I was afraid that he might be astonished and horrified by my predicament, or else denounce me on the spot as a compulsive liar. But Stephomi merely sat for some moments after I had finished, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his slender fingers and frowning slightly, as if contemplating an interesting puzzle.
‘Amnesia?’ he said at last. ‘Most unusual. And all this from hitting yourself with a shelf and falling from a chair?’
‘Well, as far as I can tell.’
‘And there is nothing in your apartment that gives you some clue as to what your life was before? No one has been in contact with you?’
‘No, but that’s because I’ve only just moved in. I don’t think anyone knows where I am. I don’t know what to do about it!’
‘You’re right. It’s a bloody mystery, Gabriel. But I’m sure the amnesia won’t be permanent. These things usually aren’t. You’ll just have to wait it out.’
‘Wait it out?’ I asked, appalled. ‘But I could go on like this for years!’
Stephomi shrugged. ‘The only other thing to do is go to the police. There’s nothing to stop you doing that if you want to.’
I could see him watching me closely. I hadn’t told him about the large stash of cash I had found in my apartment, and had no wish to let him know of the sinister elements I had deliberately left out.
‘I’d rather not do that…’ I began uncertainly.
‘Well, if your family aren’t in this country, then there’s probably little the Hungarian police could do anyway. I’d wait it out, if I were you. I mean, your friends and family must have known that you were moving to Budapest. I expect one of them will seek you out eventually, even if they don’t have your address. There can’t be that many English people living here. It’s only been two months, Gabriel. I’m sure everything will resolve itself eventually, just give it some time. And if your family is anything like mine, then be prepared for the ribbing of your life when they find out that you managed to knock yourself out with a shelf within days of moving in.’
His attitude made me feel so much better. I wouldn’t always be in this situation. It was just a matter of time. It was not something to become hysterical about. I’m glad that I trusted Stephomi with this. Perhaps, in time, I will be able to tell him about the other things. I’m sure he would be able to come up with a rational explanation for everything else that has happened to me too.
When I returned to my apartment after meeting Stephomi at the Hilton, I sat thinking for a while about what he’d said, replaying the whole meeting in my mind several times, feeling much calmer about the situation than I had done this morning. I lost track of time and when I at last glanced at my watch, it was too late to go out for dinner. It had started to rain and large drops splattered against the darkened windows. It was not until then that I realised I had been sitting in darkness on the couch in my living room for some time. Reaching out a hand, I turned on the nearby lamp, bathing the room in a pale glow. The apartment was silent but for the rain falling outside. I gazed into the mirror hanging opposite me on the wall and watched the second hand of the reflected clock ticking round in anti-clockwise circles — an oddly discordant sight.
And then, quite suddenly, he was there without my even seeing him arrive. A man standing behind me in the mirror, next to the bookshelf, cold aversion on his face as our eyes met through the reflected glass. I recognised him. I had seen him twice before, both times in dreams. On the first occasion, he had walked into my apartment and destroyed the card given to me by Stephomi. On the second, he had been there in St Stephen’s Basilica when the Nazis were looting the bell. And now, once again, flames flickered around the man and dripped from him like water.
‘ Traitor! ’ he hissed hatefully. ‘ Go back where you came from! ’
I could not place the language, although I could understand the words. His voice was deep, with a steely hard edge. I tried to say something but my mouth wouldn’t open, my limbs wouldn’t move. The suddenness with which he pulled a large book from my bookcase and hurled it at me, sparks spitting from its cover, shocked me out of my paralysis and I instinctively threw myself to the floor, hands over my head, as the burning book flew towards me…
I woke with a start, still sprawled on the couch, my heart beating quickly. The living room was filled with shadows. I must have nodded off — but such a thing is most unlike me. I just don’t get tired. I reached out my hand and turned on the lamp for real this time. Unable to resist, I glanced over my shoulder at the bookcase. There was no burning man standing there. There was no burning book on the couch beside me.
The evenings are worse. Much worse, somehow, than the days. That is why I usually eat out in the city and return to the apartment late. I find the silence and the emptiness oppressive, and it’s the evening, more than any other time, when loneliness throbs inside me, even though I know this is only temporary. It will not go on for ever; I will eventually be reunited with all those people I knew. But for now I have no memories to return to. I’m not greedy; I wouldn’t expect to get them all back in one go. But I’d like to have just one of those golden ones… You know, something you find yourself thinking about for hours, revisiting a moment that once made you so happy. A memory that can distract you from any present bitterness. Sometimes I think even unhappy memories would be better then nothing. They would make me feel less like a ghost, an invisible man, a no one. If nothing else, at least there would not then be this terrible, vast emptiness that eats away at me like some sort of cancer from within.
I stood up, stretched stiffly, and wandered to the bookshelf. All the books were lined neatly on their shelves, and everything seemed to be in order. But then I looked again and realised that one book was not in its rightful place. As I’ve mentioned, I keep my books arranged in alphabetical order, and one book entitled Keepers of the Circles should have been filed under K but was at the front with the Bs. Clicking my tongue with disapproval, I pulled the book out by its spine. Like so many of my books, this one was old and well worn and when I removed it from the shelf, a page fell from it. I bent to pick it up and then paused as a familiar name on the page caught my eye. Then I felt my lips curving in a grimace. Reluctantly, I walked back to the couch, the book and loose page in my hand.
When I first began to try and find out who I was, I had examined the name Gabriel in some depth. But I had never got very far with Antaeus, never even been able to trace its origin. Now the name gaped at me from these pages. This book was yet another one about Hell — Jesus, I really had been completely obsessed with it — the nine circles of sin contained within the centre of the Earth where the condemned are forced to wallow for eternity in atonement for their earthly crimes. The circles are concentric, each one representing a greater evil, culminating in the centre of the Earth where Satan is bound in a great sphere of sparkling ice.
Each circle represents a different kind of sin, and each circle’s tortures are different, corresponding with perfect symmetry to the crime committed. These punishments are dreadful to read of, turning the stomach and the soul with horror, and one can see why religion and the threat of an everlasting Hell used to inspire such fear in more religious days gone by. The Heretics of the Sixth Circle are condemned to an eternity of confinement within burning tombs. The Violent of the Seventh Circle are doomed to the eternal agony of being submerged in hot blood, the rim of this Circle guarded by centaurs that will shoot any souls who attempt to rise. Those who committed suicide are condemned to the Seventh Circle where they are turned into thorny black trees, their own human corpses hanging from the branches. The Sowers of Discord of the Eight Circle have their bodies ripped apart by demons, only to heal and be ripped apart again and again in a never-ending cycle of agony.