Kiss Of The Butterfly Part 3

She invited him in, and throughout the rest of the day she and Slatina spoke Serbo-Croatian, forcing Steven to practice the language, encouraging him when he made errors. The three of them prepared the meal, a simple Adriatic dish of large prawns cooked in a spiced tomato sauce served over pasta, along with a refres.h.i.+ng salad of mozzarella cheese, rucola and sliced tomatoes, mixed with fresh basil leaves, olive oil and a smattering of pesto. They washed it down with a pitcher of juice Steven had squeezed from blood oranges and a bottle of Dalmatian wine. For dessert Slatina had prepared Tiramisu.

After the meal, Steven and Katarina volunteered to do dishes, while Slatina excused himself to make telephone calls in the study. As the two of them washed the dishes they made small talk, which was difficult for him in Serbo-Croatian, so she ended up doing much of the talking. 'You only know academic words,' she said with an accusing look that made her even prettier than usual.

'You must learn more. Today I will teach you some new vocabulary. Serpa - pan. Lonac - pot,' she held each one up in turn. He dutifully repeated each word after her. As he listened to her p.r.o.nounce the words, first in Serbo-Croatian, then in English, he watched her lips move and imagined them brus.h.i.+ng against his. Her slender fingers and hands dipped the plates in the dishwater, and then she would hand him a dish to dry. He watched her hair fall over her face as she bent over the sink and thought he had never seen a more beautiful girl in his entire life. He stood and stared, only to be startled out of his trance by her words: 'Daj mi krpu.'

'Huh?'

'Krpa - dishcloth. I am finished. Give me dishcloth so I can dry my hands.' Her strangely accented English made the words somehow magical. 'Daj mi viljuske - give me forks,' she motioned. He watched as she began to dry each one and put them in the silverware drawer. She noticed him staring at her hands and said 'deterdzent za pranje posudja - dishwas.h.i.+ng liquid,' which caused his heart to skip. Yet he said nothing and kept on drying. 'Deterdzent za pranje posudja,' he repeated softly to himself as he looked in her eyes and saw a flicker of something he thought he recognized.

The dishes done, Katarina grabbed both Steven's hands, looked in his eyes and kissed him gently on his cheek, smiled and pulled him towards Slatina's study. 'Come, the professor's waiting.'

They entered a cozy room with overstuffed leather furniture and gla.s.s doors looking out on a rain-swept terrace facing the Pacific, its smell of old leather and mildew presenting a sharp contrast with the newness in Slatina's office. Steven rushed to the bookshelves lining the walls and gaped in awe at the treasure trove of rare Slavic literature: Juraj Krizanic's 17th century treatise Politika; Mauro Orbini's 1601 Il regno degli Slavi; Vinko Pribojevic's 1532 work De origine successionibusque Slavorum; Petar Hektorovic's 1568 edition of Ribanje i ribarsko prigovaranje; and Ivan Gundulic's 1626 edition of Osman.

'Professor, are all these original?' Steven asked in amazement, envious of the priceless collection of Balkan literature.

'Of course. Family heirlooms,' Slatina answered with a smile. 'Our family brought them with us when we fled the communists. Please use care when you handle them.'

Steven approached a darkened oil portrait of a gaunt monarch with a blonde goatee in a dark green cloak, a St. George cross at his neck. He examined the painting and saw the words O quam misericors est Deus ran from the top of the cross, while the cross-piece bore the words Justus et Pius. A dragon pin fastened the monarch's cloak, its tail looping underneath its body to wrap back around its neck, forming a circle. The monarch's sword was sheathed in a scabbard emblazoned with six golden dragons. Steven silently counted the coats of arms painted in the background: twenty one.

'Who's this?' Steven asked. 'I don't recognize him.'

'Sigismund, King of Hungary, from 1408.'

'Another heirloom?' Steven asked.

'But of course.'

