The Ninth circle

16th September

God is with me. Truly He must favour me, for once again angels have led me to the most extraordinary good fortune. It’s very late but I’m not tired at all. I was reacquainted with Zadkiel Stephomi today. What are the chances? Really, what are the odds of chance meetings happening twice like that?

I wrote before of my intention to visit Heroes’ Square and the Millennium Monument, with which Gabriel had been linked in my own notes in the margin of one of my books. When I got up this morning, the weather was so miserable outside that I was tempted not to go out at all. The sky was choked with heavy, forbidding storm clouds, and rain was rocketing into the windows, shaking them in their frames as a vicious chill crept in through the floorboards and the cracks in the doors. I thought about turning the heating up and crawling back under the covers of my bed, since I had no responsibilities to co-workers, employers, friends or relatives to draw me from my dry apartment into the thundering gale outside.

But the silence of this shabby, grotty little hovel depresses me. So I took the metro to Heroes’ Square, huddled in the small carriages with other wet, disgruntled passengers who pushed and shoved at each other. Despite the rain, I longed to get out of the station with its damp, fetid smell of old rainwater and rotting leaves that had been blown in by the wind. But at the foot of the steps leading outside, I hesitated, realising for the first time that I hadn’t brought an umbrella with me.

I briefly considered turning back to my apartment. But the book of demons from the night before was still unsettling me. Especially what it said Gabriel had done… Not that I believed it for a moment, of course. But I still couldn’t throw off the vaguely worrying feeling that had descended on me since the night before. If I could only see Gabriel in association with something good, I felt that these fears would be allayed. The Millennium Celebrations of 1896 opened in Heroes’ Square and marked a high point in the development of Budapest. I wanted to see Gabriel associated with such a time of progress and hope, in order to dispel the bitter taste in my mouth that had been there since reading the book.

So I trudged up the stairs and out into the rain, not sure how far I’d have to go before I came across the Square. But as soon as I got to the top of the steps, I stopped and stared. Hosok Tere Metro Station is only just across the road from Heroes’ Square, and I could see even from there what an incredible sight the Millennium Monument was. I crossed the road, dodging cars to reach it. The place was deserted — not surprising as the rain had reached torrential levels, and water was inches deep in some places on the stone pavestones, reaching up to my ankles and soaking straight through my shoes and socks. Thunder rumbled dully in the distance as I walked closer to the monument. And as I stood there staring up at it, with icy rain running down my neck and dripping from my hair and the ends of my fingers, I was immensely grateful that I had, after all, ventured from my apartment on this foul-weathered day.

The monument consisted of a towering central column, with two colonnades curving round behind it. I hardly noticed War and Peace in their huge stone chariots, or the Hungarian heroes, leaders, statesmen and monarchs stood within the colonnades beneath, for the crowning glory of it all was the grand 120-feet-high Corinthian column at the centre, upon which Gabriel stood holding St Istvan’s crown in one hand and the apostolic cross in the other, great feathered wings spread behind him. I could feel all my unease and bad feeling from the night before melting away, to be replaced with this calm, deeply spiritual peace, even as rain cascaded down to the ground around me and storm clouds gathered in the sky overhead. It was almost as if the angel was talking to me. He knew that I was there, somehow; I was sure of it. He recognised me even if no one else did.

Water ran down my neck, soaking my shirt beneath my coat as I gazed up at the stone angel, surrounded by statues of Hungarian heroes instead of devils; presiding over an era of progress and advancement rather than bloody, violent war. It was so big; somehow I hadn’t been expecting the monument to tower over me like that. Gabriel himself must have been visible for miles around. Rain dripped from the great hooves and rolling eyes of the huge stone horses at the base of the column and the heroes all gazed down at me with expressions of grim nobility and an almost pained pride…

‘Happy looking bunch, aren’t they?’ a familiar voice remarked behind me, somehow clearly audible over the roar of the approaching storm. ‘It’s a serious business, heroism.’

