The String Diaries by Stephen Lloyd Jones Page A

entrance, he ascended wide stairs and followed an endless corridor hung with life-sized paintings of Hungarian royalty. The identities of most of the monarchs were lost on him, but he noted several images of Franz Joseph.
    Two huge gilt doors stood at the end of the corridor. Music and conversation drifted from beyond. As the footmen moved to the doors and opened them for him, Lukács lifted a hand to the pewter mask on his face. The metal was cold beneath his touch. Taking a breath, he stepped into the palace ballroom, utterly unprepared for the splendour that greeted him.
    Hanging from brackets at least sixty feet above the floor, three enormous chandeliers dominated the room, each festooned with scores of burning candles. So intricate and delicate was the white-golden stucco that adorned the ceiling that Lukács found it difficult to believe anyone capable of producing such beauty. Along the east wing of the room, several arched recesses housed windows that stretched forty feet in height, with views down to the mighty Danube and to Pest on the far bank. Frescos adorned the long wall opposite the windows, and all along its length stood gilt chairs upholstered in red velvet.
    A string ensemble played on a stage at the far end of the ballroom. Across the main floor, young men – perhaps a hundred of them – stood together in groups. All of them wore the same formal attire as Lukács, and all of their faces were hidden behind individually crafted pewter masks. They conversed loudly, holding thin-stemmed champagne flutes and long cigars.
    While the young hosszú élet men were an impressive sight, the ladies stole the main focus of Lukács’s attention. Like so many tropical birds, their finery bewitched him. Their dresses were a kaleidoscope of colours and fabrics. Bustles were de rigueur, as were plunging necklines and short off-the-shoulder sleeves that would have scandalised his father. There was uniformity too in the style of their hair: scooped up from each side of the face, into either a high knot or a cluster of ringlets. Instead of masks, they wore lace veils that covered their faces just below the eyes. Mirroring their male counterparts, they chattered in small clusters. Lukács saw several in the nearest group break off from their conversation to examine him, and he felt a pleasurable prickling of his skin as their eyes flashed over him.
    Intercepting a waiter bearing a tray of champagne flutes, he helped himself to a glass, selected the nearest group of young men and walked into their midst. Immediately they widened the circle to accommodate him. One by one they came forward to shake his hand. He received no named introductions, but he had been advised to expect that.
    As each young man spoke to him, he watched the eyes behind their mask. He was used to seeing the striations of green and indigo in his father’s eyes, but now he saw a multitude of variations: flecks of silver, swirls of purple, vivid tiger stripes of orange. Grimly, he noted their looks of confusion as they studied him. Did they wonder if an impostor lurked in their midst? Or simply a weakling? The constraints of protocol prevented anyone from challenging him, but he saw several of them exchange questioning glances.
    As the champagne flowed, the conversation flowed with it, moving from the exploits of the king to the latest on the unification of Buda and Pest into a single metropolis. Lukács found it difficult to contribute at first, but as glasses were refilled and everyone began to relax, the talk turned to the night’s proceedings and, more pointedly, to the other half of the room’s occupants. Lukács noticed that some of his group had already started to drift away to initiate conversations, and it was not long before he found himself standing alone in the arch of one of the huge windows. Turning his back on the reception, he gazed down at the Danube below. Darkness had fallen. The great river was a wide strip of black, flickering with the