Authors: Vilmos Kondor
“Why should it be suspicious? Dohány Street is close by, too.”
“How many Jewish girls from Dohány Street have you heard of who work the streets?”
Gordon looked toward Blaha Lujza Square. He shuddered at the shrill ring of the tram behind him.
“Not a lot.”
“And surely you haven’t heard of one with a siddur in her purse, and nothing else.”
“What are you talking to me about some siddur for? As if I’m supposed to know what that is.”
“Zsigmond, it’s been five years already since you moved home, but there are a few things you still need to remember.”
“Don’t say it.”
“But I will. Here and now, in this country, it does indeed matter who is Jewish and who is not.”
“Now you’ll go telling me again about your Saxon roots, and that back in Transylvania you even had Jewish friends and Romanian friends.”
Krisztina pulled her arm from Gordon’s, turned about-face, and headed back toward the Oktogon with determined steps. Gordon hurried after her.
“Don’t be angry.”
“You’re such a boor sometimes that I don’t even understand why I let you into my bed.”
“Into
your
bed? You got that modern monstrosity from me.”
“But I’m the one who sleeps in it. And you, only when you happen to remember I exist.”
Gordon took a deep breath. He didn’t want to ratchet up the tension any more. “All right. Don’t be angry. I beg your pardon. I was a boor. And you’re right, this whole affair is suspicious to me, too.”
Krisztina nodded. “What are you going to do?”
“I have no idea. Unless . . .” He thought for a moment. “Unless I go find Vogel. Maybe he knows who took the nude picture.”
“You just said that as if I’m supposed to know who Vogel is.”
“The police reporter for
Hungary
,” replied Gordon. “I even showed you that terrific series he wrote about the city’s sex industry.”
“About Csuli and his gang?”
“See there, you can remember if you want.”
The Zanzibar’s flashing neon lights clashed with the deserted boulevard. Gordon went ahead, and they left their coats in the cloakroom. They sat down at a table far from the stage. The bronze lamps on the tables emitted a reddish light, and the orchestra played in muted tones in preparation for the evening’s main performance. Waiters bustled about with trays stacked full, couples cuddled, and the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with that of bean goulash and Wiener schnitzel.
Gordon lit a cigarette, then waved for the waiter. He ordered Krisztina a glass of red wine and French cognac for himself. The musicians stopped playing, and the MC announced that the program would continue with the singing sisters from New York after a ten-minute intermission. The patrons grew louder, and Gordon was too busy scanning the audience to hear Krisztina at first.
“What did you say?”
Krisztina sighed. “That something happened to me today, too.”
“Tell me,” said Gordon, leaning on his elbow.
“I got a letter from London.”
“From London.”
“Right. They say . . .” She paused, reached inside her purse, and took out an envelope. “Read it.”
Gordon reached for the envelope and took out the letter: “To Miss Krisztina Eckhardt, Budapest . . .” So began the letter, the figure of a stupid little penguin sitting atop it. Gordon skimmed it, then gave it back.
“Aren’t you happy?” asked Krisztina.
“Sure I am.”
“Don’t you want me to go?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You want me to stay?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
Krisztina shook her head, looked toward the stage, and then took a sip of her wine.
“An English publisher saw your work on the Berlin Olympics,” said Gordon, lighting another cigarette, “and decided that it’s you they want in their design department.”
“Exactly.”
“Good. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to sound sarcastic, nor do I want to seem like a boor. But would you explain to me why a publisher that does not publish illustrated books and that uses the same sort of cover design for each of its books—white in the middle, with only a different border—needs a graphic designer?”
“So you know Penguin?”
“I do.”
“Then you should know that not every cover of theirs is quite the same. Besides, I’d design other things for them, too.”
“Sounds good.”
“And I’d go only for a year.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“In case you don’t recall, a couple of weeks ago I was asked to design the materials for the International Eucharistic Congress. Well,
some
of the materials.”
“That’s a year and a half from now.”
“I know. That’s why I’d come back after a year. And as long as we’re on the subject, you could come join me.”
“In London.”
“Right.”
“I can’t go, Krisztina, and you know this full well. Because of Opa.”
“I know. So what do you say? Should I go?”
