion he could no longer contain.

The colours I've never seen before reveal themselves before my eyes.

She wished they could stay like this for all eternity. But should they? No, she had to stop it. She put her fingers to his lips and, avoiding his questioning eyes, turned her gaze back to the rose garden.

"Those paintings are my mother's."

"I didn't know she was an artist too."

"She's not an artist. She says she only paints to find her way out when she feels trapped in the clutches of life. 'My paintings are mirrors that help me to know myself better,' she says. She did these when she was going through the worst time of her life." She paused. Paul's fingers were stroking her cheek. "When _we_ were going through the worst time of our lives," she reiterated. She could not take her eyes away from the roses. "Sometimes a soft breeze or even a seemingly blissful calmness might be mortal, you know. It was a very hot day, scorching hot, not a drop of wind. We had to turn on the engine to make our way towards the cool waters of the bay we were trying to reach. My father had – like many other keen sailors intent on torturing themselves – refused to put up a canopy that would protect the less adamant sailors on board from the sizzling sun. To intensify the level of our suffering further, he kept reminding us that it took only the bravest of hearts to swim in these waters. 'Girls, the sharks swarm here,' he warned. Then the engine stopped. We put up the main sail. 'One of you take the tiller,' he said, going down to the engine room to see what was wrong. The main sail fluttered hopelessly, like a sad handkerchief. I was steering, with my eyes on the sail and my mind on the engine room. The sun was blazing. I started at an outburst: 'I can't take this heat any longer. I'll have to take a dip.' When I turned my head, my twin sister had already jumped off the back of the boat. 'Hayal!' I shouted as she disappeared into the water. A few seconds later her head appeared on the surface; her hand extended to grab the stairs that were no longer within her reach. A cold hand clenched my heart when I saw the panic on her face. Lifebuoy! The damn thing would not detach! 'Daddy!' I yelled. 'Hayal jumped into the water!' The tiller! Tack! Not enough wind! The damn boat would not turn. Hayal was sinking! Come on ... Come on! Come on! Jump after her! Too late! Turn! Turn! Turn! Turn! We're almost there, Hayal. Float on your back. Don't struggle with the water. The sharks are too far away. They won't be about at this time of the day. We finally turned. We're coming. Hang on there a minute longer. Hayal can't hang on. Daddy jumps into the water. Too late! Too late for everything."

Her cheeks were bathed in tears. Paul was showering her face and her hair with kisses. He pulled her towards him and took her in his arms, embracing her. "Please don't cry. You're not alone. I'm here. I'll always be here. I won't let you punish yourself with a lonely life."

Rüya held her necklace. Tightly. "Thank you so much, Paul," she whispered. Thank you for everything ...
_A Hungarian Rhapsody_  
A Novel in Three Acts  
Act Three, Tableau Seven  
1963

47

Alex threw another handful of rice towards the bride and the groom walking out of the church amidst a torrent of applause. This whole ceremony somehow reminded her of Magda. An image appeared in her mind's eye of Magda walking with Miklós under a canopy of polo sticks held high by his team mates, members of a champion polo team. Despite their mother's insistence, she had categorically refused to walk under a series of swords crossed over their heads – a ceremony which, most importantly for Gizella, included the bride and the groom standing in an embrace underneath the last two swords that had been inherited from their ancestors. Juli, angelic in her wedding gown, looked so much like Magda. This means that she looks like me as well, Alex thought, pleasantly surprised at her discovery and filled with a sudden surge of pride. She turned her admiring gaze to Teodor, who, having taken after his father, was a true gentleman with impeccable manners. In his grey tailcoat, he looked like a prince out of a fairy tale. She smiled. He did not look like one; he was one. He was, after all, a count. What dreams Éva must have had for Teodor when she had brought him into this world. A garden party in honour of his engagement at the Orbánstein mansion on Andrássy Boulevard, a spectacular wedding at Almás Manor in Martfü, the bride and the groom entering the garden of the manor in a carriage drawn by white horses in a convoy led by one hundred members of the nobility mounted on horses, celebrations lasting three days and three nights, banquets, receptions, a small shooting party perhaps. Perhaps? Definitely. And a feast for the two hundred peasants living on their land. None of it went further than a dream. Károly said that the Orbánstein mansion on Andrássy Boulevard had been allocated to the use of the Red Army, and lately was being used as the headquarters of the Communist Youth Organisation.

Alex's heart sank as she watched József, still standing tall despite all that had happened. The proud expression on his face as he looked at his son touched her soul. A warm feeling embraced her whole being at the sight of Éva's happiness and Juli's bliss reflecting in their eyes. She took Rudi's arm, pulling him tightly towards her.

Happily showered by handfuls of rice, the bride and groom settled in the back seat of Rudi's white Cadillac. They would be having a family luncheon at Károly's loft to celebrate the happy event.

The wedding convoy, consisting of three cars, made its way through the narrow streets of Paris and reached Rue Gay Lussac where people had lined up, waving at the newly wed couple. A flock of children ran after the car, cheering and shouting. They passed a group of waiters from one of the restaurants, who wished them all the happiness in the world, and a florist, who handed them a bouquet. The procession came to an end in front of the small door of Károly and Ada's manor house. They all got out of the cars in great spirits and started to climb the stairs to the fifth floor in animated conversation.

Alex watched Rudi as he drove away in search of a parking space. She remembered the picnic in Balatonfüred and Rudi's white Bentley. Forget the past, Alex. Don't let that awful feeling of regret drain your soul. Live the moment. Enjoy it. Your dreams are about to come true. They have already come true.

She recalled last Christmas when, despite Nili's objections, she had invited Rudi to Istanbul. Throughout Christmas dinner, she had kept pinching herself to make sure that the image of Rudi sitting at the head of the table was not a trick of her imagination. They had had a marvellous time on that Christmas Eve followed by a dreamlike week, which even Nili's resourceful capriciousness could not spoil. The thought that all her Christmases could have been like this frustrated her, making her furious at herself. Her past refused to let go of her.

The sun started to lose its strength, lazily approaching the horizon, when the long wedding luncheon ended. They had cut the cake a few minutes ago. The long table set on the terrace was crowded with empty plates and glasses. Ada and Károly were closing the large umbrellas they had borrowed from the restaurant downstairs while Juli, still looking like an angel in her wedding gown despite being utterly exhausted, and Teodor, obviously looking forward to the moment when he would be alone with his wife in their new house, were sitting hand in hand at one end of the table, waiting to see the end of this blissful event.

"Mami?"

"Yes, _tatlım?_ "

"How do you say oil paint in Hungarian? I've forgotten."

" _Olajfest_."

Aslı turned to Rudi and continued in excitement. "I can't wait to paint in oils, but they don't let me."

Alex looked at Rudi talking with Aslı. "If you love Paris so much, wouldn't you like to go to school here?" she heard him ask. Would she want it? Her mother would come as well. So would her Mami.

"But I don't speak French."

" _Mais non! Tu dis bonjour. Tu dis bonne nuit. Et le rest, ça ira._ "

Alex went back in time again. At times there came a moment when her brain was raided by memories gnawing at her soul like famished mice. If she could have married Rudi, she often thought, torturing herself, if they could have had children, grandchildren, her life would have been so different. Her entire life could have been as happy as it was now. A wasted life. She ought to get rid of these painful musings. Life was so beautiful now. It might be stained with bleak memories or blissfully coloured with merry ones, but it was at least real.

Aslı had taken Rudi captive. "Will you take me skiing with you this winter?"

"Of course, we will. We'll take you skiing, and we'll take you to the sea. We'll take you everywhere, but first we need to ask Mami."

"Mami! Mami! Rudi _bácsi_ says," she paused before she turned her tiny eyes to Rudi and then back to Alex. "Rudi is my _bácsi_ , isn't he?"

None of it seemed real. She did, however, realise that it was very real indeed when she heard Nili's harsh voice.

"Aslı! That's enough, sweetheart. You should leave people alone. Take your sister and go to your room to play."

Alex desperately sought refuge in Ada's conversation with André's mother, Madame Bonnaire, about Károly's latest paintings. "He uses intense colours, maintaining an intimate connection with his past without giving up on the surrealist elements. A review came out the other day, which was rather pleasing. 'His paintings float in a dream-like timelessness,' they say. A very accurate observation, I think. They've understood Károly perfectly well. Freud compared dreams to a kind of puzzle made up of pictures and words lived. Károly's paintings are like those dreams where things are related to each other in a bizarrely chaotic coherence. Like in a dream, the objects are suspended in space, but ..."

Alex was thinking about Károly's latest paintings, and the more she thought the more her heart sank. Large tears brimmed in her eyes. She could see in his canvases how much he must have suffered from an acute sense of longing through years of agonised loneliness. She visualised his painting standing on the easel inside. A patched up angular shape seemingly forced together on a seemingly empty background. Alex could see that it was a house, a house made up of colourful patches surrounded by trees trying to hold everything together. They were huge trees, taller than the house, but the black lines resembling withered bare branches of dried up vine trees betrayed how weak they were. They would not be able to hold the patches together. The patchwork house would soon crumble much like everything else in their lives. Everything seemed to be floating in an endless vacuum. Despite that disconnectedness, however, they were, nevertheless, strongly bonded to each other in some peculiar way.

"What about you? Are you still doing aquarelles?" asked Monsieur Bonnaire, his extremely polite tone of voice scattering Alex's thoughts.

"Yes, I am. At the moment I'm very much into seascapes. The water has a strange attraction for me. This passion of mine started on the shores of Lake Balaton back in Hungary. Then for a long while, I lost my interest in the sea. Lately I've picked it up again. The Bosphorus is so very beautiful that I can't stop painting it. And Côte d'Azur. Last summer I must have painted every little corner of the French Riviera. I love painting the sea, that amazing piece of nature that has no colour of its own but reflects the colour of the life within and the mood of the sky above. Variable ... at times serene, yet at others passionate, sometimes furious, sometimes loving. I can't get enough of the sea. One needs more than a lifetime to depict all its different moods." She paused and turned to look at her brother, her heart warm with the love she felt for him. "Károly tries to reflect the same mood using different styles. I, on the other hand, try to depict different moods using the same style. This has always been the case since our childhood. We keep teasing each other about our differences."

She suddenly noticed that everyone had stopped talking and was listening to Károly, who was sitting at the other end of the table. His high spirits seemed to have gone down. "In May we contacted the Hungarian Revolutionary Council in Vienna." He was talking about how they had intensified their efforts to raise the international pressure through this council, founded under the leadership of László who had escaped from Hungary in 1956. "Margit is finally out, but Jancsi ..." Károly was furious that they still could not get János out of jail.

"Margit was finally released after the general amnesty in April," explained Ada, turning to Madame Bonnaire sitting on her left. "She spent five years in prison. Easy to say." She was nervously running her fingertips against her forehead as if suffering from a severe headache. "We're still fighting for Jancsi."

Our little vulnerable Margit, thought Alex. She could tell from her infrequent letters how much she had grown up, almost fifty years in five. I'm so lonely, she wrote. "My only company is the policemen at my heels. I'm constantly being followed. And I'm still unemployed; finding a job is almost out of question." She had finally started to work as a nurse, but the pay was appallingly low. "I no longer feel Hungarian," she said, "I've lost my sense of belonging. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of Jancsi's release." She used analogies, anecdotes or characters from fairy tales to tell all of this since they controlled not only her every step but also every single line she wrote. "It's very true," she said in one of her letters, although not in so many words, "that there is only one difference between Hungary and prison: Hungary is a larger cell."

Alex cleared some plates from the table and went into the kitchen. She was scraping the leftovers off them into the dustbin when Nili came in.

Alex turned her head and smiled at her. "Is there anything else left on the table, _tatlım?_ "

Nili seemed not to have heard her. She was standing there with two empty wine glasses in her clenched fists. "Mami, why don't you two get married?" she suddenly burst out.

Alex's smile froze. "Well, that's a surprise. I thought you hated Rudi." She snatched the glasses away from her daughter's hands. "Why should we, anyway? We're both happy as we are."

"But _we_ are not happy. You're not setting a good example for the girls."

