Rosenstein Alley

Out of sight, beyond the veil of shadows.

Rosenstein Alley

I sunk the letter back into the bottom of the box and retrieved a pair of black jeans and my favourite navy blue shirt. Alex simply grabbed the first clothes he could get his hands on: jeans and a green sweater — but typically the stretched, worn-out green sweater he'd been wearing so much I thought it would tear in places.

"What?" he frowned at me.

"Nothing," I said, and again I got another proof that Alex was a dimwit.

"If you know so much more than me, you could at least help me choose the outfit!" I could hear in his voice that he was a little resentful that I didn't let him in on things. "I mean, I don't even know where we're going! So how am I supposed to decide what to wear?"

"You'll know in time," I reassured him.

After a brief deliberation, I decided on black trousers and a thin, off-white shirt — Alex liked bright colours, which suited him well, especially accentuating the tan he had acquired that summer.

Fortunately, Rolo was able to do something as basic task as dressing up without me, he pulled on a green shirt that accentuated his eyes and his usual worn jeans that you could usually see him in.

We left at eleven o'clock sharp, and I found that although I like the rain, sometimes there is too much of it. Luckily the pub was built not far from the bus stop. As I hadn't picked up our passes in a hurry at home, they were probably already burnt to ashes — so we traveled without a ticket.

We got off at the Arcade, then crossed the crossing and turned onto Tímár Street, and from there onto Károly Goldmark and walked along it. You couldn't miss it: the opposite is the old Clinic. I stopped in front of the door and looked around cautiously. Not a soul had passed this way, especially not in this weather. Then I turned to my best friend and the kid. 

"Are you ready?"

They nodded immediately.

"Wir sind die Jäger," I whispered.

"It's very easy to get in, just whisper the phrase and grab the handle," I said as I carried out the operation myself.

The spell zigzagged through my body like a shock, and then, grabbed onto each one of my cells, one by one, and it pulled me through the tiny crevices of space. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in the middle of a busy street. It wasn't raining here, it never does.

First Rolo, then Alex followed. The kid was holding up quite well, looking just a little paler than usual, while Alex, on the other hand, was immediately turning green and I was in serious danger of him throwing up on my shoes. In any case, he braced himself and held the morning's baguette in his stomach.

Surprisingly, they were coping well, having been atomized and put back together in less than a second. I remember as a child, the first time I was here, I got my head spinning, and sure enough, I met my dinner from the day before again — usually on the first try of this kind of transport all throw up.

Rolo glanced around, eyes gleaming with amazement. The small street was bustling with hunters. Just to the left of us, Nick's weapon shop took its rightful place, filling at least three blocks. A few of the more experienced hunters were doing business with him, no doubt trying to haggle down the prices he usually set insidiously high. Nick was a stern-eyed man who, when he'd had enough of customers, would always fluff his grey mustache excitedly — and this time was no different.

 Next to the retired hunter's shop, Laborc sells his wares, he can get you even the rarest and most valuable protection if you pay the price. Laborc was a bit of an enigmatic man, it was said that before his retirement a mage had afflicted him with some kind of forgetfulness. Everyone thought him a fool, for he was always cheerful, and smiling and his reputation for simplemindedness was legendary among the hunters — yet many envied him. The only truly happy man is a fool.

The two men, when they had free time, would sit out on the street on their stools and talk about whatever the hunters' newspaper advertised. Nick and Laborc were said to have been partners for a long time, though the latter old man had no idea of it.

Nick was a grumpy man who didn't make friends easily with anyone, so I thought there might be some truth to it — after all, the veteran only smiled when Laborc annoyed him with his chatter.

To the right was Stella's bar, with green pots, ivy-covered walls, and slanted signage. At the tables outside, a few alcohol-smelling hunters amused themselves, sometimes whining after the poor waitress, who didn't know which way to turn among the many customers.

In the pub sat Miksa Korom, who was most likely to be found here if you were looking for him — though you weren't usually looking for the likes of him. Although he was barely fifty, he looked much older, not to mention his unkempt stubble and unkempt hair. You couldn't see the old man in anything but shorts, even in winter. If you ask me, I'd say it's because of the beer and high blood pressure. As had become his habit over the years, he was now harassing the waitresses.

Right next to them was a small pharmacy where one could get the best medicines and with them the deadliest poisons — when and which one was needed.

The wide main street was equally spaced, flanked by lamp-posts of greenish metal. From either side of the column, bulbs hung down in ornate metallic casings. Also, to make the street more welcoming, it was framed by white birch trees.

The road was covered with cobblestones. These greenish-red cobblestones, however, had a history: The Hunter Association was founded by the sons of Ágota Rosenstein. It is said that she was a great witch whose blood lived strong in her sons and that if any of their descendants were lucky enough, they would inherit this power.

The founding twins hated each other, but their encounters were inevitable, as they had to control the hunting organization. It is said that one twin controlled the wind, while the other controlled the water element. When a meeting went wrong — and it did every time — and the twins clashed, a huge storm would ensue. The cobblestones were needed to channel the water into the ground when the hunters grew tired of having to wade through ankle-deep slush to replenish their weapons arsenals, even a week after the meetings.

