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Diffstat (limited to 'unseen/Book 1')
| -rw-r--r-- | unseen/Book 1/buda1.txt | 71 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | unseen/Book 1/buda2.txt | 124 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | unseen/Book 1/buda3.txt | 21 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | unseen/Book 1/buda4.txt | 1 |
4 files changed, 217 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/unseen/Book 1/buda1.txt b/unseen/Book 1/buda1.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f3ba548 --- /dev/null +++ b/unseen/Book 1/buda1.txt @@ -0,0 +1,71 @@ +The rippling black sea of hats undulates in rows as the men make their way out of the square. The trolleys are stopped, silent and abandoned. The sea moves slowly down, turning on Andrássey Avenue, past the black flags, away from the smoking bronze torches of the catafalque and toward the Ring. + +His father's shoulders lurch in time with the crowd. A woman in a black tea gown walks beside them. The drooping brim of her hat shades all but the sides of her cheeks which flush as her faint boots stumble awkwardly on the wooden planks of Andrássey Avenue. At the front of the procession, just behind the hearse with its gilded horses and wreaths from governors and statesmen, three riders hold silver staves, black lanterns hanging down. Wafts of Myrrh and incense drift back over the crowd carried on the still-chilly May air blowing down off the distant hills. The woman trips again. A man to her right catches her arm and holds her steady. Theo watches them, wondering why the man has no hat. The crowd shuffles on. + +On balconies above women curtsy the hearse. An old man in white linen suit doffs a bowler and makes a sweeping bow. Theo looks up to see the shining crown of the man's bald head. The man walking beside his father looks up as well and turns away smiling. He glances over at Theo and winks, but Theo is worried about the balconies. With the weight of so many onlookers he expects them to fall, crumbling into dusty rubble, destroying the waiters standing outside the café bars below. + +His father is moving faster now. There is less theatre the closer they get to the city cemetery. Eventually only the obligated dignitaries and family will stand beside the grave in the violet twilight, watching as the body is lowered into the ground. Already the crowd is beginning to disperse into the cafés and coffeehouses, but the man continues to walk beside them. His pointed goatee and thin sideburns remind Theo of the Turkish boatmen that frequent his father's house. But he doesn't have the dark skin of a Turk, he is paler, but still olive complexioned and wearing the finest looking cloth Theo has ever seen. + +At Octagon Square the trumpeter's horn blows and the hearse turns onto the Elizabeth Ring. His father turns with the other Guild members and Theo catches a glimpse of the governor as he steps inside the coach. The cafés have pulled their tables back, a band plays traditional Hungarian songs. Even the derelicts, drunks and hustlers seem to feel the need to remain in the shadows, though he can see the glint of freshly lighted gas lamps on their greasy, threadbare jackets as they huddle in the alleyways and stoops, hats removed while the procession passes. + +The man walking next to them begins to slow. Theo watches as his arm reaches out and grabs his father, who half turns and starts at first, nearly throwing Theo from his shoulders but catching himself just in time. The man without a hat steadies his father as he reaches up and lifts Theo's slight frame over his head, setting his feet down on the wooden planks. They talk for minute in hushed words Theo can't hear. The woman kneels down, smiling at Theo. + +Did you enjoy the procession? + +Yes ma'am says Theo shyly. She rustles his hair. + +Would you you like to have a cup of chocolate with us she asks smiling. + +Theo looks up at his father whose face is turned toward the man, his jaw set back and half clenched. Theo stiffens, but smiles back at the woman. Yes ma'am. + +His father hesitates but then shrugs and agrees, a nervous smile spreading slowly across his face. + +The somewhat awkward troupe settles into a corner table and the man and woman introduce themselves to Theo, but Theo is more interested in their clothes than their names. Both the man and the woman, whom Theo discerns is somehow or other connected to the man, have on a caliber of clothing Theo has never seen outside the shop windows along Vaci Street. The man's suit is impeccably tailored, fine and so deeply black that it seems to absorb the dull glow of the café's electric light. The woman's folds of chiffon rustle as she shifts in her seat, the delicate lace overlays and the velvet ribbon sashed high on her waist call out, begging him to crawl