Next to the dolls, there was a beautifully varnished music box. I took it out from the glass case and opened it. Inside, there was a beautifully carved ballerina, ready to dance in circles to the music. So I began winding the music box, expecting to hear the sound of Bartók, or perhaps the tune of some Magyar folk song - in either case, not expecting to know the music. But, when I released the knob, the ballerina began dancing to a recognizable tune. I had to chuckle: it was Henry Mancini's theme from Love Story.

There was even a bottle of Eszencia from nineteen eighty-three, with a stamped handwritten label. There were a lot of Hungarian folk dolls, even a Gypsy doll. I was reminded of our own Austrian folk dolls, and I wondered whether these figurines were the only way we would ever remember the old customs. It was certainly decorative, and a convenient way of keeping the ancestral traditions alive. Although, I suppose they are not alive, not if we refuse to practice them. But if we do cling to these dolls then they are not yet dead. They are simply comatose.

There wasn't much light in the drawing room. Only one of its lamps was on - plus the piano light, which I promptly turned off. I thought I wouldn't need it. I was cocky. I put my sheets down. I raised my glass to Indiana. I toasted her. I drank everything in one gulp. I almost choked myself. But I didn't show it. I put my glass on top and smiled. Indiana smiled back at me.

"Of course, Madame: with pleasure." I gave her another short bow and then I left. I made my way through the kitchen. I entered the drawing room and saw the piano to my left, sitting in its familiar corner.

Turning around, I went back to the first case and replaced the music box. "Maybe this is hers too," I thought, and again, I carefully closed the glass door.