"I beg your pardon? Did you say I'm not setting a good example? Well, I think I do set a very good example indeed. For everyone, Nili. A perfect example to show exactly what to do and what not to do so as to avoid unhappiness."

"But you have a family, Mami. You can't just think of yourself."

"Now listen to me and listen well. Did it ever occur to you that if I were to think of myself and myself alone, I, as your mother, would have acted quite differently – and would still be acting differently?" She fell silent for a second and looked straight into Nili's eyes to see the effect of what she was saying. "Nili my love, can't you see that if I get married to Rudi, I would have to live in Paris. And I have no intention of going anywhere before I see that you love someone who deserves you and your children ... and that you're loved back."

"You did, nevertheless, attempt to leave us when we were little, leave us and leave this world. You felt free enough to try and kill yourself! You would have selfishly left your tiny daughters all alone. If Daddy wasn't there ..."

"That's enough, Nili!" Alex shouted. "I have nothing more to say. And I don't want to hear anything on this subject ever again."

"I would never ever betray my daughters," Nili murmured, almost to herself.

"Nili," Alex said, her voice regaining its former tenderness, "what has it got to do with betrayal for God's sake? Do you think that your love for a man would take away from your love for your daughters? Please. You should first admit to yourself that you're damned scared to love anyone. Not everybody is like Hasan, my love. Don't use your daughters as an excuse to cover up for your fears, and stop being an emotional burden to all of us."

"Oh, thank you very much for your advice! So you think _I_ am an emotional burden then, do you? Look at yourself! God! All those years, all of us had to put up with your emotional moods and sulking face. You never forgot Rudi, your old love, did you?"

How come she knew that he was her old love? Was she reading her diaries? Ada might have told her. Whatever! Let her know, she thought. So much for the better. "So don't be like me then. Don't live in the past. If you want to do something useful for your kids, try to be happy with what you have. Please find somebody. Love somebody! Please."

"I love my daughters."

"That's different, Nili. God! Can't you see? You're literally killing yourself. And you don't even realise that you're killing the rest of us with you."

"Please Mami. Please don't talk about killing. You drove Dad to his grave."

"How dare you speak to me like that! What do you know about me, about my life, about anything? Just because your husband left you for another woman doesn't give you the right to be miserable and ruthless to other people. And especially to your mother. Please make an effort to understand at least a tiny little bit of what might have actually happened before you open your mouth. And sort yourself out!"

"Both you and Lila need a mother like Gizella." Károly was looking from the doorway, wagging his hand to show a feigned intention to slap his niece before he walked over to her and squeezed her cheek between his two fingers, rather too harshly for a sign of affection. "So that you can learn how to hold your little tongues." His expression suddenly became dead serious. "Leave your mother alone, Nili. Know your place! Appreciate the value of your place in her heart, my dear girl. Your mother had been hurt so many times in her life, but nothing has broken her heart as badly as some of the things that you – you and Lila – have said to her. You have to respect your mother's choices. She always had respect for yours. Do you understand your _Öcsi_ _bácsi?_ You will understand, Nili. You have to."

This was the first time Alex had seen Károly so harsh and serious, especially towards his little squirrel Nili. Then suddenly good old _Öcsi_ came back as he smiled, displaying his teeth, still as perfect as a string of impeccable pearls.

They returned to the terrace arm in arm and sat in their places at the table. Lila, who had come out of Károly's bedroom with her one-month-old baby Giselle, was now enjoying the words of endearment her daughter attracted from her family.

"Did you feed her well?" asked Alex.

"Come and sit by me, Lila," said Károly, gesturing to the chair next to him before standing up and raising his glass towards Juli and Teodor. "Once again let's drink to the happiness of the bride and the groom."

Everyone around the table made a plenitude of wishes. Károly had finished his wine in one huge gulp and was still on his feet. They were all looking at him in expectation of another wish. József reached for the bottle of sparkling wine, with which they made do instead of champagne, to fill his friend's glass. His hand holding the bottle froze in the air when he heard what Károly said.

"I'm going back to Hungary." His eyes were glued to his empty glass.

Alex felt a wave of unbearable heat rising from her neck towards her cheeks, and her head turning into an impossibly heavy chunk of lead. Her eyes darkened. She could not breathe. Someone was strangling her. She was suffocating. Suddenly her right hand contracted in excruciating pain. She turned her absent eyes to the bloodstained pieces of glass, shattered between her fingers. She must have heard it wrong. The heaviness that had oppressed her head was now spreading, soon to burden her whole body. She felt she was about to collapse onto the floor from where she was sitting. In panic, she jumped to her feet. She would not lose Károly. She would not let him slip from her fingers again just when she had found him. Her knees were shaking. She stumbled. Holding on to the back of the chairs, she walked towards her brother. She had to stay on her feet. She had to be strong. She must not fall down.

"What did you just say, _Öcsi?_ What on earth did you just say?"

"You've heard it right, my love." Károly held Alex's hand and pressed his napkin on her bleeding fingers. "Ada and Dóra are moving to New York." His loving eyes momentarily turned towards his younger daughter. "Dóra wants to study psychology. As to Ada ... She says New York is the new hub of art."

Károly went on saying a few things more, but Alex no longer heard any of it. She was watching his lips move mutely, as if in a silent movie. She did not want to hear what he said. Not even a word of it. She hated Ada. God, she hated her so much! She was abandoning Károly again. She tried to suppress the voice of anger sizzling inside her, but to no avail. She abruptly pulled her fingers away from her brother's hands and snatched away the napkin, with which he was trying to dress her wound. Her wounded right hand automatically rose and was about to land on her brother's cheek with all its might when Károly grabbed her wrist. "You have to understand me, Alex," she heard him whisper. "You have to understand me, my love," he implored, obviously struggling to sound strong.

Alex pulled away her hand again. The sound that escaped her mouth was not because of the pain inflicted by the cut on her fingers. It was the desperate shriek of her heart revolting in the face of her helplessness, of her inability to do something, of the pain triggered by the imminent threat of losing Károly yet again. She turned around abruptly and went inside. Her body was shaking with violent sobs. How could he do such a thing? How could he even think of returning to that dungeon? He must have lost his mind.

Rudi was behind her, holding her shoulders. "You must understand him, Alex," he said in a most tender voice, enfolding her in his arms. Alex felt crushed. She made to slip out of his embrace but could not, for Rudi had practically chained her in with his arms.

"There are two types of immigrants, Alex," he said, his calm voice betraying a tinge of hopelessness.

No one would be able to change Károly's mind. No one!

"Those who belong to the first group fight, heart and soul, to succeed in a foreign country. They adopt the characteristics of their new compatriots, sometimes even exaggerate and go as far as to change their names." He had tightened his arms around Alex a bit more. "This type of immigrant doesn't even want to think about his old life, his old country. He actually hates it with a certain degree of suppressed fear. And one day he forgets it all." He paused and slowly turned Alex to face him. Taking the blood-stained napkin she had been fidgeting with off her hands, he gently started to dress her wound with the gauze Ada had brought. "On the other hand, those who belong to the other group of immigrants do want to succeed but can't tear themselves from their roots. For such an immigrant, the past is an indispensable part of his life, without which he can't feel that he exists. The more time passes, the more he realises that he has never been able to adapt himself to his new country and that he has always been considered an outsider. In the meanwhile, his old life that he can't tear himself away from, that he can't forget, starts showing signs of abandoning him. Such a threat deeply worries him. He can't survive it. And he goes back. He won't be able to hang on to life if he does not. Károly tries, but when he feels that Hungary is about to abandon him, he moves dangerously close to the edge of a precipice."

Alex couldn't take it anymore. She wriggled herself away from Rudi's arms and ran to the kitchen. She would not let him go back. She would not! She banged her fist on the counter with all her might. And again. Then both her fists, as if she meant to break her bones. Yes, she wanted to break every single bone in her body. She wanted to tear everything to pieces. Everything!

"Calm down, my love," said Károly, grabbing her wrists. "It's not so tragic, Alex. Please calm down."

Alex twisted her hands, trying to free them from Károly's grip. "How do you mean it's not so tragic?" she raved. "You must be mad, completely mad! How can I be calm, for God's sake? You're going to a prison, _Öcsi_. Have you lost your mind? What about your love for Ada? Your longing for your daughters? Your Paris, the city of freedom? What about the freedom that you so adamantly sought? How can you just leave everything and go back? Why?" She grabbed the collar of his shirt and, with all the strength she could muster, tried to shake his huge body, as if to put some sense into him. "Why? Why _Öcsi?_ Why?" she bellowed.

Károly was looking into Alex's eyes, holding her head between his hands. " Freedom, Alex," he said resolutely, "does not mean running away from your responsibilities. Quite the reverse; you become a slave if you do."

"Enough!" she suddenly burst out, letting go of his collar. "Both Rudi and you keep repeating the same thing like parrots. I've had enough! I'm tired of your love for Hungary. I'm tired of your responsibilities. Of your dreams for freedom. I'm sick and tired of it all! Hungary is no more, Károly. It's finished. Forget about it. Give up. Your dreams won't come true. It's past the time you woke up." She tried to calm down before she continued, almost begging him. "Why don't you go to New York with them?"

Károly let out a loud laugh, which was more like an uncontrolled howl that seemed to have escaped from the depths of his broken heart, a long and doleful cry that gradually gave way to a bitter smile. "They no longer need me."

"You need _them_ , _Öcsi_."

"Ada has made her choice, Alex. She doesn't need to go to New York. Dóra is a grown up young lady now and doesn't need her mother. Ada could come to Hungary with me. Her country calls for her. Our country needs us. But she doesn't want to come. I find it hard to understand how such an orthodox ex-communist like her might prefer New York to Hungary." He fell silent for a brief instant, his hands squeezing Alex's a bit too tightly. "Hans lives in New York," he finally muttered with great difficulty, almost vomiting the words.

"This doesn't mean anything. You're her husband, _Öcsi_. Her husband! The father of her children. She loves you." Alex was begging him. "Don't go back. Please don't go back to that prison. Please. I beg you, _Öcsi_ , please."

"I'm fifty-seven years old, Alex. I can't undertake any more adventures at this age."

"Don't you think going back to Hungary is an adventure?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

What was going on? Was it really his love for his country that pushed him to go back to Hungary? Or was it his lonely broken heart searching for somewhere to nestle itself? "Come to Istanbul," she said with sudden hope. "You know Çamlık. We have loads of space in our house. Just like in the old days, _Öcsi_. We'll be together again. We'll paint together. Your daughters will come and visit you whenever they want to. We'll come to Paris. We'll go to New York. Please. I beg you not to return to Hungary." She noticed Károly's eyes reddening. Her brother was lonely, utterly lonely. "Please come to live with me," she begged once again.

"Would you come for a minute, Károly?" It was Ada sticking her head through the kitchen door.

She hated Ada. It was all her fault. She had ruined Károly's life. The choice she had pushed him to make was tearing his soul apart, throwing him into an impossible turmoil, a turmoil that would never die down.

"I beg of you," she called out behind Károly as he walked out of the kitchen. She felt her knees giving way; she had no more strength to stand up. She squatted on the floor, leaning her back against the wall and took her face between her hands, whimpering, "I won't let him go. I will not!"

"Please don't cry, Mami. Please don't torture yourself." Nili had squatted beside her and was stroking her hair.

"We have to convince your _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ not to return to Hungary, Nili. It's almost impossible, I know, but we have to find a way. We have to convince him to come and live with us in Istanbul, or at least stay here."

"Why don't you move here to Paris, Mami? He might agree to stay then."

Suddenly Alex stopped crying and turned her wet eyes to her daughter. How is that going to happen, my sweetheart? How am I going to leave you like this? Alex felt something tearing her soul apart, something creating havoc inside her. It was as though her whole being were dividing into two.

Károly was back in the kitchen. He reached out and held Alex's hand. "Come with me, Alex. There's something I want to give you."