Next to it hung a small, oval portrait of an attractive n.o.ble woman with high cheekbones, a high forehead and dark eyes, posing in front of a landscape. Steven guessed it to be from the late 17th century.

The professor watched Steven carefully as he moved excitedly from the bookshelf to the paintings, then back to the bookshelf. He noted Steven's care and reverence handling the old volumes. He nodded his head in satisfaction at Steven's enthusiasm and pointed towards a large yellowed map that filled the wall above his desk, a cryptic smile on his face.

'Do you like it?' he asked. A hilltop fortress guarded galleys in the harbor of a walled port city next to Latin inscriptions, a winged lion and the word Pharos, 1714. 'It is my home town, the city of Hvar on the island of Hvar in Dalmatia. Perhaps someday you will visit...but it looks a bit different now...no more galleys...just yachts and tourist hotels.'

Slatina smiled, then walked to a shelf and removed a bottle filled with dark liquid containing sprigs, gra.s.ses and leaves. He opened the cap, sniffed it and took three small shot gla.s.ses: 'May I interest you in a gla.s.s of homemade rakija? It is purely medicinal...made from herbs to a.s.sist digestion.' He smiled and filled the gla.s.ses, handed one to Katarina and Steven, and then raised his in a toast.

'My friends, thank you for coming and making this meal so pleasant. May there be many more meals such as this one, and may we live to see them in good health and happiness, and with the joy that comes from being surrounded by those we love. And may we also drink to those whom we have loved and who loved us and who cannot be here.' He looked them each in the eyes as they touched gla.s.ses.

'Steven, I have been in contact with the Balkan Ethnographic Trust. They have asked that you conduct research on witches, fairies, and other mythical creatures in what is increasingly becoming the former Yugoslavia. They have asked that I supervise your research, so you will report to me.'

'I may also ask you to undertake some tasks of a personal nature for me. As you know, it has been difficult for me to return with the communists in power. Perhaps time shall change that, but in the meantime I may seek your a.s.sistance. I shall give you letters of introduction to professors in Budapest and Belgrade and for the archives in Novi Sad and Belgrade. I have asked my old friend Dr. Ferenc Nagy to do the same for the Budapest archives.'

'Professor, you forget, I don't know Hungarian.'

'Now Steven, you know that Latin was the official court language throughout most of medieval Europe.'

I hate Latin, Steven thought. He had struggled with the History program's Latin requirement.

Afterwards Slatina had put on a video and Steven sat next to Katarina on a large overstuffed sofa, watching a film about three friends who had fled communist Yugoslavia by rowing across the Adriatic Sea to Italy. During the film Katarina placed her hand in his, gradually leaned against his shoulder and fell asleep. It felt pleasant, and he put his arm around her, letting her head fall against his chest, enjoying an intimacy he had long denied himself. As he did so, recent memories returned to haunt his new feelings.

From the armchair, Slatina watched from the corner of his eyes, a slight smile on his lips.

Steven s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably against the hard-backed train seat. Professor Slatina's leather sofa had been far more comfortable. As the telephone poles rushed hypnotically past, Steven wondered if he might find answers here, away from everything that was familiar to him.

He thought back to his departure from the US and his arrival at the Budapest airport only six days ago. Katarina and Professor Slatina had both seen him off at the San Diego airport the day after Christmas. The departure terminal was crowded with lightly-clad vacationers enjoying San Diego's winter sun: Steven carried a heavy winter coat and a fur hat in his arms. As he left Professor Slatina hugged him, kissed him once on each cheek and wished him luck. 'And watch your temper. You'll be in a strange country that is at war. Injustice will be everywhere. Discipline your emotions'.

Katarina kissed him three times, once on the right, left and again the right cheek. 'Serbs kiss three times,' she whispered to him. And then she kissed him a fourth time, long, pa.s.sionate, squarely on the lips, sending an electric charge through his body.

