The String Diaries Part 18

Sebastien relaxed his grip on her shoulder, his face long with distress. Nate slid off the sofa to his knees. He reached out to her.

When the voice returned, it had lost all resemblance to her father's. 'You know, that's what I call some unbelievably bad luck. Years waiting to talk to you, and we get off on the wrong foot straight away.' Jakab paused. 'I hold my hands up. That was a cra.s.s approach and I apologise. It's probably nerves on my part. Stage fright, if you like. Easier to hide behind a persona than to bare one's soul. I'm really not the monster you think I am. I just wanted to talk to you unenc.u.mbered by all these complications, all this . . . history.'

She realised she was still kneeling on the floor, and jumped to her feet. Her grief boiled into rage. She needed to stand, to fight. 'Where is he?'

Jakab laughed. 'Hannah, please. Give me some credit. Your father is fine. It would be a rather unusual strategy, would it not, to attempt to ingratiate myself by causing your father harm before we even met.'

'It hasn't stopped you before.'

A sigh. 'Myths, Hannah. Untruths. You weren't there and you can't know. I've been taking good care of Charles. He's sitting in front of me even as I talk to you now.'

'Put him on.'

'With pleasure.'

A pause, and then her father's voice on the line. 'Hannah?'

'Dad?' If this really was her father, he sounded broken.

'I love you,' he said. 'Always. OK? Be brave. We know this is the end. Don't do it. Don't ask me. You won't know who talks next. I'll always be with you. Now, go.'

He was saying goodbye. He had decided this was the last time he would talk to her, and he was trying to remain dignified.

She clutched a hand to her mouth, pressing it over her lips, wondering why she did it. Such a pointless gesture.

Jakab's voice now. 'Hannah, please. Listen to me. I was serious in what I said. I'm not the monster you think. I'm not going to hurt him. I give you my word on that. This has gone on too long. I'm tired. I want to see you, yes. I want to talk to you. But I don't want to take anyone's place. It's too late for that, and it never would have worked for long anyway. I'll keep your father safe. All I ask is this: meet me. Just you, and just me. Anywhere you want. Out in the open. You name the place. Just let me see you once. Talk. Explain. There have been so many untruths, I don't blame you for being confused.'

'You attacked Nate. Where's the untruth in that?'

'He shot me. What did you want me to do? Stand there and let him put another bullet in me? Come on, Hannah. I was protecting myself. I never intended to kill him. Is he OK? Did he survive?'

'Put my father back on.'

'Can we talk? Meet?'

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

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

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

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

'I'll never forget.'

'Do you remember what happened?'

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

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

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

'Yes.'

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

'I remember.'

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

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

'I love you too, darling. I'm so sorry.'

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

'Time to say goodbye, love.'

'I know.' She cried out. 'Oh, Dad.'

'Say it, Hannah.'

'I love you. Goodbye.'

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

CHAPTER 12.

Keszthely, Hungary 1874.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Jakab?'

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

Jakab pulled her towards him, pressing his lips against her mouth. He entwined his fingers into hers. 'The sun is only just setting. Let's walk along the sh.o.r.e a while. I want to-'

'Jakab, wait. There's something I must tell you.'

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

For a moment she allowed him to pull her along the sh.o.r.e. Then she slowed, her face creased with lines of worry. 'Jakab, no. Please. I think this is important.'

'What is it?'

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

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

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

Trying to keep his expression empty of emotion, not wanting her to see his alarm, he guided her along the trail through the long gra.s.ses. 'What questions?'

'Jakab, are you in trouble?'

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

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

'Did they see you?'

'I don't think so.'

'Did they say who they were?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And they're not your friends.'

He laughed, a hard bitter sound. 'Unlikely.'

'What do they want with you?'

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

'You know I do.'

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

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

Erna's eyebrows rose. 'Did you do this?'

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

'Oh, Jakab. What are you going to do?'

He forced a smile. 'Well, for a start, I'm going to open that bottle. Will you have a gla.s.s?'

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

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

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

'Not right now.'

'But you're hosszu elet. Can't you just . . . disguise yourself? Change?'

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

'Promise me you'll be careful.'

'Of course. Can you meet me later?'

'Where?'

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

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

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

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