High praise for CONSUMPTION: A Novel, G S Johnston's debut novel.
"A true triumph! …Apt descriptions, which if overused could slow the pace of the novel, are carefully balanced by Johnston's masterful use of dialogue and plotting, which effectively advance the story, develop characters and relationships and build the tension."
Cha, an Asian Literary Journal
What readers are saying about Consumption:
"This was one of those 'gem' finds! It's a great story with plenty of twists and turns in the plot and even some touching bits along the way. A fantastic novel for a weekend read that will genuinely have you turning pages in anticipation."
"Such a great story and so well told. Intense. Martin Blake is like Hannibal Lecter in pink angora. And the writing is so beautiful. I felt like I arrived in Hong Kong in 1995 and then moved through all the ages of the book. I can't recommend this more highly."
"The author has created complex characters with vivid personalities that you find yourself totally invested in. It's like they come alive on the pages just for you. GS Johnston has taken those fabulous people and placed them in a world that has been meticulously crafted."
"GS Johnston displays a lovely command as he describes people, mood and places. An accomplished and evocative work. Recommended."
The Skin of Water
GS Johnston
www.gsjohnston.com
Follow on twitter @GS_Johnston
Györgynek, aki egy csodálatos történetet mesélt nekem egyszer…
Copyright 2011 G S Johnston
Smashwords Edition
Chapter One
At the height of the Hungarian summer of 1943, Zeno Czibula saw a woman in the forest.
She strode along a trail edging the sheltered verge of Lake Balaton. Even at this distance, her white diaphanous dress stood out against the deep forest. Diamond light bounced from the silver lake, picked out the dress flowing behind her slight frame, a dress not built for walking in forests. Zeno guessed she was staying at The Hotel Hungary.
She stopped. He held his breath. She looked right, left, over her shoulder. She may have seen him, sensed a set of eyes piercing her solitude. He moved behind a tree. He felt a small stick beneath his left foot and feared it would snap, echoing in the forest's damp quiet. So he stood, one foot raised, peering out from behind the tree. Then he did what he always did: lifted his Cine Kodak Eight Model 20 to his eye, released the wound mechanism, and began to film.
A nervous gazelle, she tilted her head this way and that. She looked down at her shoes and scuffed them off, kicking them clear. She stood facing the path towards the hotel. Her brown hair, straight and strong, bounced about her shoulders. She'd return to the hotel. He moved his lens in that direction and she slipped from his view. She'd hesitated.
The camera’s mechanism clanged in the quiet forest. He should reveal his vantage. If she caught him spying he’d be fired and despite being only seventeen he needed this job. As he stepped from the tree's cover, the camera still to his eye, the stick snapped under his left foot. Nearby turtle doves took fright and flight, fluttering across the camera's field of vision. Through the lens, he saw her begin to run—away from the hotel, a sprinter from the blocks, barefoot now.
He switched off his camera and left it at the base of the tree. Once his legs began to race, following the narrow trail, the heat and humidity took hold. Sweat gathered on his upper lip and under his arm pits. He picked up pace anyway, his foot sure but silent. He found her abandoned shoes at the side of the path and scooped them up. The leather was soft, the slender heels not made for running.
The path led to a small bluff at the lake's edge. If he left the path and cut through the forest, he'd beat her there but alert her to his presence. He decided to follow her unnoticed, staying on the path. Her bare feet made no sound. He followed blind.
As the path rose, he stopped. He could hear nothing save the lake's low lapping and the drone of a distant powered boat. His senses sharpened. Was she now in hiding, watching him? He scanned the dappled forest but saw no trace of her. Perhaps he'd lost her. Or she him. No birds called. He breathed deeply, as if the air were robbed of oxygen. He shouldn't have followed a guest this deep into the forest.
He heard a sound, thin at first, then stronger, insistent with a timpani finish. A body hit water. He scampered up the remains of the path. Her dress lay discarded on the earth. On the western side of the lake, the afternoon sun glistened back at him, scorching his sight. No ripple, nothing broke the surface. He counted. One. Two. Three. Four. His heart pumped harder. Why had she not surfaced? His eyes darted about. She wasn't there.
He dropped her shoes, threw off his own along with his shirt and shorts, leaving only his underwear. He scanned the surface. Nothing. He dived, a grace-filled arc. As he descended those five metres, arms outstretched for balance, he glimpsed something breaking the surface. He hit the water, blessedly cool. His downward momentum dissipated and he pushed his arms up towards the light.
Once at the surface, he ran his hands over his face to clear the water and that flop of dark golden hair that hung down over his forehead. She was swimming, freestyle, away from him, her stroke firm and regular.
"Hey! Are you all right?"
She stroked on. He started strong freestyle strokes, his body a plane on the water. He could hear her limbs beat ahead of him, see her ruffle the water. He swam alongside her, slowed to her rhythm. And then she stopped, abruptly, as if she refused competition. He stopped, his legs caving in below him.
She brushed her hair from her face. Her pink nipples and small breasts blinked in the water. He couldn't look lower. Aware of his gaze, she glared at him, her hyacinth-blue eyes cold and penetrating.
"What do you want?" she said.
She was older than he expected, perhaps even in her mid 30s. Like her shoes, her accent was foreign and soft and expensive. Working at the hotel, he'd taught himself to mimic these accents of wealth.
"I was worried about you."
"There's no need."
"But you were swimming out into the lake."
"I didn't know this too was forbidden."
She was French, her accent light but noticeable.
"Well…" He was out of his depth. "I'll leave you, then."
