House of the Lost (40 page)

‘How can you have half an egg?’

‘I don’t know, but that’s what it said. Ceau
escu says he’s keeping food out of the shops so we don’t get fat. I’d like to see anyone get fat on the food in the shops. Chicken wings and claws. Things made out of soy and bonemeal. Can you remember the last time you had meat – proper real meat?’

‘Wilma buys sardines,’ said Matthew, who could not bear sardines. ‘She says they’re just as good as meat, really. And she buys BucureÅŸti salami, although she says that’s no more than bonemeal, soy and pork lard.’

‘And the Ceau
escus have at least a dozen fine mansions and yachts, and lavish banquets whenever they want,’ said Mikhail bitterly. ‘I would like to kill them. I think Elena Ceau
escu’s a vampire.’

‘You don’t do you? Not really?’

‘I do. She sucks the life out of this country like Dracula. Or like the Hungarian Countess, Elizabeth Bathory bathing in virgins’ blood.’

‘Mikhail, where on earth—’

‘Books mostly,’ he said. ‘The ones in your father’s library.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘You did say I could borrow whatever I wanted, and I always,
always
return them.’

‘You can read the entire shelves,’ said Matthew, who liked and trusted Mikhail more than anyone else in the world, except perhaps Wilma. Mikhail was constantly surprising him.

‘Some of the books are in French,’ said Mikhail. ‘I’m trying to learn French, a bit at a time. Some of the finest literature in the world is written in French, it’d be good to read all those books in the original language. Proust, Voltaire and Dumas. And English. Think of reading Shakespeare and Dickens in their own language. Languages are interesting, aren’t they? And useful. You never know when you might travel to another country; you’d want to know how to talk to people, wouldn’t you?’

On the night before Matthew’s eighteenth birthday Wilma came plodding determinedly into the study. Matthew liked being in the study because it made him feel near to his father. He liked having the photograph of his mother to look at while he sketched or read, as well. He was sketching when Wilma came in. She wanted, she said, to speak about Matthew’s future.

He put down his sketchpad to hear what was clearly a prepared speech.

‘You need a future,’ said Wilma, ‘with proper training. It’s what your father wanted and it’s what your mother would have wanted as well.’

‘I’ll have to have a job, won’t I?’ said Matthew. He did not know what kind of job he could get, but it was what people did when they left school. There was money in a bank somewhere for paying bills and buying food. Wilma had always said there was not a great deal of it but they would manage and Matthew was not to worry. Matthew had never entirely understood how it worked, but supposed one day he would find out.

He found out that night. It seemed that when he was very small, his father had set up some kind of trust fund with a bank.

‘It was in case anything should happen to him,’ said Wilma. ‘Maybe even that far back he thought those people would get him one day.’

‘And they did,’ said Matthew.

‘Yes. Well now, I don’t understand all this trust stuff – I never heard tell of such a thing before – but your father was a clever man, and he wanted to make sure you would have a little money. So he worked it all out with the people at the bank, without telling you. There were pieces of paper to be signed. I had to put my name to them as well, saying I had seen your father sign while I was in the room. A legal thing, so they said.’

This was exciting because it was as if his father was stretching out a reassuring hand from the past, but it was also dreadfully sad because of his father not being here to do the reassuring.

‘I never read the words on those pieces of paper,’ said Wilma, ‘and I daresay I shouldn’t have understood one word in twenty anyway. But what I do know is that it meant when you came to be eighteen there’d be money for you to study whatever you wanted. Not a lot of money, but your father thought it would be enough.’

‘To study whatever I wanted,’ said Matthew, staring at her, feeling something start to open up inside his head.

‘The university if that’s what you want,’ nodded Wilma. ‘You’d have to work hard at some exams or other – I daresay you’ll know about that, or the teachers at the school would.’

Matthew, his heart beating very fast, said, ‘Yes, they would know.’

‘It would be studying painting and drawing, I daresay?’ she said. ‘That’s what you’ll want, isn’t it? Although how you’d make a living from it, I don’t know any more than the man in the moon.’

‘I don’t know either,’ said Matthew, and discovered he was having to control his voice very tightly in case he started crying. My father’s gift to me, he thought. Wherever he is now, will he remember I’m eighteen tomorrow and know I’m being told about this money? Will he even be allowed to remember? For a moment the old image of stone cells and prisoners was with him so vividly he could feel the dank cold of the stones and almost smell the despair and bitterness. It was unbearable to think his father might be in one of those places. Matthew struggled to summon the memory of him seated at the desk in this room, smiling his gentle smile. But it eluded him and all he could see was his father being taken away by the Securitate, shouting back the words of encouragement as they drove off. ‘I’ll be back very soon . . . whatever happens, remember I love you very much . . .’