I turned round sharply, wrenching my neck painfully, to face the man standing mere paces behind me; and then my mouth fell open, amazed at my good luck. ‘Stephomi?’

‘Hello, Gabriel,’ he replied. ‘Come to visit someone?’ He nodded towards the angelic statue. ‘I must say, you picked a fine day for it.’

‘I-’ I broke off for a moment, turned away from the monument and took a step closer towards him. I had to resist the urge to grab him in case he should slip through my fingers once again. ‘I lost your number,’ I said at last. ‘That’s why I didn’t-’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Stephomi interrupted, with a wave of his hand. ‘I see I’m not the only one stupid enough to come out in this weather without an umbrella. I wanted to see the monument too, but… Well, to hell with culture when it’s pissing it down like this. Do you want to go and have a drink somewhere?’

And that was how I met him again. Who would have believed it? We left the heroes to the rain and found a small sorozos just a short walk away from Heroes’ Square. It was unusually busy, full of others who had ducked in to avoid the bad weather, but luckily there were still some free tables at the back near the crackling fires. There were also warm, orange lamps giving the place a cheerful glow, and people talking animatedly over their drinks around us as barmaids edged through the throng with trays of beer balanced on the flats of their palms.

We each ordered a pint of barna and, as we had missed lunch, a dish of smoked knuckles as well as an order of pogacsa, made delicious with crackling, cheese and paprika. And then we talked, thankfully about neutral topics that I did not have to lie about. He almost seemed to be going out of his way not to ask me any personal questions this time, and I was grateful for that. Instead he seemed quite content to talk about himself, and I was more than happy to listen.

The time went quickly; in fact, I was amazed at just how fast the afternoon disappeared. Time moves much slower when I am here in my apartment by myself. At last, Stephomi glanced at his watch and my heart sank as he pointed out how late it was.

‘I’m sorry, Gabriel, we’ve been here for hours and I’ve hardly asked you anything about yourself. It’s one of the unspoken requirements of being a teacher, you know — you have to love the sound of your own voice. Why don’t we move on to a restaurant and you can do the talking this time?’

I hesitated, pushing down that familiar panic. I didn’t want to do the talking. I didn’t know enough about myself to be capable of talking for any great length of time. My name is Gabriel…? I mean, how long does that take to say? And he knew anyway, I had already told him so more than once. It occurred to me that perhaps the sensible thing to do would be to quit now while I was ahead.

‘Er… I’m not sure that I-’ I began.

‘Please, I insist. It’ll be my treat.’

The rush of panic increased. What if he asked me something I couldn’t answer? What if he asked me where I’d grown up or how many siblings I had or something? What if I panicked and ran away again? Get a grip… get a grip…

‘It’s the fish!’ I blurted out.

‘I’m sorry?’ Stephomi asked, looking taken aback.

‘Er… I’m supposed to be looking after someone’s fish,’ I mumbled, my hand automatically going to the fish food in my pocket. ‘I don’t mind, though!’ I added hurriedly. What was I doing? Urghh, why was I talking to him like this?

‘Someone else’s fish?’ Stephomi asked, looking puzzled.

‘Yes! They’re not mine. I just… it’s just a favour… until they get back from holiday-’

‘Gabriel,’ Stephomi said, mercifully cutting me off in mid-flow before any more damage could be done. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way but sod the bloody fish. You can go and see them tomorrow; I’m sure they won’t starve overnight. And I can assure you that my conversation is much more stimulating than that of any fish…’ He paused. ‘Although, depending on how much I might have to drink, I can’t make any promises.’

I laughed. All at once the panic disappeared. The fish were important but, right now, Stephomi was more important. If he asked me any awkward questions, I would just say that I’d rather not talk about my past. Problem solved.

