Budapest Noir (21 page)

Slowly he proceeded on this roadless road, which was in fact nothing more than a wide muddy trail cut by carriage wheels and pockmarked by horseshoes. Trees towered all around them toward the sky as the Opel huffed and puffed along. For a while they went on in utter silence. Czövek’s every nerve was focused on the road ahead: on avoiding puddles and potholes and branches. All at once they arrived in a clearing.

“Widow Glum put one over on you,” Gordon remarked. “There’s no hunting lodge around here. Or else you turned up the wrong road.”

“Of course not,” declared Czövek.

“But we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, then, it’s just another couple hundred meters,” replied the driver as they rolled slowly on. On reaching a fork in the road, he turned right. Dusk had meanwhile turned to darkness. The trees leaned in tightly above them and forest brush scraped against the car.

Gordon turned toward Krisztina but could not see her face. Czövek simultaneously struggled with the steering wheel, the brakes, the clutch, and the gear stick. The heavy Opel slid to and fro in the mud, and it took two tries to get up one particularly big incline. Finally, they reached the top, where a light glimmered in the distance.

“You see,” Czövek called out triumphantly, “I told you so!” He had indeed. As they slowly approached, they saw that the light—that of a flaming torch—in fact belonged to a not-so-small hunting lodge, nestled in a clearing on a moderately steep hillside. Smoke curled skyward from its chimney; two sinewy, short-haired, cinnamon-hued hunting dogs—vizslas—were loafing by the entrance; and out back stood a huge clay oven with an open door.

As they stopped beside the barn, they could hear horses stomping about nervously inside. The door of the hunting lodge now opened, and out came a stout, spectacled man with short-cropped hair. With his hands on his hips, he struck a most welcoming pose.

“So, what do you say?” asked Czövek.

“Not bad so far,” replied Krisztina.

Gordon got out and walked over to the man.

“Good evening. We heard you have good food here.”

Almost imperceptibly the man’s head started twitching, and he took a deep breath. “G-g-good evening. The k-k-kitchen won’t open for another hour.” He stuttered, and since he did everything he could to avoid doing so, his speech was all the more disjointed. It was evident that he sometimes struggled mightily with a particular vowel, but at the same time it was likewise clear that he couldn’t care in the least. “My n-n-name is István Bá-Bá-Bársony,” he said, extending a hand and offering a genial smile. “Please c-c-come in.”

The door, which he now opened wide, was a portal to the vivid scene depicted in the prewar painting hanging just inside. To the right, a fireplace poured out heat; in front of it lay another vizsla, and a cat was sleeping on the mantel. A bit farther out from the fireplace were four tables with chairs, and beside the wall was a divan flanked by a stout oak table. The walls, meanwhile, were covered by the trophies indispensable in such a venue, with candle holders placed between them. A door in the back led to the kitchen. Out popped the head of a young woman with braids. Having counted the guests, she shut the door. István Bársony now sat them down at one of the four tables close to the fireplace. “I have good grr-grr-grape-skin brandy. Would you l-l-like some?”

“We would,” replied Krisztina, who then stood up and moved closer to the fireplace. She turned her back to the fire to warm up. Bársony lit the candle on their table, gave them the menus, and went to the kitchen. Czövek just sat there looking perplexed; he was not used to sitting at one table with his passengers. Gordon had just taken a cigarette from his case when Bársony appeared with a tray that held four shot glasses. “Please d-d-do come,” he called to Krisztina. “If you d-d-drink this, you won’t be c-c-cold. You can be sure of that.”

Krisztina stepped over and picked up one of the shots. Gordon and Czövek now followed her lead, and the three downed the brandy. Gordon shuddered and asked for a glass of water. Meanwhile, he handed Krisztina a menu. “What will you have?”

Krisztina quickly scanned the one-page menu, which included no soup, no dessert, no seafood, and no vegetables to speak of—wild game and not a thing more. “I’ll have the roast venison with potato dumplings.”

Gordon drank his glass of water, then gave Bársony their order. He was having flank of wild boar with fried salted potatoes, and Czövek, though at first reluctant to order in front of his passengers, finally settled on the relatively humble bean stew with wild boar.