“If it’s important to you.”
“Is it important to you that I stay?” asked Krisztina.
“It’s important to you that you go,” replied Gordon.
I
t was already past nine by the time they left the club. Krisztina hadn’t enjoyed the main act in the least, whereas Gordon had listened to the two American girls with rapture, pleased with their performance and their white smiles and sizable wigs, as they jumped about in their fishnet stockings.
“So go ahead and show me where it happened,” said Krisztina, pulling her coat tighter.
“Where what happened?”
“The dead girl. Where they found her.”
“On Nagy Diófa Street.”
“I know,” said Krisztina. And she headed toward Blaha Lujza Square.
“Now where are you off to?” Gordon called after her.
“Nagy Diófa Street,” she replied. “I’ll ask someone which doorway the body was found in.”
Gordon sighed deeply, flicked his half-smoked cigarette onto the road, and went after her.
“What was she wearing?” asked Krisztina when he caught up. Gordon conjured up the image and told her. “Her nails? Her hands?” Gordon said the girl’s nails were manicured. “Her hair, was it greasy? I mean, unkempt? Colored?” No, Gordon shook his head. Krisztina pressed on with her questioning, and Gordon patiently answered when he could. “What is it you noticed, after all?” she asked, looking at the corner of Wesselényi Street and Erzsébet Boulevard. “You would have made one rotten detective.”
Gordon didn’t say another word until they reached Nagy Diófa Street. He turned and stopped in front of the second building on the right. “This is where they found her.” A window was thrown open above them: “Manci! Get yourself up here this instant!” came a drunken shout.
“And aren’t you curious even now about what a Jewish streetwalker would have been doing here?” Krisztina fixed her eyes on Gordon. “And as long as we’re on the subject, have you ever seen a Jewish prostitute? If you want my opinion, the question is not how she died, but how a Jewish girl—probably from a respectable, bourgeois family—ended up becoming a prostitute in the first place.”
I
n the morning Gordon got out of bed quietly while Krisztina was still asleep. He shaved carefully, then went to the closet for a clean shirt, taking care not to step on the creakier part of the parquet floor. In the kitchen, he pulled out a chair from under the table and sat down. He took out the jar of jam Krisztina had cleverly hidden in her purse, removed the cellophane, and dipped in a teaspoon. He’d expected worse. Mór’s jams were more often failures than successes, but this one was decidedly edible. Not that Gordon could have said what kind it was, but it was tasty. Perhaps apple and gooseberry. Or quince and rose hip. Maybe pear and rhubarb. Or else the old fellow had his very own way of conjuring peaches into jam. Gordon shrugged and spooned the contents of the jar into his mouth. In the living room he took his blazer off the chair and paused momentarily in front of the vestibule mirror, where he adjusted his hat before closing the door behind him.
The super was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the building’s entrance. “Good morning, Mr. Editor!” he greeted Gordon, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.
“You, too, Iváncsik,” said Gordon, and turned in the direction of Nagymezo Street. He might as well board a tram on Kaiser Wilhelm Road, he figured. He bought an
8 O’Clock News
at the tobacconist’s and got on the tram. He changed at Apponyi Square and by eight-thirty was at the newsroom, where work was under way full-steam. Nearly every typewriter was occupied by someone feverishly typing away. Gordon glanced about, then walked up a floor to
Hungary
’s newsroom. There he was greeted by the same spectacle. He turned to the clerk sitting by the entrance. The fiftyish man might have unevenly buttoned his blazer, but he always knew everyone’s business.
“Is Mr. Vogel here?” Gordon asked.
“Even if the pope himself were to die, Mr. Vogel would still start his day in the New York Café with a brioche and a cup of black coffee. Only once did he not take his breakfast there: when the Romanians occupied Budapest. And not because the place wasn’t open. He said he didn’t have an appetite.”
Jenő Vogel had already finished his brioche and was reading the previous day’s French newspapers while sipping his coffee. Gordon sat down across from him.
“Say, Gordon, how much do the Spanish Civil War and the situation in Abyssinia worry you?” asked Vogel, lowering his copy of
Le Figaro.
“Each on its own or the two combined?”
“Combined.”
