Alex Bell - The Ninth circle

I laughed. All at once the panic disappeared. The fish were important but, right now, Stephomi was more important. If he asked me any awkward questions, I would just say that I’d rather not talk about my past. Problem solved.

Outside we found that it was no longer raining, although the sun was beginning to set. We walked back past the monument and a little way down Allatkerti Street until we came to Gundels, the most famous restaurant in Hungary. Stephomi was shocked I’d never eaten there before although I had, of course, heard of it. It was housed in a large old building with panelled white ceilings, old paintings on the walls and polished walnut pillars standing throughout the spacious room. A pianist was playing over in one corner, and soft lighting gleamed off the rich pillars and the elegant old crockery on the tables.

Once we were settled I asked Stephomi about his name, as much to deflect any personal question he might ask me as anything, and he arched his eyebrow at me in surprise when I mentioned the archangel Zadkiel.

‘You do know your angels, don’t you?’ he replied. ‘Isn’t Zadkiel supposed to be the angel of… what was it… memory?’

I jumped at his emphasis on the word and knocked my wine glass over.

‘Oh dear, how clumsy of you,’ Stephomi said lightly, calling over a waiter to help clean it up.

He couldn’t know… He couldn’t know about my problem…

‘Are you okay?’ he asked once the waiter had gone to get me another wine glass.

‘Yes, of course I am! I’m in perfect health, why? Why do you ask?’ I replied in a panicky rush.

Stephomi gave me an odd look. ‘You just seem a bit jumpy, is all.’

‘No,’ I said, running a hand through my hair agitatedly. ‘No, no. I just-’

‘You’re not diabetic, are you?’

I couldn’t stop the slightly nervous laugh. ‘I hope not.’

‘Well, the food will be here in a minute, anyway,’ Stephomi replied.

With a tremendous effort, I pulled myself together. As the evening wore on, I switched to non-alcoholic drinks. Sighing wistfully, Stephomi agreed that there had been enough alcohol for now and, with a twisted smile, proclaimed that I was good for him indeed. It wasn’t that I had anything against drinking; it was just that I needed to stay alert in case Stephomi asked me something that I would need to quickly lie about. I couldn’t risk… I don’t know, having too much to drink and then blurting out the whole truth to him, or something equally awful. Although with such a sensational story, I suppose he would probably have taken it for drunken rambling anyway.

At one point, somehow, the topic of music came up and Stephomi mentioned that he owned a beautiful, priceless, old Italian violin — a Grand Amatis, in fact, made by Andrea Amati, who had himself been the teacher of the great Antonio Stradivari.

‘Violin?’ I asked sharply.

‘Yes, do you play?’

‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’

‘Don’t think so?’ Stephomi asked, looking amused. ‘Well, I’m sure you would remember something like that.’

I laughed it off hurriedly. ‘Isn’t the Devil supposed to play the violin?’ I asked, remembering one of the paintings I had seen in my book.

Stephomi raised an eyebrow at me. ‘I believe there are certain myths that portray the Devil as a supernaturally accomplished violinist. Hasn’t there been a song about it or something? A bet made between the Devil and a fiddle boy as to who could play the greatest? The boy wins in the song, playing for his soul; but if legends are to be believed, then Satan’s skill with the violin is unrivalled, in this world or any other.’

The amusement in Stephomi’s voice told me clearly that he did not believe any of the myths he was repeating, but still they made me a little uneasy.

‘And then, of course, there was Giuseppe Tartini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata,’ Stephomi said, leaning back in his char. ‘The inspiration for which came in a dream Tartini had in which he gave the Devil his violin and heard it played on a level he hadn’t thought possible. Although the Devil’s Trill was seen as far superior to Tartini’s other compositions, he maintained that it was nothing but a pale reflection of the music he’d heard Satan play in his dream.’ Stephomi tilted his head at me slightly and grinned. ‘Perhaps I should give it up and play the heavenly harp instead?’

At last it was time for the restaurant to close and, when we could no longer ignore the pointed looks of the staff, we retrieved our coats and stepped back out into the cool night. I was going back to the metro station and Stephomi was catching a bus a few blocks away. We paused in the archway of the restaurant as we buttoned up our coats.

‘You have my card safe this time?’ Stephomi asked, turning to me.

‘Yes, and you have mine,’ I replied. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t lose it again.’

Indeed I won’t — it’s lying on the table beside me as I write — but I spent the journey home committing the number to memory anyway. No being alive will be able to take it from me this time. Nothing short of a renewed bout of amnesia will tear the digits from my grasp.

19th September

I have been savouring the memories of my hours with Stephomi these past few days, rarely leaving my apartment but simply sitting, staring at the walls for hours. I had almost been feeling content. Which is why I am irritated that something should have occurred to mar my pleasure.

It was because of the antique book I had received from Italy. The one so concerned with Demonic Realms that I had hidden away under the floorboards with distaste. But, over the last few days — as I have been spending so many hours within the apartment — the book has been calling out to me. Almost as if the hateful thing really did have a voice. Its presence burned in my mind with white heat, imprinting its image there even after I had closed my eyes. I did not wish to have such a thing in my home. I had quite enough books with devils dancing through the pages as it was, so I decided to send this one back to the Italian bookshop so that it might be re-sold to some other person.

I walked down the street to buy some brown paper and tape, which I took back to my apartment, already feeling the beginnings of relief. Once home, I retrieved the volume from its hiding place beneath the floorboards and placed it firmly face down on the sheet of brown paper I had laid out ready on the kitchen table. I began to fold it carefully, and then… hesitated. This was dangerous, I suddenly felt. I should not be sending the book away like this. I would make it angry.

I shook my head impatiently and thumbed all the way through the old pages, just as repulsed by the vivid images and descriptions as I had been before. As I gazed down at it, I saw that a corner of the yellowing parchment had come unstuck from the red leather back cover and was curling forwards. Frowning, I pressed my thumb over the paper, but it curled back again as soon as the pressure was gone. Then, looking more closely, I saw that the cover had been repaired before — rows of neat, black stitching pinned the yellow paper to the leather back.

It’s hard to explain what happened next without sounding like a madman, which I know I most certainly am not. I even shocked myself when, with a yell of fear, I leaped to my feet and stumbled several steps backwards, my chair clattering to the floor, sliding back along the floorboards. Something about the book had bothered me from the very beginning. I had assumed that it was merely an aversion to the repulsive subject matter. But now I know that it was more than that. There was some palpable evil radiating from the book in invisible waves, pummelling into me as I stared fearfully at the horrible thing. It would harm me. I knew it would. There were real devils living in those innocent pages and they hated me and would be only too pleased to destroy me given half a chance. Well, they wouldn’t have it. I wouldn’t give it to them. I pulled open one of the kitchen drawers, grabbed a carving knife, whirled back to face the book and with a strange animal-like sound somewhere between a snarl and a sob, I drove the knife through the book to its hilt. My own strength surprised me — the knife went through the volume and well into the wooden table beneath as easily as if I were slicing the blade through butter.