“Wonderful, simply w-w-wonderful,” said Bársony with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “The most ex-exceptional choices. I couldn’t have made beh-beh-better recommendations. Everything will be reh-reh-ready in an hour. If you l-l-like, I can pull the chairs over to the fire me-me-meanwhile.”

“That’s okay,” said Krisztina with a wave of the hand. “We’re going for a walk, and we’ll warm up afterward.”

“Just be ca-ca-careful,” said Bársony. “You can see the lodge from a di-di-distance, but don’t go too far.” Pointing, he added, “If you go that way, you’ll end up at the Wh-Wh-White Stone Lookout. It’s a well-tro-tro-trodden trail, impossible to miss. If you’re not b-b-back in an hour, I’ll go after you with the dogs.”

T
he trail was lit up for a while by the light from the lodge. Krisztina took Gordon’s arm, and slowly they walked ahead. They were in no hurry; there was nowhere to go and no reason to do so. Krisztina began recounting the story she’d heard from Teréz Ökrös. Incredulity lurked in her voice throughout, as if she didn’t understand a single word, even though she knew it was so.

“Fanny was a polite, lovely, lively little girl. She was born in the first year of the World War, which is when her father started traveling frequently to Africa. Maybe not by chance, at least that’s how Teréz sees it. He wanted a son by all means, but his wife had such a difficult delivery that the doctors said they couldn’t have any more children. Szőllősy bore a grudge against both his wife and daughter. Not that he let them know exactly, but he did grow cold toward them; and while perhaps he needn’t have traveled so much, there was no more simple and obvious reason to be away from his family. The girl adored not only her mother but also Teréz, who raised her—she was her wet nurse, after all. Teréz entered service with the Szőllősys after giving birth to a son at the age of eighteen. Fanny studied diligently under the tutelage of young English ladies. Never did she suffer for want of anything. She feared only her own father’s cold, standoffish demeanor. She attended church regularly with her mother, and everything else was in order with her.” Krisztina stopped by a fallen tree and sat down on it before resuming. “Her father decided where she would continue her studies. He sent her to the technical university in Berlin. But Fanny, who wanted to be an artist, came home and confronted her father. If he would let her go to Paris, to the Sorbonne, she would study whatever he wanted her to afterward. Business, accounting, anything at all—but what she wanted to do now was to paint. Szőllősy fell into a violent rage but eventually, under pressure from his wife, gave in.

“For three years Fanny studied painting in Paris, coming home only in the summers and for Christmas. But this spring, in the middle of the academic semester, she suddenly showed up at home, confronted her father once again, and told him she was getting married. There were no secrets Teréz didn’t know about. What she didn’t hear during the regular bouts of shouting between father and daughter, Fanny filled her in on.”

Krisztina paused, and Gordon waited silently for more. “It turned out that while in Paris, Fanny had met the son of a Budapest Hassidic rabbi. They fell in love, but to marry him she had to convert to Judaism. Szőllősy said it was out of the question. What if his German partners found out? Word would get out that he, too, was Jewish, and then he could say good-bye to doing business in Germany. Besides, being Jewish even in Hungary wasn’t exactly good luck. He’d give her hand in marriage to a Protestant before he ever would a Jew. Fanny said she didn’t give a damn about the Germans and didn’t give a damn about business—she wanted to marry Shlomo and marry him she would. At that, her father asked: Didn’t she see what was going on here? What was going on in Nuremberg? If word got out about their ancestry, they’d be done for. And if Fanny converted to Judaism, word would surely get out. Fanny repeated that she didn’t give a damn, that she would marry the boy. She’d convert. If you see him one more time, her father told her, you are no longer my daughter. Teréz didn’t hear the rest—she was so scared that she went downstairs to clean the cellar.”

Krisztina shook her head before continuing. “A half hour later Teréz was just coming up out of the cellar when she happened to notice Fanny with a suitcase in her hand. She looked at Teréz, who saw amid the tears in Fanny’s eyes a determination she’d never seen there before. From that day on, Szőllősy’s wife hadn’t said a word to her husband. A couple days later, Szőllősy had Fanny’s belongings and her furniture packed away; he had the room painted over and a piano put inside; and he became more gruff than ever before.” Krisztina fell silent.

“What happened then?” asked Gordon.

