Authors: Vilmos Kondor
Gordon hurried onto Anna Street. He didn’t want to be conspicuous, nor did he have to be: Samu would not have had anyplace to lie low, had he wanted to. At the start of Úri Street he stopped and looked around. There was no one to be seen. He then heard a soft whistle, and Samu stepped from a doorway on the far side of the street. His eyes were red, his stubble grayish, his face sunken, and his voice even raspier than usual as he said, “One Anna Street. First flat on the left.” He continued, “He was on the move all night. Lucky I took a couple of lookouts with me to Mátyás Square, or else he would have gotten away.”
Gordon nodded. “You sure made me run around. So you’re saying he first went to Ponty Street, from there to Várfok Street, and finally over here. You sure he’s in?”
Samu gave a weary nod. Gordon reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and extended a ten-pengő coin to Samu, who only shook his head. “I don’t work for you. I work for Csuli.” With that, he pulled his cap down over his eyes and, coughing, dissolved into the fog.
Gordon stopped in front of 1 Anna Street. He looked around, then opened the front door. The tiny inner courtyard was gray, neglected, run-down. To the right, a set of stairs went up, and to the left, there was a door. By the wall, a dried-up plant in a flowerpot, a threadbare doormat, and hastily swept leaves. He stepped into the courtyard. The shutters were drawn on the windows of the flat the door evidently led to. Gordon began pounding on the door. One of the shutters moved almost imperceptibly. Gordon pounded even harder. The door finally opened a crack, and Skublics’s eyes appeared.
“What in the fucking hell do you want?” he hissed. Gordon didn’t reply; instead, he shoved the door in, together with the old man, and shut it behind him. Skublics came at Gordon from the fireplace, hands high above his head. Gordon waited for Skublics to strike before grabbing the old man’s wrist and twisting the poker from his grip, forcing him into a grimy armchair. Silently Gordon reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph, which he threw in the old man’s lap. Skublics didn’t move. At this, Gordon took a candlestick from the fireplace mantel. Lighting the candle with his cigarette, he held it in Skublics’s face. The old man stared right back at Gordon, who now said, softly, “I won’t ask you again who it is in that picture.”
“What picture?” asked Skublics, his eyes wide. “This one?”
“No. The one I spoke with you about in your studio. If you can call it a studio.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of here or I’ll call the cops.”
Gordon made a fist and then slowly opened his hand. “Go ahead,” he said, stepping away and placing the candle on the table. “Call the cops. At least then they won’t have to go looking for you.”
“You . . .” snapped Skublics. Animal loathing flashed in his button eyes.
“Let’s have it. Who’s in the picture?”
“Why should I tell you? They’ll nab me, anyway. You’ve already given them this picture here, and the state security police have men everywhere. I bet you’re one of them.”
“Skublics, if I were from the security police, I’d have broken down your door with gendarmes and summoned every paper to the scene. And don’t be so sure about them. They’ll get the picture on Monday. So you’ve got time to disappear.”
“Why should I trust you?” asked the old man in a shrill voice.
“Trust me?” Gordon shot him a stare in reply. “You don’t need to trust me. You do understand, don’t you, that several pictures were taken?”
Skublics nodded. With his withered hands, he stroked his beard, and hope now flickered in his eyes.
“A couple pictures show only you. A couple show you in the company of the Communist Ernő Gerő. And there are other shots of Gerő by himself. So then, it’s one of those I gave my man. Either you believe me or you don’t.”
“Let’s just say I do.”
“Let’s just say. And let’s also say I’ll have that picture of you and Gerő sent right to Schweinitzer in the taxi that’s waiting outside. Where does that leave you?”
Skublics did not reply.
“Don’t go hoping they’ll hand you over to the Soviets like they did with Gerő. You can hope for anything, but not that. They’ve got a dowry-full of Hungarian Communists, and they don’t need another one. Especially not this sort, not an informer. True, you’re not a state security informant, but what does it matter?”
The old man calculated feverishly. Finally, he reached a decision. “I don’t know his name,” he began. “But I do know who brought her there.”
“I’m listening.” Gordon sat down in the other armchair and pulled the candle closer to himself as he took out his notebook.
“One of Zsámbéki’s girls.”
“Who is Zsámbéki?”
“He’s got exclusive girls in the center of town—in the fifth district.”
“More precisely?”
