apartment block, taking in the cool evening air before going to bed.
But the steak was very rare indeed, still a light pink colour; and, as soon as I sank my knife into the tender slab of beef, some red blood oozed out of the sides, staining the plate and running into the vegetable juices, collecting in clotted pools and swirls. I cannot do justice to the strength of my utter revulsion in that moment. Suddenly, my appetite was gone, and I felt sick at the sight of those scarlet droplets splattered across my plate and dripping from the end of my knife.
Before I knew what I was doing, I had jumped up and overturned the entire table with a yell. Christ — I cringe now at the spectacle I must have made of myself. The china plates and cutlery fell to the floor with a room- silencing crash, and nearby customers shrank back in alarm as the staff rushed over and implored me to calm down. But my mind kept replaying the memory of my knife plunging into the pink flesh and the scarlet blood that had bled onto the plate.
I can’t explain why the sight caused me such horror, but I was suddenly quite sure that I was going to be sick. I pushed the staff aside and just managed to make it outside before folding over double and retching there on the pavement, much to the alarm of various passers-by and an old couple who had been looking at the menu. They left pretty quickly. I suppose the sight of a man sprinting out of a restaurant to throw up is not the highest recommendation.
I would like to think that it hadn’t been the steak. That it had perhaps been something I ate earlier that day. But the nausea came upon me so suddenly. There wasn’t any warning. If there had been, I certainly wouldn’t have been vomiting in the street where all those people could stare at me. There seems to be a pattern emerging here. Sometimes… I almost seem to lose my mind…
The way I see it is this: either I truly am a madman, or else these episodes are triggered by my subconscious in response to some event that occurred before I lost my memory. And I know, I know I’m not mad. So this scares me, all this. I wish it would all stop. I walked home quickly last night in case the restaurant called the police or something equally alarmist. I just kept my head down, cheeks burning with shame, and carried on walking.
When I got back to my apartment block, I paused outside it and drew out the battered box of fish food from my pocket. I glared at it for a minute in the weak light of the street lamp, hating it. Then I dropped it into the nearby trashcan and went upstairs to bed.
4th October
Stephomi contacted me a couple of days ago to arrange to meet for a drink in the wine bar of his hotel. I had been pleased to make these plans at the time, but this morning I didn’t really feel like seeing anyone. I missed feeling the fish food in my pocket. I realised how pathetic that was so I didn’t let myself rummage around in the trash for it. I didn’t take a new box from the stack in my cupboard, either. But I’m sure that my family are not returning now — after all, I’ve been here for two months. Holidays do not go on that long. There really are no fish. I must have moved to Budapest on my own. My old life could be anywhere, and I have no idea how to find it. Perhaps, after all, I should go to the police with this… I had half made up my mind to do so this morning, but now I am not so sure.
I tried to cancel my plans with Stephomi — I just wanted to stay at home by myself today. But his phone was just ringing out so in the end I had to go, although I’m glad I did now. I was impressed when I located the Hilton — the hotel in which Stephomi had been living for the past weeks. It’s situated on the other side of the Danube, in the Castle district — I had to walk across the Chain Link Bridge to get to it — and is one of the most luxurious hotels in Budapest. The hotel building incorporates parts of both a Gothic church and a Jesuit monastery, and the views of the Danube and the Pest cityscape are magnificent.
The wine bar in which I was to meet my friend was set in an authentic medieval cellar built beneath the hotel. I admit I was disappointed not to drink in one of the bars upstairs, looking out over the Danube. It seemed a shame to be drinking in an underground cellar when the view from above was so beautiful. But Stephomi was waiting for me downstairs so I followed the signs to the wine bar, expecting only to have to walk down a few stairs before I came to it, but instead I had to go down several flights of stairs scattered across the hotel before I came to another door with a sign for the wine cellar. When I opened it and stuck my head through, I stared in surprise at the sight of a stone staircase carved out of the rock, twisting down in semi-darkness and illuminated only by the occasional soft orange lamp. For a moment I wondered if I was still in the Hilton, or whether I had in fact come across some kind of underground monastery. I looked back over my shoulder, but the sign definitely pointed to this door. So I shrugged and crept inside, half expecting to be told off for going through, although there was no one else to be seen.
The uneven rock was cold to my touch and there was that unmistakable musty, slightly damp smell that only truly ancient places have. I followed the twisting staircase down until I saw it reached a short corridor, at the end of which was a stone archway to the wine bar. I froze in alarm when I saw it, for the twisting black words above the arch clearly read: Faust Wine Bar.
I jumped when someone spoke below me. ‘You’re late.’
I strained my eyes and saw that Stephomi was waiting for me at the bottom of the twisting stone stairs, leaning against an archway with his hands in his pockets, virtually hidden in the shadows cast by the soft light.
‘I, er… had some trouble finding it,’ I said, still staring down at him from the stairs.
‘Yes, it can be like that the first time. I think most of those tourists upstairs don’t even know it exists. They get distracted by the panoramic windows in the modern bars upstairs. Come on, this bar is far better, I promise you.’
I hesitated, feeling almost childishly afraid to go down the steps and join him. It was the name of the cellar: Faust… the once honourable man that Mephistopheles had so cleverly managed to corrupt and disgrace.
‘Is something wrong?’ Stephomi asked, when I didn’t move.
I wanted to ask if we could go back upstairs to one of the sunlit and tourist filled bars, but Stephomi was obviously keen to show me the cellar, and I knew it would sound odd… so I walked down, and followed him as he led the way through to the cellar.
It was very small, with only enough room for six tables or so in a long, thin room, with the wall and ceiling forming a semicircle above the floor. Apart from the odd light built into a rocky enclave, the whole room was lit by candles, illuminating the many bottles of wine stacked in the old wooden wine racks against the walls. When we got there, the cellar was empty but for the waiter stood behind the small table outside. Soft cello music was playing from somewhere, although I couldn’t see any speakers. Stephomi ordered a bottle of Szekszardi Merlot and we sat down at one of the corner tables in creaky old wooden armchairs padded with cushions.
‘How long have you been living in this hotel?’ I asked, once the soft-footed waiter had brought out our wine and retreated to his area outside, leaving us alone in the dim cellar.
‘Since I arrived in Budapest. A few weeks, I suppose. I came into some inheritance a few years ago and now I’m lucky enough to be able to travel the world at my leisure.’
‘What about your family?’ I asked glumly, still brooding over the loss of my own.
At once, Stephomi’s face darkened and he gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather estranged from my family,’ he admitted.
I knew such things happened, of course. I knew that families could tear apart and life-long feuds prevented relations from speaking to each other for years and years. But I still couldn’t help but cringe at Stephomi’s words. What a waste! At least he had a family.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Stephomi said, doubtless seeing the look on my face. He paused, then added with a smile, ‘Well, mostly not my fault, anyway. It started off as a small thing — you know how it is. But somehow the situation just — ’ he waved a hand around, searching for words, ‘- escalated. Now even when I do go home, my father and brothers won’t speak to me. Won’t even see me.’ He grinned suddenly and gave a lazy shrug. ‘I think the situation could have been salvaged if only I hadn’t proved them wrong about something some years back. The one thing they can’t forgive, really. So what about you? Do you get on tolerably well with your family or do you avoid Christmas reunions like the plague?’
Christmas reunions…? I couldn’t help but grimace. I had never thought about Christmas, only two months away now. What was I going to do on Christmas Day? Sit in my apartment by myself wondering what my parents