He lingered a moment but she said nothing. He turned towards the shore, poised to swim.
"Young man, are you a guest at the hotel?"
Shit! A bellboy on his day off was forbidden in this part of the forest, reserved for paying guest. She could report him.
"Yes," he said.
"Then I'd appreciate you don't mention any of this." He nodded. "To anyone."
"Of course." He trod water. He should be away from her. "Enjoy your swim."
"And you yours."
He reached his arm again towards the shore.
"Your shoes…" he said, immediately regretting it.
"What of them?"
"I left them by your dress."
She raised her right eyebrow and nodded.
Slowly he turned away. He dug his hands hard into the water but as he began to plane, the turbulence caused his underwear, tied to his hips by string, to slip, then slide into the dark, dark water. He panicked, caught between escape and exposure. He couldn't stop. He continued his strokes towards the shore, slipping easier, his round buttocks white and glistening in the late afternoon sun.
With no difficulty at all, he hauled himself up on to the rocks and looked back at her over his shoulder. He hoped she'd resumed her swim but she was stationary, about seventy-five metres from the shore, treading water and staring in his direction. For a moment, neither of them could turn away. He was sure she continued looking as he climbed back up the side of the bluff to his clothes, abandoned near hers, but he couldn't look while she was looking at his bare ass.
After he'd dressed, he made his way back to the hotel, slowed by the heat and the lack of underwear. How embarrassing. It could've been worse if he'd chosen to keep an eye on her and backstroked away. And what else could he have done except keep swimming? Stop? Duck-dive around her looking for his smalls? What a grand sight that would've been.
And he'd lied. He'd have to avoid her. The hotel was large, over five hundred guests. He could just avoid her room. But in order to do this, he'd need to know her name.
As he reached the end of the path, the Hotel Hungary rose seven stories out of the surrounding gardens. At this time of day, that breathless afternoon hollow, even the main building looked sleepy, the window box plants drooping, the eaves seeming to sag, quiet, no laughter, no signs of the activity soon to erupt as the hotel guests lurched towards cocktails, dinner, and dancing. Indeed, no hint of the war raging across Europe to which, through part good management and part good luck, Hungary had remained immune. German troops had marched through Hungary's streets and roads to the north and the south but no bombs had fallen, nothing had torn open its jewel, Budapest.
Something twinkling at the side of the path caught Zeno's eye. It was an ornate golden chain, fine weave, caught in the twigs of a low shrub. He knelt down and carefully pulled. As if he'd caught a fish, a weight resisted at the end of the chain, small but heavy. A sturdy gold crucifix. With great care he unraveled the chain and held it in his palm. Not really beautiful, plain flat surfaces, no Art Nouveaux curves. What should he do with it? He was no judge but thought it was gold and worth a fortune. Turn it in to the concierge? He heard voices. Two women, guests of the hotel, were coming. He clutched the crucifix in his palm and stood aside.
"Lord only knows where she's got to," one of them said.
They were looking for the woman. Should he go back and warn her? How stupid! He wrapped the chain around the cross and placed it in the button-down pocket of his shorts, the metal through the fabric cold against his skin.
The employees' quarters were at the rear of the hotel buildings, a group of small chalets scattered at a discrete distance. Zeno's roommate lay on his single bed, enervated and naked as usual.
"Hey," Zeno said. "I didn't think you'd be here."
"They want me to work again tonight."
Tibi was a deal older that Zeno, already twenty-five, blond hair with a film star's looks: a strong lantern jaw, full lips, fine blue eyes. His body, like Zeno's, was all chest and lung and broad shoulders. Listless by nature, he lived in Budapest but each summer came down to the lake to work.
Zeno pulled off his soaked shirt.
"Do you know a woman–"
"I know many women."
"Listen. She has dark hair. Slim. In her thirties? A hotel guest."
Tibi face soured. "It could be any of the women staying here. Why this one?"
"I saw her in the forest, near the lake."
Tibi sat up on the edge of his bed. He pulled a towel over his groin, took up a box of cigarettes, and lit one.
"But why would this old woman attract you?"
"Attract?"
"She's stirred something up in you."
"She seemed…"
Why had he started this? He didn't want to tell Tibi, the joker, how he'd embarrassed himself.
"I might have known you'd go for someone older," Tibi said. "You're such a sly, silent type…"
"Just because I don't paint my conquests across the sky."
"Exactly."
"She just seemed unhappy."
"And Zeno, the swashbuckling hero, must swoop in and rescue her." Tibi laughed, then said, "Does she have a foreign accent?"
"French, I think."
"And wearing a white dress with a faint leaf pattern?"
"Yes. Yes, she was."
"Steiner. It's Catherine Steiner. Very rich. What time did you see her?"
Zeno sat on the room's other single bed and faced Tibi.
"An hour ago..."
"This afternoon I took drinks to a table of women on the terrace. She left abruptly and said nothing."
"What'd happened?"
"That's it -- nothing. She just stood and left."
"What had they been talking about?"
"Same as usual." Tibi stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and lay back down on the bed, arranging the towel and placing his hands together behind his head. "What was in fashion, what wasn't. Nothing. After she left, the women talked about her. That something had upset her."
A sharp knock at the door heralded Kovács, the head waiter of the hotel's restaurant.
"Zeno," he said. "I was hoping you'd be here. We need you to work tonight in the restaurant."
Zeno sighed. He was only a bellboy but twice before in emergencies he'd been pressed to help wait tables. The war stayed out of Hungary but it had robbed the hotel of staff, especially of the itinerant workers on which it was so dependent for the busy summer period. Zeno hadn't really enjoyed waiting tables, embarrassed by his inexperience. But the money was better and the tips could be good.
