In mid-January, browsing a model site, I found a casting of a fashion and make-up show which fell on 20th January. The said day I travelled to Budapest, only to find out that I misunderstood something, the casting would be a month later, the 20th February. I snarled. Then somehow I recalled that on Sunday there would be a meeting for fantasy readers in the Millenaris Park.
Millenaris Park, a compound with several buildings of large halls and conference rooms, was near Moszkva square; on Sunday I arrived there early in the afternoon. I wavered amongst unknown people, feeling awkward and out of place, seeking Wayne, the most known Hungarian fantasy author; I knew he would be present. Within ten minutes I saw him: I have already seen his photos, in the pictures he looked thinner and he had short, blond hair, yet I recognised him. This time he looked better: He was bigger, and his head was shaven bald. I sneaked up to him and sat down his table.
“So good to meet you” I said. “Your novels are awesome.”
He, a seasoned writer, must have heard that one million times. He smiled.
“I write, too” I said. “At Szukits, with Gyurcsány and Zentai.”
“You’re lucky then. It’s hard to find a publisher these days. I have heaps of trouble with them myself. Sometimes I regret that I ever cared a flying fuck about them…"
I loved to listen to him, I loved the twinkle of his greyish-blue eyes. Many authors seem clumsy in person, but not Wayne; he sounded self-assured, witty.
”Hey,” he said, “you should see Celts Publisher, its managers are my buddies. They could help a newbie. “
I did not want to see unknown people, I was happy with Wayne himself. However, the said managers, two boisterous persons, came up to us and seated themselves near Wayne. I was not glad to see them: I wanted Wayne for myself. Then I had a closer look at them. They were a couple: An awesome lady and a good-looking man.
Madonna, I thought when I looked at the woman, she looks just like Madonna. She had long, silvery blonde hair, her eyes were light blue like porcelain, and her skin so white – I was pale, too, but she looked like a Scandinavian. She was tall, 180 cm, and she had a round, lithe figure. She wore a shining midnight blue dress and a golden cross pendant with gemstones, which made her even more Madonna-like.
Her husband was a handsome, tall man, well-built and broad shouldered, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He was clad in black. They looked like a couple from a film.
“That cross, it looks hot” Wayne said. (I suspected he liked the lady herself.)
“You see?” she flashed a grin at Wayne, and touched the pendant. “I wear this when I want to mock idiots who believe fantasy readers are Satanists.”
We laughed. I leaned closer to her. I was always withdrawn and guarded with unknown people. Yet I loved this woman.
She looked at me.
“Are you an author, too?”
“How did you know…?”
“You look like one. You seem faraway.”
“You guessed it right” I said. “Now I have an idea of a new novel, ‘I Love You, Elizabeth Bathory’.”
Her smile reached her light blue eyes.
”That’s cool” she said. “We need young and talented writers… Would you care to send me a synopsis of your story?”
I stared at her. Publishers usually try to get rid of amateur writers. This lady treated me as if I was almost her equal. I never hoped that she could have been interested.
After an hour of chatting, the blonde woman and her husband said good-bye to Wayne and me. As they left, she handed me a name card.
Hűvösvölgyi Vanda Hajnalka, the card read.
It was a well chosen name, sophisticated, exquisite, and melodious. Her family name hűvös völgy means cool valley, and the given names are Pagan names (Hajnal means dawn in Hungarian).
Her husband’s name was Ottó Mándoki.
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