Budapest Noir (18 page)

Gordon didn’t even try to take notes on Strasser’s hollow, colorless speech. The archivist would not have made a good radio announcer, but then again, he didn’t aspire to be one, either.

“Say, Strasser,” Gordon asked, “may I have your notes?”

Strasser took thorough stock of Gordon. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Nor have you ever seen a journalist who wanted to work but couldn’t, because someone almost broke his hand.”

“Well, I’ve already seen more than one journalist in my time who couldn’t work, and then there are exceptional cases.”

“This is precisely such a case,” said Gordon, standing up and setting down yet another pack of Egyptian cigarettes in front of Strasser.

“That’s also how I see it,” he said, slipping the pack away in no time, then pushing his notes toward Gordon. “I don’t know what use you can make of them. Don’t tell me you want to write an article about him? Because that would be interesting.”

“Why?”

“Szőllősy has never spoken to the press. Definitely not to us or anyone else. He’s been written about, but he’s never commented on himself.”

“Why so secretive?”

“You see there, that’s your job to figure out if you want to. It’s not like I can do that from down here in the archives. Not as if I’d want to, I should add.”

G
ordon went up to the newsroom, stepped over to the telephone, and dialed. Mór answered.

“Are you two all right, Opa?”

“We’re all right, son. How long do we need to sit here for?”

“Not long. Have the super get you lunch, but don’t go anywhere until I get home. Can you give the phone to Krisztina?”

“Hold on there, son. What is this all about? What have you gotten yourself mixed up in?”

“I’ll tell you, Opa, but I can’t talk about it now. Tell Krisztina I’m on the line.”

While waiting, Gordon pulled up a copy of the
8 O’Clock News
and began paging through it. He paused at the announcements column, which comprised five short texts, each a couple of sentences long. He read the first, though he knew full well what these announcements were all about: “I hereby notify my most esteemed present and future clients that as of October 10, I have Hungarianized my family name from Klein to Kutas. Sincerely, Dr. Endre Kutas, attorney.” The other announcements were the same. Doctors, merchants, lawyers—all people whose surnames suggested dubious ancestry who were obliged to announce that they’d adopted Hungarian names. The only surprising thing was that—

“Zsigmond.”

“Are you all right, Krisztina?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Better. I wouldn’t have thought this would have made me so upset.”

“Don’t be angry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But it is.”

Krisztina pondered the matter for a couple of moments. “Okay, it is. Were they the same people who beat you up?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“I have a hunch.”

“A hunch.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not telling me just now.”

“Exactly,” said Gordon, casting his eyes around the newsroom. No one was looking his way. Gömbös belonged to the past, and Gordon’s colleagues were now all busy at work on other stories.

“And?”

“And what?”

“How long are we sentenced to confinement in the flat?”

“When I get home, we’ll talk over everything. Now I’ve got to go. Watch yourselves.” He put down the phone.

For one reason alone, Gordon wasn’t sorry that he was unable to work. In recent days speculation had been rife about whom Kálmán Darányi would invite into the government alongside the National Unity Party. Why was this such a big mystery? He’d invite the same people who’d been there up to now. Horthy had appointed Darányi as prime minister on the day of the funeral, so Darányi had functioned as the acting head of government only for a couple of days, a position that had been a mere formality in any case.

So the newsroom was now abuzz with journalists churning out reports on the formation of the new government. The
Budapest Journal
was on the desk beside Gordon. He paged through it. Nothing showed Horthy’s confidence in Darányi more than his having appointed him so quickly; and Darányi promptly moved to consolidate the trade and industry ministries, giving István Winchkler the boot, and naming Géza Bornemissza the head of the newly unified ministry. He also replaced the defense minister, Valiant Knight Jozsef Somkuthy, with Vilmos Roder, the general in command of the nation’s infantry. But the government’s key figures would stay right where they were, Gordon surmised. Bálint Hóman would remain culture minister; Tihamér Fabinyi, finance minister; Kálmán Kánya, foreign minister; and, of course, Miklós Kozma, interior minister. Gordon understood the newsworthiness of this; and at the same time, he didn’t. Ultimately, it didn’t matter who was at the helm of the government and who belonged to the cabinet. Nothing would change, anyway. The papers had to appear, and they had to run the news, even if, in fact, it was the same old news.