across the table and bury his head in them. She whispers something to the waiter and he disappears into the back, returning shortly with hard candy along with lager and spritzers for the rest of the table. Theo sits straight in his chair the way his father taught him, sucking deliciously on the crystallized candy while the woman tells his father about her own daughter, saying she would very much like to meet Theo, though Theo is unsure why that would be. He looks up to inquire about the daughter, but stops mid-thought when he sees it glittering on her neck. Before he can stop them, tears well up in his eyes turning the diamond broach dangling from her neck to a sea of starry crystals in his smarting eyes. He hurriedly sets the candy on a napkin and excuses himself to the restroom. + +In the back of the café, before ducking into the restroom, Theo turns around looking past that counter bar where a line of men in half-unbuttoned coats roar in drunkenly, sing-song welcoming the new century for the hundredth time. He watches his father talking to the woman in hoarse shouts, his face clouded by smoke from the cigarette that dangles from his slender fingers, the man between them smiles at Theo across the room. Theo turns and, after locking the bathroom door behind him, slumps to the floor and begins to sob uncontrollably. It starts as a single string plucked and then cascades like a bow pulled cross a full chord until the sound of his sobs fill the white marble tiles, dancing around the porcelain toilet, bouncing off the iron fixtures of the sink, muted by carefully laid towels that drive the sound down, under the closed door and out into the café where it disappears into the general murmur where nothing, not even a paltry echo, returns. Instead, something else creeps into his aural periphery, outside, through the window. Leaking in between the paint-flecked sill above his head come the sounds of a fiddle. Theo sniffles and forces himself quiet for a minute to listen closer, catching now the melody of a man singing punctuated by the clatter of a woman's boots on the hard stone of the alleyway outside. Theo stops crying entirely, caught up in the muted sounds just beyond the glazed glass. Listening closer he can hear the sound of a carriage further up the road, the murmur of dispersing crowds, the echo of men shouting on the street, the clanging of trolley bells, the clopping of horse hooves, and in the distance the fog horn of a barge departing down the Danube, but the woman's laugh pulls him closer, back into the alley just beyond the window above him. Theo stands up and fumbles with the weathered sill until he pries it open and looks down at the scene below. + +The fiddler is standing on a crate swaying back and forth to the music, head cocked half belting out a slurred song while he watches a man and woman dancing badly in front of him. Her skirts swirl, the man stumbles on the uneven ground and nearly causes her to fall. Theo rests his head on the windowsill and thinks about his dream, the same dream he has every night. His mother is there, someone is playing an accordion, another a fiddle, the room is dark lit only by a handful of candles burning on the table where he sits waiting for something. People are dancing round the open room in front of him, his mother among them but he can never see her clearly, only the faded and yellowing image from his father's bureau, spinning between the others before him, singing and laughing, but drained of color and life. At some point the apparition always crosses the room and leans down to whisper something in his ear before scooping him up in her arms, his forehead nestled against her skin, her neck warm against his face, the soft line of her jaw nestling his head beneath her chin where his lips purse on the hard and glittering diamante brooch. Out the corner of his eye the room is always a dizzying blur, his mother spins with the music, revealing to Theo a whirl of chairs and bookshelves intersected by men in long coats fanned out with the motion of their feet, women at the end of their outstretched arms, their skirts a blurry kaleidoscope of blues and whites and always the room begins to spin, creating its own momentum, turning and turning as more strings fill in the music, violas and cellos now, until a whole symphony is assembled and heading toward a crescendo when suddenly the bottom begins to drops out, one stuttering note at a time, slowly collapsing until the images begin to blur and fade away, first the cello, which disappears into the swirling flower patterns of the wallpaper, followed by the pounding timpani and marshal sounds which crumble into the wainscoting, until the fiddle falls silent and the accordion wheezes slowly into the smoky background, replaced by a suffocating blackness. Theo is falling now, looking back up at