She dragged herself to her feet, her energy suddenly depleted. Károly kept repeating that there was nothing to worry about. They walked to his bedroom. He made her sit on the chair by the dressing table and walked to the chest of drawers to take out a wooden box, which he brought over and placed on the dressing table in front of her. He opened it and took out a necklace. Alex immediately recognised the Art Déco necklace, which belonged to the set their Aunt Irén and Uncle Filip had given Gizella on her fortieth birthday. Her mother's voice rang in her ears as she heard her scoff, pouting her lips, "I can't say I appreciate that exaggeratedly modern taste of Filip and of poor Irén, who has no choice but to follow her husband in everything. Ah, these artists." Alex had never seen her mother wear them, not even once. Finally, she had given them to Ada, the necklace at Juli's birth and the earrings at Dóra's, saying, "These are made for bohemian artists really."

"How did you take these out of Hungary?"

"During the war Rudi acted very cleverly, you know. He sold everything and transferred the cash to Switzerland. At the time he asked me if there was anything I wanted to take out of the country. I gave him a few things, including this set. Over the years we sold almost everything, but these ... I had to keep these." He paused. "However, these are not what I meant to show you. I only wanted you to see them. Today I'll be giving the necklace to Juli. The earrings will be Dóra's when she gets married."

Alex could not care less about the necklace or the earrings or the sparkle in Károly's eyes as he talked about his daughters. The only thing in her mind was how to keep her brother from going back. She was determined not to let him go. He could not possibly return to that miserable life. He must not. She had to find a way to make him change his mind. Perhaps she should threaten him. Yes, that was it. " _Öcsi_ ," she said. I will kill myself if you go back.

Károly seemed not to have heard Alex. She doubted if she had articulated her thoughts. " _Öcsi_ ," she repeated. "I will kill myself if you go back."

Károly seemed lost in thought, his eyes absently looking at his closed fist holding something he had taken out of the jewellery box. Apparently, he had not heard what Alex had said. "There's something I want to give you before I go back to Hungary, Alex," he said as he gently placed the content of his hand onto the table and slid it towards Alex. "Daddy had given this to me before he went to war."

Alex took the golden signet ring, embellished with dark blue stones, between her trembling fingers and caressed the family coat of arms on it. Suddenly she was back in time. She watched her father sitting at his desk and calmly signing the letter he had just finished with that long signature of his, drying the ink before folding the sheet of paper with his long fingers and carefully placing it in an envelope, melting the red wax and pouring a few drops of it to seal the envelope and marking the seal with his signet ring. And then he smiled at Alex with admiration in his eyes. Tears were flooding down her cheeks now.

Károly was looking Alex in the eye. "I want this to remind you of our father," he said, gently stroking her cheek, "and of me."

He was still talking, but Alex no longer heard any of what he was saying. Her eyes were glued to something else in the box, which had made her heart start throbbing. She timorously extended her hand towards the box. Yes, it was that ring. How come Károly had it? She shut her eyes and took a deep breath in, as if to gather her strength before she asked in a trembling voice, "Where did you find that?"

Károly looked at the box and took the ring Alex was showing. "It's Orion's ring," he said. "Or rather the ring I believed to have belonged to Orion. I found it during a wartime operation in a wine estate in Csopak." The expression in his eyes told Alex that he had gone years back, back to the dark days of the past.

"Who is Orion?" she asked.

"During the German occupation, Budapest was like a coven of warlocks," started Károly. "Everyone was there. The intelligence services of the Allies, the Hungarian resistance groups, the Jewish resistance fighters, German counter-intelligence, Soviet spies, you name it. One could never be sure of whom to trust. You never knew whether you were dealing with a real person or someone with an invented or stolen identity. Orion was one the few people holding the ropes that these tightrope walkers of Budapest trod on. We were living through a period when information meant everything, Alex, perhaps one's most valuable asset – classified information received in time, top secret files disclosed before it was too late. Intelligence, Alex. Without the intelligence reports, you could only save the lives of your neighbours or of a handful of people who came to your door begging for help. If you were lucky that was. But there were hundreds of thousands of lives to be saved. And we had a machine that had been running smoothly for years: the Nazi death machine. You had to know exactly when and where to be and what sorts of preparations were required. Good timing was crucially important. You had to take action before it was too late.

"We all did something to the extent of our abilities and capabilities. Orion, on the other hand, did so much more. Each of us might have saved tens or perhaps hundreds of Jewish lives, but he saved tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of lives, never expecting to be praised as a hero, perhaps never even reaping the fruits of his courage. It was he who taught me the meaning of courage, although I never met him in person or knew his true identity. You had to know which rope to pull and when to pull it in a world where things happened at lightning speed. A rope pulled at the wrong time might soon be a rope that would hang you. He always pulled the right ropes."

Károly was looking out the window. His voice had cooled down. "He only made one mistake, and that was when he had to save his own life." He raised his eyes to the sky. "I never met Orion. I never learned who he really was, his real name." He paused. "I still don't know. He went missing at the end of the war, and I know nothing of what might have happened to him. I don't know if he's still alive and, if he is, his whereabouts." He was still looking at the sky with questioning eyes, as if looking for an answer among the stars. "Orion," he finally murmured, "the great hunter of Greek mythology. The great Orion whom Zeus had placed among the stars."

His gaze turned back to the ring in his palm.

"I found this at a wine estate during an operation on the day they had hunted the hunter and presumed that Orion had dropped it. Over the years, whenever I inclined towards losing my stamina to carry on with my life, whenever I thought that everything was over and felt unbearably lonely, it reminded me of him and of what a human being can do at a point when all hope was lost. It told me that, despite all, life continued, that I needed to carry on."

He kissed Alex's forehead. "I want you to remember that as well, my love. There is still a lot that can be done, a lot even after the point when all hope is lost. You ... we must not lose our hope. Whatever the price we need to pay, we must not let go of our dreams. One day all our dreams will come true. Trust me." He was smiling. "I have to go back to my country, Alex."

Alex squeezed his large hand tightly before gradually releasing her grip. She was enfolded in the arms of a peculiarly sad sense of pride. "I was in Budapest for a visit in early 1939," she started, somewhat timidly. "Do you remember? You weren't there. You were in Paris with Ada." She averted her eyes, feeling that she would be able to tell it much more easily if she did not look at him. "That was when I came across Rudi after many years," she continued. "Nothing happened between us then," she added hastily, before falling silent for a brief moment. "It might have happened, but it didn't. I couldn't ... He gave me a ring then, a ring I couldn't wear, a ring I couldn't wear as a married woman, a ring I asked him to keep until I could wear it. And then, when I saw him for the last time in March, in Rózsadomb, at Magda's ..." She stopped and swallowed the sobs brimming in her throat. "When he and his family were in Rózsadomb to pay their last respects to Magda," she murmured with great difficulty.

Her eyes were fixed on the star-shaped shades on the amber ring dangling at the end of a broken chain her brother was holding. She gently stroked the ring with her fingertips as though she were scared to harm it.

"He was wearing that ring on a chain around his neck on that visit. It was an amber ring with shades that resembled a star."

48

Károly felt his head spinning as he stood up. Invaded by a swarm of thoughts frantically chasing after each other, his brain was in chaos. He had the amber ring tightly clasped in his clenched fist. His emotions were in turmoil, but a strong sense of shame dominated all others. Orion ... Rudi. But of course! Of course, Orion was Rudi. He was impossibly ashamed of his stupidity, of his naivety, of some of his earlier thoughts about Rudi, of the things he had said to him, of how he had insulted him.

"Oh, God!" he mumbled to himself. "What an idiot I was." He turned to Alex. "I was so gullible, Alex. I used to think that he was nothing but a coward, a great disappointment really. I was furious at him for being so faint-hearted." He scoffed, scornfully derisive of himself. "Rudi! The great Orion! Was I so blind as not to see that?" he said angrily as he walked out of the room.

Károly remembered the time when, in June of 1940, soon after the outbreak of the war, he had left Paris and returned to Budapest and how he had witnessed, with a sinking heart, his brave and audacious friend becoming more and more passive, downtrodden, edgy and even cowardly from one day to the next. How sad and infuriated he had been! He had kept nagging him, saying that they had to do something, use their initiative instead of waiting with their hands tied. God only knew what Rudi had taken him for. He probably thought him a complete fool. He cringed with shame at the thought of how happy he had been upon learning that Rudi was involved in some kind of resistance and how incredulous he was of his recounts of his activities, assuming that he was making it all up. He always reproached Rudi for being insufficiently involved in the resistance, complained that he had changed, and blamed him for being too passive, asking where the Rudi he had known – his brave and adventurous friend – had gone. There were times when he was furious at him for his lack of fervour. Occasionally, influenced by János, he even suspected him of collaborating with the Germans. And Rudi? Rudi had swallowed, with unbelievable maturity, all of Károly's insults and humiliating remarks. Ah, Károly! Ah, you idiot! He felt his whole body shrink in embarrassment. Were you so dazed as not to have noticed that the student had surpassed the master? Were you so blind as not to see that the person you took to be your disciple was in fact your leader?

He went into the living room. Everybody was out on the terrace except for Aslı and Nur, who were playing in one corner of the room, and Rudi, who was in the section Károly used as his studio, leaning on a table crowded with painting materials. He was sipping his drink while looking at the framed photographs lined up on one corner of the table. Károly slowly walked towards him. It felt as though he were seeing his friend for the first time in his life. The man who stood in front of him was Orion. The hero of the resistance. The great Orion!

Rudi smiled at Károly as he held out the frame he was holding. It contained a photograph taken in the music room in Rózsadomb, showing Alex and Magda sitting side by side in front of the grand piano with their fingers posed on the keys.

"There's something I want to return to you before I go back to Budapest, Rudi. Something you dropped years ago, or something you left behind as a sign." He opened his fist, placed the ring on the table and slid it towards Rudi.

Rudi slowly put the frame back in its place, pressed his hand on the ring and kept it there for a few seconds before he took it in his palm and clenched his fist. He closed his eyes as he took his hand to his heart.

Alex had just come in. She went and perched on the chair next to the easel by the table.

Rudi's eyes were still shut. "It had been three and a half years since the war had started," he began. He then took a deep breath and opened his eyes to look at Károly. "April 1943 ... I was choking, sitting in an office in front of a desk at Tungsram, questioning if what I did for the Boy Scouts was sufficient."

"The Boy Scouts," Károly murmured as he leaned against the other edge of the table. "How could you have been so naive, Károly?" he thought to himself. How very guileless! How very stupid! The resistance group Rudi helped, the group that you looked down upon as being useless. The Boy Scouts!

"People were being killed all over Europe," Rudi carried on, "and Hungary was next in line. There had to be more important things I could do than using the documents of my old clients and giving financial support to the resistance. I needed to talk to Lajos." Rudi took his hand away from his heart and looked at the amber ring he held between his fingers. "Lajos Sonenberg," he explained, slowly turning his eyes to Alex. "That friend of mine whom you said looked like an English lord." He turned back to Károly. "Remember Gábor? Gábor _Dobos?_ The name I invented for Lajos?"

Károly nodded, recalling what Mihály Dobos had told him during the interrogations at Number 60.

"The next day when I talked to Lajos about it, he asked me if we could hold a meeting at my house on Gyopár Street." He walked to the window and turned his gaze outside. "Number ten – the mansion a few paces down from the legation building on Gellért Hill."

How many times Károly had been to that house, to Rudi's house, to the house of the man he had taken to be useless.

"Lajos told me that if I wished I could attend that meeting, but if I did attend, there would be no going back. I would be getting into a larger web, where the stakes would be higher. And the price of any mistake would be death." He paused briefly. "I was indecisive. On one hand, I had this irresistible urge to take action against the Nazis, who had been turning our lives upside down for years, an impossibly strong desire to use my explosive energy, which I had been trying to suppress for a very long time, and to give expression to my winning instinct, which I did not have a chance to satisfy. I felt like a fettered prisoner waiting to break free from his shackles. But on the other hand ..." He turned around and leaned his back against the window frame. His eyes were fixed in Alex's. "I thought I had a responsibility to stay alive; I had to stay alive for my loved ones, for those who waited for me. It was a very tough decision." He was now looking at Károly again. "I don't think you'd remember, Károly, but the turning point for me was something you once told me in the cafeteria at Tunsgram. We were having lunch that day. 'Whatever you do, please don't give up on your urge to win,' you said. 'You can't ... We can't afford to lose our freedom. Whatever the cost! This is the most difficult match to win, old chap,' you said."

