down a side street, and finally we’re at the vegetarian place she’s picked. We walk down a creaky set of stairs, order at the counter, then take the only table left—a two-foot-square surface made out of plywood. Maria tells me to hold our place while she goes back to correct her smoothie order. While she’s gone, I pop open my compact and smear some concealer under my eyes, careful not to touch the lashes.
“There, I caught them before they put in the lychees,” says Maria, wiggling between the table and a pew-like bench bolted against the wall. She sits and shrugs off her electric blue plaid coat, flips her blonde waves behind her shoulders. “They just do not go with the raspberries, I think.”
“A tragedy averted.”
“Dani, now you are teasing me.” She smiles. “Have you been here before?” She knows I haven’t.
“No. It’s small.”
A man bumps my chair on his way to the next table, set not quite a foot away from ours.
“Part of the charm, you will see.”
“I’m sure I will.” I have to shout over the whirr of a blender.
“You are always so serious.” She leans in closer. “So,” she says, “the section I emailed?”
“Mmm. Interesting.”
“Interesting?” she repeats. “You see, finally, some of Báthory’s diaries and that is all you have to say?”
“It’s the beginning of a good story,” I say. “Maybe that’s all it was.” I keep my eyes on her face for any reaction. All she does is smile again, a carbon copy of the one she gave me thirty seconds earlier.
“Well, it is true, perhaps she did embellish things. Perhaps she fabricated the entire document. We cannot know for certain. But it is her writings, her words. Is that not what you wanted to see?”
“Her words?” I fold my hands together, place them on the plywood tabletop. “Do you have any documentation, any proof of your supposed discovery?”
“I see.” Another smile. “You doubt me.”
“I do.” I feel satisfied saying this to her. She’s quiet for a moment.
“Dani,” she finally says, “you know my interest in Báthory, it is genuine. To forge these documents, what benefit would it be to me?”
She has a point. It would be a huge risk for her career if she faked recovering the diary. But I wouldn’t put it past her to give me a highly stylized version of the truth.
“Well, then, as a professional archivist and curator, I am sure you have the necessary evidence to authenticate your discovery. So, to start, you can tell me how you found the originals,” I say.
“Dani, you are so impatient. Yes, I will tell you the whole story.”
“You mentioned something about Szeged?” I know this is a city in the south of Hungary, but while we were collaborating Maria had never described it as important to the search.
“Number eighty-seven! Eighty-seven!” yells a deep voice from behind the counter.
“Oh, now, that is us,” says Maria. She digs in her purse, pulls out a piece of paper and pushes it across the rough wooden tabletop towards me. She stands up and taps the paper a couple of times. “Look at this.”
“EIGHTY-SEVEN,” the voice hollers again, louder.
“Oh, I am coming. So impatient,” she says, striding off.
I look at the paper. It’s a handbill, purple with a thick white border and a logo for an art gallery in the top right corner. It reads Honey, Torture. A film and performance installation by Erszébet Báthory. The opening reception is in two weeks, and I realize part of the Fantasy and Disaster festival that Henry and a few other people from his residency have been preparing for too.
“I am so sorry. Can you excuse me?” Over my shoulder I hear Maria making her way through the crowd.
“There.” She leans around, one arm on either side of me, and sets down our tray. “Their salads are divine. And this will be the best moussaka you have had.” She wiggles back into her seat.
“We’ll see,” I say, setting down the flyer and picking up my cutlery.
She
“There, I caught them before they put in the lychees,” says Maria, wiggling between the table and a pew-like bench bolted against the wall. She sits and shrugs off her electric blue plaid coat, flips her blonde waves behind her shoulders. “They just do not go with the raspberries, I think.”
“A tragedy averted.”
“Dani, now you are teasing me.” She smiles. “Have you been here before?” She knows I haven’t.
“No. It’s small.”
A man bumps my chair on his way to the next table, set not quite a foot away from ours.
“Part of the charm, you will see.”
“I’m sure I will.” I have to shout over the whirr of a blender.
“You are always so serious.” She leans in closer. “So,” she says, “the section I emailed?”
“Mmm. Interesting.”
“Interesting?” she repeats. “You see, finally, some of Báthory’s diaries and that is all you have to say?”
“It’s the beginning of a good story,” I say. “Maybe that’s all it was.” I keep my eyes on her face for any reaction. All she does is smile again, a carbon copy of the one she gave me thirty seconds earlier.
“Well, it is true, perhaps she did embellish things. Perhaps she fabricated the entire document. We cannot know for certain. But it is her writings, her words. Is that not what you wanted to see?”
“Her words?” I fold my hands together, place them on the plywood tabletop. “Do you have any documentation, any proof of your supposed discovery?”
“I see.” Another smile. “You doubt me.”
“I do.” I feel satisfied saying this to her. She’s quiet for a moment.
“Dani,” she finally says, “you know my interest in Báthory, it is genuine. To forge these documents, what benefit would it be to me?”
She has a point. It would be a huge risk for her career if she faked recovering the diary. But I wouldn’t put it past her to give me a highly stylized version of the truth.
“Well, then, as a professional archivist and curator, I am sure you have the necessary evidence to authenticate your discovery. So, to start, you can tell me how you found the originals,” I say.
“Dani, you are so impatient. Yes, I will tell you the whole story.”
“You mentioned something about Szeged?” I know this is a city in the south of Hungary, but while we were collaborating Maria had never described it as important to the search.
“Number eighty-seven! Eighty-seven!” yells a deep voice from behind the counter.
“Oh, now, that is us,” says Maria. She digs in her purse, pulls out a piece of paper and pushes it across the rough wooden tabletop towards me. She stands up and taps the paper a couple of times. “Look at this.”
“EIGHTY-SEVEN,” the voice hollers again, louder.
“Oh, I am coming. So impatient,” she says, striding off.
I look at the paper. It’s a handbill, purple with a thick white border and a logo for an art gallery in the top right corner. It reads Honey, Torture. A film and performance installation by Erszébet Báthory. The opening reception is in two weeks, and I realize part of the Fantasy and Disaster festival that Henry and a few other people from his residency have been preparing for too.
“I am so sorry. Can you excuse me?” Over my shoulder I hear Maria making her way through the crowd.
“There.” She leans around, one arm on either side of me, and sets down our tray. “Their salads are divine. And this will be the best moussaka you have had.” She wiggles back into her seat.
“We’ll see,” I say, setting down the flyer and picking up my cutlery.
She
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