Matthew dug his fingernails into his palm to stop himself crying because he was eighteen tomorrow and grown-up people did not cry.

After a moment he was able to say to Wilma, ‘Yes. If there’s enough money, it would be studying painting and drawing I’d want to do.’

There was enough money.

‘But only just,’ said the man in the bank, to which Matthew, nervous and apprehensive, travelled. ‘You won’t be able to live a high lifestyle – in fact you might have to do evening work at times. If it’s art you want to study, you’ll need expensive materials – paints, brushes and canvases. But a lot of students have jobs in cafes and bars and so on, and there’s no reason why you can’t do the same. I daresay you’ll cope.’

‘I daresay I will,’ said Matthew, who would have scrubbed floors all night and every night if he could be taught to draw and paint during the day.

‘Your school can probably advise you as to an actual place,’ said the man.

‘Yes.’ Matthew had already talked to his art teacher, who had been surprised and pleased and was finding out what was needed and what might be available. The Royal Drawing School in Budapest had been mentioned, which sounded dauntingly grand, but which nevertheless made Matthew’s heart thump with sheer joy.

‘You’re hesitating,’ said the bank manager. ‘Is it that you don’t understand about the trust fund? It’s a perfectly legal and usual arrangement. It was set up shortly after you were born.’

‘I understand that. It’s just . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Sir, my father was taken by the Securitate when I was nine.’ It came out in a rush and he had no idea if it was safe to say it to this unknown man. ‘I’ve never seen him since and I’ve never known what happened to him.’

But the manager said, very gently, ‘I know about that, Matthew. I didn’t know your father well, but I did know him for a man who spoke out against injustices – against what he saw to be injustices,’ he said quickly.

‘I don’t even know if he’s still alive,’ said Matthew. ‘But if he is . . .’

‘If he is, he could be anywhere in one of many prisons, and he could be in any of several countries.’

‘Oughtn’t I to try to find him? To use this money that way?’

The manager was silent for several minutes and Matthew began to be afraid he had said something wrong. But finally he said, ‘I suppose it would be possible to alter the terms of the trust – they say all laws are made to be broken – but this is a very strongly worded document. I think it would be expensive and also long-winded to break it. You’d probably use most of the money in lawyers’ fees and end with nothing – no funds to search for your father, and none for your studies, which is what your father wanted. He wanted you equipped to go out into the world and make your mark on it.’ He thought for a moment, then, clearly choosing his words carefully, said, ‘Matthew, the kind of search you’re talking about would be massively difficult and probably unsuccessful. The Securitate is a formidable engine; it’s very good indeed at keeping its secrets.’

‘You don’t think I’d find him?’

‘I think it’s unlikely in the extreme. What I do think is that you’d break your heart and end up with nothing. It could even be dangerous for you. Your father was what they call high profile, Matthew. His articles were scathing attacks on Romania’s government, so if it became known that Andrei Valk’s son was prying into the Securitate’s work . . . into their prisons, into the identities of the occupants . . . I’m sure you can see what I mean.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘I don’t think any of his articles appeared in this country, which is probably why it took so long for the Securitate to compile enough evidence to arrest him. Although I don’t know what really happened.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘They frequently imprison people on what seems to us a thin thread of evidence, but your father’s name was known in foreign newspapers and so they’d have had to be very careful. I’d say they took their time and made sure the proof was watertight. So even if you did find him, it might be very hard indeed to disprove the accusations or the charges. My advice is that you use this trust fund in the way your father – perhaps your mother, too – wanted.’

‘I’ll trust your judgement,’ said Matthew, meaning it. ‘Thank you very much for being so frank.’ He spoke truthfully; he did not think there was anything sinister behind the advice.

The manager stood up and held out his hand. ‘Good luck to you, Matthew,’ he said. ‘Work hard, but remember to play hard as well.’

‘Thank you. I’ll try to do both.’

Romania, early 1980s

There were times in Budapest, at the Royal Drawing School, when Matthew felt deeply guilty for being so happy. It seemed to him the ultimate delight to be living in this beautiful city; to have a tiny studio apartment of his own with marvellous views over the rooftops; to go with fellow students to the cafes and bars; to take the metro to visit castles and churches and study the fragments of breathtakingly beautiful Turkish and Magyar art, and see the influences of the Italian Renaissance. He learned some Italian so he could understand Italian painting and sculpture better, and from there found it not too difficult to pick up a little more English and French. But to draw and paint all day and every day with people who understood that this was the most important thing in life, and who were patient in helping Matthew to become better – that was the most wonderful thing of all.