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journey.
    “Off they went, to Hallstatt. It was late autumn. There wasn’t a soul there besides them. There’s nothing more funereal than an old historical watering place like that. A castle or cathedral might be ancient, past its time, crumbling away here and there. It’s natural, that’s its function. But when that sort of place, a coffee-house or a promenade, designed for the pleasures of the moment, when that shows its impermanence—there’s nothing more ghastly.”
    “Yes, yes,” said Erzsi, “just get on with it. What happened to Tamás and Éva?”
    “My dear, if I beat about the bush and philosophise, it’s because from that point on I don’t know what happened to them. I never saw them again. In Hallstatt Tamás Ulpius poisoned himself. This time he made no mistake.”
    “And Éva?”
    “You mean, what part did she have in Tamás’s death? Perhaps none. I’ve no way of knowing. She never returned. It was said that after he died some high-ranking foreign officer came and took her away.
    “Perhaps I might have been able to meet her. Once or twice in the following years there might have been a chance. From time to time János would pitch up out of the blue, make obscure reference to the fact that he could possibly arrange for me to see her, and would be happy to do so I if I would reward his services. But by then I had no desire to meet Éva. That’s why János said earlier tonight that it was my fault, because I walked out on the friends of my youth, when all I had to do was hold out my hand … He was right. When Tamás died I believe I went out of my mind. And then I decided I would change, I would tear myself away from the spell. I didn’t want to go the way he went. I would become a respectable person. I left the university, trained for my father’s profession, went abroad to get a better grasp of things, then went home and worked hard to become just like everyone else.
    “As regards the Ulpius house, my sense of impermanence was not misplaced. Everything was destroyed. Nothing was left. Old Ulpius didn’t live long after. He was beaten to death while making his way home drunk from a bar on the outskirts of town. The house had earlier been bought by a rich fellow called Munk, a business friend of my father’s. I visited there once. It was awful. They’d fitted it out wonderfully, as if it were much older than it really was. There’s now a genuine Florentine well in the courtyard. The grandfather’s room became an Altdeutsch dining-room with oak panelling. And our rooms! My God, they turned them into some sort of old Hungarian guest house or God knows what, with painted chests, jugs and knick-knacks. Tamás’s room! Talk about impermanence … Holy God, it’s so late! Sorry, love, but I had to tell you all this at some time, no matter how stupid it might sound from the outside … Now, I’m off to bed.”
    “Mihály … you promised to tell me how Tamás Ulpius died. And you haven’t told me why he died.”
    “I haven’t told you how he died because I don’t know. And why he died? Hmmm. Perhaps he was bored to death. Life can be really boring, no?”
    “No. But let’s get some sleep. It’s very late.”

V
    I N FLORENCE their luck ran out. It rained the whole time they were there. As they stood outside the Cathedral in their raincoats Mihály suddenly burst into laughter. He had just understood the complete tragedy of the building. There it rose in its unparalleled beauty, and no-one took it seriously. For tourists and art-historians it had become a landmark, and no-one gave it a second thought. No-one believed in it, or that its purpose there was to proclaim the glory of God and the city.
    They went up to Fiesole, and watched a storm hurrying with busy speed over the hills to overtake them. They retreated inside the monastery and viewed the copious oriental bric-a-brac which the pious brothers had brought back from their missions over the centuries. Mihály stood in wonder for