Károly remembered that day very well – even the flame he had hoped he saw in his friend's eyes, that tiny flame which was the herald of his rekindled passion for victory.

"The following night I attended the meeting on Gyopár Street," continued Rudi. "Lajos, my childhood friend, Lajos whom I knew so well. Alias Alfred! He worked for the British Intelligence Service MI6. He was a British spy. He had been so for years, ever since our youth." He looked at Alex with a bitter smile. "Do you recall the British girl you saw in my library on that miserable day when you had taken your engagement ring off? The girl whom I thought was in Budapest for business." He let out a brisk laugh. "The girl whom you thought was there for the pleasure of her heart. We were both very much mistaken. She was, in fact, a friend of Lajos who was living in Egypt at the time, or rather was being trained as a secret agent there. And she also worked for the British secret service."

Rudi carried on enthusiastically, with the sweet relief of sharing with others what he had to keep to himself for decades. "Lajos was the leader of the Boy Scouts and was in touch with almost all of the resistance groups in Hungary. Raoul was also present in the meeting that day – Raoul Wallenberg. There were Cyril, the British gentleman I had met in Stockholm, and Gerhard, the Dutchman and a few others."

The Dutchman! "You should be thankful to the Dutchman," murmured Károly almost to himself. He recalled how János had been kidnapped from the labour camp, and the next day Rudi behaving as if he knew nothing about it. "Excuse my bluntness, but our resistance group has much more important missions to attend to than saving János," he almost heard Rudi say. Of course, it had been Rudi who had organised János's escape.

"The Dutchman – Gerhard, whom I had once taken to be a patsy, a rather weird sort, was the guy who had me and you, Károly, employed at Tungsram. And many others, of course. Tungsram was a subsidiary of the Dutch company Philips, which served as the personnel department not only of British intelligence but also of the Pool."

"The Pool?" asked Károly.

"The Americans. They were helping Horthy in his efforts to pull Hungary to the Allies' side. The Pool was an intelligence service independent of the OSS, taking its orders directly from President Roosevelt." He looked at Alex. "OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, a precursor of the CIA," he explained. "The most important personage I met at that meeting was Nestor. This was, of course, his code name. I learned his true identity years later: Jarek, a Polish aristocrat."

Károly's mind cringed at the memory of his interrogation at Number 60 again. A shiver ran through his bones.

"Jarek was also a British agent, working for the Inter-Service Liaison Department. It was through him that they contacted the Pool."

Károly looked out the window. He could see those sitting around the table on the terrace, all talking at the same time, but could not hear their voices. They looked like the hurried actors of a silent movie projected onto a screen surrounded by the window frame.

"Am I a British spy now, I was asking myself, having learned all this information?" Rudi carried on. "Nobody said, 'You are a British agent now.' All I heard was that I would be taking on dangerous and extraordinary missions, which would often require me to disappear for long periods of time. I was not to tell anyone, including my family and my friends, anything about my work and had to make up stories about where I was or what I did. A flood of questions bothered me, but one thing in particular dominated over the others: Didn't working for the British mean working for the enemy? Wasn't it treason? Then I thought that I should find the answer to another, more important, question: Who was our real enemy? Wasn't it the Nazis who had their eyes on Hungary, on the lives of my compatriots? The real traitors were those who collaborated with the Nazis, weren't they?"

He took a deep breath, as if exhausted by his discourse, and sat on the edge of the armchair between the window and the table. He was looking straight into Károly's eyes.

"I started to feel safer despite all the dangerous information I learned. Finally, I was strong against the Nazis, who were destroying my country and my life. It was as though I were in control of everything. After years of lethargy I was filled with energy again and found the Rudi of my youth. However, my worries had by no means ended. The monstrosity of some of the contents of the intelligence reports I had received worsened my worries about my Jewish friends, as well as some of my Christian friends like you who helped the Jewish people. The Nazis were pouring money into the coffers of the Arrow Cross and were expecting to turn Budapest into a Nazi encampment very soon. At that time the most difficult thing was to hide my double identity from my friends. In November ..." He stopped momentarily. "Do you remember the time when you started to work at the Swedish Legation, Károly? A few days later we met at the Centrál Kávéház. I remember that day very well, because the following day was my birthday." A sudden gloom darkened his face. "The last birthday I celebrated with my friends," he said, hardly above a whisper.

Károly recalled that day rather well, including some details such as his disappointment at seeing Rudi, his courageous idol, turn into a womaniser who could think of nothing better than having a good time while trying to hide his cowardice behind an excuse for a job and some fabricated resistance stories. Once again he felt utterly ashamed of himself for having thought like that.

"You were the one who fixed that job for me at the legation, weren't you, Rudi? Through Raoul. Endré was only a screen."

"Yes, I was because I could see how unhappy you were at Tungsram. Besides, I did not trust János's resistance group. Working at the legation would be providing you with a certain level of safety." Rudi was hurrying through his sentences as if needing to lessen the importance of his past actions. "I wanted to see you that day because we would not be seeing each other for a long time after that, perhaps never. We had received a new order from Allied Headquarters in Bari. They were asking for the rescued prisoners of war and the monthly intelligence reports to be delivered to the Tito partisans on the southern border. The 'cargo' we were to deliver would then be handed over to the Allied planes coming in from Bari carrying supplies to the partisans. Konrád, Tódor and I shuttled back and forth between Budapest and the southern border for four months until the Germans occupied Budapest."

Károly had never heard of these names.

"Uncle and Legionnaire," reiterated Rudi.

Yes, he knew them. They were two of the mock priests he met several times at the Szikla Church.

"Everything had been running perfectly up to that point. In March, however, things took a rather menacing turn with the German occupation. Being of Jewish origin made the situation much more dangerous for me and for Lajos than for the others. We were not only resistance fighters collaborating with the Allies against the Nazis but also members of the Jewish race, which needed to be wiped out of the face of the earth. We started staying at a different place each night. More often than not, we had to disappear altogether for a few days. To be invisible. At one point I had five different identities, Károly. At the time the SS officers were staying at the Astoria Hotel, where Vilmos was working as the Deputy Manager." He smiled. "Vilmos, my butler, my landlord Vilmos. He used to bring us food and clean clothes every night."

As Rudi once had said, Károly was a true optimist at heart. "Rudi, the most eligible bachelor, the womaniser, a big spender and a great entertainer," he said, shaking his head as if reproaching himself for being so gullible.

Rudi's lips curled in a slight smile. "You were really too optimistic." He suddenly turned serious again. "Do you recall the time when, after the occupation, Prime Minister Kállay had taken refuge in the Turkish Embassy? It was May. We were having lunch one day when I told you that Tungsram was sending me to Switzerland for a month on a commission. The truth of the matter was that my destination was not Switzerland; I was to pass the Yugoslavian border using a fake passport and go to Bari. My mission was not to follow up Tungsram's business but to carry a secret letter from Kállay to Churchill. In his letter, Kállay was expressing Hungary's wish to surrender to the Allies." Rudi touched the scar under his left eyebrow. "This is a souvenir from that mission."

Károly was listening to Rudi, breathless, as if he was watching a thriller.

"Then in July I had to turn down your offer about joining Raoul's team to help out with the distribution of the _Schutzpasses_ ," he continued, "because I was given another mission. They had asked me to become the bridge between Raoul and Nestor, and therefore the Pool."

"Orion," murmured Károly. The great Orion! The brave hunter. The priests, the frocks, the brown leather suitcase ... Szikla Church ... He heard Legionnaire whispering, "Orion is here." He remembered the wine estate in Csopak. At long last, he would be able to learn the answer to the question that had been gnawing at his mind for years. "What happened at the wine estate in Csopak?" he asked impatiently.

"A few days before Christmas, it had become clear that the Russians were about to occupy Budapest. The liberation was imminent. I was eagerly waiting for my post-occupation orders, but Nestor informed me that I needed to take a short leave of absence 'for a therapeutic cure'. I needed to become invisible for a while. He said that it was only a matter of days before Hungarian counter-intelligence, who knew about the existence of Orion but didn't know his true identity, discovered that it was me. London had ordered that I should be flown to Allied Headquarters in Bari along with the cargo as soon as possible. At the time, the 'cargo' was being delivered to the Russians instead of the Tito partisans as ordered by the British. He said that the delivery was to take place at Lajos's wine estate in Csopak, where I was to meet the Russians."

He picked up his glass from the table and swallowed its contents in one gulp.

"Their intention was, however, to forward me not to Bari but to Moscow. They told me that I was accused of being a German spy until proved otherwise."

He put the ring on the table.

"I had to leave a message, a message that would tell that I didn't defect but was kidnapped against my will, a sign to tell that I was neither a fascist nor a communist but simply a Hungarian citizen."

His absent eyes were fixed on the ring.

"I couldn't understand a thing. I was constantly repeating that I was a member of a British-led anti-Nazi resistance group and took my orders from Nestor. Then they asked me why I helped the British. I had no answer to their queries. I didn't know what my answer should be. Was it a crime to have helped the British? Weren't the British and the Russians allies? I was British after all. Perhaps being British wouldn't do me any good at that moment. Did they know my true identity? Was I Róbert Tímár for them? Or Rudolf Takács? Was I to become a prisoner to the Russians, who were supposed to be our liberators from the fascists? Where were they taking me? I was wondering what had happened to Lajos, to Wallenberg and to the others. Had they also been arrested? Was it my being in contact with Raoul Wallenberg that had upset the Russians? We knew that they suspected Raoul of being an American spy as he had been sent to Hungary by the American War Refugee Board.

"As a matter of fact, the answer to all these questions was really simple," he said, standing up and opening his arms wide. "The Soviets' aim was to conquer the whole of the Balkans very soon. And the warlords had already agreed among themselves that Hungary was to be under the Soviet sphere of influence. Churchill and the British Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden had shaken hands with Stalin on that deal. Unfortunately, though, none of the funambulists in Budapest had a clue about it. None of us!"

He was pacing the narrow space between the table and the archway that led to the living room.

"None of the British and the American agents in Budapest or those who were in contact with them had a place in the game the Kremlin planned to stage at that time. For the Russians, anyone who had come into contact with any intelligence service, or with any organisation suspected of being one, was a spy and therefore a threat. Such people were classified as 'undesirable elements' and were to be controlled or liquidated."

He stopped in front of Károly.

"The question that did not have a simple answer was who was delivering these 'undesirable elements' to the Russians? Somebody in the communication line between the warlords and the resistance fighters gave orders 'with the best intention' to hand over potentially anti-Soviet members of the anti-Nazi resistance groups to the Soviets for liquidation. There must have been a leak in the ranks of the British Intelligence Service, selling his colleagues to the Russians. A large number of Dutch, French and British citizens living in Hungary – not only in Hungary but also in many countries of Central and Eastern Europe – were being sent to prisons in Russia."

He lit a cigarette and took a deep draw, his expression somehow disconcerted, his eyes blankly fixed on its light. Both Károly and Alex were mesmerised by his story, listening to him in awe.

"In the end, I was jailed as a prisoner of war in Moscow. Lubjanka." He was shaking his head as if in objection to his memories. "It was terrible. They had monstrous tactics to make you confess what they wanted to hear." He was now talking almost in a whisper. "Two years later I was transferred to Lefortovo prison where the conditions were much worse. I stayed there for exactly three years. And then one night, a show trial and I was sentenced to twenty-five years' imprisonment. What was I guilty of? Of being in contact with an anti-communist organisation during the war." He smiled bitterly. "Of being in contact with the British Intelligence Service for espionage. And then the Vladimir prison, a private cell in the special section of the prison in solitary confinement. Even the guards didn't know my name. I was only a number for them."

He took a sudden deep breath, as if he was about to suffocate and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"They constantly broadcast Russian and German words from the loudspeaker. After a while the words were replaced with ultrasonic voice recordings. They used to heat the cell to unbearable levels and then turn it into an icebox. I was bombarded by ultrasonic sounds that decreased during the cold periods and increased during the hot ones. The volume was so high that I could feel my nerves gradually giving in."