"Tibi can partner you," Kovács said.
Still Zeno hesitated.
"It's Thursday night," Tibi said. "The men are all in Budapest working. It won't be so busy."
Both Tibi and Kovács looked at him. Zeno wanted to move to Budapest and he needed extra money. He nodded.
"Good," Kovács said. "Both of you, get ready. I'll send up a uniform for you."
Kovács nodded in his military manner and left the room, closing the chalet door behind him.
"You'll do fine," Tibi said. "Don't worry."
"This war will kill me."
"Better to die as a waiter at the Hotel Hungary than on the Russian front."
Perhaps he'd be okay as a waiter. But first he needed to wash off the day's sweat. He walked over to his dresser and removed his shorts.
"Why aren't you wearing underwear?"
Zeno blushed, covering himself with his shorts.
"Long story."
Tibi raised an eyebrow and lay back on his bed.
Zeno and Tibi walked from the kitchens into the restaurant, smooth in their white dinner-suit uniforms complete with white gloves. The restaurant was empty of guests. In the hotel's bars, the sculpted guests took bitter aperitifs to stimulate their appetites. Kovács, already busy, merely inclined his head towards the pair.
"Just don't be seen for a while," Tibi told Zeno. "Stand over there and wait."
Zeno stood alone near the kitchen servery window while those more qualified buzzed about. The restaurant curtains were drawn apart. The open higher case windows above the line of French doors that looked onto a large terrace allowed something of the evening's cool to enter the room. But the humidity persisted. He felt it on his skin. The very last of the day's sunlight glistened on the darkening lake. One by one, the room's two dozen electric chandeliers ignited, but the room still felt dark, a side effect of the dark wood-paneled walls. A violin player drew a bow across strings that were quickly tuned. The trio sprang to life for a few bars, then rested.
"All this fuss," Tibi said, as he passed by Zeno. "These pigs will never even notice."
Zeno followed Tibi. He thought it was fine no trouble or fuss was spared. Did it matter no one noticed? The dinner guests began to file in. His stomach gurgled with first-night nerves. The whole staff breathed in together, became individual cogs in one machine. Quite quickly, the restaurant swarmed with the hum of conversation and peals of mirth. The trio played Schubert's String Trio in B Flat but the heat zapped all the brightness from the piece. Over two hundred people to be fed.
Kovács came towards them.
"The entrees are ready for table ten."
Tibi and Zeno and four other waiters took up six plates from the servery window. As they approached the table, Zeno's nerves jangled—three men and three women, one of the men a German SS Officer who'd stayed at the hotel before, a lieutenant colonel Müller whose round face looked generous until he curled the edges of his mouth in something of a snarl as he spoke.
The officer was seated next to László Fehér, a man Zeno also knew only by sight. He was a local member of the Arrow Cross Party, the Hungarian fascists, a rotund little man, always at the hotel for dinner and always with guests who seemed to outstrip his rank. Next to him were György Földes and his wife. Zeno had taken their luggage to their room and received a hefty tip. Földes was an industrialist from Budapest, a neat, quiet man.
Two women, both weekday widows, completed the party, seated together like maiden aunts, their backs turned towards Zeno, facing the magnificent view of the lake. The taller, Ilona Rákóczy, the wife of a big industrialist, sat on the left. The other was Catherine Steiner, her dark hair now dry and shiny and straight. Zeno, panic-stricken, moved as if he were an automoton.
"And where's your husband tonight?" the officer Müller asked her.
"He's in Budapest," she said. "He's working."
She drew out the second sentence. The officer smirked. The waiters moved to their places around the table.
"Such a large factory must never sleep," the officer said. "You're not Hungarian."
Zeno was close enough behind to hear her breath.
"At what point," she said, "does one cease to be something and become something else?"
"Mrs. Steiner is French," Földes said, bowing his head towards the officer.
"I was born in France," Mrs. Steiner said, "but I've lived here for over twenty years."
Zeno carried her soup. He positioned himself at her left side. He took a moment, to survey the setting, anticipate any sudden change.
"Steiner…" the officer said suddenly.
Zeno began to lower the plate, slowly at first.
"They're an old Hungarian family," Földes said, his tone firm. "They converted to Christianity in the late days of the empire."
"I think Herr Müller has me wrong. I am a French Catholic." Swiftly, Catherine lifted her left hand to her chest, fumbling in the folds of fabric. Gripped by a kind of seizure, Zeno shook, just enough to cause a little soup to spill to the side of the under plate. The other waiters perceived this tremor and halted their advance. Like a magician, Tibi produced a cloth and removed the droplet. Zeno breathed out.
"That was a liberal time for such things," Müller said.
"One has to wonder," Fehér said, "how much conversion was sincere or forced or simply pragmatic."
"What rot are you talking?" Földes said. "The Steiners are a model Christian family. They maintain The Lady of Charity Orphanage in Budapest. They've received the Pope's benediction."
Without shaking, which required strenuous effort, Zeno lowered the plate to the table. The other waiters lowered theirs. Catherine Steiner made no acknowledgement. Zeno stepped back.
"Vichyssoise," the SS officer said. "You remain true to your cuisine, at least."
"You misread me yet again," Mrs. Steiner said. "The soup may be French but the coolness is an American touch. The evening is warm."
The waiters withdrew to the side servery.
