Authors: Vilmos Kondor
Gordon had barely stepped into the newsroom when the crime section’s editor, Gyula Turcsányi, greeted him with a shout: “A fine good morning to you, Mr. Gordon! May I ask where the hell your feet have been taking you? The whole office is working nonstop, and you’re sauntering about town?”
Gordon would gladly have turned right around and left without pause, but instead he returned Turcsányi’s stare. “I was working,” he calmly replied.
“Working?” Turcsányi shot back. “And on what? If I may ask.”
“On the Róna case.”
“Who in the name of loving God cares a flying shit about that?” snapped Turcsányi. By now, even those who’d been typing furiously turned to listen. Turcsányi was capable of swearing on the verge of blasphemy when riled up. “Your place is here, not anywhere else. Róna is yesterday’s news. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re a daily paper—a newspaper. It’s in the name!
News
-paper. We need news, Gordon, and Róna hasn’t been news for a week already.”
“And a dead girl was found in Terézváros. A dead Jewish girl.”
“A Jew? As far as I’m concerned, she could be Hindu.” Waving a hand in resignation, Turcsányi continued: “And I won’t even ask why you didn’t check with me.” His anger slowly petered out. “Now go sit yourself down at your desk and write me an article about what the international press has been saying about Gömbös. And if you’re not at the bier tomorrow at noon, I’ll personally kick you from here to Hamburg, so you can catch the first boat back to America.”
Gordon sighed deeply and, without a word, held Turcsányi’s stare. For close to half a minute they just stood there facing each other: Turcsányi, the forty-plus, slightly paunchy editor whose clean-shaven face always wore a harried expression, and Gordon, hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, eyes fixed and uncompromising. Finally, Turcsányi looked away and stormed off into his office. No one saw the interaction; everyone had better things to do than to watch the two of them stare each other down. They knew full well that Turcsányi was all talk, that he wouldn’t let things reach their breaking point. He would never find a better crime reporter than Gordon. Turcsányi knew it well, and so did Gordon.
On Gordon’s desk was a heap of daily papers from all over the world. The latest issue of the
Evening
was on his typewriter. Gordon picked it up and read a bit of the obituary: “It is to his credit that it isn’t the nation burying itself,” wrote the newspaper’s deputy editor-in-chief, who went on to praise Gömbös for not subverting his constitutional role as head of government with a dictatorship tailored in foreign lands. Gordon put the paper back and took a seat. He picked up the first paper from atop the pile.
Popolo di Roma
began by writing that Gömbös had been a sincere friend of Italy. And, of course, of Mussolini. And Hitler. The
Times
of London referred to Gömbös as “Hungary’s strongman,” observing, “Gyula Gömbös, although an advocate of a one-party state who would have preferred military rule for Hungary—ideally conscripting every respectable Hungarian into his party—had
yet
been kept by his patriotism from breaking with Hungary’s ancient constitution.” Gordon didn’t quite understand this, but he underlined it all the same. According to the conservative
Morning Post
, the Germans would “exploit the funeral to reemphasize, in diplomatic and military terms, German-Hungarian solidarity.” Then he picked up the French papers. According to
Le Figaro
’s commentator, “Gömbös had been driven by a passionate love of his country. He worked ceaselessly for his nation’s rehabilitation, and his aim had been the restoration of Greater Hungary. Gömbös was not exactly enamored of France. We fear that his predilection for friendly ties with Germany will outlive him. What is certain is that no big changes can be expected in Hungarian foreign policy.” Gordon pulled the German papers from the pile, read on, and finally slid the typewriter in front of him, typing:
The German press mourns Gyula Gömbös as a fervent Hungarian patriot, a statesman of European stature, and a most sincere friend of the national socialist German empire; as a leader who was first among foreign statesmen, and who was able to forge both political and personal ties with the chancellor, Adolf Hitler, as well as the interior minister, Hermann Göring.
It was past seven by the time Gordon finished writing. His head was abuzz from all the clichés, and he was sorry he’d even read the obituary in the
Evening
. He gave his piece to Turcsányi, who grumbled something about making sure to be there the next day at the Parliament building. Gordon nodded, then put on his jacket and his hat.
He would have headed home, but it occurred to him that the girl’s autopsy would have been finished by now. He turned along Rákóczi Street toward Apponyi Square. The rain again took hold, and fog had descended on the city, but not even this could keep the newsboys from shouting their lungs out to let anyone in range know: Kálmán Darányi had been declared the acting prime minister. As if it could have been anyone else, thought Gordon.