Károly's whole body was contracted with nervous energy. He noticed that he had clenched his fists. He took a cigarette from the packet on the table and lit it. When Alex snatched it from between his lips, he lit another one.

"The end of human dignity," Rudi carried on. "You feel so worthless that everything loses its meaning. You slowly lose your contact with reality. The reality that you take to be normal melts away, giving way to a new reality that creeps in. Unsuspectingly, you start to adopt this new reality, accepting as normal a reality that is detached from the outside world and from the people you once accepted as normal."

He put out his cigarette, pressing it roughly in the ashtray.

"I did nothing but sleep and pace the cell. I was trying not to let them brainwash me or to make me lose my mind. To keep my sanity, every day I thought of one day of my life and tried to live it through. Every single moment of it. I sought to turn the reality of the past into the reality of that day. I relived our days back in the twenties mostly. It's so amazing what one remembers, how many small details one can recall."

He was looking directly at Alex.

"I don't know how many times I relived our engagement party, every single moment of it, again and again. The day we met at the tennis club, the night when you lit the candle in the Márkus Restaurant, the day I saw you again at Japán Kávéház years later, even that unfortunate day at the hunting lodge in Italy. I relived them all, perhaps hundreds of times."

Instead of being bitter about life, a large portion of which had been stolen from him, Rudi's expression showed no trace of hatred or anger or pain, but signs of the serenity of someone who deeply felt the value of the moment he was living in.

"Four years of solitary confinement, exactly one thousand four hundred and sixty long days and nights. There comes a time when you feel that you're about to lose your mind. Sometimes you think you've already lost it. On some days an insect coming from the outside world gives you the strength to hold on to life by helping you keep your contact with reality. Amidst your loneliness you think that in the cells next to you, there are others like you; you try to make yourself believe that.

"For months on end I relentlessly tapped on the walls. Using the Morse code, I tapped, 'Anyone there? Anyone there?' This alone can drive you mad, you know. And then one day a miracle happened: the wall answered my pleadings. There was someone on the other side of the wall, tapping something in the Morse code. 'I am Uncle. Who are you?' It was a miracle. Konrád was in the next cell. He was alive. Someone from the past was right there next to me. After that incident I was filled with an unexpectedly high level of energy to keep on living. We talked for days. And then one morning they took me to the general section.

"In the general section all prisoners were foreigners. You would not imagine how many Westerners there were who had gone missing, who had just disappeared from the face of the earth. But there was no sign of Konrád. Later on I really thought about it and wondered if it was really Konrád who was in the next cell or if it was a farce, a tactic the Russians used to make me talk."

He walked to the window again and turned his gaze outside. "It was clear that there was a mole in the British Intelligence Service," he said in a disappointed voice.

Károly could not see the expression on his face, but his voice and his clenched fists in his trouser pockets betrayed his emotions.

"And finally on the twelfth day of November 1956, exactly eleven years, ten months, twenty-one days after having been kidnapped, they released me in exchange for two Soviet pilots who had defected to England, or rather they released me into the custody of the British."

All his energy seemed to have drained out of his body.

"Enough, Rudi. That's enough, for God's sake," implored Alex.

Rudi continued in a monotonous voice. "The British informed me that they could do nothing for me except help me change my identity. They said they were sorry. The Foreign Office did not even reply to my letters. I was a marked man, not only by the KGB but also by Scotland Yard and the MI5 for having been in the Soviet prisons for so long. I was nevertheless a free man – up to a certain point, of course. They might be following everyone I contacted."

He turned his eyes first to Alex and then to Károly. "I didn't call any of you. I couldn't. I wouldn't risk your lives by getting in touch with you. I was doomed to a life in the shadows. I moved to Paris as a new man, an English banker." He turned to Alex. "Can we say I restarted from where I left at the outbreak of the war?" He opened his arms wide as he let out a sigh of relief. "And finally a couple of months ago, everything became clear. They had discovered that Kim Philby, who had ignored the letters of complaint I had sent to the Foreign Office in England at the time of my release, was a Soviet agent. He was the weak link who delivered the 'undesirable elements' to the Russians, a mole who sold his colleagues. It's known that he was not alone and that there are several minor moles within the British Secret Intelligence Service with whom he worked. Gradually they are all being exposed one by one, but it's still a mystery who sold me, Lajos and Konrád. They were suspicious of Nestor, but he was cleared. As a matter of fact it's no longer important who it was."

His eyes were fixed on Alex.

"There is only one thing that has any importance, Alex: I no longer need to be invisible. Perhaps I won't be able to live as Rudolf Takács yet, but very soon that too will happen. In today's world things change from one day to the next."

Károly felt a heavy burden lift from his shoulders. Rudi had never been a coward. He had never lost his power or his courage. Contrary to what he had once thought, he neither fled, abandoning his country, nor had he collaborated with the Germans as he had once suspected. He was a hero, a hero who tried to help save the honour of a nation. Raoul came to his mind. "Do you know what happened to Raoul?" he asked.

"Most probably the Russians arrested both him and Lajos. Stalin knew that the Allies' next target would be the Soviet Union as soon as Germany was defeated, and his phobia about a Hungarian-Jewish-Anglo-American plot had reached its peak. They suspected Raoul to be an American spy. In 1957, the Russians announced that Raoul had died in 1947 after a heart attack in the Lubjanka prison. No one believes that today. Some say he was executed. Some believe that he's still in prison somewhere in the Soviet Union. And some say that he's living among us under a new identity."

Károly's eyes travelled between Alex and Rudi. Looking at Alex, an image rose vividly before him: the image of his little sister at the picnic in Balatonfüred, leaning against the sun-warmed trunk of a tree and daringly looking straight into Rudi's eyes, opening the window of her inner world wide, shouting out loud how very much in love she was. She had actually made her choice a long time ago, on that day at the picnic. She had made up her mind when she was seventeen. Now he saw the same expression in her eyes. And Rudi ... Károly could see the real Rudi now. He was the tender, refined and loving Rudi, generously giving expression to his deepest emotions hidden in the most intimate corners of his heart. He was the Rudi who would make Alex happy.

His gaze involuntarily turned to Ada who was engaged in a heated conversation out on the terrace. Her lips moved, but he could hear none of what she was saying. She was as excited as ever, full of energy and brimming with enthusiasm. Once again they were going their separate ways. Once again he would be waiting for the next twist of fate to bring them together, perhaps this time as free people of a liberated Hungary. Perhaps in their next reunion, they would be starting a brand new life, a free life in their beloved homeland. Freedom was a dream with a very high price, but it was worth paying whatever that price was – even if it meant immeasurably long and unbearable slavery.

Aslı had joined them and was looking curiously at the ring on the table. She raised her inquisitive eyes to Károly. " _Öcsi_ _bácsi_ , what is this ring?"

Károly picked her up. "It's the ring of a hunter, my squirrel, a hunter who saved hundreds of thousands of lives at a time when the whole world had turned upside down, a hunter whose true value I never understood." He paused to look at Rudi. "A friend who was more noble than all of us, a friend who understood the true meaning of being noble better than any of us."

Rudi took the ring without saying anything and slid it out of its chain. Keeping his eyes on Alex, he walked towards her in self-assured steps. Gently taking her left hand, which was fidgeting with the paints on the edge of the easel, he slowly put the ring on her finger.

\- CURTAIN -
April 2009  
Istanbul

Rüya was sitting at the desk in Mami's bedroom, watching the rose garden. Her grandmother Nili took excellent care of the roses. "In a few years' time, I'll be able to breed the lilac rose Mami so diligently tried to cultivate," she often claimed. They had not changed anything in Mami's bedroom after her death. While writing her book, Rüya had used her desk, but this was the first time she had sat here since she had finished it almost three years ago. All of a sudden she felt a strong urge to write again. Reaching over to the bookcase, she picked up the black-covered notebooks that she had kept during her research for _A Hungarian Rhapsody_ and where, in-between her notes, she had jotted down bright ideas for future books as they came to her mind at different times. She had just remembered one of those ideas, which had brought to her mind a brand new plot for a novel. It had to be in the ninth notebook. She started flipping through its pages.

Paul had left Istanbul that morning. It was the last day of the shoot at Çamlık. The crew was putting the final touches to the preparations in the garden; they were about to start filming. Rüya was not so sure if she would be able to watch this scene. Suddenly she found herself in tears as her eyes stopped on the photocopy of a letter glued onto the last page of the notebook.

Szentendre, 18th August 1964

Madame Giritli,

I have to carry out the most distressing task of letting you know that my old friend, colleague and master, a remarkable person who has been a role model to us all, your most respectable brother Károly de Kurzón Egerlövö Szarvaskó Gadány, left us and this world on 17 August 1964, after suffering from a cerebral thrombosis. We deeply grieve over the loss of one of the last knights of Budapest as we send him on the journey to his eternal repose. He will remain in our memories forever through his art. We deeply regret being deprived of the fruits of the brand new style he had embarked upon lately with that inexhaustible energy of his. More importantly, we shall never forget him for being the brave man he was, for the respect he had for humanity and for all the things he did in the name of freedom.

Please accept my most sincere condolences to you and to your family. In deep feelings of sorrow, I remain,

Yours faithfully,

Endré Bálint

"Won't you be watching the shoot, dear?" It was Aslı, standing at the door.

"I don't know, Mother."

"What's wrong, sweetheart? Why are you crying?" She walked over to the desk and put her arms around Rüya, kissing her hair. "It exhausted you, this film."

"It'll be over soon," she mumbled, trying to wipe away her tears. "A few days in Simi in May and then it'll be all over." Would her relationship with Paul be over as well, along with the end of the shoot? Or would he really always be by her side as he had claimed?

"Don't worry, darling. The shoot will end, but it doesn't mean that everything else will end with it. Life will go on." It seemed that Mami had passed on to Aslı her ability to read others' minds. "Paul has apparently deciphered you, Rüya. He has discovered the real you hidden underneath that thick veil. He'll never let you go."

Rüya was crying in great sobs now. She closed the notebook, pushed her chair back and stood up. She flung her arms around her mother and hugged her tightly.

" _A Hungarian Rhapsody_ has been an emotionally trying experience for all of us, Rüya, but it was well worth it. Thanks to you, we all got to know Mami better, much better in fact."

On a sudden urge, Rüya went out of the room, walked through the hall and stopped short at the door to the living room. They were going to start filming in a few minutes. An image of Mami painting at the table in the shade of the veranda struck her. She visualised Hatice approaching her, carrying a plate of delicious-looking blood-red plums, soaked with sunshine, which she had just picked from the tree in the garden. "I guess it's from your brother," she chimed, smiling as she waved the letter in her other hand.

"Action!"

" _At long last! It's been so long since his last letter."_

Alex felt her heart thundering excitedly. The envelope had Szentendre written on the stamp, but the handwriting was not Károly's. A wave of uneasiness grabbed her and intensified as she opened the envelope with trembling hands. She read it in a rush, and her whole body stiffened as if turned into a block of stone at the touch of a fatal blow. Her blank eyes followed the letter as it slipped away from her fingers and fell onto the floor. She wanted to let out a long wail, cry out at the top of her lungs, but her mouth refused to open. Her jaws were locked. She wanted to sob her heart out, but not a single tear rose in her eyes. Her body suddenly withered, losing its livelihood. She felt her heart, her soul, her whole being melt and disappear into the earth. She no longer existed. She was finished. Life had ended. This was the end. The end of everything. She had lost her life, her brother, her last sibling. He was no more. I have no place on this earth anymore, she thought. I must disintegrate into nothingness. I must turn into earth as well. I must turn into air. I have no right to stay alive. She rose to her feet, took the garden scissors from the side table and looked at them for a few moments with absent eyes. Then, with determined steps, she stepped down from the veranda onto the lawn and walked towards the gazebo and beyond it until she reached the trees at the very end of the garden, stopping in front of the clusters of lavender. With unaccustomed vigour, she attacked the lavender bushes, grasping a clutch of the almost dried stalks and cutting them off with the scissors, violently pulling those that stubbornly resisted being severed from their roots. She was murmuring to herself in a listless and monotonous voice, which occasionally rose to a high pitch to vomit her fury.