“On Báthory Street. There’s an apartment there, full of girls. Ten or twelve of them. But they don’t do anything there. They just sit and wait. Because there’s this book, a catalog of sorts. That’s how our distinguished representatives choose their girls from the back rooms of the Parliament building. I take the girls’ pictures. The gentlemen point to one, word goes out to the apartment on Báthory Street, and then they meet up in a hotel room.”
“You’re saying the girl was a tart for members of Parliament?”
“For upper-house gentlemen, too. Yes, mainly for them. The lower house is packed to the heap with boors and country bumpkins. Anyway, Zsámbéki is the one who found this girl. He got word that there’s a cultivated, especially beautiful creature in Csuli’s gang.” The old man licked his chapped lips. “True, a Jew, but some want that. And she spoke several languages. So then, Zsámbéki went to Csuli and bought the girl off him. He dressed her up really nice and sent her over to me with Red Margo.”
“Who is Red Margo?”
“She’s the madam.”
“She lives on Báthory Street?”
“No,” said Skublics, shaking his head. “A few blocks away, in Falk Miksa Street.”
Gordon wrote down the address. “So you don’t know the girl’s name?”
“You think I pay attention?”
“And what sort of picture did you take of her?”
“The sort you saw.”
“Nothing else?”
“I wanted to, but Margo didn’t let me.”
Gordon’s hand again tightened into a fist. He stood and stepped in front of the old man. “Get the hell out of here.”
“You’re telling me to leave my own apartment?”
“Leave the country, you swine. You wretched swine. I’ve heard there’s demand in Paris for pictures of naked girls. You can meet up with your comrades there, too. And if you listen to me, you’ll pull up stakes right this instant, because maybe you were wrong to trust me. Besides, who knows? If you don’t get a move on, I might just write an article about you. Which our Paris office could publish, too. This sort of juicy story goes over well there.” Skublics just sat there, staring at the carpet and stroking his beard. Gordon slammed the door shut behind him, walked out to Holy Trinity Square, and got back in the Opel Regent.
“Where to?” asked Czövek.
“Lövölde Square,” replied Gordon.
“Shall we hurry?”
Gordon looked at his watch. It was a couple of minutes past noon. “Take your time. Lunch can wait.”
G
ordon could smell Krisztina’s potato pasta with onions and paprika from the stairwell. On stepping into the flat, he saw Mór’s overcoat on the coat stand. His grandfather often stopped by Krisztina’s place, only a couple of blocks from his own, always bringing a jar of jam as an excuse. Today he had complemented his concoction with some crêpes.
“My apple jam turned out so well that I had to cook up some crêpes to tuck it into,” he said, beaming. Krisztina grabbed the pot of potato pasta from the stove and set it on the living room table. “Come on, you two!” she called.
The three chatted over lunch, but Gordon didn’t want to tell Krisztina in front of his grandfather what he’d managed to find out. As for the old man’s newest creation, the crêpes, Gordon’s initial caution gradually gave way to enthusiasm. “Opa, these aren’t so bad. They aren’t bad at all. How much sugar did you put in to keep it from falling apart?” he inquired.
“No small amount,” replied the old man with a furtive smile, “no small amount.”
After dessert, Gordon lit a cigarette and turned toward Mór.
“What are you up to this afternoon, Opa?”
“Son, I’ve got loads of pears waiting for me at home, and I bought some more rhubarb, so I’ve got plenty to do.”
Gordon went on: “I only ask because I want to check out a boxing match this afternoon. There’s this butcher from the town of Csepel who, I’ve been told, can outbox Harangi.”
“No one boxes better than Harangi!” the old man exclaimed.
“You mean Imre Harangi, who won a gold at the Berlin Olympics?” asked Krisztina.
“That’s the one,” said Gordon.
“Son, I’ve seen quite enough blood in my life,” said Mór with a wave of the hand, “and I’m not interested in seeing any more.”
“As you wish, Opa.”
“Zsigmond,” said Krisztina, “you haven’t forgotten that we’re going to the cinema tonight, have you?”
“Of course I haven’t,” said Gordon, and he asked his grandfather to fill him in on the jams that awaited him this afternoon.
N
o sooner had Gordon stepped into the Ironworks Sport Club near the West Railway Station than the familiar smell hit his nose: the mix of sweat, stifling heat, and cigarette smoke. He stopped in the doorway of the boxing arena and looked around. He hadn’t been back among the cheering crowd for two weeks. He was relieved to finally take a break from his busy schedule.