As he passed by Nagy Diófa Street, Gordon took a look down the block but saw only a few windows shrouded in fog. He couldn’t shake the image of the girl lying there like a rag doll. Or the photograph he’d found in Detective Gellért’s drawer. He’d been on the crime beat for too long now to believe in chance. Moreover, the girl reminded him of the first article he’d ever written, for Philadelphia’s Hungarian newspaper in December 1922. On the twenty-third, to be precise. A girl named Mariska Ifjú had committed suicide, and not even her mother suspected the reason. The girl had taken pills, a lot of them, and Gordon’s editor, Ferenc Pártos, had sent twenty-two-year-old Gordon to check things out. The paper’s owner and editor-in-chief, Béla Green, insisted that the story be covered, and by a reporter on the scene. The young woman lived in West Philadelphia with her mother, and hers was the first corpse Gordon had seen in his life. Mariska was lying on her stomach in front of her bed, her head against the edge, and Gordon couldn’t decide whether it was merely his imagination playing a stupid game on him or if this girl and the one on Nagy Diófa Street really had been found in a similar position. With trembling hands, he took notes, stepping aside to avoid having to look at the sobbing mother or that pompous priest, János Murányi. He wrote as much as he was able to, and the same day he delivered the article to the newsroom on North Sixth Street. Later it occurred to him more than once that he might have guessed why Mariska had done herself in.
Gordon still believed he wouldn’t be devoting so much attention to the case of the dead Jewish girl now if Skublics hadn’t riled him up. Of course, a front-page story wouldn’t hurt, either; if for no other reason than that it would keep Turcsányi’s mouth shut for a while. He’d been writing about crime long enough to form an almost inexplicable sixth sense. He couldn’t even tell Krisztina, but when his stomach churned like this, it was as if his gut was warning him:
Things are not what they seem
. Gordon couldn’t even remember when he’d last felt this. A long time ago. It wasn’t a yearning to reveal the truth that drove him as he wrote, as he collected facts and sometimes investigated. Gordon had never studied philosophy, but he suspected there was no such thing as the truth. Even if he could reveal the facts, what good would that do? Admitting it to himself was hard, but what interested him most was each person’s fate. And death was the last stop on the road of fate; it all somehow led to death. Gordon was interested in the road. Whether he cared about these people he could not have said for sure, but their fates interested him more than anything else.
At Apponyi Square he boarded a tram. The Budapest transport company had again raised fares; Gordon couldn’t even keep track anymore. He gave the conductor a pengő, pocketed his change, and sat down on the cold, damp wooden bench at the end of the car. Traffic was brisk on Üllői Street. Wagons, horse-drawn carriages, buses, and cars were all heading out of the city. The day was over.
Luckily, a car beeping its horn snapped him to attention; when Gordon looked up, he saw that his stop, Orczy Park, was next. He got off, and in the misty light of the streetlamps, he headed toward number 83. He knew the terra-cotta brick building housing the Institute of Forensic Medicine quite well, and the guard let Gordon in right away. He went down the stairs to the cellar, where a cold light was glowing. Dr. Pazár was sitting at a table in front of the cadaver room and having his supper: bread, a slab of roast bacon, onions, and beer from a clasped bottle. The big, bald man waved to Gordon to sit down.
“Want some?”
“I’ve already had supper.”
“Who did you come to see?” asked Dr. Pazár with a full mouth. The doctor, whom Gordon liked very much, had served for years in the West Indies on a passenger ship, but he’d had enough of the sun and the tourists and returned to his native land, gladly accepting the coroner’s position. Working nights didn’t even bother him. He’d spent quite enough time as it was under the burning hot sun, he told Gordon. He loved the quiet, the calm, the cold lighting, and the patients, who might have been crotchety once but were no longer complaining by the time he saw them.
“A young girl. They brought her in the day before yesterday.”
“For an autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“Young, pretty, black-haired?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Pazár nodded, then took out his cigarette case and held it toward Gordon, who took a cigarette. Gordon liked the coroner’s obscure, aromatic cigarettes. He had asked several times, but Pazár never revealed his source. The doctor took a deep drag, placed the cigarette on the ashtray, and took one calm, final bite of his supper. Gulping down the remaining beer, he leaned back with satisfaction. He raised the cigarette once again to his mouth, inhaled the smoke, then suddenly sprang to his feet.
