I could leave here, the whole world is mine. I could go to Vienna or New York. I could take on a human appearance. I could listen to the best performers of Chopin, Schubert, Brahms, and Vivaldi. I could enjoy life for as long as Csaba’s life lasts. But all that is emptiness. Csaba is the only true thing for me. The only thing real in this world. When he ceases to exist, I do too; I’ll turn into dust and wind the moment his heart stops beating.

Csaba sits on the porch and opens a cheap beer. He watches the night sky. I know he feels that something has changed. That he’s lost something by gaining something else.

‘Are you here?’ he asks.

I don’t know whom he’s asking, then I realize.

I make myself visible to him. He looks at me from head to toe, then nods at me. He picks up a can of beer from the floor and throws it to me. I catch it.

‘Have a drink with me!’ he says, and I feel joy I thought I could only feel standing by the Midnight Throne. I pop up the aluminum tab with my claws and take a sip from the beer. It tastes terrible, but wonderful.

We drink until dawn, telling old stories. We laugh and we cry. At last we are one; he’s the only one left for me, and I’m the only one left for him. I promise to get him a new video card. He smiles but shakes his head, he’s not sure it’s worth it. But I know he’ll come around; I know that together we can finish that record.

At dawn Csaba falls asleep. I carefully cover him with a blanket so he won’t catch cold. Then I go out to the garden and sniff the cold, fresh morning air. I hear cawing. I look up to the sky. The crows are just flying out from the woods towards the fields. I watch them until they’re gone, until nothing is left but the clear gray sky.

Walks Among You

Walks Among You

The mourners know the priest is lying, for life is nothing but the absence of truth. Yet they remain silent and listen to his words. Outside the wind is blowing; the temple sounds like a shivering old man.

The woman’s corpse lies on the catafalque, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes covered with black velvet. The mourners stand with their eyes on the floor. The church is full. The air is getting stale.

They all know who she is. She remains Aunt Márti, even in death. Some of them only know her from the TV screen. Many of the mourners remember how she loved having a chat over a cup of chamomile tea.