Midnight Train to Prague - Carol Windley Page 0,56

said to Miklós.

“He’s a dog,” Miklós said.

She stepped on stones in the river, trying to reach Bashan, and slipped, soaking her shoes. Miklós put his hands on her waist and lifted her out of the water and set her down on the ground. There she was, in his arms, and he kissed her, they kissed. She picked up a stick and threw it into the trees. Bashan bounded to her side, shaking himself, showering her and Miklós with water.

The next day, she and Miklós went to Budapest, leaving Bashan in the care of Magdolna and Katya. They lunched at the Café Gerbeaud with friends of Miklós, newspaper people, writers, who wanted to know about her, how long she was staying in Hungary, what she did, and she felt intimidated by these brilliant people and answered their questions in a subdued voice. Miklós said she helped his mother with running the estate, did the accounting, taught at the school, where she was adored by the children.

On the drive home, they passed through a brief, although spectacular, thunderstorm—the opposite climatic conditions from that hot, starry night when the Bugatti had broken down, but still that night was in her mind when Miklós stopped to put up the top. And then, outside the castle, the sky clearing, the stars reappearing as the clouds dispersed, they sat in the Bugatti and talked and went from talking to kissing, and she thought: What is this mad behavior on your part, Natalia Faber? What are you setting yourself up for? They got out of the car, she linked her fingers with his, and he put his arms around her. It was opium, strong drink, this infatuation.

* * *

The agricultural accountant was due, and Natalia was going over the accounts for Rozalia. She sat on a stool at the long pine table in the room where Rozalia had read the tarot. As far as Natalia knew, the cards were still in the sandalwood box in the escritoire. “Ah, here you are,” Miklós said. He bent and kissed her on the forehead. He had been looking for her. He had a question, a rather important question. “I’m interrupting you, aren’t I,” he said, gesturing at the ledger, the pen in her hand. “Ich liebe dich, Natalia. Ich liebe dich. Marry me.”

She looked down at the ledger and at the ink on her fingers. Why had she thought life was possible for her? Why had she let things get to this point? If she did not speak, this silence would go on, and it would cause irreparable hurt, she knew that. She raised her eyes and began to say what she had to say, because she could not go on keeping secret from Miklós the truth about herself. But at that moment she heard the familiar, irregular tapping of Rozalia’s walking stick at the door. She came into the room and said, “What’s wrong with you two?” Natalia stared at her. Miklós turned on his heel and walked away. “What has he done?” Rozalia demanded. “What has he said to upset you?”

“He did nothing,” Natalia said.

“A strange nothing, to make you look like that.”

In the kitchen, Rozalia made tea and buttered a slice of bread; her sovereign remedy: drink and food. “I will have a word with my son,” she stated.

“No, don’t,” Natalia said. “Everything is fine.” Bashan kept touching her leg with his cold nose. She ran her fingers through his curls and stood up from the table and kissed him and fed him her buttered bread.

* * *

She and Miklós went horseback riding. On a forest path they dismounted and sat, one on either end, on a fallen log in a small clearing in the trees. The light, filtered through clouds of pollen and infinitesimal winged insects, was heavy, languid. At her request they had come here, to talk, where no one would overhear, and now he was waiting for her to say something, but the habit of years was to refrain from letting anything of the truth pass her lips. She drew in her breath. She felt light-headed, scared. “You will not like what I have to say,” she began. Then, quickly, she told him that her parents had not been married. “Do you see now? My birth was never legitimate. It was kept secret from me until two years ago. The only person I’ve ever told was my friend Margot, and that was in a letter. I never said the words aloud. If you are