But today, very few hunters have such special powers — and the mage's blood is slowly fading. Even if there are a few, their powers are a pale imitation of the ancient might.

"Where are we?" asked Alex in a daze.

After all, who would have guessed that there was such a place, known as the Hunters' Main Headquarters in Hungary?

"Welcome to Rosenstein Alley," I announced, "This is the city of hunters."

Even though my two companions were amazed by the splendor of the main street, my favourite was the maze of narrow little side streets between the high-rise brick houses. Such places are worth getting lost in.

"This is amazing," said Rolo, "I never thought hunters could create something like this..."

"How do you think they would have gotten the better of the monsters without a place to safely recharge and gather information and companions?"

"Fair enough," he nodded.

"How long has been this place existed?" interjected Alex.

"Since about the early eighties," I shrugged and I could hear Alex's chin tapping loudly on the cobblestones. Back then, of course, the place was a little different, but it already existed.

Once they had sorted themselves out, we headed down the main street, straight ahead. Greek coffee was on offer in some places, Belgian chocolate in others, and for the finer taste there was the Bacchus wine bar. The ice cream was outrageously expensive everywhere, and the only place where it was worth the four hundred and fifty forints was the Forst House.

We passed a lot of hotels, restaurants, and fast-food outlets, almost every fifth block was in one of these categories. Sometimes there were hunters on the side of the road who knew a thing or two about music, or who were setting the mood in the pubs. There was a fella softly playing the guitar that Alex particularly liked.

Then came the bookshops, which almost immediately caught the kid's attention. Bernard's was the biggest: it took up about four blocks of space, and I noticed Rolo's curiosity at the leather-bound, clasped volumes of various sizes, from the smallest to the meter long.

"I recommend Hedvig's shop," I said, pointing to the smallest bookshop a few cafes away, "She'll get you anything from the dark arts and the mating habits of shapeshifters to rare historical records."

He looked at me strangely but nodded.

We continued on our way, only stopped in the next hour first by a stubborn lady selling herbs and then by an old talisman vendor — I've had worse, believe me. So, that's when Alex and Rolo began to understand why we call this place the City of Hunters. An hour wasn't enough to explore even a tiny part of the place.

You see, we were on our way to the house of terror, which was right in the middle of town. No, not the one where they display Holocaust memorabilia, I meant the other one. Although I'm the only one who calls it that, because you can't endure the kind of psychological terror of climbing eight floors without an elevator.

There we were. It was high. So high that I had to tilt my head all the way back to get a glimpse of the gold clock on the top floor. That clock showed the time, the date, the signs of the zodiac, and even the cycles of the moon and the sun. The building was built with lots of reliefs and crenellations, with ornate windows and double doors made of ebony. It was beautiful to the eye but tiring to the feet. The Babel was like a snow-white spike as it towered skywards.

Rummaging in my pocket before we entered, I finally found what I was looking for. I distributed two of the three amulets among the boys, kept one for myself, and hung it around my neck, hiding it in the cover of my shirt.

"What's this?" asked Alex, twirling the nickel between his fingers, which I had pierced and strung on a leather sting.

"It's called a translation amulet," I replied, "If you wear it, you'll understand what foreigners are saying without actually knowing the language. I tied it up so you wouldn't lose it."

Rolo's eyes lit up again, as they always did when he discovered something unknown or extremely interesting.

I grabbed the silky handle and pushed the door open — which, while not challenging, proved noticeably harder than the average wooden door. Anyway, the rest of our family called the place "Headquarters".

It had a centuries-old history. It smelled like the typical smell of such places: musty and heavy with resigned sighs. I sighed too — I wasn't looking forward to the eight-storey hike. The air stuck in the building was heavy with the elegance of the old brick walls.

Other outsider hunters called the building by its real name, the name the founding fathers had given it: Babel. No, not just because of its height. It is said to be the place where the magic that is now the basis of the translation amulets was created — at the request of Ágota Rosenstein herself and her sons. Babel is a witness to humanity overruling its fate, and hunters rising above the common people. The Babel was the first place where hunters from all over the world gathered — and although such meetings are now held more in Berlin, the place has remained in the possession of the descendants of the Rosenstein family.

The old wooden stairs creaked deafeningly with every step. Each step was covered with a red carpet, stretched with golden sticks to keep it in place. The handrail was also made of wood, with tiny columns connecting it to the steps. The varnish on the old wood had worn off in places from much use, but if possible, this added more elegance to the place. The bare brick wall beside me exuded a bone-chilling cold.

By now everyone must have arrived and was waiting in the meeting room on the upper floor of the family base. I stopped in front of the closed door and tried to pull myself together, my friends were standing beside me, I just had to do it for them.

"Don't say a word. Only if they really ask you," I instructed them. "Don't make any sudden movements, try not to stare at them, and please, if possible, don't look them in the eye for a long time, they might consider it a challenge."

Alex looked extremely nervous, probably already sniffing out the nearly two dozen hunters in the room. Rolo looked as expressionless as ever — only the tiny sparks that exploded in his emeralds betrayed his excitement and nervousness.

If no one else was there to do it for me, I had to stay strong. I grabbed the silky copper handle and pushed. The click of the lock indicated the door was open.