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work, he'd turn to his own friends and acquaintances. He had once even wanted to verify the lawful lineage of Géza Cifra. For a while the genealogical
tabella
progressed quite smoothly. He even took it with him to the archives of the neighbouring county in order to gather more recent data. Then he suddenly got stuck. Neither he nor the records could uncover the exact identity of Géza Cifra's paternal grandfather. And so the family tree he had begun to sketch remained unfinished. Its frondose branches withered as if ravaged by a violent storm. Whenever Ákos came upon this sketch among his other papers, a scornful smile flitted across his face. Géza Cifra was just a common upstart, and not of noble descent at all.
    But oh, the stories he could tell about his own ancestors, whom he seemed to know more intimately than the living. The Ádám Vajkays and the Sámuel Vajkays who had lived in the mountains and kidnapped young girls. Or the women, the Kláras and Katalins and Erzsébets, who had taken part in Maria Theresa's powderpuff balls. Or his wife's ancestors, the powerful Bozsós who had lived as wealthy aristocrats with splendid estates right up until the middle of the eighteenth century; or even about the odd isolated word once uttered by ancient kinsmen in the depths of bygone centuries and about the obscure golden lily which blossomed on the scarlet panel of their crest. Such ancient blood throbbed in their veins that they hadn't even possessed a noble patent, acquiring their rank through donated estates and laying claim to their coat of arms by right of ancient custom. This one escutcheon hung in a frame on his study wall, together with a family tree he had painted himself in fine, pale watercolours, after decades of fastidious research had led him all the way back to King Endre II. His own humble position and meagre means prevented him from applying for the title of royal and imperial chamberlain, a title upon which, according to his ancestry, he could none the less make every lawful claim. But this never disturbed him in the least. Not a man of outward vanity, he was interested in the principle alone, in itself sufficient to swell his secret self-esteem.
    By the time he reached fifty, his work had been complete. He had traced the lineage of every last Vajkay and Bozsó, dead or alive. What remained to be done? Browsing over sheets of paper, onionskin and parchment, he would sit in his study for hours on a creaky couch draped with a Turkish rug, rapidly losing its colour in the stuffy, museumlike air. Here he'd ruminate about the future.
    But all the future seemed to hold for certain was the prospect of his approaching death. Of this simple fact he would speak with all the callous indifference and alarming objectivity of an old man, often bringing his wife and daughter to the brink of tears. On the tomb of his long-departed parents he set a stone of dark-brown marble, engraved in gold lettering with the words: The Vajkay Family Vault. He took care of the grave, planted four box shrubs beside it and regularly watered the turf. He even painted the bench where he would sit and muse during his visits to the cemetery.
    It was, he announced, his wish to be buried there when the time came, between his mother and father. He should be laid in state in the guest room, the hall should be draped in black and only two priests should perform the funeral. He kept his will in a sealed envelope locked in the bottom drawer of his writing desk, and informed his wife of where it might be found when the time arrived. The last years of his life he spent increasingly in preparation for his death.
    The only time he'd betray any anxiety at all was when a member of his funeral society died. Then he'd hurry off to town with his funeral register–his “little book,” as he called it–to pay his society dues. Back at home he'd leaf once more through the register, checking that the fee had been duly entered, and with the yellowing, trembling