the faces above, watching him as he rushes downward and a sound begins to fill his ears, a sound like the Danube spilling its banks in the spring, it curls in under his toes and he feels unafraid, but certain he will die, and then the faces become too distant to see and the light disappears into a pinpoint star between the edge of everything and total blackness, until Theo starts upright in bed, gasping for breathe. + +He watches now as the man tries to spin the woman along his outstretched arm, away from the rotting cabbage and potato peelings of the alley gutter, but the stones beneath his feet seem to give way and he loses his balance and slowly falls in a crumbling motion into the rotting vegetables and sewer water, laughing as he goes. The fiddle player stops in concern. The man slowly picks himself up, still laughing and struggling out of his now filthy coat which he lets fall back into the gutter. He throws his arm around the woman and they walk off drunkenly, zigzagging up the alley and out into the street leaving the musician still standing, fiddle in hand, looking after them. + +Theo? + +The voice startles him away from the windows. Yes? He unlocks the door and the man in fine clothes slides in. + +What are you doing in here? + +Theo shrugs and gestures to the open window. Watching. + +The man studies his face for a moment and then asks if everything is okay. + +Theo thinks for moment and decides that this question is not meant to be answered. + +Theo watches as the man turns to the mirror and studies himself for a moment, idly dancing a gold coin across his knuckles and between his fingers. He looks at Theo through the mirror and turns, still flipping around the coin. And then suddenly it's gone. + +The man smiles and shrugs. + +Theo laughs and instinctively clasps the man's hand within his own, turning it over in search of the missing coin, but it isn't there. + +Where did it go? + +It's gone. + +Yes, but to where? + +Somewhere you can't go. + +Where is that? + +Look. The man turns over both hands to ensure that Theo can see he does not have the coin. Theo nods. + +The man then reaches up behind Theo's ear and pulls back with a large diamond stone dangling from a thin velvet choker that's laced between his fingers. + +Theo stands for a moment gaping. How did you... + +The man just shrugs. Clean yourself up and come back to the table and then maybe I'll show you. The man turns back to the mirror, touching his hair and smiling back at Theo before turning to disappear out the door. + +Theo steps up to the sink, standing on his tiptoes to wash his face when he notices at the bottom, near the drain plug, the missing gold coin. + +Theo looks up in surprise, but sees only his own face staring back at him. There is a moment of displacement and for the first time Theo sees himself as others must, a young boy in cheap clothes brushed and manicured to appear nicer than they are, it takes him a minute to realize that the reflected face in the mirror is his own. But when it dawns on him, he can feel his face freezing up, crystallizing into the form Theo will henceforth know, the smooth, almost angelic skin of a statue frozen in a moment he will soon forget. Though eventually spots of stubble will come in, and by seventeen a full beard much like his father's, will begin to grow, the smooth foreign skin will never entirely fade and the beard will never cover that momentary realization, the feeling of being an impostor in his own skin that lingers long after the realization has passed. + +That night, lying in bed listening to the barges plying their way down the Danube, Theo's dream changes. This time instead of dropping off into darkness, he remains, nestled against the rough coolness of the stone, his mother's neck warm against his check until the room gives way to the stars, puncture holes in the ceiling of the room at first until they begin to break free and the room falls away, down into the blackness away from Theo who finds himself beside the river watching as the man without a hat stands alone on the quay, dressed in the same black suit waving to Theo from the far shore. And then he disappears. diff --git a/unseen/Book 1/buda2.txt b/unseen/Book 1/buda2.