At that moment, Kovács motioned. Food was ready for other tables. While he delivered these meals Zeno worried about returning to serve Catherine Steiner. But what choice did he have? And after all, she'd not noticed him. She was occupied in countering the officer. It was worth the risk. He'd say nothing to Tibi.
His serving at other tables was without fault, and with each plate his confidence rose. And when he returned to Mrs. Steiner's table, he did what was required without incident. She never looked at him. The table's conversations were inconsequential, talk of the opera in Budapest, of some marriage scandal, of the war. The officer defended Germany's dwindling position in Russia, especially since the January fall of Stalingrad.
"The Hungarian Second Army suffered terrible losses," Földes said.
"There'll always be troop losses," Laszló Fehér said.
"The Soviets crushed the remainder at the Battle of Voronezh."
Müller breathed deeply. "You must realize the loss of Hungary's troops is our own loss. New machinery, modern machinery is needed." He looked directly at Catherine Steiner and she returned the intensity of his gaze. "There are moves to secure these things. Perhaps your husband would be interested in such contracts?"
Catherine glared at him. "Perhaps."
"Perhaps we could discuss this, later this evening?"
Catherine looked quickly at the others. "I'm sure there's nothing we can't discuss here. My husband will return at the weekend. He'd be happy to meet with you."
"How ironic!" His open palm struck the table. "I must return to Budapest at the weekend. To work." He roared with laughter and returned his eyes to Földes. "Once this work is completed, the war will proceed as the Führer intends."
When the waiters approached later with desserts, no one was speaking. Ilona Rákóczy's stern expression turned into a welcoming smile. Földes banged his hand hard on the table and argued that Hungary had taken considerable action.
"Then why has Regent Admiral Horthy so resisted deportation?" Müller said.
"The men are working in labor camps. For years, we have restricted the number of Jews in different areas of business. They are completely forbidden from government office. And we have made this tighter by defining a Jew as more than one grandparent of Jewish extraction. They are a race, not a religion. And we've legislated against marriage between a Jew and a non-Jew. Any such intimacy is illegal."
"Then why not deport them as we have asked?"
The dessert plates were lowered to the table.
"They're restricted," Földes said, "identified and controlled."
Catherine Steiner stood, abruptly pushing back her chair. She turned to leave the table, turning directly towards Zeno. He'd no time to retreat. She looked into his face. Both froze. He felt his heart fall away. Her blue eyes flared violet, remained impassioned but not, he thought, with recognition. All eyes at the table were on her, but as this standoff extended, the eyes drifted to him. He stepped sideways. She looked down, away, and began to walk.
The fleet of waiters peeled from the table. All Zeno had to do was fall in line. As he moved back into the depths of the restaurant, he saw Catherine Steiner, her step brisk over the restaurant foyer. She'd bid no farewell, no explanation. She'd just left, much as Tibi said she had earlier that afternoon.
Chapter Two
Zeno arrived for work at 6 a.m. in the reception area, comfortable again in his bellboy uniform. The concierge moved about, put his half glasses on, read something, took them off, and moved about some more. He barked a command at his assistant, sending him into a similar flurry of motion.
"What's the matter?" Zeno asked.
"Catherine Steiner has lost a gold crucifix."
Zeno froze. The concierge took off his glasses and glared at him. The crucifix. God damn it. And damn his inattentive memory to hell. It was lying on the floor in his shorts pocket. Zeno closed his mouth, tried to brush his expression clean.
"She thinks it's been stolen," the concierge said.
Damn, damn, damn.
"We must go to the Steiner suite," the concierge said, "and see if we can find this thing."
"But I can't."
The concierge swung back around to him. "You can't?"
"Someone should work here." He waved his hand at the reception desk. "There are people checking out this morning. Someone should be here."
"You don't seem to realize the gravity of this situation." The concierge's voice hissed on the "s" in the last word. "If it can't be found, Steiner will call the police and we'll all be under suspicion. Move it!"
The Steiner suite was on the top floor of the hotel, seven stories up, five bedrooms, a lounge and dining area, a large balcony with an uninterrupted view across the hotel grounds to the lake. The entrance hall had parquet floors, the lounge a higher ceiling and larger chandeliers, the furniture was plumped with a little more down than counterparts on lower floors.
Already a fleet of black and white uniformed maids fluttered about the room, the drapes pulled back, the weak sun spilling onto the floor. The apartment's electric lights were still turned on. A maid, Magda, who normally worked on a lower level of the hotel, rolled her eyes as she passed Zeno.
Catherine Steiner was seated on a sofa, wearing only a long sky-blue silk dressing gown pulled in hard at the waist. With her was Ilona Rákóczy, also in a robe and looking as if she'd just been pulled from bed to this drama. Despite the panic he felt, Zeno stared at Catherine. She wore no makeup. Her face, although still handsome, bore no trace of a girl and yet no real trace of age, no undue creases, the skin lucent despite her time at the lake. Her dark hair carried no gray. As she looked about the room, her eyes flashed. She was beautiful. He knew it then, as he'd suspected at the lake -- beautiful beyond any face he'd ever seen.
"It was a recent gift from Sándor," she said. "Thank God he's not here to witness all this."
"You're not here to stand," the concierge said, sotto voce, to Zeno. "Help György lift the furniture."
"I remember wearing it yesterday afternoon," Catherine said. "I put it on before I left."
"What time was that?" Mrs. Rákóczy asked.
The concierge motioned Zeno close to Catherine to help lift an armchair.
"I don't know…. When we met for a drink, in the afternoon."
"Around three, then?"
"I imagine so."
Mrs. Rákóczy thought for a moment.