“Not one bit.”
“And on their own?”
“Why should I fret over it?” asked Gordon. “For some odd reason Mussolini needs Abyssinia, and he’ll get it, he will. And if the Spaniards want to slaughter each other, even in the best-case scenario all I can do is take exception to it in principle. Because there’s nothing I can do about it, that’s for sure.”
Vogel knit his brows, nudged his glasses up to his forehead, and took to pulling at his fleshy ear. “You didn’t come by to talk about the Abyssinian situation,” he informed Gordon.
“No,” Gordon confirmed. “You know the inner city’s sex industry pretty well, Vogel.”
“You might say,” said Vogel, casting Gordon a suspicious eye.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who isn’t?”
“Not just one someone, in fact, but two.”
Vogel crossed his thick hands over his imposing belly and listened, motionless, his face not so much as twitching, as Gordon described the dead girl.
“I haven’t seen her,” he finally said, shaking his head.
Gordon wasn’t surprised, but he continued. “Who takes nude pictures?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I saw a nude picture of the dead girl.”
“Who is that hooker to you?”
“No one.”
“Then why are you interested?”
“Because I don’t have enough for an article. Have you read the story in
8 O’Clock News
?” Vogel slowly nodded. “It was in there, too. It wasn’t enough that I was there on the scene. That’s just half a column on page seven.”
“And you want page two.”
“Or page one.”
“Or page one,” repeated Vogel. “A front-page story is a front-page story.”
“Well?”
“I’m all ears,” replied the rotund journalist. The rims of his wire-frame glasses had splayed out completely over his head.
Gordon sighed. “Next week I’ll be having a word with Gellért about the Róna case.”
“Which you’ll share with me.”
Gordon was silent. “I will,” he said finally.
Vogel summoned the waiter and ordered a coffee and a cognac. “Will you have a coffee, too?”
“Black,” replied Gordon.
“There aren’t too many folks who take such pictures,” Vogel began. “Based on what you told me about the photograph, there’s just one person who could have taken it.”
“I’m all ears.”
“An ugly old lech, a real pig.”
“I really do need more than that,” said Gordon.
“His name is Skublics. Izsó Skublics.”
“And where does this Skublics roost?”
“On Aradi Street. Not far from Hitler Square.”
“I should leave your name out of it, right?” asked Gordon.
“Feel free to say it, but that will just make things worse.”
The waiter arrived with the two coffees and the cognac. Gordon was just about to remove his blazer, but Vogel took the coffee, poured it into the cognac, and downed it all in three even gulps. “Are you coming back to the office?” he asked, springing to his feet.
“No, later on. First I’ll take a look at this Skublics.”
“You won’t like him, but go ahead and take a look if you’ve got the taste for it.”
G
ordon knew the Circle and environs well; Mór lived there, too, after all. But he was incapable of calling it—the Circle—Hitler Square. If something is a circle, well then, that’s just what it is, he told Krisztina more than once. Not a square. Especially not Adolf Hitler Square. He’d also heard that the Oktogon would soon be renamed Mussolini Square. He shook his head and started off toward Aradi Street. Before turning onto Szinyei Street, he glanced up at a second-floor balcony door of one of the buildings on the Circle. It was closed. He’d try on the way back; by then Mór would surely be home.
He didn’t even have to go looking for Skublics’s building; he knew exactly which one it was. It was one of the blemishes on Aradi Street: a six-story apartment building with plaster flaking off its façade, a stairwell that smelled of piss, with hungry, stinking dogs in the courtyard and on the inner balconies that circled above it. Every time he’d walked this way, he’d always crossed to the other side of the street.
He stepped over a puddle full of water from someone’s wash, it seemed, and began climbing the stairs toward the sixth floor. On one floor he heard shouting; on another, dogs fighting over something; and on a third, he saw two kids beating up a smaller child. On the sixth floor he walked the length of the rectangular passageway overlooking the central courtyard, but on not one door did he see the name Skublics. Finally he knocked on a window, from behind which came the smell of thick brown soup made with lard-fried roux. A woman of indeterminate age, wearing a kerchief, pulled aside the curtain. “Whadayawant?” she asked with a toothless mouth.