László's Mirror

It wasn’t much more than a junk-shop, though it had a dusty sign that read RÉGISÉGEK, or ‘antiques’, hanging precariously above the door.

Dust appeared to be a theme of the shop; the whole place was coated in thick layers of the stuff. It looked like it hadn’t seen a customer in a very long time. It was a minor miracle that Haine had found it at all, in fact, tucked away as it was in a narrow alley off one of the main streets of Budapest.

He’d come out of the hotel, on the last day of his business trip, to scout the antique shops for a birthday present to take home to his wife, who was something of a collector. She was still grieving the recent loss of their daughter Dorothy – as was he. He’d thought of telling the company he couldn’t travel for that very reason, but she’d insisted he did his duty; life had to go on, she said.

With all his meetings finished by lunch-time, he had the whole afternoon to spend on his quest, before the evening flight. He set about getting round as many shops as possible. Sadly, however, the places he visited were very uninspiring and overpriced, and he was about to give up when he saw the word RÉGISÉGBOLT and an arrow painted roughly on a crumbling archway, leading to the alley.

Haine closed the creaking door behind him and peered through the gloom. The tinkle of the bell above the door was still echoing through the shop when an old man shuffled out from the back. The layers of dust seemed to extend to this fellow, too; his waistcoat and trousers were grey over black, his hair – what was left of it – a matching tone.

“Good afternoon!” Haine said cheerfully.

The man scowled and invited Haine to browse with wave of his hand, before returning to whatever business he’d been up to.

Haine began to pick his way through the piles of old books, boxes, furniture, ancient electrical appliances, pots… It was, as he’d feared, little more than a load of old junk.

Then he saw it: a frame peeking out from behind a dilapidated dresser. He rocked the dresser back and forth to create enough space to extract, with difficulty, the thing that had caught his attention: a mirror, about four feet high and two across. The glass was speckled with age, and the dark wooden frame caked in grime.

It was sublimely elegant, though, with gentle curves at the corners and delicately carved flowers at various points on the sides. Haine gave it a blow – coughing in the cloud of dust raised – and found it to be in good shape, apart from the speckling. Inspecting the back, he discovered a small brass plate which he rubbed to reveal the words Magyarországon készült – ‘Made in Hungary’, he guessed.

Haine was not normally a believer in such a thing as love at first sight, but he was prepared to make an exception here. He coughed loudly and deliberately now to get the attention of the old man, and when he didn’t appear, he called out:

“Hello?”

The man shuffled into the main area from the room behind the counter, still scowling; apparently shopkeeping really was a terrible bother to him.

“How much?” Haine asked, pointing to the mirror and rubbing his thumb against his index finger.

The man pointed at him and shrugged his shoulders, which Haine took as an invitation to make an offer.

He took out his wallet and produced a ten-thousand-forint note – around £25. The man looked at it and held up two fingers. Haine brought out another note and handed over the two, which the man snatched before retreating to the back room, with no sign of a thank you or receipt.

Haine found an old rag on a cupboard and roughly cleaned the mirror, enough so as not to get too dirty handling it. Then he consulted his phone to find the nearest shipping company. He’d ask for the mirror to be delivered a couple of days after his return, to give him time to clean it up before Marie’s birthday the following week.

***

Haine followed the trajectory of the package on-line and convinced Marie to go shopping on the morning of delivery.

He took the mirror to the garage – where Marie never set foot – and unpacked it. He gave it a proper clean, now. The brass plate was a little tarnished so he unscrewed it to be able to clean it better.

Underneath he found a name, scratched tidily into the wood: László Zay. Haine went to his study and googled it. He could find nothing of note until he tried a combination of ‘László’ and ‘mirror’, which brought up a story – included in an anthology of Hungarian folk tales. He began to read.

***

LÁSZLÓ’S MIRROR

The most renowned of all the mirror-makers in the land was a man called László. He used only the finest materials and was famous for the style he lent to every single mirror he produced, each one exquisite and unique.

He had been a competent, if unremarkable, craftsman, until one August night in his 35th year. Making his way home, he was blinded by a sheet of brilliant white light that appeared from nowhere and blocked his path. He fell to his knees, certain that it must be some holy sign, but as suddenly as the light had come, so it was gone.

The next morning, when he opened up his workshop, he sensed a tingling in his fingers. He sat down to sketch a new design for a mirror and had finished it within the hour; the mirror itself was completed by the end of the same week.

That was the first of many beautiful models László designed and produced. His name soon reached the King, who sent courtiers to meet László and view his work. Within days, the monarch had ordered a special mirror from the old craftsman.

The King and Queen had had only one son. He had fallen from the royal launch on a river trip and had been swept away on the currents, never to be found. Whatever entertainment the King staged for her, whatever jewels he gave her, he could not lift the Queen from the depths of sadness to which she had sunk. And so he ordered a mirror from László, his instructions simply to make it the finest he had ever produced – something to assuage the Queen’s grief, even if only temporarily.

The old man locked himself away in his workshop. Word got around that he was producing something wonderful for the King, and the townsfolk began gathering outside his door, eager to be the first to view László’s latest work.

When he finally emerged a week later, blinking in the sunlight, there were scores of people crammed around his door, clamouring to see the mirror. Fearing a disturbance, the local sheriff advised László to bring the mirror out, which he reluctantly did.

The crowd fell silent as he unveiled it, but there was a collective sigh of disappointment; the frame was elegant but made only of ebony, turned very simply, with some small floral motifs along the sides. Then someone in the crowd cried out:

“Look! Look!”

The mirror had started to shimmer, like water in sunlight. The crowd gasped as one, in awe of the master craftsman and his skill.

Cries arose of “Beautiful!/Exquisite!/Wondrous!/Sublime!”, followed by spontaneous applause. The sheriff ordered that the mirror be taken to the castle forthwith.

László was brought before the King and Queen, side by side on their thrones, the Queen weeping softly.

“Show us what you have, then, my good man,” the King said, gesturing for László to uncover the mirror, which a servant had carried in from the cart.

László drew away the cloth and stepped aside. The king’s face dropped.

“What do you mean by this!? I asked you to–”

“Wait!” The Queen interrupted him. “Look!”

The mirror had started to shimmer like before. The King and Queen rose from their thrones, transfixed.

Then the surface parted and out onto the stone floor spilled a body … of a young boy. The Queen screamed. The King held her to him. The boy, soaked from head to foot, staggered to his feet.

“Mother?” he spluttered.

***

Haine hurried back to the garage and inspected the mirror more closely, tapping and prodding the speckled glass in various places. But it was just a mirror, albeit a very lovely one.

On the morning of Marie's birthday, Haine brought the mirror through from the garage and watched his wife’s face as she unwrapped it. She seemed distracted – remembering, Haine had no doubt, happier times when Dorothy had been so excited to give her mother a home-made card and the present she’d chosen with the help of her father.

“It’s lovely,” Marie said with a thin smile.

Haine took the mirror from her and leant it against the wall, then sat next to his wife, taking her in his arms. She was weeping softly now.

But then she gasped and pointed.

Across the room, the glass of the mirror had started to shimmer.