"I believe I saw you wearing it. I think I saw it. But you left us. Where did you go after that?"
Despite his heart rate, Zeno glanced at Catherine. Her face darkened. Did she now think of her swim at the lake? Imagine the crucifix at the bottom of the lake? Did she now think of him? His bare ass. He turned his back on her.
"Where did you go?"
"I walked in the forest -- "
"But we looked for you there."
As they stooped to lift the armchair, the quick motion caught Catherine's eye. She looked first at the chair then directly at him. He could feel her gaze. His face burned. Magda ducked down under the chair, twisted, and looked up into the underlying springs and lining.
"I… noticed it was missing, last night at dinner."
"At dinner?"
"I hadn't put it on."
Shouldn't he end this silly game, this waste of time? No. He couldn't speak directly to Catherine Steiner. He'd lose his job for that alone. He looked at the concierge. He couldn't trust him, and anyway, she'd sworn him to secrecy.
Magda found nothing in the springs of the chair. She stood up, looking at Zeno.
"What a farce," she said quietly.
Zeno and György lowered the arm chair and lifted another for Magda to inspect. The fruitless search continued for an hour, every item in every room moved, turned, parted, shaken, or pulled apart. Once it was clear nothing could be found, the hotel manager, who'd arrived halfway through the search and taken control, asked Catherine what she wished.
"I'd just like it found. Perhaps I dropped it in the hotel grounds."
"Of course. Now there's good light, I'll instruct a thorough search of the grounds." The manager looked towards an assistant and nodded. He left the room. "Would you like tea brought up?"
"No," she said. "Perhaps it has been stolen."
"If you'd permit us to search the grounds, before we contact the police..."
"Yes. Yes, of course."
At the manager's instruction, the workers drained from the rooms. Zeno made his way back to reception, the area completely unmanned and the lobby empty of patrons or staff. He ran to his chalet.
The room was dark save for a shaft of sunlight, the air close and warm. Tibi was still asleep, his naked back turned to Zeno, the bed sheet pushed to the base of the bed. Zeno closed the door. In the dark, he fell to his knees and patted his hands on the floor, searching for the discarded shorts.
"Are you looking for this?"
Tibi rolled over, cocooning himself in the sheet. He pulled his hand free. The gold crucifix rested in his palm, the chain laced between his fingers.
"Why have you got it?"
"Stubbed my toe when I went to relieve myself." Tibi frowned. "Where'd you get this?"
"I found it in the garden. It belongs to Catherine Steiner."
Tibi bounced the crucifix in his palm. "Why didn't you hand it in?"
"I forgot."
"You forgot to hide it?"
"I forgot about it till I got to work and everyone was looking for it."
Tibi looked at him, pulled his mouth sideways.
"This must be worth six hundred pengő. How much will you earn this summer?"
"Four hundred."
"We could sell it."
"That would be dishonest."
"You're not convincing me. What's going on with you and her?"
"Nothing."
"Yesterday evening you asked about her. Last night at dinner you were nervous around her. What are--"
"Nothing happened. They're searching the grounds. Fast. Help me find it in the garden, will you?"
"These bourgeoisies have too much already."
"I have to give it back, dammit."
"Don't swim out of your depth." Tibi allowed the crucifix's chain to unravel from his hand. It fell to the bed. "If there's a reward, I want half."
The hotel grounds swarmed with maids and butlers and gardeners and any other spare set of hands, arse-up in flower beds, hedges and potted plants, others picking about in the well-tended hedgerows like workers in a field of tea. The Italian, Giovanni, waded in the murky waters of the main fountain, his trousers rolled up knee high, laughing and flicking water at one of the maids.
"I'm sure Catherine Steiner didn't swim there yesterday," Tibi said. "Where did you find this?"
"Over there." Zeno motioned with his eyes. "At the path."
At the entrance of the path, two maids half-heartedly brushed aside the bushes.
"We should go there," Tibi said.
"But they'll see us."
"You can't find this where she wasn't. Unless you know somewhere else?"
"Shut up. What about on the terrace?"
"You said that woman saw her leave with it."
"Right."
Tibi was right. It had to be found somewhere credible to her, some place she wouldn't dispute. Zeno breathed deeply. They walked towards the start of the path. Unobtrusively, they mixed with the others. How long should he wait? What was a fair time to search? He made his way towards the exact spot, but there were so few shrubs in which to hide it, really only the ones in which he'd found it. He held the crucifix in his palm. The maid, Magda, stood up in front of him, searching the same spot. He rammed the crucifix back into his pocket.
"Nothing there," she said. "Not that it's any great surprise."
She moved off to another area. He looked over at Tibi, who nodded to him to advance on their plan. Zeno began to act. He looked at those around him and tried to reproduce their slightly heavy brows, their eyes moving quickly, side to side, up and down. He checked if anyone was near and slipped the crucifix from his pocket and allowed it to fall. The chain caught in the branch. And there it hung, entangled, the sunlight catching on the gold. For a moment he thought he should just leave it for someone else to discover. But how long could this whole charade continue? What if no one found it? And what if someone did discover it and didn't turn it in and the police were called?
"I've found it," he said. No one but Tibi looked at him. How would a voice sound in such a situation? Elated? Surprised? Relieved?
"I've found it," he yelled, with all three qualities entwined in the words. Bodies straightened, heads and faces appeared from all manner of positions. Tibi ran to his side.
"Well done," Tibi said, squatting down to unravel the chain from the bush. People congregated around them.
"Thank God," another maid said. "Now we can all go back to work."
