Henrik’s room: a large, plain room with a vaulted ceiling; it was once, in fact, two rooms, as its central column suggests, on the first floor of a remote eighteenth-century Hungarian castle. A leather screen partially conceals a monastic bed and enamel washbasin. Large windows look out across parklands towards majestic chestnut trees. Between two of the windows hangs a mid-nineteenth-century Viennese portrait of Henrik’s mother, showing an attractive, somehow unmistakably French young woman with a pink straw hat, sensual lips and a plunging décolleté, an incongruously feminine contrast to the masculine severity of the room; while between another two windows, a ghostly greyish rectangle on the dark wallpaper suggests a second painting has at some point been removed. On the wall opposite to the bed and basin is an open wood fireplace, set but not yet lit; around it are disposed three armchairs, one upholstered in French silk, one of the kind known as a ‘Florentine chair’ and a third which, to judge by how worn and scuffed its brown leather has become, must be Henrik’s customary seat. Finally, there’s a tall, open wardrobe and, in the opposite corner, a high desk, at which it is necessary to stand in order to write.
Henrik is a seventy-five-year-old retired general of the old Kaiserlich-Königlich Austro-Hungarian army, his back still ramrod-straight, his aura formidably distinguished.
Dressed impeccably in black, he is over by the desk, holding in one hand his white dress-uniform and in the other a row of medals which he holds up against the chest of the uniform jacket. A low summer sun bathes the room in golden light. It’s 14 August 1940, although it will be some time before we become aware of this; our first impression is of some considerably earlier date.
Henrik gives a kind of sceptical grunt, puts the medals back on the desk and crosses to the wardrobe, where he hangs up the uniform and closes the door on it. Then he moves back to the desk and stows the medals away in a drawer, his expression thoughtful. He produces a very small key, unlocks a long shallow drawer, opens it, reaches in to release a secret compartment and brings out a compact, useful-looking revolver. He breaks it open, checking that it’s loaded, spins the chamber, snaps it shut and lays it on the desk. Then he reaches further into the drawer to find a notebook bound in yellow velvet, also tied with blue ribbon and sealed with wax. For a moment he contemplates the notebook, which has the word SOUVENIR stamped on the cover. It’s just small enough to fit in his inside pocket, which is where he now stows it. Then he crosses to the window and stands staring out into the twilight.
He looks up at a light, almost feathery knock at the door, which immediately opens to reveal Nini. Nini is ninety-one years old, formally dressed in black with a white, starched cap; once Henrik’s wet-nurse and nanny, she now runs the domestic affairs of the castle and is always treated by Henrik with the absolute respect due to an equal. He gestures towards the window.
Henrik So; he’s come back.
Nini Yes.
He turns to her; and she considers him steadily for a moment, with the air of someone who knows everything there is to know about him.
That first summer he spent here, you were only eleven, you know what your mother said?
Nini She was watching you both climbing into the carriage on your way back to the Military Academy; and she said to me: ‘At last, a happy marriage!’
Henrik allows himself a brief, rueful smile.
And I said: ‘One day Konrad will leave him and the suffering will be terrible.’
Henrik You know everything.
Nini And then she said: ‘You always lose the person you love: and if you’re not able to bear that loss, then you’re a failure as a human being.’
Henrik nods in silent agreement, glancing up at his mother’s portrait; then he takes a more businesslike tone.
Henrik What are we planning to serve him?
Nini Trout. Trout followed by beef. Then a guinea-fowl. Flambéed ice cream. I’m a little anxious about that. The chef hasn’t made it for more than ten years.
Henrik Last time we had crayfish.
Nini Krisztina always liked crayfish. They didn’t have any today.
Henrik Bring up some Chablis. And the ’86 Pommard for the beef.
Nini It’s already on the table.
Henrik And a magnum of Mumm.
Nini We only have the brut. Krisztina drank all the demisec.
Henrik Really? She didn’t like champagne. She never drank more than a mouthful.
Nini All the same …
Henrik indicates the old leather chair.
Henrik Last time, the day of the hunt, he sat in my chair.
Nini What a memory.
Henrik I sat in the Florentine chair and … Krisztina sat in the chair my mother brought from Paris. And there were dahlias on the table. In the blue crystal vase.
Nini You remember every detail.
Henrik I do. Are we having the Sèvres?
Nini Yes.
Henrik And the blue candles on the table?
Nini I hadn’t remembered that.
Henrik We do have them, don’t we?
Nini Yes, of course.
Henrik Good.
He looks up at the pale space on the wall: Nini notices at once.
Nini Do you want the picture hung back up?
Henrik We still have it, do we?
Nini Yes.
Henrik hesitates for a second; then shakes his head.
Henrik No.
Pause.
I thought you might have burned it.
Nini What’s the sense in burning pictures?
Nini moves, as if she’s preparing to leave the room: then she turns back to Henrik.
Nini What is it you want from this man?
Henrik The truth.
Nini But you know the truth.
Henrik I do not! The truth is exactly what I don’t know.
Nini You know the facts.
Henrik The facts are only part of the truth. Not even Krisztina knew the truth. Whereas Konrad … I’m going to get the truth from him. After forty-one years.
Silence.
Nini There’s something I never told you. Krisztina: when she was dying, she asked for you.
Henrik stares at her, motionless.
You were at the lodge. I was alone with her. And she asked for you. I’m telling you because it’s something you ought to know this evening.
In the ensuing silence comes the sound of an approaching carriage. Henrik moves to look out of the window.
Henrik Here he is. Have him brought up here.
Nini Yes.
She moves to the door, then pauses in the doorway and turns back.
Promise me you won’t get upset.
She leaves the room. The sound of the carriage grows. Henrik takes the revolver off the desk, moves back to the window, standing to one side so as not to be seen in the window, raises the revolver and takes aim.
Blackout.