Besides me, there was a family of six obviously enjoying their meal, and another solitary diner nearby, a rather robust woman of about sixty with rosy cheeks and awfully sensible shoes. "Enjoying your stay?" she said, in German-accented English.
"I just got here," I said. "Late this afternoon."
"Here for the hiking, are you?" she said. "Or is it the caves?"
"I've seen enough caves," I said, in something of an understatement.
"Hiking, then," she barked. "Lots of fresh air. It's supposed to be a sunny day tomorrow. You should get out. You look a little pale."
I felt pale. Having said that, I did not feel much like hiking. I did, however, want someone to talk to, seeing as how I was going slightly barmy all by myself. "Perhaps you could tell me a relatively easy route to get me started," I said.
"All the hiking around here is easy compared to what I'm used to," she said. "Although for you—"
"I'm just a beginner," I said.
"I'll tell you my favorite, then, shall I? Nice vistas, that sort of thing. At your age you should still be up to it. Bring some color to your cheeks."
"Okay," I said. That I was participating at all in this conversation showed just how desperate I was for someone to talk to.
She then proceeded to give me directions, something about walking out the northeast side of the hotel property, along the highway, which wasn't much of one at this point, crossing the Hamor Lake dam, then up to some peak. "Lovely view over the valley of Also-Hamor," she said. "There's a legend about the place. There was a mill at the base of the cliff. The miller took a very young wife, who loved another, a young man from the area. In some versions, the young lovers threw themselves off so they could be together in heaven or some hogwash like that. In the other, the miller climbed up on the cliff because he suspected his wife of infidelity, and when he saw the young man creep into the house, threw himself off in despair. Apparently people have been doing the same thing rather frequently ever since. The cliff is named for the mill, the miller, actually. It's called Molnar-szikla. Molnar is the Hungarian word for miller," she added. "All very dramatic, of course. But it's a good walk. You should try it."
"Perhaps I will," I said. I wasn't in the mood for stories about people being thrown or choosing to heave themselves off a cliff. What was interesting, I suppose, was molnar being the Hungarian word for miller. Karoly had called himself Charles Miller, hadn't he? He hadn't just made up a name. He just translated the one he had. I didn't know whether that made me feel better about him or not.
"I'm off to bed," the woman said. "Must get my beauty sleep. Perhaps I'll see you out on the trail tomorrow."
"I hope so," I said. Not a chance, I thought.
My beauty sleep consisted of listening to rain pelt against the window, wondering why I was there. When I did doze off, horrible things, for example Mihaly Kovacs with his head bashed in, were creeping up on me as I sat trapped at the back of a cave. To keep myself from drifting off to this unpleasant vision, I tried my version of relaxation: I shopped. In this case, I made my way down Falk Miksa, choosing treasures for the store. Usually I don't get further than a store or two when I do this, but this time, instead, I found myself shopping for Jennifer and Rob, a fine bottle or two of Hungarian wine for him, and a red leather jacket I'd seen in a store window near the hotel for her. I knew she'd look fabulous in it. Given the state of my personal life, this was not only depressing, it was downright stupid. It also made me homesick.
But, as predicted, the sun was shining the next morning, and I left the hotel in a more positive mood. I'd see Karoly that evening. I'd phoned Laurie and asked her if I could bring a colleague from Toronto who'd arrived in Budapest unexpectedly.
"Not the Karoly Molnar," she exclaimed. "That divine fellow from the Cottingham? I can't wait to meet him!"
I WAS ON the outskirts of Lillafured when I saw the sign. Antik Bazar, it said. This is a sign that someone like me finds almost impossible to pass by. In this particular case I had two good reasons to go in. The Antik part, and a second sign that presumably gave the name of the proprietor, Nadasdi Gyula.
It was an unusual shop, it must be said. There were a number of paintings that probably dated to the turn of the century, some nice old furniture, but primarily there were bugs, rocks, and stuffed animals. By stuffed, I am not referring to plush children's toys, but rather animals once alive, and now staring at me from various vantage points through glassy eyes. There was a huge collection, under glass, of beetles of some sort, and butterflies pinned everywhere. Boar heads protruded from the walls all around the room. Various birds stared at me from glass cases.
There were also old binoculars, guns, and a shelf of old shoes. There was a particularly attractive pair of hiking boots, handmade of beautiful leather, and for a moment I entertained the idea they had belonged to Piper. I don't know why, except that they looked to date to the same time period, and Piper was much on my mind. But they were very small. They certainly wouldn't fit my average feet, and most likely had belonged to a small woman. I wished I knew someone to buy them for, they were that appealing.
The proprietor, who by sign language managed to convey that he was Nadasdi Gyula himself, was interesting in a frightening kind of way. He was obviously rather odd, maybe even completely insane. His hair stuck straight up from his head, his eyes resembled those of the animals around the room, and he spent most of the time I was there just giggling and chattering away, particularly after I had introduced myself as McClintoch Lara. McClintoch was too much for him, but he liked Lara. I showed him my business card, and I believed conveyed that I was also in the antique business, but I'm not entirely sure. "Lara," he kept saying, holding up yet another stuffed creature for me to see, and collapsing with laughter when he was able to sneak up behind me and startle me with some fish or something. Such is the tough lot of a dedicated antique hunter.
Despite the proprietor, I love places like this. You never know what will turn up, and I've often found really quite valuable pieces hidden amongst the junk. Nothing, however, prepared me for my discovery at that moment.
I declined the animals on offer, but purchased a pair of bronze art deco bookends I was reasonably sure would fetch a decent price at home, and was turning to go when I saw something rather unusual, even for this store. "What's that?" I said, pointing to a very worn leather case.
Nadasdi turned and picked up a stuffed woodchuck, or something, and brought it to me.
"No, nem," I said, trying out one of the three Hungarian words I had mastered, and pointing again. After several tries he brought me the case. In it was an extraordinary collection of stones. The stone shapes were not random; they had obviously been worked. I was way out of my depth here, but I was pretty sure these were really, really old stone tools. A couple of them could have been hand axes, for example, another, pointed, the end of a spear or something like that.