Read Online Ascension by Steven Galloway - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven Galloway
Ads: Link
tentatively—came the sound of knuckles on wood, emanating from downstairs. Esa’s brow furrowed. From about eight o’clock in the morning until nine o’clock at night, the main door to the apartment house was left unlocked. So why was someone knocking?
Esa considered going down to see who it was. Three years ago she would not have hesitated, but now things were in a state of upheaval, governments falling like raindrops, some new revolution always threatening the last, and in this time of instability it was hard to know the right thing to do. But surely there could be no harm in answering a knock at the door, could there? she asked herself. Maybe if her husband László were here he would know what to do. But he was one of the lucky ones who still had a job. Most of the others who hadn’t fought in the war were not so fortunate. No, it was a good thing that László Nagy was not at home in the middle of the day.
Well, she decided, we are still living in a civilized country, and in civilized places when a door is knocked upon you answer it. She smoothed her skirts and walked out of the kitchen, into the front room and through the main door. The door opened onto a catwalk that ran along the front and sides of the apartment house, and was exposed to the middle of the building, where there was an open courtyard. Esa walked the length of the catwalk, past two other apartments, to a large curving staircase that led down to the ground floor. She kept a firm hand on the banister as she descended, wary of a fall. The treads of the staircase had been worn dangerously smooth by generations of feet, and it was easy to slip. There had once been an ornate newel post at the foot of the stairs, but in the years following the apartment house’s prime, some irreverent children had sawed it level to the banister so that they could slide down the rail unobstructed.
The apartment house at 7 Viola Street was in one of Budapest’s rougher neighbourhoods, and it stood out like a pine tree in a desert. A three-storey building made of blocked stone, it was built in the early nineteenth century, intended as apartments for the city’s wealthier citizens. Now, a century later, the area was not one that anyone with a lot of money would want to live in, and the larger apartments had been subdivided into smaller ones. Despite the gradual disappearance of many of the building’s more ornate touches, it was still an undeniably fine residence, especially when the unusually reasonable rents were considered.
Esa reached the bottom of the staircase and entered the hallway that led to the front door. There was a row of mail boxes which, before the end of war, had contained letters on a frequent basis. With the chaos that followed the loss of not only the war but much of Hungary’s territory, and the subsequentgovernmental uncertainty, the mail had slowed to a mere trickle. It made little difference to Esa, who could neither read nor write, save to sign her own name, which her husband László had taught her to do.
There had once been a thick green carpet covering the floor of the hallway, but it had been removed in the latter stages of the war, exposing a wooden floor, its varnish unmarked. Signs of wear were now beginning to show, a trail of scuffs and water damage leading through the hall from the door to the staircase. Esa, who had never lived in such fine places before she had married László, was shocked to see that people would treat such a beautiful old building so poorly.
Esa braced herself and swung the heavy wooden door open. It gave way noiselessly, its hinges having been recently oiled by the building’s caretaker; this was one of the few jobs he did with any sort of regularity. A rush of cool air chased the opening door, sending a chill down Esa’s spine.
In the doorway leaned a thin, sick, exhausted Salvo Ursari. At first he was not sure whether this woman who stood before him was his aunt Esa or not. She looked like he remembered
Esa considered going down to see who it was. Three years ago she would not have hesitated, but now things were in a state of upheaval, governments falling like raindrops, some new revolution always threatening the last, and in this time of instability it was hard to know the right thing to do. But surely there could be no harm in answering a knock at the door, could there? she asked herself. Maybe if her husband László were here he would know what to do. But he was one of the lucky ones who still had a job. Most of the others who hadn’t fought in the war were not so fortunate. No, it was a good thing that László Nagy was not at home in the middle of the day.
Well, she decided, we are still living in a civilized country, and in civilized places when a door is knocked upon you answer it. She smoothed her skirts and walked out of the kitchen, into the front room and through the main door. The door opened onto a catwalk that ran along the front and sides of the apartment house, and was exposed to the middle of the building, where there was an open courtyard. Esa walked the length of the catwalk, past two other apartments, to a large curving staircase that led down to the ground floor. She kept a firm hand on the banister as she descended, wary of a fall. The treads of the staircase had been worn dangerously smooth by generations of feet, and it was easy to slip. There had once been an ornate newel post at the foot of the stairs, but in the years following the apartment house’s prime, some irreverent children had sawed it level to the banister so that they could slide down the rail unobstructed.
The apartment house at 7 Viola Street was in one of Budapest’s rougher neighbourhoods, and it stood out like a pine tree in a desert. A three-storey building made of blocked stone, it was built in the early nineteenth century, intended as apartments for the city’s wealthier citizens. Now, a century later, the area was not one that anyone with a lot of money would want to live in, and the larger apartments had been subdivided into smaller ones. Despite the gradual disappearance of many of the building’s more ornate touches, it was still an undeniably fine residence, especially when the unusually reasonable rents were considered.
Esa reached the bottom of the staircase and entered the hallway that led to the front door. There was a row of mail boxes which, before the end of war, had contained letters on a frequent basis. With the chaos that followed the loss of not only the war but much of Hungary’s territory, and the subsequentgovernmental uncertainty, the mail had slowed to a mere trickle. It made little difference to Esa, who could neither read nor write, save to sign her own name, which her husband László had taught her to do.
There had once been a thick green carpet covering the floor of the hallway, but it had been removed in the latter stages of the war, exposing a wooden floor, its varnish unmarked. Signs of wear were now beginning to show, a trail of scuffs and water damage leading through the hall from the door to the staircase. Esa, who had never lived in such fine places before she had married László, was shocked to see that people would treat such a beautiful old building so poorly.
Esa braced herself and swung the heavy wooden door open. It gave way noiselessly, its hinges having been recently oiled by the building’s caretaker; this was one of the few jobs he did with any sort of regularity. A rush of cool air chased the opening door, sending a chill down Esa’s spine.
In the doorway leaned a thin, sick, exhausted Salvo Ursari. At first he was not sure whether this woman who stood before him was his aunt Esa or not. She looked like he remembered
Similar Books