She then fished in the pocket of her jeans and brought out a small wooden cross affixed to a piece of rough twine. Reaching up she placed it around Steven's neck. 'This is to you from me and it is for your protection. It's made from the Hawthorne tree and was blessed at the monastery church of Zica, the blood red church where a piece of the true cross lies. You must wear it around your neck at all times: it'll protect you from whatever evil you encounter.'

Overcome by the kiss, Steven spluttered: 'but...its just superst.i.tion...'

'Please do it. For me.' Her look was earnest. 'It would mean a lot to me. And maybe one day it may mean something to you. Think of it as a good luck charm, not a religious symbol.'

He nodded, looking into her eyes, now a dark impenetrable green, wondering what the kiss had meant.

'Hurry, you'll miss your plane.' She shoved an envelope in his hand, kissed him again once on the cheek, turned around and walked away. 'And remember me when you wear it,' she added as she glanced over her shoulder. Slatina smiled and nodded silently.

As Steven walked away he realized that his feelings towards Katarina had grown stronger than he wished to admit. Confused, he tenderly touched the cross around his neck as he boarded the airplane.

Due to the war, flights into Yugoslavia were sporadic, so Steven flew into Budapest, from whence he planned to take a train to Belgrade. He disembarked from the Malev airliner down a metal stairway onto the tarmac the wind driving snow into his face and was then herded with the other pa.s.sengers into a decrepit communist-era terminal labeled Ferihegy, where the centrally-planned heating made him sweat, and the stench of tobacco brought on nausea.

The border guards had not yet heard that Hungary had cast off the dual yoke of Marx and Moscow and was making its uncertain way towards democracy. Irritated that they had to work between Christmas and New Years, they acted out their aggression on the arriving pa.s.sengers. Steven noticed that those with Yugoslav pa.s.sports received the worst treatment. By the time he cleared customs, his head was swimming from cigarette smoke and exhaustion. He took a taxi through the decaying center of Budapest, sucked dry by 45 years of Marxism, to a cheap hotel on the Buda side of the river near Moskva Ter, where he collapsed into a deep sleep.

The next day didn't dawn, as much as it gradually grew less dark. He crawled from bed and walked to the bathroom to find lukewarm water, soap that burned his skin, sandpaper masquerading as toilet paper, and bath towels only slightly larger than washcloths. After his morning routine of pushups and sit-ups he ate breakfast in a socialist-chic dining room that probably looked shabby the day it was remodeled in the 1970s. Breakfast consisted of a barely palatable hard-boiled egg, two pieces of bread with a slab of b.u.t.ter and marmalade, accompanied by a metal cup of warm milk with curdled skin floating on the surface. Steven was the only guest at breakfast, and the waiter spent most of the time glaring over his bushy moustache, frustrated at having to work over the holidays.

After breakfast Steven put on his winter coat and fur hat, left his hotel room and slogged through the lightly falling snow into the city, still groggy from jet lag. Map in hand, he took the subway to the Pest side to an old neighborhood near the National Opera, to a crumbling Habsburg-era apartment building. Steven walked through the main doors into the courtyard, tripped over snow-covered garbage, and entered a stairwell. As he climbed the dark unlit steps, the sounds of conversations, domestic arguments and television mingled with the smell of paprikash, urine and human feces. Reaching the fourth floor, he walked around the open walkway, holding tightly to the wobbly rusted iron railing, taking care to avoid sheets of ice. He stopped and knocked at a door. There was no answer.

As he knocked again, faded blue paint from the door came off on his glove. Steven heard a shuffling sound from inside, saw a light appear in the transom above the door, and heard the lock click. A white-haired man opened the door part way, looked out at him from under bushy white eyebrows, rubbed his red nose and barked something unintelligible in Hungarian.

'Guten tag,' Steven answered. He hoped the man spoke German. 'Sind Sie Professor Doktor Nagy Are you Professor Doctor Nagy?'

'Ja, Ich bin Doktor Professor Nagy Yes, I am Doctor Professor Nagy.'

'Ich habe fur Sie ein Brief von Professor Doktor Marko Slatina I have a letter for you from Professor Doctor Marko Slatina.' Steven handed him an envelope.