Outside we found that it was no longer raining, although the sun was beginning to set. We walked back past the monument and a little way down Allatkerti Street until we came to Gundels, the most famous restaurant in Hungary. Stephomi was shocked I’d never eaten there before although I had, of course, heard of it. It was housed in a large old building with panelled white ceilings, old paintings on the walls and polished walnut pillars standing throughout the spacious room. A pianist was playing over in one corner, and soft lighting gleamed off the rich pillars and the elegant old crockery on the tables.

Once we were settled I asked Stephomi about his name, as much to deflect any personal question he might ask me as anything, and he arched his eyebrow at me in surprise when I mentioned the archangel Zadkiel.

‘You do know your angels, don’t you?’ he replied. ‘Isn’t Zadkiel supposed to be the angel of… what was it… memory?’

I jumped at his emphasis on the word and knocked my wine glass over.

‘Oh dear, how clumsy of you,’ Stephomi said lightly, calling over a waiter to help clean it up.

He couldn’t know… He couldn’t know about my problem…

‘Are you okay?’ he asked once the waiter had gone to get me another wine glass.

‘Yes, of course I am! I’m in perfect health, why? Why do you ask?’ I replied in a panicky rush.

Stephomi gave me an odd look. ‘You just seem a bit jumpy, is all.’

‘No,’ I said, running a hand through my hair agitatedly. ‘No, no. I just-’

‘You’re not diabetic, are you?’

I couldn’t stop the slightly nervous laugh. ‘I hope not.’

‘Well, the food will be here in a minute, anyway,’ Stephomi replied.

With a tremendous effort, I pulled myself together. As the evening wore on, I switched to non-alcoholic drinks. Sighing wistfully, Stephomi agreed that there had been enough alcohol for now and, with a twisted smile, proclaimed that I was good for him indeed. It wasn’t that I had anything against drinking; it was just that I needed to stay alert in case Stephomi asked me something that I would need to quickly lie about. I couldn’t risk… I don’t know, having too much to drink and then blurting out the whole truth to him, or something equally awful. Although with such a sensational story, I suppose he would probably have taken it for drunken rambling anyway.

At one point, somehow, the topic of music came up and Stephomi mentioned that he owned a beautiful, priceless, old Italian violin — a Grand Amatis, in fact, made by Andrea Amati, who had himself been the teacher of the great Antonio Stradivari.

‘Violin?’ I asked sharply.

‘Yes, do you play?’

‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’

‘Don’t think so?’ Stephomi asked, looking amused. ‘Well, I’m sure you would remember something like that.’

I laughed it off hurriedly. ‘Isn’t the Devil supposed to play the violin?’ I asked, remembering one of the paintings I had seen in my book.

Stephomi raised an eyebrow at me. ‘I believe there are certain myths that portray the Devil as a supernaturally accomplished violinist. Hasn’t there been a song about it or something? A bet made between the Devil and a fiddle boy as to who could play the greatest? The boy wins in the song, playing for his soul; but if legends are to be believed, then Satan’s skill with the violin is unrivalled, in this world or any other.’

The amusement in Stephomi’s voice told me clearly that he did not believe any of the myths he was repeating, but still they made me a little uneasy.

‘And then, of course, there was Giuseppe Tartini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata,’ Stephomi said, leaning back in his char. ‘The inspiration for which came in a dream Tartini had in which he gave the Devil his violin and heard it played on a level he hadn’t thought possible. Although the Devil’s Trill was seen as far superior to Tartini’s other compositions, he maintained that it was nothing but a pale reflection of the music he’d heard Satan play in his dream.’ Stephomi tilted his head at me slightly and grinned. ‘Perhaps I should give it up and play the heavenly harp instead?’

At last it was time for the restaurant to close and, when we could no longer ignore the pointed looks of the staff, we retrieved our coats and stepped back out into the cool night. I was going back to the metro station and Stephomi was catching a bus a few blocks away. We paused in the archway of the restaurant as we buttoned up our coats.

‘You have my card safe this time?’ Stephomi asked, turning to me.

‘Yes, and you have mine,’ I replied. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t lose it again.’

