Scars of My Future Self
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At thirty-four, Máté Nádasdy had already lived a full and conflicted life during the time the Habsburgs ruled Hungary. After a troubled childhood, he served his country in battle, lived abroad in Paris, and now finds himself the owner of a popular coffeehouse on the Champs-Élysées of Budapest, Andrássy Avenue, where he hopes to live out a peaceful, if mundane, life as a coffeehouse proprietor. Despite his efforts to leave the past behind, he’s drawn to helping others with their problems and setting things right.
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1890. 15 October. Wednesday. Budapest.
4 p.m.
The morning was more tortuous than I imagined it could be. I’d never posed for a portrait before, and despite my friends’ warnings, I was unprepared for the stillness required. And the torrential rain pelting the garret studio’s skylights … it all dulled my sense of reality.
The Ludovika Academy desired to create a tableau to honor Josip Filipović, feldzeugmeister of the Austro-Hungarian Army. Filipović, of all people — the man who suppressed the Hungarian revolutionaries in 1848! The politics of the national defense remained inscrutable to me. The painting was to depict the Sarajevo campaign at the moment Filipović’s thundering artillery began firing on the town.
When Ludovika contacted me regarding the painting, I was incredulous. I never stood on that hill with Filipović, though I was in Sarajevo. Indeed, much of the tableau was contrived. I suspect Ludovika invited me to pose only because of my proximity to the painter’s studio; the canvas was a monstrosity and would require several men to move.
“Lieutenant, please maintain an exacting angle of your head or my perspective will be destroyed. I have little time.” The painter, an Italian named Celestino, was an ancient man, devoid of all humor to the point of acerbity.
“I’m sorry. My temperament has never permitted me to remain motionless for long.” The lumpy armchair I sat in had seen its best days several decades ago, and its only function now was not comfort but to keep the painter’s models at excruciating attention.
“We must all master ourselves,” he countered.
I couldn’t see his face from my position, but I’d wager he was suppressing a grin. In another place and time, I would have throttled the man. Instead, I indulged myself with a small smile to satisfy my hateful thoughts.
“No—we can’t have a smile!” Celestino dropped his brush onto his palette in a dramatic gesture.
An impossible man.
“Perhaps we can pause a moment? I’ll be able to resume with a few minutes of moving about.”
Celestino set his palette down in a gesture certain to tell me he’d reached his limit.
He had a dressing stand against one wall with a pitcher and basin. I motioned to it, and he nodded.
I poured some water into the basin. It was lukewarm, but clean, and I splashed my face over the bowl, enjoying the refreshing dampness on my skin. The mirror behind the basin threw back an imperfect and dark reflection. The silvering showed the age of the piece, graying the image and spotting it with little flecks where the reflecting material on its back had worn away.
I looked down into the basin. The water had settled, and my face appeared back to me bright and true.
I moved my face closer to the mirror, trying to find an area least affected by the flecking. The face staring back was mine, but the hair was longer, the eyes tired, and there was a scar of some kind on my cheek. I touched my face but the skin was unmarred. When I touched the mirror, my reflection touched back.
I was shaken and turned to Celestino. “What is this? A trick of some kind?”
“It is no trick. The reflection is from the future. The mirror was a gift from a nobleman from the East. I painted his portrait many years ago. It’s brought me much success, for I can hold an incomplete painting up, and it shows the finished work.”
“I suspect it to be more like a dream than reality—something created by the viewer’s mind to see a desired or undesired future.” I looked back into the mirror and touched my cheek, still disbelieving, yet trying to find the place the scar would be.
“Lieutenant, you should be thankful you throw a reflection. I throw none.” Celestino stood a few centimeters from me, yet he was absent in the mirror. “Now, come. We must finish soon.”
“You think too much of fate. I’d be happy to unsee what little I’ve already seen.” Still struck by the power of the mirror, I came to sit in the pose he required, but my mind raced with the possibilities. What if the mirror could prevent a crime—to interrupt a robbery or even a murder?