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7ad918d --- /dev/null +++ b/unseen/Book 1/buda2.txt @@ -0,0 +1,124 @@ +The pebble hits the window with a shocking crash that sends Theo bolting up in bed. In his groggy state it's the smell that registers first, a mingling of sour fish entrails in the gutters below and the thick smoke from the oil lamps hanging above them, that drifts in the open the window and through the fog of sleep. It's the clattering crash of a second stone, thrown with enough force to send the window banging back against the wall of Theo's second story house, that evaporates all trace of sleep. His heart is still pounding as leans his head out the window and looks down to see a man standing on the street below. + +He waves at Theo, his raspy murmur straining to his ear as a mere whisper of wind, your father, I must speak with your father. Theo nods and hurries across the room, his bare feet picking splinters from the rough floorboards. He fumbles beside the stove, nearly knocking over a half full pot of potato soup as he searches for the matches. His hands are blackened from the smudge of the stove and by the time he lights the lamp his father is already emerging from his bedroom. + +Who is it Theo? + +László. + +László? Hmm. His father grabs his trousers off the the back of a chair and cranes his neck to the side with a audible pop. + +László had been a common fixture at the table ever since the meeting at Munkácsy's funeral procession seven years before, but he generally arrived at ordinary times, late afternoon when Theo's father was just settling in to drink a glass of brandy and read from the latest addition to his library. László would bring a bottle of local wine pulled from what struck Theo and his father as a seemingly bottomless private cellar, which László never bothered to explain, preferring instead that both Theo and his father simply share a drink with him. Usually Theo would leave them to play with his friends out in the street, his father and László working their way through his father's stock of Magyar poetry and other dusty tomes, which Theo would occasionally read in secret, pouring over the tales of Gypsies migrating north from the Black Sea, following the Danube until they reached ancient Buda where they found fertile farmlands not unlike those they had abandoned years before. Other books mingled tales of Turkish princes and their harems, magicians vying for the Sultans audience and sometimes even a book of ritual incantations or long forgotten magical recipes which often turned out to be rather mundane in the end, like a spell to remove warts or bless the spirits of the kitchen. But, in several books, which were among Theo's favorites, the spells involved more sinister sounding things that were only vaguely hinted at. László would often chide his father for his collection of 'fairy tales' but would stop short of outright rejecting them, preferring instead to debate the sources, which would lead inevitably to their long running debate about what the practices of the Church really meant and whether man was not perhaps slightly misguided in his understanding of religion. + +Theo preferred to spend his evenings with his friends, a local collection of Gypsy children and Greeks from the houses near the end of the street, with a handful of Magyars, like Theo, whose parents refused to leave the southern flanks of Castle Hill. Theo's trademark in the gang was too disappear without word or warning, sometimes simply leaving the rest in the middle of the street scratching their heads and looking about to see where he might have gone. Normally this would have resulted in some taunting or even a fight or two, but early on in their friendship Theo had proved far tougher than his slight frame suggested, wrestling and delivering quite a beating to one of the larger boys thanks to the tricks László had showed him. Ever since that time the others had pretended to ignore Theo when he disappeared, though secretly several had tried and failed to follow him. But Theo was not anti-social and he love the long games of longa méta, though he wasn't so fond of the latest craze, soccer, which they played dodging between the trees of the apricot orchard at the foot of Castle Hill. When they were done they would stop outside the informal whorehouse at the end of Theo's street to try their hand at flirting with the girls or test some salacious slang learned from the older boys at school. The whores would learn out the the window, their long hair down, draping over the daisies growing in the windowsill planter and taunt the boys with their own, much more polished bits of lecherous talk. Theo would often walk away his face smarting and red with embarrassment though he was never quite sure why or what he was embarrassed about. + +Eventually Theo would return home for dinner and find the conversation between László and his father had drifted from poetry and Gypsies to the Church and parliament, which never failed to see a corresponding rise in volume of their voices. By the time the three sat to dinner a casual passerby in the streets below would be forgiven for thinking a small regiment of Cossacks was bunking in the second story of what was an otherwise unremarkable street in the Taban with its own share of flower stands, fishmongers, radish and potato carts, meat pies at the butcher's window and even of course the whorehouse, which had begun life as a proper boarding house, but