O
n Blaha Lujza Square, Gordon boarded Tram No. 4 and once again read thoroughly through Strasser’s notes. He transferred at Kálmán Szell Square to Tram No. 14, got off at the head of Italian Row, and walked from there onto Pasaréti Street. Although his kidneys still throbbed with pain, moving felt good. And it gave him time to ponder what to do next.

There was hardly any traffic on Pasaréti Street. In this neighborhood of villas, a nanny walking a child or pushing a baby carriage occasionally turned up on the sidewalk, but for the most part the apartment buildings stood sullen, unapproachable, and vain behind thick hedges and tall fences. The fallen leaves had been raked up in preparation for winter. Gordon glimpsed gardeners busily at work as he passed by a couple of villas. Smoke poured from the chimneys, but there were few other signs of life.

Forty-eight Pasaréti Street was likewise guarded by a tall fence, but not quite tall enough to block the view of the opulent building behind it. It couldn’t have been built more than ten years ago. Stairs climbed up on both sides to the terrace. The boxed shutters over the second-floor windows were closed, the balcony was empty, and nothing stirred beside its lace curtains. Rows of birch trees populated the yard along with a few other trees, and a magnificent larch at least fifty feet tall was sagging from its many clusters of cones.

Gordon approached the gate and rang the bell. A maid soon appeared, wrapped in a shawl.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked with suspicion.

“I’m from the
Evening
newspaper, and I’m looking for the master of the house,” replied Gordon in a tone of voice meant to persuade this girl that her only duty was to let him in.

“He is not home. His lordship is in his office.” Chilled by the brisk autumn air, she pulled the shawl tighter around herself. Gordon nodded. This was exactly what he’d expected.

“And her ladyship?”

“She is home.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Gordon cast her a piercing look. “Let her know I’m here.”

“Yes, sir,” said the girl, opening the door. Gordon followed her into the building. A pleasant warmth enveloped him in the vestibule. He looked around. This home had obviously been arranged with exceptional taste, yet it wasn’t homey in the least. Everything sparkled, everything was lovely, everything was elegant. Gordon handed his jacket and hat to the girl and followed her into the living room. Expensive, massive pieces of furniture greeted him. Persian rugs. Biedermeier armchairs, chairs, and a divan—original, figured Gordon. A crystal chandelier, a Zsolnay vase, and a brocade curtain. As if he were in a museum or in an elegant furniture store, nowhere a personal object, a wrinkle on a tablecloth, nowhere a book left behind. Gordon sat down in the armchair beside the coffee table, which was lovely but uncomfortable. He saw no ashtray on the table. He was adjusting the bandage on his hand when the door opened and in walked Mrs. Szőllősy—a tall, slender woman whose dress swept the floor. Her waist was thin, her back was stiff, and her brown hair, interwoven with gray curls, was tied up in a knot. “Good day,” came the woman’s measured greeting.

“Good day,” replied Gordon, standing up.

“The girl said you came from a newspaper.”

“Yes,” said Gordon. “From the
Evening.
We’re writing an article about the coffee trade, and I would have liked to speak with your husband.”

The woman seemed to calm down somewhat. She sat on the sofa and rang for the maid. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked Gordon.

“Thank you.”

“Coffee, Anna.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Why didn’t you look for my husband in his office?” she asked, looking Gordon squarely in the eye.

“Well, I had some business in the neighborhood, and so I thought I’d try to find him at home. He heads a large corporation—perhaps he doesn’t have to go in every day.”

“My husband heads a large corporation precisely because he is in the office every morning at eight. And he works.” With a subtle movement, the woman now adjusted her hair. Gordon saw that the skin on her hand bore the signs of aging. Notwithstanding this, she was in fine form. It was obvious that in her younger days, men had waited in droves to curry her favor. Of course, it must not have been easy for her, what with such a reedy frame, but her regal comportment and her confident expression must surely have shooed away the dowry hunters, the dandies, and the other men buzzing about her without serious intentions.