Indeed I won’t — it’s lying on the table beside me as I write — but I spent the journey home committing the number to memory anyway. No being alive will be able to take it from me this time. Nothing short of a renewed bout of amnesia will tear the digits from my grasp.

19th September

I have been savouring the memories of my hours with Stephomi these past few days, rarely leaving my apartment but simply sitting, staring at the walls for hours. I had almost been feeling content. Which is why I am irritated that something should have occurred to mar my pleasure.

It was because of the antique book I had received from Italy. The one so concerned with Demonic Realms that I had hidden away under the floorboards with distaste. But, over the last few days — as I have been spending so many hours within the apartment — the book has been calling out to me. Almost as if the hateful thing really did have a voice. Its presence burned in my mind with white heat, imprinting its image there even after I had closed my eyes. I did not wish to have such a thing in my home. I had quite enough books with devils dancing through the pages as it was, so I decided to send this one back to the Italian bookshop so that it might be re-sold to some other person.

I walked down the street to buy some brown paper and tape, which I took back to my apartment, already feeling the beginnings of relief. Once home, I retrieved the volume from its hiding place beneath the floorboards and placed it firmly face down on the sheet of brown paper I had laid out ready on the kitchen table. I began to fold it carefully, and then… hesitated. This was dangerous, I suddenly felt. I should not be sending the book away like this. I would make it angry.

I shook my head impatiently and thumbed all the way through the old pages, just as repulsed by the vivid images and descriptions as I had been before. As I gazed down at it, I saw that a corner of the yellowing parchment had come unstuck from the red leather back cover and was curling forwards. Frowning, I pressed my thumb over the paper, but it curled back again as soon as the pressure was gone. Then, looking more closely, I saw that the cover had been repaired before — rows of neat, black stitching pinned the yellow paper to the leather back.

It’s hard to explain what happened next without sounding like a madman, which I know I most certainly am not. I even shocked myself when, with a yell of fear, I leaped to my feet and stumbled several steps backwards, my chair clattering to the floor, sliding back along the floorboards. Something about the book had bothered me from the very beginning. I had assumed that it was merely an aversion to the repulsive subject matter. But now I know that it was more than that. There was some palpable evil radiating from the book in invisible waves, pummelling into me as I stared fearfully at the horrible thing. It would harm me. I knew it would. There were real devils living in those innocent pages and they hated me and would be only too pleased to destroy me given half a chance. Well, they wouldn’t have it. I wouldn’t give it to them. I pulled open one of the kitchen drawers, grabbed a carving knife, whirled back to face the book and with a strange animal-like sound somewhere between a snarl and a sob, I drove the knife through the book to its hilt. My own strength surprised me — the knife went through the volume and well into the wooden table beneath as easily as if I were slicing the blade through butter.

And then, to my horror, there was a call at the door. ‘Hello? Gabriel?’

I recognised that voice, and even as I looked I saw that I had not shut the front door properly on my way in. When the visitor knocked, it swung open easily, leaving Stephomi’s slender figure framed in the doorway. His eyes swept the room and I saw him take in the red book, pinned to the table by the large carving knife, the overturned kitchen chair, and me, backed up against the kitchen units and struggling to look like a calm and rational human being rather than a depraved and dangerous one.

‘I’m not mad!’ I said at once, eager to reassure him.

But I shouldn’t have said that. Most people don’t need to defend their sanity. I should’ve just laughed it off. Laughed it off and made a joke of it. But my mind wasn’t working quickly enough for that.

‘Mad, Gabriel?’ Stephomi asked with a smile. ‘Why, whoever said anything about being mad?

‘I-’ I began, having no idea what I was going to say but feeling the pressing need to say something, anything, to explain.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Stephomi said holding up his hand and taking a step into my apartment. ‘The author was a narrow-minded bastard? I’ve sometimes had the urge to impale such works myself, although I must say,’ he said with a grin, ‘I’ve never actually acted on it.’

