A few pages of fıction ...

 

After the shoot in Mátyás Cathedral, Rüya had made up her mind on one thing: not to make up her mind on anything. Acting on her intuition, she had left everything to take its own course during the last two weeks. It would go wherever it needed to go. She was weary of trying to figure out Paul’s feelings and intentions and how she should behave. Every now and then she had the feeling that she was running after someone who did not want her. The wall of ice Paul had started to erect between them stood intact in all its gelid glory, and Paul was about to become an obsession that Rüya had created. I should concentrate on my work, she kept saying to herself, especially now when my book is being made into a movie. I should enjoy it as much as I can.

Action!” shouted the director.

Her thoughts scattered.

“Nestor sent me,” said Orion to the butler who answered the door of the country house in Csopak.

“Nestor went to the Pool.”

He asked where the old butler was.

“He had to go back where he came from, sir,” replied the blond and blue-eyed new butler before ushering him into the drawing room to the right of the entrance hall.

Orion started pacing up and down the room, his impatient gait betraying signs of involuntary apprehension. He stopped in front of a window for a few moments and checked outside before walking into the library, where he opened the drinks cabinet and took the brandy bottle, seemingly sure of where to find it. He reached for a brandy glass from the top shelf, poured a generous shot of brandy and swallowed it in one big gulp. He lit a cigarette and returned to the drawing room. A thunderous knock was heard. It had to be the main door. He did not move. When he heard another series of knocks, he put out his cigarette in an ashtray and walked towards the door opening to the entrance hall. He opened it a crack. The butler was nowhere to be seen. After a brief moment of hesitation, he approached the main door and opened it. A Soviet officer was standing there with four soldiers behind him.

“Nestor sent me,” he said, giving the password, which evoked no reaction from the officer, whose face remained expressionless. They pushed the door ajar and entered into the hall, forcing Orion to take a few steps back.

“Nestor sent me,” he repeated. And at that very instant, he noticed one of the soldiers behind the officer take out the handcuffs from his belt. He made for his revolver, but he was too late. Others had already pointed their rifles at him. He raised his arms in surrender. The soldier with the handcuffs came over, grabbed one of his hands and pulled it towards his back. Before he could reach for his other hand, Orion swiftly grabbed the soldier’s arm and took cover behind him, pulling out his revolver and pressing it against the young man’s temple. Then he jerked from the impact of a gunshot and fell backwards onto the floor with the soldier collapsing on top of him. The officer had shot the young man. He freed his arm from underneath the corpse lying on top of him and tried to pull the trigger. He had no strength in his hand. Gathering all his strength, he tried to pull the trigger again. A terrible pain seized his shoulder. Had he been shot? Grabbing one of the legs of the side table by the wall, he dragged himself towards the drawing room. He pulled the trigger again. His eyes were going dark. His shoulder! The burning sensation was spreading. Something must have gone terribly wrong. He had to leave a message. A message that showed he had not defected, a message to prove that he had been kidnapped.

 

Rüya was reduced to tears as she watched these scenes, which she knew by heart. It was absurd to cry at her own words, but now they seemed to reflect reality much more vividly than they did when she had written them, making her realise much more clearly that the lives she had put into fiction were not fiction. She ran out and, standing with her back to the house, dug into her handbag for tissue paper. Why did she cry so much? Is it out of pity for yourself, Rüya? Of course, it was. Wasn’t it, albeit in an indirect way, out of self-pity that one shed tears?

 

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