A senior worker arrived, took the crucifix from Tibi's hand and walked back towards the hotel. The other workers dispersed.
"What were you worried about?" Tibi said. "They only want the crucifix. Now they're satisfied. There's no scandal. No questions asked. No reward."
"Back to your places," a duty officer announced.
"But I searched here," Magda said. "I didn't find it."
She looked at Tibi and Zeno and then again at Tibi. Zeno shrugged his shoulders slightly and looked away.
"What one eye misses," Tibi said, "another sees."
"But I looked here."
Her eyes were determined.
"And you didn't find it," Tibi said. He screwed up his face at Magda and tapped Zeno on the back to make him walk.
The other bell boys were already in the reception area, the concierge back in place and working at a decidedly smoother pace. The morning proceeded. Bags and guests arrived and were processed with speed, dispersed to the various corners of the hotel. And from these corners bags were collected and brought back to the foyer, out to the waiting army of taxis and cars. Amongst all these comings and goings, there was no sign of Catherine Steiner. She must have stayed all morning in her apartment. Zeno could melt away again.
"Which one of you found the crucifix?"
Zeno blushed. It was the hotel manager.
"I did," he said.
The manager glared at him as if he wasn't capable of such a thing.
"Then you must smarten yourself and come with me."
"Why?"
The manager spun with great gusto towards him.
"Because Catherine Steiner wishes to thank you. Personally."
Chapter Three
From the Steiner suite's entrance hall, Zeno breathed in the room.
"Wait here."
The manager walked down a corridor off to the left. The room's stillness and and the close scent of roses enticed him. So beautiful in its balance, the height of the ceiling to the length of the wall, the pattern of the cornice echoed in the carving of the skirting board crowned by a bold expanse of window. The vertiginous view of the lake drew him forward until he heard the manager's returning footsteps.
"As much as protocol demands that I should stay," he said, "Mrs. Steiner wants to see you alone." He came closer. "You won't speak to her or answer her. You'll say nothing. You'll accept no reward. Is that clear?"
Zeno nodded. The manager studied him for a moment, then left the suite. Zeno stood but the room beckoned him. He ventured forward to the wall of windows.
"The view of a bird."
The day was old now, the sun drawing down. Glare silvered the lake's surface. Small sail boats turned about only for an evening's joy. He followed the line of shore villages, Balatonudvari, Fövenyes, Balatonakali, and Zánka, but then they were lost in the day's haze. The hotel would have to be fifty stories high to see his home in the hinterland of the southwestern shore. He wished he had his camera with him. In a few months when he moved to Budapest, he'd miss the lake. A slow pan of this view would be something.
Someone coughed discreetly. He spun around. She stared at him, her eyes still and withdrawn as if to limit her view. Her small frame gave her proportion a sense of height but she was shorter than he'd expected, than he remembered, despite another pair of fine heels she wore. He'd never seen such skin, white and translucent and without flaw. She wore a gray suit, cut tight to her figure, most unlike the flowing dress she'd abandoned the previous evening. The gold crucifix nestled between the folds of a cream blouse. The thought of her naked breast, even now, aroused him. He steeled his eyes to hers.
"I thought it may have been you," she said. He dropped his eyes. "Come now, there's to be no pretense, no feigning lack of recognition." He looked up, and she smiled. "Where did you really find it?"
"Where it was. I thought you threw it there, like your shoes."
"Not at all."
"I found it yesterday evening, when I was returning from the lake...." Now the lake lay between them. "I forgot until this morning."
"I see." She scowled. "I'm most grateful. It's a recent gift from my husband. He'd have been… quite upset if it were lost."
"I see."
She walked towards a small desk at the rear of a large sofa and from the drawer took an envelope.
"Take it. Please."
"The manager said I can't."
She lowered her outstretched hand. He could smell her perfume, no hint of rose or lily or any other flower, yet bold to the point of cloying.
"Why did you lie, yesterday?" she asked.
"Lie?"
"You served me at dinner last night. You're a bell boy today. Are you a jack-of-all trades? You're not a guest at the hotel."
"There's a shortage of staff this summer, because of the war. I was called on to--"
"Why did you lie?"
"I can't afford to lose my job."
"Lose your job?"
"The forest's reserved for guests."
"I see. But you're young. Why are you so dependent on this job?"
"I send money to my mother and younger sister."
Catherine considered this. "Where's your father?"
"He left us."
She looked at him for a moment. "If so much was at stake, why were you in the forest?"
"I like to walk in the forest." He paused. "I had my camera with me."
She considered this. "So you're a photographer, as well as everything else."
"A movie camera. I was filming."
"Then what were you filming?"
The word '"you" formed and rolled along his tongue until he clenched his teeth.
"Whatever caught my eye." He warmed to her interest. "I need to learn so much, framing, proportion, tracking…." He stopped. "I forgot where I was."
"What would happen if you'd been caught there?"
"In normal circumstances, I'd be sacked. As they're so short of staff, I'd be reprimanded, offered less work. Please don't tell anyone."
Mrs. Steiner turned away from him and walked further into the recesses of the room. He couldn't imagine living in rooms with so much space that an article of furniture could be positioned and walked around.
"Then we are linked," she said, a new lightness in her voice, "by two secrets."
"I… I'm sorry?"
"You witnessed my… actions, yesterday at the lake. They were reckless. And I witnessed your trespassing."
She paused and looked him in the eye. He breathed deeply. She waved the outstretched envelope in a small circle.
"Buy yourself some film. Send it to your mother and sister. I won't tell the manager."
