Chapter 4 – Allegro con spirito
There was something delightfully outdated in the decor of the Festetics Palace. The white walls and moulded ceilings with their crystal chandeliers, the marquetry floors seemed to come right out of the XIXth century, shining in a fin-de-siècle gloss. It was a quarter past seven in the evening when James Bond, who had swapped his navy blue suit for a black dinner-jacket, climbed the large red-carpeted stairway leading to the Hall of Mirrors where the concert was to take place. Whatever may happen, he regarded this evening as an opportunity to take his mind off the events of the last weeks. He couldn't remember exactly when he had attended a chamber music concert for the last time... Was it four, five years ago? In those days, he was on an assignment, engaged in shadowing one of the other attendees. But it was a different situation today: his only project was to devote himself to the pleasure of music... and maybe of a musician, he thought with an inner smile.
In the concert hall, the stage was empty except three chairs and music stands, but most of the seats were already taken by a light-hearted crowd of people chatting and laughing in a low voice. Bond chose an easily accessible free seat at the end of the second row. An elderly couple who was obviously bickering suddenly stopped when he sat next to them. He answered their polite smile and nod, unbuttoned his dinner jacket and settled comfortably in the seat. Soon the lights over the audience were lowered, bringing out the stage. The chatters instantly stopped, and a woman in evening dress came on the platform for a brief introductory speech in Hungarian Bond didn't understand. Then she left the floor, and in a burst of applause, the string trio came on stage. The violist and violinist, two men, seated on opposite chairs on each side of the platform, and Sára Kiss, the cellist, took her place between them.
She rested her instrument between her legs, covering the flounces of her long bare-shoulders black satin dress. During the few still seconds before the beginning of the first piece, she gave a look at the audience, and her eyes met Bond's. He thought he could read some amusement in them, beyond an evident surprise. Was the faint blush on her face the consequence of stage fright only? He tried to make up his mind, but in a split second, the first chords were struck, and another kind of tension filled the concert hall. Bond recognized a string trio by Beethoven, and strived to let the allegro con spirito music unbend his mind. But he couldn't take his eyes off the cellist. Allegro con spirito, indeed: he couldn't have thought of a better expression to depict this woman, in unison with the piece she was playing. In every move of her hand on the neck of the instrument, every stroke of the bow and every sway of her body, he felt how lively she was, but with a grace and reserve that intrigued him. When the audience burst into applause after the final, as the musicians were taking a bow, he could hardly have named which pieces had been executed.
As the crowd began leaving, Sára Kiss stepped down the platform, and made the few steps that separated her from Bond. She addressed him in a quite distant manner, but she had that mischievous look he had noticed at the end of their first meeting.
- "I didn't suspect you were interested in music!"
He answered with a semi-serious smile:
- "I'm interested in every beauty."
As he had expected, the hackneyed compliment made her give up her reserve. She laughed heartily:
- "Did you take this phrase out of the MI6 instruction manual?"
- "Of course. It's on page one of the Field manual for turning a foreign agent. But I'm afraid it's a very old edition..."
She smiled.
- "And what is on page two of this manual?"
- "Something about inviting the agent to a nice dinner. Some champagne might be involved – but it's classified intel..."
A flicker of vacillation passed through her eyes. She bit pensively her lower lip, imperceptibly tilting her head, and observed for a few seconds this strange man who had so unexpectedly appeared in her life. He certainly had good looks, a fine presence and disarming self-confidence. But beyond his sophisticated, suave and witty demeanour, there was something dark and almost feral in him, something that made him look dangerous. And terribly appealing. She made her decision.
- "Well, then, what about meeting me in fifteen minutes in the entrance hall, downstairs? You'll teach me the rest of the procedures."
Bond smiled and nodded, bowing slightly.
- "I'm your servant."
A quarter later, the woman was descending the stairway. Bond was watching her, leaning coolly on the wrought iron banister. She had swapped her evening dress for the attire she was wearing earlier in the day: black tight trousers and a simple but elegant cream coloured blouse, now with a red trench-coat draped over her shoulders. Her only piece of jewellery was a large red crystal pendant hanging on a black cord leather necklace. He undid his bow-tie, pocketed it and unfastened his collar stud to conform to this more casual dress-code. He noticed she only had a tawny leather purse.
- "No cello case any more?"
- "My friends kindly proposed to take care of the instruments." She seemed to suddenly realize something: "Oh! That's it... You spotted the cello in my office, this morning, didn't you?"
He simply smiled at her, without answering.
- "But how did you get the details about this concert?"
- "Don't you remember?" He leaned close to her and whispered in her hear : "I am a spy..."
She raised an eyebrow, looked at him for a few seconds, reflecting, and decided in mock indignation:
- "I'll give Stan hell for that!"