" _Lavender, always an attraction for the bees, with their seemingly pallid flowers dangling at the very end of their unshapely, even ugly, stalks. You need to cut these flowers just before they dry out."_

She was cutting and cutting again.

" _That is if you want to put them in tiny sachets and ..."_

Another blow.

" _... place them among the layers of your lingerie."_

Another stroke with the scissors.

" _Picking lavender flowers is not what everybody thinks it is, sliding your closed fingers up a stalk to end up with a handful of heavenly scented bliss."_

" _Mami?" Nili was standing behind her._

Keeping her eyes on the lavender bushes, Alex carried on. "You need to cut the stalk where it becomes unshapely and ugly, right at the very bottom, something not much welcomed by the horde of bees hovering above the bushes, although not many of them are left at this time of the year. In early summer there were so many that one could not approach these bushes. They must have completed their task by now."

Around her, the lawn was covered with the lavender stalks she had cut and thrown around.

" _Mami!"_

She pushed Nili away, who was trying to put her arms around her.

" _Finally when there is nothing but the stubs of the bushes left, you drop the scissors."_

She threw away the scissors and bent over to collect the lavender stalks scattered around her. Her harsh movements as she picked them up left her hands and arms scratched, while an occasional stalk or two hit her face. She was oblivious to the pain, taking relief in hurting herself until her flesh bled.

" _Then with an armful of lavenders, you find yourself a place in the shade."_

She went to sit at the table under the umbrella by the pool, deaf to the pleadings of Nili running behind her. She threw the stalks onto the table and collapsed onto one of the chairs.

" _And you start that swiping motion which is the common practice."_

" _Mami dear ..."_

Nili was standing behind Alex's chair, trying to hug her. Alex shrugged herself free as she continued swiping the tiny flowers off their stalks with the ruthlessness of an executioner, unnecessarily putting all her strength into it.

" _The perfume is incredibly intense and impossibly enchanting, triggering a series of pleasurable sneezes."_

Her right hand was scratched all over and was about to bleed, but she could not care less about the pain, about the blood or about hurting herself. In fact she should be hurting herself more, get some more blood out, a lot of blood! She had to bleed till she had no more blood left in her veins.

" _You carry on. You have to persevere."_

She swiped each and every stalk with great fervour, not even forgetting the tiniest one. Her right hand was now covered in blood.

" _In the end, you take the flowers inside and leave them in a corner of the house to let them dry."_

She stood up, held the hem of her dress and raised it to form a makeshift basket into which she shovelled the blood-stained flowers. She then hurried inside and walked straight to the dining room where she emptied the contents of her makeshift basket onto the table in one brisk flick of her arms. The flowers slid and spread over the polished table, some falling onto the floor.

" _A mystifying fragrance perfumes the whole house."_

She whirled around to face Nili, who had followed her inside. "However," she said, looking Nili in the eye and raising her index finger, as if she was about to make an important remark, "you shouldn't let them dry too much. A few days will do. Then you put them in little sachets in competition with the Gypsies – the masters of the lavender sachets. You also put some in little bowls and place them in your bathroom. And then the whole world smells of lavender."

She felt her shoulders droop, lifelessly extending to the ground, getting heavier and heavier, pulling her down. She let herself down onto the floor. Squatting, she let out a forlorn cry, followed by huge gulping sobs that shook her whole body.

" _Now there is only one person left from my life before the world went upside down, Nili." She nestled her head on Nili's breast, as she knelt by her side. "You must understand me,_ tatlım _. Please try to understand me."_

Nili was drying Alex's tears as she stroked her cheeks. "Don't worry, Mami. Please, don't worry. I do understand you. I understand you perfectly well. Everything will be fine. Just fine. Don't you worry."

"Cut!"

Rüya started at the director's voice, as though snapping out of a nightmare.
May 2009  
Simi

Rüya had her painting materials spread out on the rickety wooden table under the pergola, in front of the white cottage with the blue shutters where she had been painting for a while now. She was so involved in what she was doing that she had not noticed Paul come out of the water and walk towards her.

"Come on, Rüya. You should have a swim. The water is superb."

"I don't feel like it, really."

"You're boiling." Paul's wet hand was stroking her cheek.

"I don't want to, Paul."

"Come on." He gently took away the paintbrush from her hand and put it in the jar filled with water. "There's nothing to be scared of, Rüya," he whispered, bending down and holding her cheeks, his eyes on hers. "You need not be scared. Trust me."

Rüya timorously rose to her feet. Hand in hand, they walked to the sea. She jumped a few steps back when the waves licking the shore whirled around her feet. Paul put his arm around her shoulders and held her tightly. The coolness emanating from his wet arm sent a shiver through her. She took another apprehensive step towards the water. And then another. The water surrounded her ankles first, slowly rising towards her knees. She did not want to go in. Putting her arm around his waist, she held on to him as strongly as she could. She was as tense as a strung bow. Then the warmth of the lips kissing her temple relaxed her, and she took another step. The water rose to her hips. She held her breath. A few more steps. Her waist was buried under the water now.

"Let's go back, Paul. Please."

"There's nothing to be frightened of." He was behind her, holding her tightly by her armpits. "Just let yourself go, Rüya. Trust me. Feel the water around you. Feel its tenderness ... feel how it lifts you ... how it penetrates every cell in your body ... how it takes all that weight off you ..."

Paul ... Please.

"... how it softens your soul."

Rüya's feet were off the ground. She let herself go in the grip of Paul's strong hands. Everything seemed to get lighter now as their bodies touched, their skins slippery under the water. She felt as carelessly buoyant as a water lily wandering on the surface now. The sun was too strong for her eyes, but she did not mind. The water lily had opened her heart, hungrily sucking in the warmth of the sun. There were pale purple patches in the sky. She could now see how weightless and inviting the clouds actually were in contrast to what she usually perceived them to be – dense, heavy and frightening in their resolve to repel any attempt to enter their world. Now there was nothing to be scared of.

They slowly walked out of the water and came back to the pergola. Paul's eyes were fixed on Rüya's paintings as he dried her back with his towel.

"How very different they are from the ones you did before; how very much softer, I might say."

"I guess it's only when one feels really strong that she can reveal the soft spots which she has been carefully suppressing because of her fears."

They were in a small bay, squeezed in between the rocks steeply rising like a wall. Challenging the humidity, they had slept outside on the deck under the stars. Alex woke up as the sun started sending its first rays over the mountains, ushering in the new day, and a slight morning breeze picked up, sending shivers through her spine. A few minutes later she heard the heart-warming love song of the crickets, who, as if having taken their cue from an invisible conductor, suddenly began rubbing their legs or perhaps their wings against each other in search of a suitable partner. Shortly bees joined in the awakening with their dance. They were searching too. Nature started its day in a sweetly frantic search, inviting them to enjoy life. She put her arms around Rudi sleeping next to her.

The sun, rising like a shy young girl, tentatively showed its timidly hazy lemon face, peeking with an occasional wink through the trees decorating the skyline over the mountains. The crickets' chant seemed more animated now. Listening to their invitation to love, Alex's heart brimmed with a sudden surge of joie de vivre. A whiff of resinous scent caressed her nostrils and soothed her soul, the scent that emanated from the pine trees saturated with the warmth of the sun's rays and effortlessly carried by the odourless fresh wind. She listened to the barely audible melody of the tiny waves licking the rocks on the shore, the waves that were strong and self-assured at times, ambitiously persistent in their beating against the rocks in angry lashes, yet at other times diffidently slapping the shore in utter exhaustion, many a time embracing it in a series of tender caresses. Today they undulated like the soft curves of velvet. She did not want to take such spectacular beauty for granted, fearing that she might get used to it, as though such happiness had been a part of her daily routine all her life.

Rudi had woken up and was watching her. They lay there motionless, their bodies interlocked, whispering into each other's ears words that sounded like kisses, accepting nature's invitation to love. Eventually, they rose from their reverie and went in for a swim, timidly quiet, as if wary of disturbing this harmonious composition of colours, fragrances and sounds. The water, a transparent sheet of silk, offered a crystal clear view of everything residing in the depths beneath. Swimming felt like gliding in the pleasantly weightless void of nothingness.

They came out of the water and sat on the deck. Alex nestled her head against Rudi's shoulder. She thought she smelled the faint perfume of rosemary again, the same welcoming fragrance that was carried way out to the sea by the strong northerly wind blowing seaward and greeted them on their initial approach to the island. She felt her soul being purified, flavoured, coloured. Her mind strived for an etching of it all in its memory. "I ought to paint this," she thought, lest they be erased from her mind, nose, eyes, ears. No, that wouldn't be enough; I have to write it. Then she gave it all up. I have to live it, she said to herself. I have to live it to the core of my heart.

A soft breeze kissed her back. Caressing the amber ring on her finger, she felt thoroughly loved. Her eyes danced on the crystalline sea, its salty taste still strong on her lips. Everything was so translucent now. Skimming over the water, her gaze reached the shore. A goat caught her eye, peacefully resting in the shade of a huge rock. A sense of serenity permeated her whole being. How could a goat provoke such an Arcadian mood? Anything was possible when you dreamt in broad daylight with your eyes wide open.

There was a snow-white cottage with blue shutters tucked under the wall of rocks on the small beach, close to the entrance of the bay. She saw three olive trees in its tiny garden and four goats, each a different colour.

" _I want my ashes to be buried here when I die," she said, smiling restfully, and breathed in the smell of Rudi's skin, the perfume of rosemary, the odour of the sea, the fragrance of the green, of the blue, of happiness._

The shoot in Simi had finished this morning. Rüya wanted to do one last thing before they left this bay, so she climbed the rocks behind the cottage again to go to the opening on the very top overlooking the open sea. She sat by the tombstone she had had made three days ago at the only marble vendor on the island.

Giritli Azizné de Kurzón Egerlövö Szarvaskó Gadány Alexandra

10 October 1910 Savona

25 June 2004 Istanbul

She mused over what Mami had said in the hospital a few days before she died. "There is a little bay on the island where you live," she had said turning to Lila _néni_. "And there, right below the large rocks, there's a tiny white cottage with blue shutters, three olive trees in the garden and four goats, each a different colour. I want my ashes to be buried there ... next to him."

Everyone in the room had thought that she was raving, unable to realise that she was actually telling Lila her last wish. Her ashes had not been buried here; they had interred her body in the Protestant Cemetery in Feriköy in Istanbul. Those words had been engraved in Rüya's memory, for she was sure that Mami had not been raving that day and that there definitely was such a bay on Simi where Mami had unforgettable memories. And she did find it when, after having decided to write her book, she had come here to visit Lila _néni_. The cottage, the olive trees, even the goats were exactly as Mami had described them. She had imagined Mami in that bay and, in her book, made her dreams come true. At the time she did not yet know what Mami had meant when she had said "next to him," but when they had arrived at Simi for the shoot, everything had gained a new meaning for her. After having read Mami's diaries, which she had kept after 1959 and which her grandmother Nili had produced from the depths of their house in Çamlık two months ago, she had had no difficulty in finding Rudi's grave, in the opening on the very top of the hill overlooking the open sea. It was a great mystery how she had not noticed it before. She had decided there and then to bring Mami here, perhaps not her ashes but her soul. Ignoring her grandmother's objections and with a little help from Lila _néni_ , she lost no time in having Mami's tombstone prepared and placed next to Rudi's grave. As was her will, she had brought her Mami to lie next to him.

The hidden diaries had revealed that most of Mami's life had been exactly the same as Rüya had imagined in her book – a most peculiar coincidence, which somehow was no surprise to her. What had surprised her, however, were some of the things Mami had written in those diaries, some thoughts that surpassed even Rüya's imagination.

"In some relationships," she had written in November 1963, "there is no possession, no ownership. There is no need for ownership. These relationships will never end. Their shape, meaning and context may change, but they will go on forever. Think of a person who is your best friend, with whom you share everything including your sex life. Isn't that wonderful?"