over the years the properness had given way to harsher economic realities, though its status as brothel was still unofficial with an unmarked doorway in the back being the main means of entrance for most customers, a doorway which Theo would sometimes see his his father surreptitiously slip through. Some of the gang harbor a suspician that Theo himself might venture into the whorehouse when he mysteriously disappeared, since, they had noticed that he often disappeared suspiciously close to the building. But in fact Theo had never been in the whorehouse, nor did he really want go in. In fact he simply cut through the back courtyard on his way to his own house. During the week, in the late afternoons when László was not around, Theo would wait until he saw his father slip into the whorehouse and then cut home and pillage through his father's library, pulling down the old books and sitting at the table, carefully, almost ritualistically, examining the covers and binding before he would allow himself to open them. And then he would read, starting with any publishing or date materials on the inside of the front cover, noting who was responsible and trying to image what it must have been like, the author walking into the print shop with manuscript bound in hemp twine and the publisher perhaps just climbing down from a ladder where he was putting away a few old bits of type and turning to see the author, book in hand. What would they have talked about, how did the process work? Did the author simply hand over the book, turn and walk out? Or was there something more, a long discussion, a negotiation over afternoon tea or perhaps wine? Did men remove their coats and printer aprons an move up into the house? Would the printer's wife note perhaps have seated them in the parlor and refilled their glasses, glancing stealthy over their shoulders to steal a glimpse of a word here and there, a phrase, a sentence, perhaps even a whole paragraph? Was their discussion about the merits of the book? It's audience? How it might change everything, nothing or perhaps be ignored entirely? Having played out these scenarios to his satisfaction, Theo would then move on to the dedications, whether printed on behalf of the author or inscribed by some former owner of the book. Who was Margerite and what did she mean to the author who dedicated his book to her? Did Gyula Krúdy really love Mme. Pilisy or did he simple feel a societal obligation to dedicate his book to her? What did Gustav do to deserve this fine prefect bound tome that was given to him on Christ mass 1853? Some of the deications were written in languages Theo did not know, curious writing that seemed to use entirely different alphabets which looked like mere scribbles to him. After tiring of these Theo would often set the book aside and go back out again, returning the read the text the next day. Sometimes he would forge ahead, delving into the text the way an escaped prisoner might voraciously devour his first real leg of lamb. Other times the book would dicate a slower more removed pace, a lesuirely wander through the fields of the authors mind, whom Theo never hesitated to follow, whole heartedly and without question at least for the duration for the book. + +For Theo those afternoon spent in the house, pouring over his father's books without noticing the lengthing shadows moving across the room, slowly encasing the bookshelve and walls in darkness and then clear across the room, envelping the kitchen in twilight provided a way to escape the inevitability that haunted him the rest of the time -- the hard truth that his days were numbered and behind every cherished moment of peace there hung a vague but inescapable sense of dread. + +The only other time the dread left him was when he came home to find László and his father drinking and arguing about the very same books that Theo had read, trying to pinpoint for instance the precise actions of the Roman soldiers at Golgotha or the political implications inherent in the intermarriage of the English and Russian courts. During such conversation, when Theo would sit on his cot by the window listening, he always felt the sense of dread dissipate like the shadows in the electric-lit streets of Pest where his father often dragged him on weekend nights when the poets trumpeted their ideals in the street, the dance halls filled with flirtatious women and a bowl of mutton soup still cost a pittance. + +László was not the only one who stopped by to talk with his father, though he was the most interesting and one of the only that paid any attention to Theo and the only one whom Theo enjoyed listening to. László had a way of speaking that made you feel for a moment as if he might actually have been at Golgotha rather than simply have read about it. But László did not make early morning calls on