He stepped two paces towards her and took the envelope from her hand. Despite not touching, he felt her warmth. When she released the envelope, he lowered his own hand.
"Thank you, again," she said. "I must go. My husband's arriving this evening from Budapest. I wish you a good evening. I'll pray for you and your plans."
She turned and left the room.
Outside the suite, he tugged at the envelope's wax seal but a chambermaid came from the elevator and made her way down the hall towards him. He pushed the envelope into his pants' pocket. They smiled at one another and he rushed to catch the elevator. The envelope felt remarkably fat, but he resisted opening it in front of the elevator driver. They were all gossips.
In the foyer, the other bellboys milled around the concierge area. On Friday evenings, a train brought the working men back to the lake. The staff called it the Bull Train. In the next few minutes a wave of up to a hundred men would descend on the hotel, and things needed to run smoothly.
Zeno exhaled. He was tired. He'd worked late last night and started early that morning. He just had to concentrate on the next few hours, then he could sleep.
The first of the taxis came up the hotel's meandering drive. Three men alighted. Zeno and another bellboy, Ferenc, a tall string of a boy, unloaded the luggage.
"It's a rest to be here for the weekend," the first man said. "My wife's far less demanding…."
"Summer in Budapest keeps you young," the second said.
"Worn out, but young."
And so began a frantic hour: luggage piled onto trolleys, into elevators, along corridors, into rooms, onto racks, tips accepted, then back down to the lobby to start again. At around six in the evening Zeno and Ferenc returned to the foyer, hoping the last had arrived, just as an Adler 2.5 litre limousine cruised through the hotel gates.
"It's practically a train," Ferenc said.
They stood and watched it wind up the driveway and ease to a gentle stop. An attendant stepped forward and opened the rear door. While Zeno and Ferenc made their way to the trunk, a single man alighted. He was at least in his late 40s, his tailor expensive, his body was strong, the frame lean and cared for. The car's trunk carried just a few smaller pieces of thick leather luggage. With no returning glance, the man walked out across the foyer towards the elevators, his gait relaxed, neither in a hurry nor tarrying. The bags were someone else's concern.
A taxi pulled in behind them.
"Isn't this going to finish this evening?" Zeno said quietly.
Zeno and Ferenc took the cases from the trunk of the Adler and loaded them onto a trolley.
"They look so silly on such a big trolley," Zeno said.
Ferenc pushed him in the ribs. Behind them, a young woman had alighted from the taxi. She was dressed in a powder blue woolen suit, the shoulders cut square, the skirt tight around her hips and the hem just below the knee. Her hat, a black round pillbox, seemed out of place, gaudy despite its color. She was only twenty-three at the most and made her way quickly to the reception area.
"Look at that," Ferenc said.
Like Tibi, whenever he could, Ferenc peppered the working summer with liaisons. Zeno watched. Her high heels and tight skirt and quick step made her buttocks move in a most appealing way.
"That's not something you see everyday around here," Ferenc said.
A young woman on her own, at this busy time of year when every room was booked in advance, was a rare sight.
"These are to go to the Steiner suite," the concierge said.
Zeno looked again at the luggage. Of course that man was Catherine's husband. He had that indifferent air of great wealth. And the car. And the clothes.
"You can take them up," Zeno said. "There's not many and I've had enough for the day."
Ferenc smiled. If there was a tip from Mr. Steiner, he'd garner the whole. Zeno didn't care. He left the hotel and dragged himself back to the chalet. Tibi was already in the final stages of preparing for work.
"Did you get a reward?" he asked.
He'd completely forgotten.
"Yes."
He took out the envelope in his pocket and counted the notes. Tibi came over, his eyes wide.
"Two hundred pengő," Zeno whispered. "That's more than I earn in a month."
"Everything comes to you so easily," Tibi said.
"I wouldn't say that."
"Life's kind to you. But you owe me some money."
Playfully, he pulled a 20-pengő note free. Zeno didn't even mind. He still had the unimaginable sum of 180 pengő for himself.
"Sándor Steiner just arrived," Zeno said. "He wasn't anything like I thought he'd be."
"What did you expect?"
"He's older than her. Aloof."
"They're all aloof," Tibi said. "They're worn down by the weight of all their money."
He tousled Zeno's hair.
"With this," Zeno said, "I'll be able to come to Budapest at least a month earlier."
"That's great…great."
"You'll be able to help me, won't you?"
"Yeah, yeah. Of course."
Tibi saluted and closed the chalet door behind him.
Zeno stripped off his clothes, letting them fall to the floor. The day was still hot. He'd do as Tibi did and lie naked on his single bed until the night cool arrived. He placed the envelope and the money under his pillow. They had so much money, how could anything be of value to them? The crucifix had been given to her by her husband. Perhaps that explained its additional worth: sentiment. But her husband didn't seem the sentimental type. Zeno closed his eyes. What did a man like Sándor Steiner appreciate?
Despite his exhaustion and the heat, his mind fluttered over half-dreamed images of Catherine's bare breast, her slender waist, her hands, the intense heat he'd felt. He changed position in the bed, arranging and rearranging his limbs and torso until, lying on his belly, he ground his member against the soft flesh of his palms, his thumbs catching and releasing his foreskin. The glistening image of Catherine's bare buttocks pressing back against his thighs was all he needed.
Chapter Four
Zeno woke with a start, the room filled with sunlight. Tibi's bed was made. He'd either not come home or Zeno had slept so soundly that Tibi had slept, awakened, and gone again. He looked at his watch. It was ten past ten. He'd slept much longer than he'd expected and was really late for work. He jumped out of bed, then remembered it was Saturday and he wasn't due to work until the evening in the restaurant.