Nagy opened it and read it slowly. He then looked at Steven and said in thickly accented English: 'It is cold outside. Please do come in and make yourself at home.' He opened the door. 'Permit me to take your coat.' He stripped it from Steven's back and placed it on a coat rack before he could react. 'Marko wrote me about you. I expected your arrival much sooner.'

Nagy's house slippers and woolen sweater made him appear overstuffed. He ushered Steven down a short hallway to a tiny sitting room that appeared to also serve as a sleeping area and study, cleared a pile of books from a folded sofa bed and placed them on an end table hidden under even more papers and books. A television glowed silently as folk dancers in colorful Hungarian costumes leaped cheerfully across the screen, accompanied by a radiator hissing against the wall.

'Sooooo,' Nagy drew out the word as though it had several syllables. 'How is my dear friend Marko?'

'Professor Slatina is well,' Steven said formally. 'He asked me to give you his warmest regards and thank you for the hospitality and friends.h.i.+p you've shown him in the past, and said that he appreciates your correspondence.'

'Aahh, that is too nice of him. He is a good man, you know? I recall him fondly from happier days. He could certainly turn a young lady's head, you know. May I make you some tea?' Steven nodded. 'Would you like black or chamomile?'

'Chamomile, thank you.'

Nagy disappeared into another room, and Steven watched folk dancers gyrate across the TV screen. He waited through a short harvest dance, as well as a longer courts.h.i.+p dance. Why do the women folk dancers wear red rubber boots? he asked himself. Nagy finally returned bearing a silver tray with old porcelain cups, steam rising from the surface. 'Sooo, tell me now, what you are doing.' He enthusiastically pa.s.sed a cracked sugar dish to Steven.

'Professor Slatina arranged a fellows.h.i.+p from the Balkan Ethnographic Trust. I'll be spending the next twelve months in Serbia. If things calm down I might go to Croatia, perhaps even the Dubrovnik archives, if the siege lifts.'

'Hmmm, the Balkan Ethnographic Trust. Never heard of it. But then the communists kept us far from the academic mainstream. Too much knowledge was always dangerous, so they tried to limit people's access to all types of information, forcing them to place all their faith in the infallibility of the party. In his letter Marko tells me that he wishes you to examine certain doc.u.ments in the national archive. Unfortunately you have arrived between Christmas and New Year, and everything is closed. The archive will remain closed until the end of the first week of January. And even if you wait until then, there may not be much heat, as they are short of funds.'

Steven looked dismayed.

'However, not to worry, I have already taken care of things through some connections and have had photocopies made,' Nagy smiled triumphantly. 'But first you must finish your tea, and then we shall turn to business. Egeszsegedre' Cheers!' He lifted his tea cup.

Nagy spent the rest of the day going through photocopies of old doc.u.ments with Steven, most of them in Latin, most relating to the medieval Hungarian kingdom during the reigns of Sigismund I, Janos Hunyadi and Matthius Corvinus. Steven was exhausted from jet lag, the stale air of the cramped apartment was tiring him and the silent folk-dance marathon had a distracting, yet hypnotic effect. As they pondered royal charters, land deeds, grants, endowments, testaments and other doc.u.ments, he became increasingly confused...n.o.ble houses, royal blood lines, treaties, marriage alliances, wars with the Turks, feuds between n.o.bles, court intrigues, international diplomacy, the Holy Roman Empire... He wondered how 15th century Hungarian history was relevant to ethnography and the study of monsters in folklore. As jet-lag hit he fought to stay awake and rapidly lost interest. He repeatedly asked for more tea, but by 3:00 PM his head was swimming and his eyes lost focus as he began to nod off.

'Wake up young man,' Nagy nudged him. 'We are here to study, not sleep.' Steven excused himself, and asked if they might continue the next day.