At first Rüya could hardly believe her eyes and thought that it could not have been Mami who had written those lines.

"No long-term relationship can be as exciting as this," the handwriting in her diary continued. "What can be more satisfying than being free of any prejudices every time you see each other, as if it were your first encounter, trying to seduce him all over again or discovering a new taste, a new smell every time you meet? It is a continuous challenge, a constant effort and a never-ending excitement. But on the other hand, this person whom you're trying to seduce is someone you trust, someone you've known for years, inside out. Despite all the excitement, it is peaceful without being boring, comfortable without being monotonous and unchallenging. You know that no matter what happens, he'll be there for you. You know this without owning him. You feel it deep inside you that even if you drift apart for some reason or another, you'll never lose him. He is someone you love, really love, love as a person, love as a human being ... love to touch, love to be with – just like that, without doing anything, without even saying a word. You love the way he talks about how he once liked someone else. You love to have breakfast together, to talk on the phone, to walk side by side, sleep side by side and make love. You love without being jealous since you know how not to possess him. And when the time comes, you go back and continue with your lives, doing whatever you need to do without questioning each other until you meet again. I don't think there could possibly be a more satisfying relationship than such a friendship, a friendship that is uniquely special, very rare, very difficult but not impossible. The key is never to possess him. One doesn't need to stay away from marriage in the traditional sense. You should get married. You should have a family together with the person you finally decide that you want to spend the rest of your life with. But you always need to think of him as your best friend, as your special friend that I've just talked about. Make sure that the reason you love is not to beg for love and that what you call love is not those sickly ambitious emotions triggered by your inability to conquer his heart and soul or by your fear of losing him. Ask yourself whether your love for him is pure and selfless. Try to see if, through your love, you're trying to make him your emotional prisoner. Can you do that? Of course, you can. Try not to possess anyone because when there is no possession, there is no fear of losing. When you're not afraid of losing, that is when you're truly free."

Rüya thought she didn't try to possess anyone. Or did she? What did it mean, possession?

Mami had written, "Possession and seeing another person as something you own is nothing but emotional dependence. When you try to imprison the person you love, you'll become the prisoner of your own emotions, and you'll lose your emotional independence, your freedom. And you will suffer. As I'm writing all this, a question comes to my mind: do I have to bury all my emotions so as not to suffer? No, not at all. That's the worst thing you can do. On the contrary, emotional independence should never mean locking up your emotions in the depths of your heart. You should love. You must love. To your heart's content! Don't be scared to fall in love; the worse thing would be not being able to do so. Don't let your heart hold itself back in trepidation. Love itself doesn't bring pain. Never! It is only when you become an emotional burden to the person you love and start possessing him that you are prone to suffering. Love as deeply as you can. Love without falling into the trap of believing that your emotions towards that person would make him yours forever. You can never own anyone. No. You can't. You can't possess either the men in your life or your children or your other half, whom you think is better than yourself. Knowing this is emotional independence. It is the end of all suffering both for you and for the people around you."

Her shaky handwriting continued, "Unfortunately, it was too late when I learned not to assume that others were in my possession, far too late, after years of suffering. It took me a long time to realise that being together does not necessarily mean being together in the physical sense of the word. I found out only too late that, just as you might sometimes feel miles apart from the person with whom you share the same bed every single day, you might feel right next to the person from whom you are miles apart."

"Strange."

Rüya's thoughts were scattered by Paul's voice. He had squatted next to her, looking at Rudi's tombstone. "I was also born on November 23," he said turning his eyes to Rüya.

Takács Rudolf Attila

23 November 1905 Budapest

2 September 1980 Paris

"I know," said Rüya as she dropped a pebble on Rudi's grave. Although he had converted to Christianity, he had always been Jewish, and she should respect their customs. She recalled how, upon Mami's insistence, they had always gathered at Lila _néni_ 's house in Simi to celebrate – as was the custom – her grandmother Nili's birthday, which was September 2. Her heart sank, thinking that the custom Mami had never given up was to drop a pebble on Rudi's grave on the anniversary of his death.

Paul was gently touching Rüya's cheek. She could see the deep blue sea in his eyes. With an irresistible desire to draw in the warmth of that loving touch emanating from his strong fingers and never to let it go again, she shut her eyes and held his hand, pressing his palm against her lips. When she opened her eyes, the blue gaze was still fixed on her. She knew that she would not be able to control her emotions any longer. "Shall we go?" she whispered.

They did not utter a word in the car.

When they stopped in front of the hotel where Paul was staying, Rüya's emotions seemed to have changed after the mechanical rhythm of driving on the dusty road scorched under the sun. She was not so sure of what she wanted to do, reluctant to leave but not too keen on staying either.

Paul rested his elbow on the back of Rüya's seat and pulled away a strand of her hair that was whipping against her cheek in the wind that had suddenly picked up. "Goodbye," he said, and planted a hurried kiss on her lips devoid of any promise.

" _Bon voyage_ ," she muttered almost to herself, trying to ignore the uneasy knot growing inside her.

"See you in Paris."

Rüya nodded as Paul left the car. He walked around and stopped by her door, planting another rushed kiss on her lips, no less meaningless than its predecessor, swished around and dashed into the hotel.

She remained motionless. "See you," she murmured, raising her fingers to her lips as if to imprison the last kiss, even if it might have lacked any implicit or explicit significance.

Rüya's dream was over. She drove along the dusty road, pushing hard on the accelerator, oblivious to the holes and bumps as the car rumbled and tumbled away. She turned into the narrow dirt road that led to Lila _néni_ 's house. She was angry. She was angry at herself more than at anybody else. She was angry for being so silly. No, more like for being so timorous. She remembered Mami's last words before she had left this world.

"Sometimes you dare not face the consequences of making a choice. You can't find the strength to shoulder the responsibilities that would follow. You shy away from paying the price for your dreams, my dear girl," she had said. "You can't get your courage up. Your fears hold you back." She had fallen silent for a brief moment before asking, "What about you, _tatlım?_ Do you have any dreams that you don't dare pay the price for?" As Rüya started questioning what her dream was, she had carried on. "Don't let fear take your heart in its clutches. Never stop running after your dreams. I so wish that you had known _Öcsi_. He always had dreams, and all through his life he kept running after those dreams. The prices he had to pay were always high, but he never gave up. He was a very happy man at times, having realised some of his dreams, yet at others he was very unhappy because unfortunately he didn't live long enough to see all his dreams come true. He did, however, make others very happy indeed. 'The price for freedom,' he used to say, 'is worth paying even if it means slavery.' Odd, isn't it? In the end, he paid the price for his dream of a liberated Hungary by giving up on his own freedom."

At the time Rüya did not yet know exactly what Károly had done during and after the war, but having learned even this much of what his dreams had been made her cringe with shame as she thought of her own dreams, simple dreams of her insignificant existence. All she wanted was to be happy, and happiness for her simply meant love – to love someone and be loved in return. She knew that such happiness was bound to be short-lived, with a very high price to pay at its finale, and she was not ready to pay that price. She was desperately afraid of being abandoned and left all alone. She had lost the person she loved the most; Hayal, her twin sister, her better half, her everything had abandoned her. And since that day she had never found the courage to open her heart to anyone lest she be abandoned again.

"Whatever dream you might have, you must not stop following it. You must conquer your fears. You might be a slave to your family at times or to traditions or to society, but the worst kind of slavery is to become a slave to your own fears. You start seeing only your own reality, and such blindness creates such havoc in your soul that sometimes it can be more destructive than wars destroying whole nations. The difficulty of overcoming your fears might feel as intimidating as the difficulty faced by someone risking his life. Don't let fear chain your heart, Rüya. Love as much as you can. Love whatever the price might be. Open your heart even at the risk of being abandoned and left all alone. All your dreams will eventually come true, you'll see. All you need to do is to stop thinking that you don't deserve to be happy."

She stepped on the brakes. The car screeched to a stop. She looked at the sea extending far beyond her. Endless. Calm. Determined. Mami was right. If there was one thing she had to give up, that was to stop punishing herself with unhappiness for being alive. How much longer will you ignore the fact that what you're doing is nothing but a desperate effort to stop living just because Hayal no longer lives? When will you free yourself from the obsessive idea that you would be betraying her if you were happy? When will you remember that you're not doomed to be abandoned and that love is the key to everything? Isn't it enough that you almost killed yourself trying to overcome the fears that imprisoned you? Can't you still see that your inner conflict is nothing but a nightmare you yourself created? Can't you still realise how meaningless your fears are? You have every right to be happy, Rüya. Open your heart. Let it love. Let it be loved. Let go of your reflection on the water. Flap your wings. Fly! Fly away!

She sat up in her seat, put the gear in reverse and made a U-turn, raising a cloud of dust from the road. She drove at full speed to Paul's hotel. Her dream would not end. What she was living at the moment was not a dream.

Tentatively, she knocked on the blue-painted wooden door of the hotel room. She waited. Not a sound. A myriad of thoughts were swarming in her mind. She tried to shoo them all away. Gathering up all her strength, she knocked again, this time a little bit more strongly.

" _J'arrive_ ," she heard Paul's voice.

Her heart skipped a beat. The door opened. Paul must have just taken a shower, for his chest was still wet, and he had a towel wrapped around his waist. He was drying his hair with another. Rüya was paralysed. She mutely watched him put the towel around his neck, extend his hand towards her and, grabbing her hand, pull her inside before shutting the door. It felt like a dream when his strong hand grasped her neck, his eyes approached hers and his breath caressed her lips. What followed, however, was as real as a thunderstorm suddenly bursting in the midst of a long and hot summer day.

I'm soaked in sweat. My whole body is melting. I surrender myself to the earth. The earth. The fertile source of life. The smell of burnt sienna as the earth sizzles under the broiling sun gives me strength. I press my hands down, pushing my fingers deep into the soil, trying to suck in its power. Every cell in my body is in flames. It's hot, scorching hot. I've missed it so much, this heat. I roll over and over again, the earth embracing me in all its glory. I toss and turn, enjoying my newfound freedom until my head spins, until every single part of my body is covered in soil.

I hear the distant rumbling of thunder ushering in a storm. Not too strong yet, not too frequent. Only a foreshadow of the coolness to come, bringing in that much longed-for relief, heralding the imminent arrival of the thunderstorm I have been aching for. Suddenly a cool breeze caresses my skin, sending a chill down my spine. It is very near now. Then it starts pouring down, raining like it has not rained for centuries. The sky empties; I get soaked. I have missed the rain so much. I surrender my body, my soul, my entire being. My body is thoroughly wet now. The salt of my sweat mixes with the pureness of the rain, washing me inside out. Living has never been so beautiful.

Has it really been thundering? She looked out the window. The sun was shining brightly with a soft breeze making its way into the room, blowing into the transparent muslin curtains, ballooning them higher and higher before letting them down in a gently undulating caress. She tried to remember the last time she had felt so happy. She could not. She looked at Paul lying beside her and ran her finger over his forehead, nose, lips. An urge to paint him seized her. She wanted to capture that look in his eyes, a look that was frighteningly harsh at times and yet at others comfortingly tender. She watched him kiss her lips, get up and walk towards the bathroom to take a shower. I must paint his body as well, she thought, every part of it. She jumped to her feet, wrapped a towel around her and went out onto the balcony despite the heat. There was not a soul around. Everyone must be in for an afternoon nap, except for the crickets standing sentinel and relentlessly singing their jolly lullabies to the islanders. Everything seemed to have relaxed under the serenity of a sweet breeze. Her eyes wandered over the colourful fishermen's boats merrily tossing around in the little bay opposite, the blue, green and white tablecloths of the few shabby restaurants lined up on the shore and the kaleidoscopic shades and hues of the shops that stood beside them. She gazed at the two-storey houses scattered on the hill opposite, resembling eagles' nests painted in yellow, some in blue, a few in a dull green and one in the brightest of blues; at the lively colours of their wooden shutters, decorated in purple, cerulean, turquoise, emerald and lime, strongly contrasting with the strokes of the bougainvillaea peeking through the green spaces between the houses. At the very top a white church looked down upon everything else. A potpourri. She was swimming in a sea of colours.