“I see you thinking.” Celestino dabbed at the canvas. “You’ve earned a reputation as an expert in criminal behavior. The mirror could warn as well as guide.”
“What if it only shows one of many possibilities?” To my reasoning, criminals were not guilty until they committed their acts; police couldn’t indict them based on a reflection in a mirror—on crimes they never enacted. My initial excitement began to dissolve.
Celestino looked dubious, shaking his head. “Disbelieve, if you like.”
I went to the mirror again and lifted it in my hands, but then something howled, and I almost lost my grip. When I looked down, a black cat streaked across the floor.
“Careful, Lieutenant. Arabella likes to sleep under there.”
I adjusted the mirror, catching the room’s reflection—the room as it would be at some time in the future. “So you will be dead soon?”
“Please use care. The mirror is quite fragile. And yes. It’s been a month since I’ve seen myself.” The irritation left his face, and his eyes saddened.
“Then you saw it—your death?”
He shook his head. “I was there one day, then gone. I saw nothing.”
The painting looked much as it had that day. Paints were left open on the worktable, the pallet crusted with dried pigment.
I turned about, comparing the reflection with the contents of the room. The skylights above held snow in that future time, though a fierce sun shone through it, bathing the studio in a diffused but brilliant light.
“It must be almost December. There’s snow on the roof.”
Celestino just grunted as he worked with his brush to bring a sparkle to the brass buttons on an officer’s attila.
I set the mirror down. “You don’t care?”
He didn’t look away from his canvas. “I’ve done what you’re doing, searching for something I might change. But now, I’ve accepted my fate.”
“What makes you think you’ve died?”
“Look at the chair where you were sitting.”
I walked to the chair and held up the mirror. “The cushions are torn apart, and there’s a dark paint spilled on the floor in front of it.”
“That is not paint.” He met my eyes, and I saw his sadness turn to despair.
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He had finished my rendering a few hours earlier, and now we sat at a small table to the side of the canvas, sipping some red vermouth. The dusty green bottle sat between us, a sentinel to the artist’s despondence. The woodworm and citrus flavors were both nostalgic and crisp—and unsettling.
“Why do you think it’s your blood?” There was more to this tale than he was telling. I could see it in his face. Yet he said nothing, so I filled his glass again. Patience, Máté.
We sat in the silence for another ten minutes. The rain had stopped falling, but the sun had set and left us in a twilight within the studio.
I gave a nudge. “The painting in the mirror is unfinished.”
He nodded. “You were the last I added, but it wasn’t finished.”
I sat again, waiting. Most people will speak of their own volition, for they abhor silence. Some will fidget; others will shift, look away, close their eyes—anything to fill the space. But investigators must be stronger. They must wait in the silence, unflinching.
Finally, Celestino stood and went to a cupboard in the back and lit a candle. He took it to the painting, and I walked to his side.
He pointed to the officer on Filipović’s left, next to the line of cannons, the battery commander. “Do you know him?”
“No. I don’t remember him from Sarajevo.”
Celestino put his hand to his chin and scratched his goatee. “He came in here with a knife a few days ago, insisting I add him.” He stared at the commander’s face, transfixed.
I looked back at the canvas. I knew the man now, but I couldn’t remember how, or what his name was, yet I was sure he wasn’t in Sarajevo.
The bloodstained floor, the intruder’s knife, the commander’s face—they turned in my mind, but the vermouth was muddling my thoughts, and nothing seemed clear.
At once, Celestino stepped away, and then, just as suddenly, he was back. He held a small pistol pointed at my chest. Then I remembered the bloodstain on the floor and reconsidered whose blood it might be.
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“I cannot die by a blade. They say it is the most painful way.” He turned the pistol around and held it out to me.
“I’m to kill you?” I looked at the floor. He now stood on the very spot that was bloodstained in the mirror.
“He’ll be back—tonight. And I’d rather it be you than him.”
I laughed at the absurdity. “I may be a former soldier, but I’m not a killer.”
