Midnight Train to Prague - Carol Windley Page 0,39

portrait in the first year of our marriage. I was eighteen. My father said I was too young to marry, too young to leave home. I was right not to listen to him. It is true, what the poets say about time. It passes too quickly.”

She was born, she said, in the county of Veszprém, to the north of Lake Balaton. Her father, Zoltan, Count Nemeskurty, grew the finest grapes in the region; his ancestral home was much grander than Kastély Andorján and had a more illustrious history. Her mother, the daughter of a Polish prince, gave birth to eleven children, ten of whom survived, and those children now had children and grandchildren and, in the case of the countess’s oldest sister, a great-grandchild. And what did she have? One son remaining to her. One son, whose responsibility it was to carry on the family name. And did Natalia know what this son told her? He said he couldn’t live in Hungary under Miklós Horthy.

“I tell him the regent of the Kingdom of Hungary is unlikely to trouble us in our backwater. I say to him, give me a gentleman like Horthy any day over a rascal like Béla Kun, who would have carved my land up like a leg of lamb and distributed it to the people. I would like to know: Who are the people? I will tell you: I am the people.”

She passed Natalia a serving dish of potatoes whipped in heavy cream. She said, “How did it come about that your mother has flown the coop with Zita Kuznetsova?”

“She likes traveling.”

“Mehetnék. Vándorlasi kedv. Wanderlust, itchy feet. I am not one of the afflicted. I have always been happiest here, at home.” She put down her fork and sat back. “If you were my daughter,” she said, “I would not leave you. Not for all the tea in China.”

She rang a bell for Katya to clear away the first course and serve the fish course, and after that came bread pudding with raisins and ginger sauce, and Natalia wished there was a dog under the table eager for a few scraps.

* * *

On the third morning of her stay at Kastély Andorján, Natalia found the countess in the kitchen, dressed in a smock buttoned to her throat, the sleeves rolled up, with a meat cleaver in her hand and two freshly skinned and eviscerated rabbits on the table in front of her. She’d gone hunting, she said, with evident relish, and look what she’d bagged. She wrapped the entrails in newspaper and dropped them in a bucket near the door. She would, she said, teach Natalia to make rabbit stew in the proper Hungarian fashion. Katya wiped the table clean with vinegar and water and set a place for Natalia. She managed a spoonful of oatmeal and gave up and wiped her mouth on her napkin. The rabbit meat, browned in hot oil and tipped into a stockpot, exuded the feral smell of itself alive. The stew must be simmered gently for three days, the countess said. No less, no more. Salt, pepper, caraway, sweet paprika were to be added at intervals sparingly, so as not to overwhelm the flavor of the meat. “Too much attention can be worse than not enough.” Then she said, “Magdolna, I am taking Natalia to the paddock, to see the horses.”

The horses were descendants of purebred Carthusians, the noblest of the Spanish Andalusians, the countess told Natalia. “I’ll tell you what. Just look into their eyes. Look at this one’s eyes, so pale, like water. See the depth of his chest, his height. This is Trajan’s son. It pains me to think it, but this stallion will be Trajan’s last progeny.”

People paid whatever she asked for her horses. In the stables, she had an office where she interviewed prospective buyers. She had them fill out a form and provide character references. She turned down as many applicants as she approved.

In the horse barn, Natalia was introduced to Vladimír, the groom, and Herkus, one of the stable boys. The countess dug an apple slice out of her pocket for Natalia to feed Trajan. “He likes you,” the countess said, stroking the horse’s nose and whispering endearments in Hungarian. When they left the stables, Vladimír’s dogs padded after them, two jet-black hunters, lean, sinuous, one named Dani, the other Mokány. The countess shouted at them to go back; they paid no attention and walked at Natalia’s side as far as the kitchen door,