the house. This morning was the first time Theo had ever recalled László arriving after dark. Strangers stopping by in the early hours of morning to visit with his father were not an event by themselves, at least once a week someone would rap on the door in the middle the night and then huddle around the nearly dead stove talking with his father in hushed whispers that Theo had long since learned to ignore, but this was the first time that the late night visitor had been none other than László himself. + +Grab us that bottle by the sink Theo. His father fumbles with the buttons on his pants and looks slightly ridculous with his long nightshirt hanging out the back like tails from a formal coat, but Theo stiffles his urge to laugh and retrieves the bottle, setting it in the middle of the table. He tiptoes over the his cot under the window and slips on his shoes before trudging down the stairs to let Laslo in. + +Outside the smells change and Theo catches a whiff of the sweet lilac water emilating from the still dark barbershop next door. To the east the horizen is beginning to shift from pure black to a light purple hues, hinting at the dawn that will come in a few hours. Theo smells the apricot trees down the street which began to blossom just last week and pauses to enjoy the sugary perfume while László whispers hello and moves past him, through the door and up the stairs. + +Theo lingers for a moment, catching sight of a dog slinking in the shadows, waiting perhaps for Theo to return inside before it would venture into the street to find the smeared fish heads tracked by the boatmen returning home last night. + +By the time he reaches the top the stairs the men's voices are beginning to escalate. + +He is not ready for such a thing. Theo's father turns, gesturing toward him as Theo approaches the stove. He is still a boy. + +In less than three years the entire continent will be at war and he will be thrown in the trenches. He won't be ready for that either. This is a chance at an education, a way to avoid the war that is coming. + +So you say. He father slumps down in the chair. + +What am I not ready for Papa? + +I have to go down the river Theo. László places his hand on Theo's shoulder. To Belgrade and then Bucharest and I want you to come with me, would you like to come? + +A thousand visions from his father's books and stories rush into the Theo's head at once and he is barely able to stammer, yes. + +László, he's only thirteen, + +I will look after him when he needs it. + +I'll be fourteen in two months, Theo announces proudly. + +His father pushes back the bowl of oranges, clearing the table in front of him to make room for the bottle of wine. Okay. He paused to fill his glass and takes a long swallow. Theo, you may go, but on one condition. You do not take him to Makariy. + +A grimace passes across László's face. I wouldn't dream of visiting that old fool, his time is far past. + +Okay then. Theo. Best pack your things. + +No need. László stands and pulls on his overcoat. Grab your coat. I will buy you anything else you might need. It is important that we leave at once, the boat is waiting. + +Must we leave now? Theo fights a sudden salty welling in his eyes. He looks at his father who suddenly seemed to age ten years before his eyes, an old man now, slumped lightly in his chair, nursing the glass of wine between his fingers. + +I'm sorry Theo, but we must. Don't worry your father will be here when we return in Autumn. You'll be saying hello again before long. + +Theo throws his arms around his father and lets out one sob, but his father pulls him back and looks in his eyes. Theo, you're a good boy. You're going to be good man. Remember that, no matter what happens. + +Yes Papa. + +Listen to what László tells you and I'll see you in the Fall. + +Yes Papa. + +Outside the chill of morning is fading and the dull purple sky already moving toward a lighter shade of violet. László walks briskly through the streets and Theo has to run occasionally to keep up with his long stride, but the the potential to replace vague impending doom with vague impending adventure propells him along even after his legs have already cast their vote for remaining home in Buda. + +The legs get an unexpected polling boost when Theo finally lays eyes on the boat docked under overhanging willows, lurking in the dark shadows of the shoreline as if ashamed to be seen in the full daylight of a public dock. Despite László's impecable tailoring and fine clothing, despite the endless supply of wine and food he has brought into their house over the years, the man does not seem to spend any money when it comes to transportation. Perhaps, it slowly dawns on Theo, the only reason László has the money to spend on clothes, food and drink, it because he never spends it anywhere else. Not only is the boat