The Dyers, not knowing where to go and looking uncomfortable, waited for the others to catch up with them at the foot of what had been the servants’ stairway to the first floor. The Countess went up ahead of them. They came out in the large, elegantly furnished sitting room overlooking the square.
Fulmar immediately sat down on a fragile-looking gilded wood Louis XIV sofa and began to pull his black leather boots off.
The Countess looked askance at him, but von Heurten-Mitnitz sensed there was something wrong.
“Something wrong with your feet?” he asked.
“The goddamned boots are four sizes too small,” Fulmar said. “I soaked them with water, but it didn’t help a whole hell of a lot.” When he had the boot off, he pulled a stocking off and, holding his foot in his lap, examined it carefully.
“Goddamn, look at that! r he said. The skin was rubbed MW and was bleeding in several places.
The Countess walked to the sofa, dropped to her knees, and took the foot in her hand.
“How did you manage to walk?” she asked.
“Why, cousin,” Fulmar said, “I simply considered the alternative.”
“You’ll have to soak that in brine,” she said. “It’s the only thing that will help.”
“By brine, you mean salt in water?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Before we do that, I would like a very large cognac,” he said, and pulled off the other sock. The other foot was worse. The blood from the sore spots had flowed more copiously, and when it had dried, it had glued the sock to the wounds. He swore as he pulled the stocking off.
The Countess walked to a cabinet and returned with a large crystal brandy snifter.
“I’ll heat some water,” she said. “And make a brine.”
“And pickle my feet,” Fulmar said dryly. “Thank you, cousin, ever so much.”
“Why do you call her cousin’?” Professor Dyer asked.
“We are, by marriage,” the Countess said. “My late husband and Eric are, or were, cousins.” “Your late husband?” the professor asked.
“The professor tends to ask a lot of questions,” Fulmar said mockingly.
“My late husband, Oberstleutnant Baron Manfried von Steighofen, fell for his fatherland on the eastern front,” the Countess said dryly.
“And you’re doing this?” the professor asked.
“It’s one of the reasons I’m doing this, my dear Herr Professor,” the Countess said.
“And the other?” Fulmar asked.
“Is it important?” “I’m curious,” Fulmar said. “If I were in your shoes, I would be rooting for the Germans.”
“If I thought they had a chance to win, I probably would be,” she said matter-of-factly. “But they won’t win. Which means that the Communists will come to Budapest.
If they don’t shoot me, I’ll find myself walking the square outside asking strangers if they’re looking for a good time.”
“Beatrice!” von Heurten-Mitnitz exclaimed.
“Face facts, my dear Helmut,” the Countess said.
“The flaw in your logic,” Fulmar said, “is that you are helping the Russians to come here.”
“In which case, I can only hope that you and Helmut will still be alive and in a position to tell the Commissar what a fearless anti-Fascist I was,” she said. “There’s a small chance that would keep them from shooting me out of hand.” There was a moment’s silence, and then she went on.
“What I’m re’xy hoping for is that there will be a coup d’etat by people like Helmut against the Bavarian corporal, and in time for whoever takes over to sue for an armistice. If there’s an armistice, perhaps I won’t lose everything.”
“Huh,” Fulmar grunted.
“And what has motivated you, my dear Eric,” the Countess said, “to do what you’re doing?” It was a moment before he replied. “Sometimes I re’xy wonder,” he said.
The Countess nodded, then turned to Gisella Dyer.
“Would you help me, please?” she said. “I made a gulyas, and if you would help serve it, I’ll heat some water to pickle’ Eric’s feet.” The sting of the warm salt water on his feet was not as painful as Eric Fulmar had expected, and he wondered if this was because he was partially anesthetized by the Countess’s brandy, or whether his feet were beyond hurting.