He went back to the hotel restaurant and ordered a bowl of fiery red fish paprikash stew with black bread, under the scowling moustachioed supervision of the same waiter who had served him breakfast, then returned to his room and plunged immediately into a deep sleep, only to wake up around 3:00 a.m. Jet lag, he thought. He lay in bed for hours, trying futilely to sleep. Sometime around 5:00 a.m. he drifted off, only to dream that he was the King of Hungary, sitting on a throne in the middle of a university lecture hall, surrounded by moustachioed n.o.bility, all staring at him and speaking in a strange language while jumping back and forth performing folk dances. He tried to get them to quiet down, but to no avail. Finally he stood to address the n.o.bles and noticed that he was clad only in underwear and red rubber boots, which caused the n.o.bility to laugh at him. He picked up his royal scepter to strike out at them, but it somehow transformed into the steering wheel of his battered Toyota Tercel, and he was now driving Katarina home to her dorm in the middle of the day. As he stopped the car she smiled, squeezed his hand, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered softly: 'Clean the pots and pans with dishwas.h.i.+ng liquid, then dry them with a dish rag.' He then dreamt that Professor Slatina was giving a lecture on the best way to prepare meals made from serpents, dragons and Vojvodina wine. Steven awoke, confused and disoriented. 'I'll never eat fish paprikash again,' he swore to himself.

En route to Nagy's apartment he purchased a kilogram of coffee and a bottle of Tokaji wine, which he presented to the professor. Given Nagy's obvious poverty Steven suspected he didn't have much money for coffee, and Steven hoped the coffee might help keep him awake. Nagy was waiting anxiously, papers in hand. 'Today we will review doc.u.ments pertaining to one of the more interesting phenomena in Hungarian history, and I am certain it will keep you awake. And you will not need coffee. You see this doc.u.ment here? What can you tell me about it?'

Steven squinted at the handwritten Latin text. 'Well, it looks as though it is the founding charter of a knightly order...it is dated 12 December 1408 by Sigismund I, King of Hungary. The co-founders consist of twenty one Barones, which I a.s.sume to be n.o.bility or Barons. Now this is interesting... Barbara von Cilli is listed as a cofounder,' he exclaimed. 'Isn't this unusual to have a woman belong to a knightly order, much less co-found one?'

'Yes, most unusual,' Nagy agreed.

'And who is Barbara von Cilli?'

'The second wife of King Sigismund. She was the daughter of a Slovenian n.o.bleman. But she is tangential, unless you like stories of lesbian vampires,' Nagy smiled as if sharing a secret.

'A lesbian vampire?' Steven woke up suddenly as lurid images from p.u.b.erty flashed through his head.

'Yes. After the death of Sigismund, Barbara moved to Bohemia, where the Habsburgs accused her of drinking human blood during Holy Communion and holding s.e.xual orgies with young girls. I am certain that someday Hollywood will make a movie about it. But that is beside the point,' Nagy gestured at the photocopy. 'Please, would you continue with the doc.u.ment?'

'It is called the Societas Draconis, the 'Society of the Dragon,' it has as its emblem the Signum draconis, 'Sign of the Dragon,' and its motto is O quam misericors est Deus, Justus et Pius, "O how merciful is G.o.d, Just and Faithful".' He thought to himself: 'Haven't I seen that somewhere?'

'Professor Nagy, why are we examining this particular Order?' Steven asked.

'The younger generation is so impatient. You have no concept of the work required to get good answers,' scolded Nagy. 'Marko asked me to educate you about the history and importance of the Order. Did he not tell you? No, of course not, he likes his little surprises. You will find that out in the course of your research. Now, let us examine other doc.u.ments to discover more answers.'