drastically smaller than Theo was expecting, it is old, the timbers rotting and even from the shore Theo can see peeling paint and the worm gnawed beams of the forecastle sticking out like bleached whalebones in the sun. It certainly isn't the seaworthy vessel he had invented on the walk down and it appears barely river-worthy. Theo's dreams of sacheting into Bucharest, one foot dancing off the edge of a proud steamer, arriving in port to the waving hanckerchiefs of a hundered fair maidens, are replaced by what will be very close to the truth. They will arrive he suspects suddenly like a crippled old fox, slinking desulutely under the cover of darkness, attended by none, partly, Theo suspects, because of the cargo on board, but at least as much perhaps by the boat's own sense of shame and need to hide in the dark shadows of the river like an frail old king sitting in the corner of the room with the curtains drawn. + +László never hestitates or breaks stride until he is over the gang plank and on deck, turning now to make sure Theo is still behind him. László shouts something and the old steam engine begins to roar, Theo steps around him and find a seats among the chicken cages and lumpy burlap sacks scattered around the aft deck. László glances hurriedly about the stern and then turns back to the shore issuing a deafeningly loud shrill whistle. The dark lurking dog that Theo had seen earlier on the street comes bounding out the shadows and races along the shore until its speed matches that of the boat and suddenly it is airborne, body eloganted, legs outstretched and falling slowly back as it losses speed until with one solid bounce it lands unperturbed on the aft deck next to Theo. It studies him for the moment with huge dark eyes, sniffing tenatively at his knees and then walks off slowly decending into the hold. + +The first few days aboard are a blur. Theo slowly learns what he can touch and where he can step or sit and what will draw angry stares, occasionally punctuated by shouts, from the two boatmen who seem particularly concerned with anything involving hemp. Theo largely confines himself to the bow, lying on the sunny foredeck watching the shoreline as an unbroken procession of trees slides past. Occasionally they will pass gypseys fishing on the bank or peasant girls doing laundry in fits of giggles as the ogling boatmen whistle catcalls from the wheelhouse. Theo's cheeks burn every time and he tries to lie flatter, wishing himself invisible or at least reasoning that if he can not see the girls then he won't have to meet their dark eyes in silence. Eventually the tree-lined banks give way to hills, now yellow seas in bloom, sunflowers, violets set atop meadows of sedge and quake grass rippling in the breeze. Later there are plowed fields with farmers sowing seed behind teams of oxen or mules and Theo can see the smoke from the chimneys of villages just out of sight. + +When the scenery begins to bore him, he plays dice games with László who proves uncannily good at rolling whatever he needs to win at any given moment, always chuckling and pausing to study Theo before he throws the dice. Or he talks to the shorter of the two boat men who is always addressed simple as András, though Theo feels certain that this is not his real name. András is lanky and awkwardly shy in manner, reminding Theo of his father. He has dark watery eyes and seems to enjoy Theo's curiosity about the boat. He gives him a tour, the majority of which Theo has already discovered on his own, save the engine room beneath the aft deck where the knocking pistons and vaporous heat that sends Theo back above deck gasping for breath, as though the air had been sucked out of his lungs. It's András who tells him the boat is named Élise and is over forty years old with what András will refer to only as a colorful history. + +At night they sleep in the hold, hammocks slung from rotted deck beams and permeated by a stale mustiness that chokes Theo's dreams down to muddled, dull experiences that lead nowhere. Chicken feathers poke at him while he sleeps and pitch of the boat rounding a bend in the river will send him crashing into the crate lined wall which never fails to embed even more splinters in to the canvas fabric of the hammock. He sleeps fitfully and wakes up unable to remember what happened in his dreams as if the muddy swirling eddies of the river were somehow creeping up through the hull, past the clanging bilge pump and into his head where they wash over his dreams like milk spilled on a watercolor. + +András seems better adjusted and often recounts his dreams to Theo while they sit on the back of the boat spooning János's sorry excuse for breakfast into their famished stomachs. + +Last night I dreamt we sailed through a flock of swans. András smacks his lips attempting the rid his teeth the