“I understand. I’d still like to ask a few questions. Just briefly.”

“I am listening.”

“If I’m correct, Arabia Coffee is one of the largest coffee importers alongside Meinl.”

“That is correct.”

“And it has stores not only in Budapest but also in Germany.”

“Yes.”

“In Berlin, Munich, Stuttgart, and Bremen.”

“Nuremberg,” the woman corrected Gordon.

“Yes, Nuremberg. Then your husband must have exceptional contacts.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked the woman, jerking up her head.

“Well, Nuremberg is the hotbed of National Socialists. Hitler’s rallies, the September marches, the Nuremberg laws.”

“What are you actually asking me?” She slid out to the edge of the sofa.

“I am suggesting merely that it can’t be easy for a Hungarian merchant to run a business in the Nazis’ citadel.”

“We import coffee, not fascism.”

“I didn’t suggest that for even a minute,” replied Gordon.

“My husband worked hard to secure the German market. He made many sacrifices. He’s hardly ever home; he spends so much time out there, mainly in Berlin.”

After knocking softly, Anna entered the room carrying a silver tray bearing an entire Meissen china coffee service. She put it on the table and quickly left the room. The woman reached for the coffee pitcher and filled the cups while Gordon continued. “And here is my next question: What will become of your business, your empire? Will your daughter take the reins?”

He might as well have slapped the woman on the face. Her hand stopped in midair, the pitcher trembled. She took a deep breath, set the pitcher back on the tray, and in an icy voice that only confirmed the fear and loathing in her eyes, she replied, “If you want to talk about the business, go find my husband. If it’s our family you’re interested in, it’s best that you leave at once. Hack writers have no business looking into our private affairs. The maid will escort you out.” She stood and left the room without looking back.

Gordon took a sip of the coffee. He didn’t understand what all the fuss was involving Arabia and Meinl. Coffee—black and bitter, plain and simple.

The maid reappeared in the doorway. Gordon put down his cup and followed her out to the vestibule, where the girl helped him put on his jacket. Gordon sized her up. Her hair was braided on two sides; her eyes were blue and big, very big. With her bony hands, she fiddled with her apron. “What happened to Fanny?” he asked quietly.

“Good God, sir, please don’t ask such a thing,” replied the girl with a frightened stare.

“Why not?”

“Because no one here talks about her. I haven’t been here long, but they haven’t even said her name in front of me.”

“How long have you been serving here?”

“Two weeks.”

“And your predecessor?”

“She went back to her village.”

“Which one?”

“Bükkszentkereszt—up north, hours from the city, in the Bükk mountains.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she have a falling out with your masters?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl, looking about with alarm, “I beg you, sir, please leave.”

“What was her name?”

“Teréz Ökrös,” she replied. “Goodness, she could embroider like a charm. You never saw such pieces, sir.”

“That I believe,” said Gordon. “So what’s up with your master’s daughter? What happened to her?”

The girl turned pale. “Don’t talk so loudly, sir!” She got so nervous that the northern provincial accent that until now had only filtered through suddenly erupted with full force. “I said I don’t know a thing about her. My masters haven’t said a word about her. I was in her room only once, and it was as clean as if no one had ever lived there. They even had it painted over.” She defiantly threw back her head. “Now please leave, sir, because I don’t want them to fire me, too.”

Gordon raised his eyebrows but didn’t ask a thing. He took his hat and stepped out the door. Once outside, he turned around and looked back up at the lovely house. The curtains hung motionless and he saw no movement from within, as if no one was inside.

G
ordon boarded a tram on Italian Row and transferred to another on Kálmán Széll Square. He hurried home. Mór unlocked the apartment door from the inside.

“Finally, son,” said the old man with a look of relief. “We were starting to get worried.”

“No problem, Opa. I’m home. Krisztina?”

“She’s working in the living room.”

Gordon took off his jacket and went to her. Krisztina had moved everything meticulously to the side on Gordon’s desk and was sitting there, drawing away. The India ink was flowing effortlessly under her hand.