They spent the remainder of the morning examining doc.u.ments pertaining to the Society of the Dragon. During their brief lunch break Nagy turned on the television and they watched a 100-piece Gypsy all-violin orchestra perform Strauss, Liszt and Brahms in a madcap, enthusiastically undisciplined fas.h.i.+on that reminded Steven of a sprint to the finish of the Tour de France or Spike Jones playing the Blue Danube Waltz. But the musical chaos was a welcome relief from the folk dancers. Lunch was homemade and modest: cuc.u.mber and ham sandwiches served with plain yogurt, followed by steaming cups of strong Turkish coffee. After they drank their coffee thick sludge remained in the cups. Nagy turned his upside down on his saucer, waited a few moments, removed the cup and pointed at the brownish-black streaks on the saucer and in the cup.

'You know, Steven, there are women in the Balkans who can read your future from the patterns they see in the sludge.'

They continued reading doc.u.ments all afternoon, and Nagy had to help Steven with the more difficult pa.s.sages of Latin. The work was tedious, but Steven stayed awake and focused, thanks largely to the strong Turkish coffee. Around 5:30 PM, after they had put away the photocopies and Nagy had brought out some sliced kobasica and cheese and poured them each a gla.s.s of Tokaji, he asked Steven: 'What have we learned thus far about the Society of the Dragon?'

'Well,' Steven said, 'it's a rather murky organization. Although the charter dates from 1408, it appears that it may have been in existence as early as 1381, or perhaps in 1387 at the time Sigismund was in exile.' He looked to Nagy for approval.

The professor nodded and smiled. 'Continue.'

'It was called by several names depending on the time period.' Steven thumbed through his notes. 'Various doc.u.ments refer to it as Societas Draconis - the "Society of the Dragon", Fraternatis Draconem - the "Brotherhood of the Dragon", Ordo Draconis - the "Order of the Dragon" and Societatis Draconistarum once again the "Society of the Dragon". And judging by the two different spellings of the words 'society' and 'dragon', I'd say that I'm not the only person who had difficulty with Latin in school.'

'Yes, yes, quite right. In Hungarian we call it Sarkany Rend - the Order of the Dragon. Please continue.'

'Each member had two different capes, one dark green, and the other black. They wore the black cape on Fridays to signify penitence, and the green cape the remainder of the time. They also wore a cross around their necks with the Order's motto on it. They were supposed to wear the Order's dragon insignia prominently at all times and to include the Order's insignia in their coat of arms. There was an inner circle of 24 n.o.bles and an outer circle with unlimited members.h.i.+p. It had some rather interesting members. There is Hrvoje, the Duke of Spalato in Dalmatia; Stefan Lazarevic, the Despot of Serbia; and I noticed that Vlad II, Vojvoda of Wallachia, was made a member of the inner circle in 1431...isn't that Dracula?'

'No. Dracula was Vlad III, Tsepe. This was his father, Vlad II, who was known as Dracul. The name Dracul means 'Dragon' in Romanian and Vlad got his nickname because he displayed the Order's dragon insignia. His son, Vlad III was called Dracula, meaning 'of Dracul.' It was also a play on words, as the Romanian word for 'devil' is almost identical to the name 'Dracul,' and may have reflected the Romanians' true feelings about the behavior of their Vojvoda.'

'Oh.'

'Now, tell me, what was the purpose of the Order?'

'I haven't the faintest idea.'

'Excellent, excellent. Your honesty is most admirable. And you stand in good company. You see, no one really knows the reason the Order was founded, and part of the answer may depend on when it was founded and by whom.'

'I don't understand.'

'Excellent, excellent. Please bear with me. If the Order was founded in 1387 or 1408 by Sigismund then we may believe that its purpose was to strengthen Sigismund and the Luxembourg dynasty's claim to the throne of Hungary, and there is no question that he used the Order to do just that and buy off his n.o.bles. But he also used it to protect Hungary's southern borders against the Turks. In some instances we see both motives at work, such as when he granted the famed silver mines of Srebrenica to Despot Stefan Lazarevic in 1412. At that time Hungary held t.i.tle to the area, but had long ago lost effective control of it to local magnates, backed by the Bosnian kings. Sigismund deeded the mines to Stefan under the conditions that they be placed back into production and that the crown received a percentage of the proceeds. The induction of Vlad II into the Order is also an example of how he attempted to pacify a potentially troublesome n.o.bleman and form a bulwark against the Turks.'