“Come on, let’s go look at the girl!” He opened the glass door, and Gordon followed. The doctor stopped in the middle of the room. The refrigerated cabinets were to the left, the autopsy table in the middle, and behind that, some stretchers draped with white shrouds. Pazár went over to one of the stretchers and rolled it over and beneath the ceiling light. He took the end of the shroud closest to the head and pulled it back to the girl’s waist. On her chest was a Y-shaped incision, and her face was whiter than when Gordon had seen her last. Her eyes were closed, and her black hair was wet and combed back. Her hands were beside her torso, the birthmark clear as day. Her breasts were as taut in death as in the picture. Her belly was flat. The incision alone disfigured her. Gordon was grateful for the doctor’s aromatic cigarette.
“I don’t know who put a rush on this autopsy, and I don’t even want to know,” said Pazár, looking at Gordon. “Shall I tell you or show you?”
“Tell me.”
“The cause of death was intensive inner bleeding caused by a strong blow to the epigastric region. The left lobe of the liver was ruptured, and the consequent bleeding—as well as the circulatory and respiratory trauma this precipitated—caused the subject’s death, which in my estimation occurred five minutes after the blow.”
“In plain English?”
“Someone hit her so hard in the pit of the stomach that she died.”
“I see,” said Gordon. “How big a blow did it take? I’ve been hit in the gut before, too, but I’m still around.”
“How big? I can’t say exactly, but big. Big indeed. Other signs indicate that the victim was unprepared, that she was taken by surprise.”
“In other words, someone socked it to her good.”
“That’s another way of putting it.”
“Thank you,” said Gordon, extending his hand.
“It’s nothing,” replied Pazár.
As Gordon headed toward the door. Pazár folded the sheet back over the body and pushed it back in place, switching off the light before following Gordon.
“Too bad,” said Pazár, “she must have been a pretty one.”
Gordon slowly nodded. “Yes, indeed.”
“Someone really didn’t want her kid to be born,” the doctor drily observed. “She was in her fourth month.”
W
hen Gordon awoke in his flat around 6
A.M
., Krisztina was not lying beside him. He got out of bed and went to the living room. There she was, curled up in an armchair by the window. Strewn about the floor were sheets of paper, and a cup of coffee was steaming on the little table beside her.
“You got up so early to work?” asked Gordon.
“I woke up, and I’d rather work on these designs than loll about in bed listening to you snore.”
Gordon leaned over and gave her a kiss. “Did you make me a coffee, too?”
“I did, but they didn’t have the kind you like at the Meinl shop, so I bought the coffee at Arabia.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Gordon with a dismissive wave of the hand. He poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and added some milk, then went to sit beside Krisztina. “Will you be here all day?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have to finish these designs, and it’s best if I put this day of mourning to good use.”
“I have to leave soon,” said Gordon. “The whole office will be out there reporting on the funeral.”
“But the procession doesn’t start until after eleven,” noted Krisztina.
“Yes,” said Gordon, “I’ve got just enough time to go find Csuli.”
“That Csuli?”
“That one.”
“Then take care of yourself.”
T
he newsroom was empty except for the one person on duty. Not another soul to be seen—typewriters sitting idle on the desks, notes all over the place, and ashtrays full. Never had Gordon seen the office so desolate by day. Not even Turcsányi was in, and he was always in. Gordon looked at his watch: it was just after seven-thirty. He still had time to carry out his morning plans and get to the Parliament building by nine-thirty.
Despite the early hour, Blaha Lujza Square was even more deserted than the day before. Black flags hung everywhere, and though police officers lined Rákóczi Street, there was not a trace of civilians sauntering curiously about. He turned onto Hársfa Street and headed toward the Tick Bite. The door was slightly ajar, but the place had not opened up yet. Nine tables stood in its longish room, six on the left and three on the right. In the back there was a piano and, beside that, a bar; and a door in the back corner led to the kitchen. The tables were adorned only with clean tablecloths to start the new day, and the bar was empty. But Gordon was in luck. On the left side of the room, at the table farthest back, sat Scratchy Samu, drunk to the core. The tiny little man with the scratchy voice was wearing a grimy blazer, a red scarf, and a tilted cap. He had spent some time in Paris once—on what business, it was hard to say—and ever since, he’d tried to dress the Parisian way. Samu was a member of Csuli’s gang; more precisely, he was its signalman, its chief lookout. Not that Gordon had much to do with him, but for some odd reason Samu was afraid of him. The few times their paths crossed, he always greeted the reporter with much more deference than necessary. Gordon stepped over to the bar and knocked on it loudly. Samu raised his waterlogged eyes toward Gordon but didn’t recognize him. Roused by the noise, the bartender appeared—a fat, fiftyish woman with a hairdo that was all over the place—wiping her hands on her apron.