Her eyes, in search of some neutral repose, drifted to the other side of the bay where the hill rose in virgin green. The young shoots at the tips of the branches were dabbed with bright green, glittering almost in yellow, followed by a more serene green with a stronger tint of blue, gradually becoming duller and finally turning to grey as the eye moved along the branches towards the tree trunks. Olive greens in the shade. And in the most secluded corners, a green that looked dark grey to the distant eye. The green of the pine trees, on the other hand, was a deeper, a more serious, a more persistent green, dark and solid even at its most vulnerable points. "I will not pale," they persevered.

Her eyes glided down to the sea, to the reflection of the trees on its surface, the undulating, fluctuating, flirting green, claiming to be green for a few seconds before changing its mind and singing, "I'm blue. Blue I am." It went yellowish now, blackish then. Contrary to the solid serenity of the trees calming the soul, their reflection was completely capricious, flighty and confusing, although she could see that, in their essence, they were also serene. Her gaze continued over the water and caught the sun's rays glittering on the surface, calling to mind the tireless bright stars twinkling in a dark sky. Her soul shone like in an illuminated dream.

Paul was standing next to her with his arm around her, his fingers gently caressing her shoulder.

"Do you know, Paul, sometimes happiness is like painting a canvas?"

The sun had long sunk behind the horizon, and the sky was already darkening when Rüya returned to Lila _néni_ 's house.

"Lila, where do you keep the ice cream spoons?" she heard her grandmother Nili call out from inside.

She did not want to go back to reality. Afraid to break the spell, she decided to stay away from the household and sat in the deckchair at the far end of the veranda. A glass of ice-cold lemonade stood on the table. She took a sip, indifferent to whom it might belong. A shiver ran through her. Leaning back, she let her gaze wander along the lawn extending to the beach, then glide over the water and finally rise up to the sky. It was full of stars, billions of stars winking at the suffering of humanity.

My eyes momentarily drift to the shore. I see a woman. Her feather light dress is almost non-existent. She moves towards the house in a leisurely gait. As she comes closer, I notice the colour of her dress, a pale lilac, sweet in its transparency. I can't see her face, for she has lowered her head to the ground. She slowly lights the candles in the garden. As she approaches the last candle, she turns her head and looks at me. "You no longer need me," she says. I see my face on hers. The butterfly with the wet wings flits through my mind. I remember its reflection on the water, a reflection no more. It's flying away to its freedom, realising its dream.

As she lit the last of the candles, she realised that she did not remember leaving the veranda and lighting all those candles that now illuminated the garden. She slowly went up the stairs back to the veranda where her grandmother was now sitting with Lila _néni_. Music was playing inside. She heard her mother call out from the kitchen.

"Would you call Rüya please?"

"Coming, Mother."

Daphné came out, running towards Rüya. She took her in her arms and, looking over her little head, her eye was caught by the flowers on the young tree swaying by the veranda. Its buds were now in full bloom, each flower displaying a spectacle of thousands of tiny petals. Despite the dark, she could see their colour, a pale lilac.

"Is this real or is it all a dream?" she mused, yet again.
September 2010  
Venice

Rüya went out to the balcony overlooking the canal. Everything in this enchanting city coyly floating on the water was exceptional. Even the sun setting over the horizon offered a unique spectacle. She drew a slow, deep breath, as if she wanted to take it all in. The exquisite church of Santa Maria della Salute stood in all its elegance right in front of her just before the Canal Grande reached Bacino di San Marco, its striking silhouette looking even more alluring licked by the mature golden glow of the setting sun. She watched the lovers locked in each other's arms on the gondolas gliding through the shimmery reflection of the sun's last rays on the water. The people heading for the _vaporettos_ silently rushed through the narrow streets, where the only sound to disturb the peaceful atmosphere was the gentle lapping of the water on the walls. Her eyes shifted to others who preferred to use the impeccably varnished mahogany canal taxis, and her gaze fixed onto their hair flying in the wind.

She was feeling a little tired. Letting herself down into the wrought iron daybed covered with soft white cushions, she leaned back to have a rest. Unable to see the sky from where she lay, she stood up, opened the tent and lay back again to indulge herself in the more discreet colours in the sky, not discernible at first glance. She noticed how the glimmer of the summer months had already begun to surrender its hues to the mysterious haziness of autumn.

She heard the church bells. "I ought to be getting ready," she thought. But first she had to call her grandmother. Without getting up, she reached for her mobile phone.

"Hello? Grandma?"

"Hello, my love."

"Hi." She coughed as if she wanted to tune her vocal chords before embarking on her brief apology for an aria. "Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you." She tried to give an ironic touch to her voice, trying to cover the poor intonation she detested.

"Singing was never your strong suit, darling, but thank you anyway. Thank you for remembering."

"How does it feel to be seventy-five?"

"Worse than seventy-four, better than seventy-six."

"Are you already partying?"

"Oh, yes. Everybody is here. We're about to sit down to dinner now – if your mother can get herself out of the kitchen, that is."

"She overdid it again, right?"

"You know her. There are only seventeen of us, but she cooked for an army. She's been worse ever since we moved to Nişantaşı, getting completely carried away. Life is so much easier here in the heart of the city."

"You're happy to have moved then, aren't you?"

"Of course, I am. It wasn't easy to leave what was my home for the last sixty years and that beautiful view of the Bosphorus, but the house was too big for us. And too isolated, you know. Çamlık was in the middle of nowhere, so to speak. It's great to be close to whatever remains of our family. Hang on a minute, my love." Her voice dimmed a little as she apparently took the phone away from her mouth. "Elmas _Hanım!_ Don't put them there. Please bring them here. Right here. Here. That's better. Is Aslı still in the kitchen? Would you please tell her to send in some more caviar? Gün, would you sit down please?"

Despite her age, Rüya thought, she never lets go of the reins.

"Sorry, darling." She was back at full volume.

"You're coming to Paris for Christmas, aren't you Grandma? How are the preparations going?"

"We're all set to go. When it comes down to it, we only have three and a half months to get ready. Remember how we used to count the days to Christmas holidays when you were at boarding school? Well, if we do the same calculation, we only have a week before we see each other again."

"Yes, Grandma, only a week." She smiled. "Well, I shouldn't keep you too long. Please say hello to everybody, and I send you a big kiss and a hug."

"Me too, darling. Bye."

"Bye. And have a very happy birthday."

She hung up the phone, and, as she put it down on the table beside her, her book caught her eye.

A HUNGARIAN RHAPSODY

A Novel in Three Acts

Rüya Nevres

With a faint smile on her face, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

An endless sea. Waves. White clusters of foam created by the waves. Tiny drops of water breaking free from the foam. All of a sudden, I break away from the foam frolicking on a rising wave and detach myself from the all-embracing sea. I'm a drop of water now. As soon as I part with the sea, I realise that I'm totally different from all the other drops, with a shape and colour of my own. I no longer belong to the sea; I no longer share its dark blue hue. I'm a pale violet, almost colourless in its transparency. I look at the other drops flying about me. Each one has a different shape, a different colour, a different size. Excitedly, we all move in different directions, rising, falling, flirting and flying. Flying fish pass by; dolphins smile at us. The sun, the wind, the waves, the drops of water ...

I suddenly notice that my seemingly long life has actually been no more than a flash, and I'm back in the sea again, unable to differentiate myself from the other drops. I look at myself. I neither have a shape nor a colour of my own. Along with all the other drops, I'm an inseparable part of the sea. We are the endless sea that constantly changes its colour.

She felt a chill and opened her eyes. She must have dozed off. It was dark. The sky was full of stars. She pushed away the blanket that he must have put over her while she was sleeping and slowly sat up, stretching her arms. Pulling her bathrobe together, she got up and walked dreamily to the carved stone railings of the balcony. The city was glittering. She smiled as she heard the music coming through the balcony doors. Etienne Daho was singing.

" _Tu me fait tourner la tête_

Mon manège á moi, c'est toi."

"He must be back," she thought. Before she could turn around, she felt her husband behind her, holding her tight and kissing her neck. A pleasant thrill went down her spine, relaxing her whole body.

"You're cold."

"What is the time, Paul? Am I late?"

"You have half an hour to get ready. Are you feeling all right? Not tired or anything, are you?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Really."

"What will you be wearing tonight?"

"The lilac evening gown."

"In memory of Alexandra."

"Didn't everything start with her? If there was no Mami, there would be no book, no film or no Venice."

Paul gently slipped his hand beneath her bathrobe and caressed her belly, which was now quite big. "And no babies. How are they, by the way?"

"They're perfect. Very peaceful. As a matter of fact if they rushed it a bit, they might be born on the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year of the twenty-first century, but ..." She held Paul's hand warm on her skin. "But they're too comfortable, I guess. They seem to have no intention of moving anywhere."

Paul pulled away his hand and closed Rüya's bathrobe. "You were sleeping so peacefully," he said, kissing her hair.

"I slept so deeply. I had a strange dream."

"What was it?"

"The sea. I saw the sea. I can't remember exactly, but it was a good dream. The feeling was, how shall I put it, peaceful, I guess." She looked at the illuminated sculptures surrounding the church, which seemed at arm's length in the darkness of the night. "Mami adored Venice. She said she loved its melancholy veiled behind the fog. For her, Venice was an unfortunate city abandoned by its owners to die a slow death. She thought of it as a rare gem that was kept alive to satisfy foreigners who, in their hunger for beauty, failed to see the suffering hidden beneath the uniquely alluring buildings. She said it was an exceptional jewel that evoked a deep sensation of compassion with its tremulously emotional and fragile disposition, which was not easily visible at first sight, a precious stone still standing erect on its feet, ignoring its sadly stooped houses bowing towards the water and refusing to be buried under the mud where its foundations lay. She once said that, in the black gondolas swaying amidst the haze and unexpectedly showing their elegant noses from a corner in the canal, she saw not the lovers of today but the coffins of centuries ago carrying the victims of the plague to the islands. 'On the doors half submerged in the dull green water, I occasionally smell the odour of abandonment, of humidity, of putrefaction,' she had said. It was because of this mysterious melancholy, of this mature beauty glorified by pain that she was in love with this city."

Without taking her eyes off the city lights, she leaned her head back on Paul's chest. "I can't see that side of Venice. For me it's a lively city, colourful, cheerful, very much alive, glittering even in the darkness of the night."

Paul's strong arms tightened around her, and his warm breath caressed her neck again. "I fall in love with you more and more each day," he whispered.

She turned her eyes up to the sky, touching her amethyst necklace. My dream, she thought, no longer a misleading fantasy belonging to a time yet to come but the reality of today; my life, not a bleak existence lulled by deceitfully comforting daydreams about an unknown future, but a meaningful Elysium of realised dreams. A shooting star appeared. She closed her eyes. " _Maradj velem_ – stay with me," said her inner voice. Rüya said nothing, for she knew she no longer needed the stars.

\- END -
ABOUT NESLIHAN STAMBOLI

Neslihan Stamboli is Turkish and Hungarian by birth, Italian by heart and English by formation. Her love of letters was not love at first sight. It took her a degree in finance, a brief career in banking, another degree in French Literature from the University of London and an attempt to study psychology, together with years of translation (and with three marriages and a daughter into the bargain) before she wrote her first book. White, portraying a contemporary psychological approach to Samkhya philosophy, was published in 2007. Rüya, an epic novel, followed suit in three volumes: Broken Rhapsody, A Retake on War and Csardas. She was a Faulkner-Wisdom finalist in 2017 for her last book, A Twist in the Tail.
OTHER BOOKS BY NESLIHAN STAMBOLI

Please visit your favorite e-book retailer to discover other books by Neslihan Stamboli:

**Fiction:**  
Rüya 1: Broken Rhapsody  
Rüya 2: A Retake on War  
A Twist in the Tail

**Non-fiction:**  
White
CONNECT WITH NESLIHAN STAMBOLI

Thank you for reading _Csardas_ , the third and last volume of my epic novel, _Rüya._ I would very much appreciate it if you would take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.

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Visit my website: http://www.neslihanstamboli.com  
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