Steven nodded his agreement: 'It makes sense. The king wanted to unite his n.o.bles around him and strengthen his position on the throne, so, he formed an exclusive by-invitation-only club with 24 members, and bought off the n.o.bility by giving them deeds to lands that are rightfully his, but over which he has lost control. I see nothing wrong with that explanation.'

'Well, you see, actually much is wrong,' Nagy was now getting excited. 'Firstly you must ask yourself what it means if the Order actually existed before Sigismund came to the throne in 1387. As you have seen there are references to it as early as 1381. I am told that it may have existed further south in Serbia even earlier than this and that several of its members may have been killed at the Battle of Kosovo Field on St. Vitus' Day in 1389. Thus, it may well have been an already existing Order that Sigismund took over and used for his own purposes. Remember, this Order is quite unusual in relation to other medieval knightly orders in that it had no headquarters or regular meetings that we are aware of. We must also ask about the name.'

'What's so unusual about the name?'

Nagy closed his eyes and began reciting from memory: And there was a war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels, and prevailed not; neither was their place found any more in heaven. And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him. And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death.

'That is from the Revelation of St. John, the twelfth chapter. They overcame the dragon by blood...the blood of the Lamb. So if the Dragon is a.s.sociated with Satan, why is the Order called after the Dragon. Why not the order of St. George, especially since the members of the Order wore the cross of St. George at all times? After all, the Dragon represents the evil one, Satan. Were they in fact Satan wors.h.i.+ppers? Why name your order after your adversary?' Nagy waved a forefinger.

'Didn't some African and indigenous American tribes believe they could take on the powers and attributes of their enemies by eating their hearts?' Steven interjected. 'Perhaps this was something similar...name yourself after your enemy in order to take his power and defeat him.'

'That is precisely my point,' Nagy enthused. 'It is entirely possible that they were not originally organized to fight against the Turks or to strengthen the Luxembourg dynasty. In fact, they do not appear to have been visibly organized at all. Or, if they were organized, it was as a secret society about which little knowledge has survived. And why would they be organized in secret? Because they were formed to fight against the serpent himself, Satan. Therefore they took upon themselves the name of their adversary.' He stopped, pondered what he had just said, and added: 'but these are simply the musings of an old man. The only evidence I have is circ.u.mstantial. Whatever the purpose of the Order, it is well concealed to this day.'

Both sat silently for some time, sipping their Tokaji. Then Nagy asked: 'Tomorrow is Sylvester. Do you have plans?'

'Sylvester? What's that?'

'The day of St. Sylvester...New Year's Eve. You must come with me. Some colleagues and I are having a get-together to celebrate the New Year. Meet me here at 9:00 PM.'

Steven froze as he thought back twenty four months, when he sat in a wheelchair on New Year's Eve, keeping vigil at a hospital bedside, holding her pale hand as her life slipped away.

'Steven?'

'Oh, yes. I'll come. Thank you.'

Steven arrived the next evening at Professor Nagy's apartment to find him wearing a brown suit with a red waistcoat and a completely inappropriate broad green tie that had somehow survived the 1970s and now lay on top of his waistcoat.

'Welcome,' Nagy said, the smell of alcohol already strong on his breath. He wrapped himself against the cold, and led Steven several blocks away where they entered a dark doorway, descended stairs, knocked, a small panel slid open, words were exchanged, and a metal door swung open, hitting them with a cacophony of sound and tobacco smoke.

Steven entered a dimly-lit cellar of vaulted brick with paper decorations stars, moons, suns, posters with unintelligible phrases he a.s.sumed meant 'Happy New Year' in Hungarian. At the far end a small jazz combo tried to follow a skinny blonde singing 'It's only a paper moon.'

Nagy pulled him to a table in an alcove, around which sat a group of elderly men and women.