He said nothing, just stood offering the pistol, and I remembered—our conversation about choice, fate, and what appears in the mirror.
I took the pistol, opened the breach, and shook the bullets onto the floor. His face fell and tears ran down his cheeks.
“Why is he coming back?” I asked.
Celestino only shrugged and fell back into the armchair. “To see his completed image, I suppose. He was in a hurry, but said he would return—tonight.”
“Then we’ll wait.” I put my back to the wall and slid down into a sitting position, my head resting against the ancient plaster. Taking my laguiole from my pocket, I opened the blade and set it on the floor next to me.
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I would have my most powerful dreams while I dozed in my armchair in my apartment, with some pretentious tome lying on my lap. But on this night, I sat staring at Celestino until I found my eyelids too heavy to keep open, and then the dreams came. His face—the man in the painting—was now transformed into that of a menacing executioner. Standing among the pressing onlookers, I couldn’t see who was to be hanged, but I sensed I would know the person when they appeared. Then, the condemned came to the platform, hooded and dressed in a Honvéd uniform. He fought his bindings until two powerful bailiffs forced his head into the noose. And the crowd began to chant, “Unhood him! Unhood him!”
The executioner walked from his place at the lever and stood next to the condemned. He held a hand above the hood, taunting the crowd. They yelled more wildly, “Unhood him!”
With a jerk, he pulled the hood off. My chest seized. The man was me, my eyes haunted, and a trickle of blood running down my cheek.
“No!” I shouted and fought the crowd to get to the platform. I couldn’t take my eyes off him—me, the accused. He looked resigned, defeated even.
“Fight them!” I screamed to my condemned self.
I couldn’t hear above the crowd, but I saw his lips move. I’ve accepted my fate.
The crowd held me now; I couldn’t move. And the executioner had moved back to the lever. He looked at the bailiffs and they nodded. He pulled the lever, and I felt the world drop from beneath me.
With a start, I opened my eyes, my heart racing. I looked around, trying to remember where I was. Was I the man in the crowd, fighting to save myself, or the Máté with his head in the noose—or someone else?
A noise. Something had rattled on the table. I reached for the laguiole, and touched my cheek, still smooth.
“Arabella. She’s missed her supper.” The black form hissed and jumped from the table, skittering over to Celestino.
The candle had guttered to a stub and showed only a faint daub of flame, but the sky had cleared and the moon shone in through the skylights, bathing the center of the room in a silvery hue.
Another noise. This time on the stairwell. Celestino opened his eyes wide. I held my finger to my lips. Be silent now, painter.
Celestino snuffed the candle and slid behind the armchair. I moved into a corner, invisible in the shadows.
The door to the garret swung wide, the creak of the hinges magnified by the profound stillness. A draft of cool air brushed my face. He stepped in—the man in the painting. His face was sharp and gaunt, and seemed to glow in the moonlight. He held a revolver in front of him, a jeweled ring on his shaking hand catching the moon and throwing a flash.
And then I remembered him. He was a jeweler from Váci Street. Budapest proprietors are a gossipy lot, and everyone knew consumption had taken the man’s wife a few months prior. Why threaten the painter and insist on being in the painting, and why come back?
“Old man. I know you are here. I smell the candle.” His voice was wet and rough. “Show yourself, and I’ll pay you for your work.”
Courage, painter.
But Celestino shifted and the floor squeaked. The man swung the revolver to face him, so Celestino stood and moved into the moonlight. “I’ve finished your image as you asked.”
My breath caught. He’d stepped to where the bloodstain would be!
I dove, knocking him to the floor.
The revolver roared. Celestino and I lay in the shadows by the wall.
The revolver roared again. The shot ricocheted off the floor.
“I don’t care about the painting. Let me get my stuff, and I’ll be gone.” He walked over to the armchair, produced a knife, and began to cut the cushion. And I remembered a recent news story about a theft on Váci Street. The pieces were coming together.
I rushed him, hitting him low.