I laughed, I hope not too hysterically, relieved that Stephomi was not pronouncing me a lunatic and leaving my home with haste.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve… come at a bad time,’ Stephomi said, glancing at the book with an amused expression. ‘I just wanted to return this.’ He held up a slip of paper and I saw that it was my weekly metro ticket. I had missed it when I went to board the metro after our dinner and had needed to buy a single ticket to get home.

‘There are still some days left to run on it so I thought I’d better return it. It must have been left on the table when you took your wallet out, and I picked it up by mistake with the receipt.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the ticket from him. ‘Will you stay for a drink?’ I asked, even as I spoke realising that I only had wine or water to offer.

‘Not today, thanks. Some other time, though.’

And with one last quizzical grin at the speared book on my table, Stephomi walked from my apartment, closing the front door firmly behind him.

Although not as bad as it could have been, this incident was enough to convince me that the damn book really had to go. I could not have it in the house a moment longer. Once Stephomi had gone, I grasped the knife by the handle and pulled, but I could not wrench the bloody thing free, it was so ingrained in the table. I couldn’t believe I’d driven it in as forcefully as all that; really it should be a simple enough matter to pull the knife free again. I redoubled my efforts, grasping the handle of the carving knife with both hands and heaving on it as hard as I could; but, although I lifted the whole damn table from the floor, still the blade wouldn’t come loose. That book… was mocking me!

At last, in a fit of desperation, I tore it through the knife in order to free it, virtually cutting the old volume in half in the process. As I pulled the book free, something dislodged from the back cover and I bent to pick the pieces up, thinking it was a page the blade had sliced in half. But, no, it couldn’t be a page, could it? It was never going to be just some harmless, meaningless old page. Some innocent thing that couldn’t hurt me. That would have been too easy.

When I bent to retrieve the pieces, I realised that they were actually two halves of a photo. My heart sank when I saw what the photo was of. Slowly, I lowered myself to the floor, held the two halves together and gazed at it in dismay for a while. Later, on closer examination of the book, I saw that the photo had been concealed in the back cover, covered over by the stitched yellow parchment I had seen… those neat little rows of tiny black stitches that had caused me to lash out so violently.

The photo was of a woman. She was walking down a street somewhere, although it was impossible to tell where. The camera lens had zoomed in for a close- up shot of her head and shoulders, taken from slightly above her. She was in her forties with an intelligent face and long chestnut hair. There was no mistaking her — she was the running woman I had encountered some three weeks ago. The woman who had run blindly away from me into the back alleys of Budapest, and then quietly slipped away while I was occupied with the five large men all doing their best to bash my head in.

I carefully taped the split photo together, and then sat there staring at it, hoping if I only did so for long enough it might make sense. The photo was a little scratched from its concealment in the book, but other than that it was in good condition and was obviously fairly recent. When I turned it over, I saw that there was English writing on the back, printed in neat capitals and written in red ink -

NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN’S WEEPING WILLOW IS WEEPING STILL.

Also printed on the back of the photo was the name of the film developers. It was an English name. The photo had been developed in the United Kingdom, been concealed in the back of an antique book in Italy, and was now lying on a table before me in the centre of Budapest. I was at a loss. I could not even begin to explain it. I had seen this woman three weeks ago. She had run from me, as if she was scared of me, but I am sure that must have been some kind of misunderstanding. I know nothing about her. I have no name, no nationality, no occupation, no address… But she spoke to me in Hungarian, and I saw her in Budapest — I suppose that, in itself, suggests that she must be Hungarian.

As for the reference to Neville Chamberlain and a weeping willow printed on the back, I couldn’t even begin to imagine their relevance to the woman in the photo. The words seemed so utterly irrelevant that I wondered if they were, in fact, unrelated and had been written on the photo back by accident.

Was the photo meant for me? If not, it surely is the most incredible coincidence that I saw this woman only weeks ago. She knew me, once. I think she might be in trouble. I want to help her. And I would if I could. But I don’t have the slightest idea as to how to go about finding her.