He sat back down on the bed, slid his hand under the pillow, and pulled out the envelope. He could afford to have the day off. Who was he kidding? He needed all the money he could get his hands on. But before work, he needed a glimpse of Catherine Steiner.
With his camera case over his shoulder, he spent what little remained of the morning hanging around the hotel grounds. She wasn't on the terrace with the other women, nor had she been in the coffee bar. Before lunch he saw Mr. Steiner playing tennis, men's doubles, but no sign of Catherine despite the three other wives in attentive audience. He filmed them for a while, a static shot where the players bounced in an out of his field.
Well, that was it. He wasn't going to see her. He'd not eaten anything and would go to the kitchen and see what he could sponge for lunch. As he walked around the rear of the hotel, something bright green moved against the dark building. It was Catherine, in a bland brown suit whose jacket had a bold emerald lapel. She walked towards a large black car, the driver holding open the rear door, and slid inside. The car began to move around the rear edge of the building, out towards the driveway. Why was she leaving by the rear of the building?
He ran towards the employee's chalets, bursting in to Ferenc's.
"Can I borrow your motorbike?" he said, slightly out of breath.
"Just have it back by six." Ferenc raised his eyebrows and smiled. "I've a date."
By the time Zeno had reached the main road he couldn't see the car. He pushed the bike to a hard whine, aware they couldn't get away from him as there were no major turns off the road before the village of Aszófő. He saw them, and when he was close enough, he relaxed the throttle. He wanted to observe, not interfere, and especially not to be observed. As they entered the village he encroached a little further. The car stopped. He pulled onto the curb. The driver rounded the car, opened her door, and she alighted. Now off the bike, he pressed back against a wall. With an remote expression, she surveyed those around her, then walked towards a smaller lane.
Zeno walked to the lane but she'd disappeared. He'd lost her so easily. She must have entered one of the smaller shops. With stealth, he walked. She wasn't in the barbers, not in the sweetshop -- but there she was in the florist. She admired a striking arrangement of pink and blue hydrangeas. She looked up at the shop window, directly at him. He froze. The florist called her. She moved quickly towards the attendant and Zeno took fright, turned, and walked further down the lane to wait for her. He took his camera from its case. He filmed the lane, the people passing.
She emerged, walked into his frame, and stepped quickly towards the car. She held a small flower arrangement in front of her. He began to follow, filming her from behind, trying to hold the long tracking shot still as if the camera ran along a fixed track.
Once back on the street, he ran to the bike. The car moved far ahead of him but he slipped in front of another car to be behind it. They traveled to the other side of the village and stopped outside a church, Saint László. Catherine hurried from the car to the building. Zeno waited a minute or two. The driver sat back in the car. He seemed unaware of Zeno's presence.
The cool air inside the church relieved the heat of the day, but the scent of years of burning incense hung heavy in the air. From the high windows the light formed rays, and each sound echoed in the vast cavern. He walked down one side of the central nave, scanning the empty pews. Perhaps she'd entered a confessional booth, but these doors hung open. A door closed at the rear of the building. He rushed towards it, his shoes tapping on the stone floor.
Outside, sunlight flooded a west-facing courtyard, smarting his eyes. It was a graveyard with stone pathways and low hedgerows. She was on the far side, seated on a stone bench. She hadn't noticed him. He eased the door closed. She'd laid the flowers next to her as if preparing to leave them at a grave. He took out his camera, the mechanical whirl ringing loud in the hush of the courtyard. She took off the crucifix. He changed the focus, tunneling into her. She wound the chain around the cross, looked at it, and placed it in her bag. She stood, leaving the flowers, and walked to another door at the rear wall of the cemetery. She disappeared.
Camera still in hand, he pushed the door open onto a lane. He could see her walking away and began to film and follow. People crowded the lane, a thoroughfare, buildings bald-faced to the street. She walked only a hundred meters, then stopped at a doorway. She looked left and right and mounted the two entrance steps. He slipped into the semi-shade. She raised her left hand and touched the side of the doorjamb. After a few moments, she lowered her hand and pressed her fingers to her lips. The door opened, the space inside so dark it yielded nothing of the person within. She slipped in and the door closed.
He ran the few remaining steps to the buildings. He ceased filming. He waited. He moved out of the direct line of sight from the building and waited longer. When she'd not emerged for over half an hour and no one else had come or gone from the building, he walked over to the door. There was a small plaque - Panzió Katy. It was a cheap hotel. Why would she leave one of the most luxurious hotels in the area and come here?
Without really thinking, he knocked on the door. After some time a man answered.
"I'm sorry," he said, without looking at Zeno. "We have no rooms vacant."
He closed the door.
Zeno walked back to his vantage on the other side of the street. Still no one emerged. People passed. No one else went into the hotel. He looked at his watch. It was now after five. He had to be back to work at six. And Ferenc wanted the bike. He walked back through the church courtyard. The posy of flowers, a sprig of hollyhocks, had wilted on the stone seat. Outside the church, her car was gone.
Zeno delivered the bike on time but arrived late for work, the restaurant already filled with patrons. He took a position near the chiffonier and hoped no one had noticed. He glanced around the room. Catherine wasn't there, but the young woman who'd arrived last evening was seated at a small window table. She gazed out the window at the few lights twinkling from the lake's far shore. She looked down at her nails, turned her hand over and looked at her palm. She smoked, sucking the fumes deep into her lungs.