Then we were on the floor and began grappling for the knife. But he was no soldier, and I disarmed him in seconds and pinned him, face against the floor.
“Celestino, call the police … quickly.”
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As I feared, Celestino had difficulty summoning the police at that time of night. I could lend no help since I was holding our perpetrator to the floor. But once they arrived, they were efficient in their work. An officer led the jeweler away in cuffs, while another was digging in the cushions of the armchair.
I recounted the night’s events to Detective Petrik, who wore his iconic smirk. “But Lieutenant, tell me why a jeweler would steal his own diamonds, then hide them in a painter’s loft.”
“The store’s merchandise is likely heavily insured—a common practice on Váci Street. After the theft, he probably intended to offload the jewels through a backroom sale. I’m sure he’s filed an insurance claim as well. Altogether, he’d have recovered twice their value.”
“But why come here and bother a poor painter?” Celestino sat at the table again, sipping his vermouth with a shaking hand.
“He needed a place to hide the jewels until he met with his buyer later tonight. He knew your reputation in portraiture and demanded a sitting so he could hide the jewels while you painted. The lumpy upholstery seemed a perfect spot.”
The officer at the armchair let out a cheer and held up a small leather sack. He’d found the jewels.
“Arabella! You’ll hurt yourself,” Celestino yelled, for the cat was standing next to the shattered mirror, pawing at the shards. It must have broken during the struggle.
Petrik walked to the remnants and stooped to examine them. “Such an old thing. No loss.”
“An immeasurable loss,” Celestino said.
“A curse,” I said. “No one knows the future, except the Creator.”
The painter scoffed and took another sip.
“Lieutenant, come here.” Petrik stood in front of me with his handkerchief. He dabbed my cheek, and it came away bloody. “You must have been cut during your struggle.”
I scowled, but the painter just laughed and laughed. Perhaps a hint of optimism?
Arabella hissed, no!
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Historical Note
Born in what is now Croatia, Josip Filipović (1819-1889) had a complicated legacy with the Hungarian people. Filipović enlisted in the Austrian Army at seventeen, and his talent for military strategy propelled him through the ranks. By the time of the Hungarian Revolution in 1848, he fought as a major under the command of fellow Croatian Josip Jelačić. Within eighteen months, the Hungarian revolutionary forces were suppressed with the help of the Russian Army, and Habsburg rule was reestablished. He continued to rise in power in the Austrian Army and then the Austro-Hungarian Army (the U.k.U.), and in 1874, he was appointed general of the artillery (feldzeugmeister) and commander of the army in Bohemia. He held both positions until his death in 1889. But it was his role in suppressing the Hungarian revolutionaries in 1848 that was best remembered by Hungarians.
The Austro-Hungarian occupation of Bosnia and Herzegovina is a notable historical event. After the Russo-Turkish War (1877-1878), the Treaty of Berlin was signed. Bosnia and Herzegovina remained under Ottoman sovereignty, but the Austro-Hungarian Empire was granted the authority to occupy and administer these territories indefinitely. Consequently, the U.k.U. launched a military offensive on July 29, 1878, which was led by Josip Filipović, general of the artillery. The invading force comprised 82,000 troops, 13,000 horses, and 112 cannons. They met fierce resistance from the Ottoman Army and local militias, predominantly Orthodox Serbs and Bosnian Muslims, who were defending their homeland. On August 19, Sarajevo fell to Filipović’s forces, but only after an artillery bombardment of the city and aggressive infantry engagement in the streets. The military campaign ended on October 20, 1878, with the capture of the castle of Velika Kladuša. Sarajevo and the rest of Bosnia and Herzegovina remained under Austro-Hungarian administration until the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire at the close of World War I.
The painting described in this story is a work of fiction. The Ludovika Academy, a storied military institution, commissioned no such tableau.
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This story is a work of fiction. Except where explicitly identified in the afterword, the names, characters, and incidents herein are a product of the author’s creation and any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.
SCARS OF MY FUTURE SELF. Text copyright © 2025 by Mark Mrozinski LLC. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