Two rings stood in the middle of the enormous arena. Training was under way in one, while in the other they were preparing for the match. The league manager and the head referee were busy putting the competitors and their corner guys in their proper places, and—although it was a friendly, amateur bout—all concerned appeared to be taking it seriously indeed. A teeming mass of spectators surrounded the ring, many of them chatting enthusiastically, with coats flung over their shoulders; others, still in their overcoats, watched events unfold while standing a bit farther back from the crowd.
Gordon moved closer. Several people greeted him, and as he shook their hands, they exchanged a few words about the celebrated match back in June between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling, and of course about Harangi’s triumph in Berlin. Gordon regretted not having been able to make it to the Olympics, but his paper didn’t let him go. True, that hadn’t stopped him from listening on edge, like so many of his compatriots, to the radio broadcasts from Berlin by the incomparable Hungarian sports announcer István Pluhár. He’d even been on hand in the Ironworks Sport Club boxing arena for Harangi’s triumphant match: the radio had been placed in the center of the ring, and the crowd listened to it with rapt attention, as if the Olympic championship had in fact been unfolding live before them. When the ref held up Harangi’s hand, everyone shouted along with the announcer, including Gordon, of course. It was a wonderful evening, and he’d been there in the cheering crowd when Harangi arrived home from Berlin with the rest of Hungary’s Olympic team. In those moments, Gordon didn’t care about anything else. He, too, flung his hat in the air as he joined the crowd accompanying Harangi out of Budapest’s East Railway Station. He couldn’t remember ever having been so happy about a boxing victory. Gordon had been a devoted fan of Harangi for years, transfixed by the boxer’s self-confidence, nimbleness, unbelievably quick right hand, and air of calm superiority.
Gordon took off his overcoat and pushed his hat back from his forehead, giving the room a thorough once-over. Finally he found the person he was looking for. Jenő Strausz was standing not far from the ring, regaling two young men in shorts with his stories, as they listened with wide-open eyes. Indeed, Strausz had a story worth telling: he’d defeated Ralf Geyling in the international championship held in Budapest in February 1912. Strausz looked hardly a day older, and almost twenty-five years had passed. He might have been nearing fifty now, but every ounce of his almost two-hundred-pound frame was pure muscle. He stood out in the crowd, with his short-cropped hair, slightly stooped back, and meticulously shaved mustache. For decades he’d been raising the next generation of boxers and had played a role in discovering several greats.
At that moment, Strausz, having caught a glimpse of Gordon, broke into a smile and opened his arms wide. “Zsigmond! Welcome! I wouldn’t have thought you could make it.”
“No one can be better than Harangi,” Gordon replied, “but I just had to see this butcher from Csepel for myself. Does he have a name?”
Strausz knit his brows. “You won’t believe it. Bruno Butcher.”
“Bruno the Butcher,” said Gordon.
“No, Bruno Butcher,” said Strausz. “Just like that. Look, it could be worse. He could be Béla Baker.”
“And what is his real name?”
“We don’t know. He rose through the ranks of the Csepel Workers Bodybuilding Club, and everyone called him Bruno Butcher even then. That can’t be his real name, but it doesn’t really matter.”
“Have you seen him fight?”
“If I’d seen him,” replied Strausz, “I probably wouldn’t even be here. Either he’s just the same as all the other coal heavers and butchers out there—and then there’s no sense seeing him more than once—or else I’ll give him my every spare moment to make sure that he can think a little, too, and not just punch a big one.”
“Who is he up against?”
“Micsicsák,” said Strausz with a dismissive wave.
“Then it’ll be a quick, bloodless match,” replied Gordon, glancing at the far side of the ring. He did a double-take. “Am I right that that man there is Antal Kocsis?”
“You certainly are. Where he came from, and when, I haven’t a clue, but here he is.”
Winner of the gold medal in the flyweight class in the 1928 Amsterdam Olympics, Kocsis had emigrated to America in early 1930 and hadn’t been seen in Hungary since. Rumors concerning his fate had surfaced regularly: he’d drunk away his money; his brain had been pummeled into jelly; he’d signed a contract in South America; and so on. Gordon knew not a single one was true. Even in America, Kocsis had made a name for himself in boxing, but on account of his good heart, he was constantly mired in financial struggles. He never could say no if a fellow Hungarian American asked him for a loan. Of course, he never saw the money again.