pulls her smoothie and her salad bowl towards her, and I shift my plate in front of me. “So, you will come,” she says, nodding to the paper.
“Is this by the Dutch artist, like the show in Budapest?”
“The one who has changed her name to Báthory, yes. But this one, you will like. It is her solo show.”
I’m curious, but the last time Maria and I went to a performance the evening ended badly. “So, you’re going?”
“Of course. Edward, he is reviewing several of the openings that night.”
I’m quiet for a moment, then say, “Henry is showing that night.”
“Your artist? In the festival?” Maria says in a singsong voice. “Which gallery? What is the name of the show? Is he working with anyone?” She rat-a-tats me with questions and immediately I regret mentioning it at all.
“I can’t remember.”
“Well, you must look it up,” she says. “Really, such luck. And also come with me, and Edward, to the Báthory show.” She takes a delicate sip from her smoothie. “Besides, for your work, it would be good. Seeing that man all of the time. Báthory was his muse, yes?”
I blow on a forkful of my moussaka. “I think they overheated this.”
“For the case with Foster.” She sips again, ladylike, her big eyes locked on me for a reaction.
The moussaka’s still steaming, but I try a bite anyway, then have to take a drink of ice water to cool the burn in my mouth. Maria keeps looking at me expectantly. Part of me wants to confide in her, to share the rush of my first interview with him. I also want to keep Foster to myself, like she’s kept the diaries. In the end, though, it matters very little what I want; as his clinician there’s not a lot I can divulge, not without getting into some messy moral and legal issues.
“There are rules about confidentiality,” I finally say. “You know that.”
“I suppose. But you have mentioned him before.”
“Not while I was his clinician.”
She smiles and I realize I’ve admitted to her that I have contact with him.
“The diaries,” I say. “You were going to explain to me how you found them.”
“Yes, that. But I am telling you very much, Danica.” She shuffles her plate over, puts her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her upturned palm. “I would like to hear about your work as well.”
“How polite of you.” I give her a close-lipped smile. “But really, I insist. So, the archives?”
“Yes, fine.” Maria takes her elbow off the table, leans back in her chair. “A few months after you left, the Báthory boxes came to the archives. I searched. It took many days.” She spears a tomato with her fork, takes a bite.
“And you found the diary in those boxes? Just like that, when no one else had before?”
She takes another bite of the tomato, then another drink of her smoothie. “No, I did not find them there. It was more complicated.”
I am so frustrated by the pace of her storytelling that I want to dump the rest of her smoothie in her lap. “Then where did you find them?”
“Dani, you are impatient. Is it your new job? You are very stressed? It is not good for you.”
“The diaries?”
“Yes, yes. I did not find them in the boxes at the archives. There is much material attached to the Báthory family. They were large, their dynasty—is that the word?—their titles and land were passed down for many years. But you know this. So, many letters, many documents, about estates, about inheritances. But not many personal papers, correspondences. I sent the boxes back. I spoke with the archival staff, with some of my other colleagues, I considered the research I had conducted already on Báthory. And then I had an idea!” Maria joyously clasps her hands together.
“Which was?”
“Čachtice, you know, it is not located in modern Hungary. The boundaries, they are much different now. Even where Báthory was born in Transylvania, that is part of Romania now. She had the house in Vienna, the castle at Sárvár in
“Is this by the Dutch artist, like the show in Budapest?”
“The one who has changed her name to Báthory, yes. But this one, you will like. It is her solo show.”
I’m curious, but the last time Maria and I went to a performance the evening ended badly. “So, you’re going?”
“Of course. Edward, he is reviewing several of the openings that night.”
I’m quiet for a moment, then say, “Henry is showing that night.”
“Your artist? In the festival?” Maria says in a singsong voice. “Which gallery? What is the name of the show? Is he working with anyone?” She rat-a-tats me with questions and immediately I regret mentioning it at all.
“I can’t remember.”
“Well, you must look it up,” she says. “Really, such luck. And also come with me, and Edward, to the Báthory show.” She takes a delicate sip from her smoothie. “Besides, for your work, it would be good. Seeing that man all of the time. Báthory was his muse, yes?”
I blow on a forkful of my moussaka. “I think they overheated this.”
“For the case with Foster.” She sips again, ladylike, her big eyes locked on me for a reaction.
The moussaka’s still steaming, but I try a bite anyway, then have to take a drink of ice water to cool the burn in my mouth. Maria keeps looking at me expectantly. Part of me wants to confide in her, to share the rush of my first interview with him. I also want to keep Foster to myself, like she’s kept the diaries. In the end, though, it matters very little what I want; as his clinician there’s not a lot I can divulge, not without getting into some messy moral and legal issues.
“There are rules about confidentiality,” I finally say. “You know that.”
“I suppose. But you have mentioned him before.”
“Not while I was his clinician.”
She smiles and I realize I’ve admitted to her that I have contact with him.
“The diaries,” I say. “You were going to explain to me how you found them.”
“Yes, that. But I am telling you very much, Danica.” She shuffles her plate over, puts her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her upturned palm. “I would like to hear about your work as well.”
“How polite of you.” I give her a close-lipped smile. “But really, I insist. So, the archives?”
“Yes, fine.” Maria takes her elbow off the table, leans back in her chair. “A few months after you left, the Báthory boxes came to the archives. I searched. It took many days.” She spears a tomato with her fork, takes a bite.
“And you found the diary in those boxes? Just like that, when no one else had before?”
She takes another bite of the tomato, then another drink of her smoothie. “No, I did not find them there. It was more complicated.”
I am so frustrated by the pace of her storytelling that I want to dump the rest of her smoothie in her lap. “Then where did you find them?”
“Dani, you are impatient. Is it your new job? You are very stressed? It is not good for you.”
“The diaries?”
“Yes, yes. I did not find them in the boxes at the archives. There is much material attached to the Báthory family. They were large, their dynasty—is that the word?—their titles and land were passed down for many years. But you know this. So, many letters, many documents, about estates, about inheritances. But not many personal papers, correspondences. I sent the boxes back. I spoke with the archival staff, with some of my other colleagues, I considered the research I had conducted already on Báthory. And then I had an idea!” Maria joyously clasps her hands together.
“Which was?”
“Čachtice, you know, it is not located in modern Hungary. The boundaries, they are much different now. Even where Báthory was born in Transylvania, that is part of Romania now. She had the house in Vienna, the castle at Sárvár in
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