As they were both still laughing, Bond offered her his arm and they headed for a taxi.
He chose a famous restaurant in the city park, where he knew the decor would be on level with the food. They first stopped at the bar, and once they were comfortably installed in the cosy Art Nouveau room Bond ordered a bottle of Taittinger pink champagne. When the waiter retired, Sára Kiss asked:
- "So, what are we celebrating?"
- "There are many options... But the choice of the toast is yours!"
He noticed the shadow and the serious look in her eyes when she answered after taking a time for reflection:
- "Then: to friends, James. To friends, absent, present... and future."
He couldn't agree more, and approved whole-heartedly:
- "To friends."
They touched glasses, and the light tinkling sound discarded the ghosts of nostalgia. They engaged in light conversation about music and her passion for cello. They talked about London life, and how much she missed the city. By the time they moved to the main dining room of the restaurant, a relaxed atmosphere had grown between them. When they rose, Sára took his arm in a very spontaneous and natural gesture that touched Bond. He liked the warmth of her body close to his and her faintly perceptible perfume wrapping around him, but he was semi-consciously attracted to her human warmth above all. He knew a cold heart was part of his shadowy profession, but tonight he felt a violent desire to get closer to the light and warmth of this woman.
The waiter smoothly set them down and proceeded to take their orders. They both settled for a roasted breast fillet of duckling served with a slice of grilled duck liver, and agreed with the sommelier's suggestion of some Egri Bikavér red wine, the "bull's blood of Eger", as Sára translated it. For dessert they ordered palacsinták, the traditional Hungarian crêpes filled with dried and fresh fruits, walnuts and hot chocolate sauce, with which the golden Tokaj, the world-famous late harvest dessert wine, was an obvious choice. After the diversion of the dinner order, their conversation resumed.
- "And you, James, what can you tell me about your work?" She added with a smile: "I mean, without having to kill me afterwards?"
He smirked, and evaded the question as usual:
- "I'm afraid that if I were to tell you about my daily work, boredom would kill you first… My job is as boring as the one of any other civil servant."
- "Of course," she quipped with an ironical smile, "I'm sure this spying thing is such a boring job: overthrowing dictators, stealing top-secret microfilms, turning foreign agents…"
- "You're right… save for the last point!"
She smiled and continued:
- "At least, there must be an advantage about dating a secret agent… I guess that, if you're not talkative about yourself, you must be learned in the art of listening?"
He replied, tongue-in-cheek:
- "But I hope you don't consider me learned in the art of bugging…"
She tilted her head and considered him seriously for a second.
- "I can understand and respect that, you know. Everyone has secrets… and at least, humour is a stylish shield!"
- "Give me no credit for that: everything is in this MI6 manual, you know…"
She gave him a playful smile:
- "Oh yes, the manual… By the way, tell me about the following procedures?"
A few hours later, Bond, lying back in bed, propped himself up on his elbows and took a circular look around Sára's place. The one roomed flat, on the Pest side of the city center, was pretty much what he thought the home of a young single academic woman would be. Besides, the after-effects of her professional life were visible at the other end of the room, where the immaculate white wall was covered by bookshelves, over an office desk. Leather, wooden and steel modern furnitures were mixed with some finely chosen exotic works of art he deemed from Central Asia, giving the place a touch of distinction and personality. But the former tidiness of the room was now quite upset: two chairs were upside down on the floor, a vase with some flowers had fallen down the table, and a large choice of male and female pieces of clothing were scattered all around. Bond stated in a matter-of-fact voice:
- "I'm afraid we ruined your flat..."
She raised her head to look at the room, and laid it back on the pillow.
- "Yes," she giggled, "but it was worth it, wasn't it?"
He smiled, turned on his side, and leaning his head on his left hand to face Sára, he looked at her. The soft light coming from the bed head wrapped them in a warm and peaceful atmosphere. His free hand went slowly over her, exploring with a light touch the curves of her body. When his fingers lingered on the long, thin pale scar on the side of her right breast, she looked him straight in the eyes.
- "Breast cancer," she simply said. "Five years ago. I was lucky it had been detected soon enough."
He considered her for a moment, without detaching his eyes. He was about to kiss her when she rolled and seated astride on top of him.
- "Look, James. I've been aware that I was mortal a little earlier than I should. I mean, we're all told we're going to die, since our childhood, but who really trusts it before his mid-life? I've had to make decisions, and I've chosen life. I don't want to mourn my wounds and my scars. I just want to have the best of life. Now."
He drew his torso up to kiss and embrace her, and she grasped fiercely his hair in her hands. When their lips finally parted, she gently pushed him back on the bed, bending her body over his. He closed his eyes when her long, soft trailing hair brushed his face, then let his mind surrender to its caress going down his chest, her breath and her lips on his skin.
She was right. It was no time to mourn. It was time to live.