starchy gruel that coats their mouths and leaves them with the consistancy of wallpaper paste. They were everywhere on the river, hundreds of them Theo. It was magnifescent. + +András, why do you whistle at the girls on the bank? + +András smiles. Well Theo, in part because I can, but also in part because part of our existence is a process of understanding and fitting in to our surroundings. If it were my boat, and I alon sailing it down this river, perhaps I would not whistle, but that's not the way it is Theo. And then again, perhaps I would Theo. Perhaps I would even left to my own devices because you must know Theo, no one whistles for the fgirls, we shistel for ourselves, to announce something to the world, to say that we suddenly enjoy our lives more than we did the moment before. Have you ever been with a girl Theo? + +Been with her? You mean like the men that go to the whorehouse on my street? + +Hmm. Yes, I suppose like that. Have you ever been in love Theo? + + + + +After a week Theo has given up any hope that that tomorrow's breakfast will be anything other than the same gruel and he come to accept his watery fish stew for dinner, marveling at the hard round bread that skips like a stone when Theo pitches it off the back of the boat. + +After dinner Theo likes to sit on the stern, feet dragging in the water, head thrown back, looking up at the kailescope of stars in the moonless sky. But his vision is interupted by the figure of László, who has, until now, largely ignored Theo for the past several days. + +Do you know anything of Belgrade Theo? + +Is it full of Turks? + +László laughs. Parts of it, but there's nothing wrong with Turks. Tomorrow evening we will be in Belgrade. We'll stay on the boat for the night and then I have errand to run the next day. András and János will look after you while I'm away. You must do what they say, do you understand? + +Yes sir. + +László glances toward the bow and lowers his voice. Actually, you can safely ignore János, he's a bit daft about the world outside this river, but stick close to András, he has a good soul. + + segue + +The next evening, as Theo suspects, they stop just out of sight of Belgrade and run the flat bottom of the boat aground on the left bank of the river. János waits until the stern swings around and the boat is pointing upstream before he secures the bowline to a tree and then they retire to the hold for the night. + +When Theo wakes up László is already gone. He climbs up out of the hold to see János pissing off the side of the boat into the river. + +Are you ready for a bit of fun Theo? János winks at him and Theo manages a small smile. + + + +scene at the whorehouse. expand description of András and János, János bald on top, long scraggly hair, crooked teeth short, barefoot, tattered pants, dirty shirt András tall thin thoughtful, kind + "Have you ever met an illegitimate princess? They;re better than the real thing Theo because they don't have to answer for what they do. Some of these women are princesses Theo, you just have to find it in them, they hide it, they do..." + + +László and the dog return to the boat, there is blood on the dogs mussle and paw, it settles down and begins to lick the blood from its fur. diff --git a/unseen/Book 1/buda3.txt b/unseen/Book 1/buda3.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b9a2f7f --- /dev/null +++ b/unseen/Book 1/buda3.txt @@ -0,0 +1,21 @@ + + +Scene in Bucharest with the old man in the woods the fairy tale of water nymph and loss as forerunner of cynasim + + +The man is frequent vistor in the home for the four years that have passed between now and the scene above. Theo never sees the woman again and does not know what decame of her broach. + + where he had been idling, thinking about the funeral of the painter Munkácsy, so many years ago, but thinking not of the painter at all, but as he always has -- as the night he learned that things could disappear. Or, more properly, that things could be made to appear as if they disappeared - hidden in plain sight. + + +meets her on the street they go off to some park... + + Your father wants me to go down the river with him again next week. + Please don't call him that. + Okay, fine, Lazlo wants me to go down the river + If he were really my father, he would live with us. + In the palace. + It's not a palace. It's just big and cold. + At least it doesn't smell of fish. Theo picks up a stone near his foot and tosses it into the grass. + +... got out on a date, segue to river trip and chapter end
\ No newline at end of file diff --git a/unseen/Book 1/buda4.txt b/unseen/Book 1/buda4.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f133b10 --- /dev/null +++ b/unseen/Book 1/buda4.txt @@ -0,0 +1 @@ +The return to Budapest and the letters to/from the princess
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