“Not much,” she replied. “Teréz figures Szőllősy’s wife met with her daughter several times, but she doesn’t know for sure. The woman never did speak in confidence with Teréz, who nonetheless suspects that she must have met with Fanny. On more than one occasion she suddenly got dressed and went out the door, though before, she’d always told Teréz where she was headed. Now she spoke only in general terms—she was off to the coffeehouse, to go shopping, to an exhibit. And on getting home, Szőllősy’s wife would sit about for a long time in the living room, drinking wine—sometimes a whole bottle—and staring straight ahead while puffing a cigarette, even though she’d quit back in 1925.”

“And why did Teréz have to leave?”

“Two weeks ago, Szőllősy summoned her, gave her two weeks’ pay—this, after serving the family for more than twenty years—and sent her packing immediately. Teréz came straight home, and since that day she hasn’t heard a thing about either Fanny or the Szőllősys.”

“That’s all she said?”

“That’s it.”

“I understand.”

“Well, I don’t understand, Zsigmond!” said Krisztina, springing up off the log. “You’re always saying ‘I understand, I understand.’ What the hell do you understand about all this? Because I don’t understand a thing. Not a thing in the whole damn world!”

With that, Krisztina headed toward the lookout. Gordon stood up and hurried after her. Putting his arm around her, he turned her toward the hunting lodge. “It’s too dark out. It’ll be better back there where it’s warm. You wouldn’t see anything from the lookout, anyway.”

Krisztina let Gordon lead her back. She slipped her arm through his, and thus they made their way back to the lights of the lodge.

Back inside, the smell of supper struck Krisztina’s nose. She shuddered. “Do you have an appetite?”

“I do,” replied Gordon. “You’ll have one, too, you’ll see. We’ll sit down here by the fireplace, order a bottle of wine, have a nice quiet supper, and then we can talk back at the hotel, if you want.”

Bársony peered out from the kitchen and reappeared a couple of minutes later with the tray. “A li-li-little something to f-f-fire up the a-a-appetite before supper,” he said, placing another round of shot glasses on the table. Gordon took only a taste, but Krisztina gulped down the grape-skin brandy at once. “Bring a bottle of red wine, too, if you have one,” she said, looking at the hunter. Bársony nodded and went back to the kitchen. Gordon helped Krisztina slip off her coat, then pulled out a chair for her. Czövek sat at the corner table, watching them in silence, a cigarette in his mouth. Gordon cast him a look that made it clear he was not to disturb them just now.

Bársony placed the venison roast and potato dumplings on the table in front of Krisztina, along with a little dish of blueberry jam. Gordon got a majolica plate containing the flank of wild boar and the fried salted potatoes. And, finally, Czövek received his bowl of bean soup with wild boar. Bársony must have sensed something, too; instead of returning to the kitchen, he sat down at an adjacent table and got to talking with them. At first, Gordon was angry at the intrusion, but then he realized that Krisztina was distinctly enjoying the hunter’s vivid stories, which were laced with biting wit. As for the wine, it stirred Krisztina’s appetite into action: she devoured the venison as if she were seeing food for the first time in days. Gordon was listening to Bársony with gratitude; and Krisztina was not only eating but drinking, too. By the time they’d finished, only a cupful of wine splashed about at the bottom of the bottle. Krisztina’s eyes kept closing. Gordon asked for the bill and he paid. Bársony accompanied them out to the car.

“I’m g-g-glad you were here,” he said with a smile. “C-c-come again.”

Czövek started off, and they hadn’t even turned back out onto the road in front of the hunting lodge when Krisztina’s head slumped onto Gordon’s shoulder.

W
hen they arrived back at the hotel, Krisztina woke with a start. “Are we here?”

“We are,” replied Gordon, helping her out of the car. He then signaled to Czövek that he shouldn’t go anywhere just yet. On reaching the room, Krisztina sat on the edge of the bed and tried but failed to get undressed. Gordon helped her, then tucked her in. A couple of minutes later, Krisztina was fast asleep.

Gordon sat down at the desk, found a sheet of hotel stationery, and, after several attempts, finally found the position he needed to properly hold the pen. He leaned over the sheet of paper and began to write slowly:

Krisztina, I’ve returned to Budapest. I didn’t want to wake you up. I hope you slept well. By the time you get back tomorrow with Czövek, I’ll know a lot more. But I couldn’t stay here with you now. I know you’re disappointed and mad, too, but I still ask that you not be angrier than necessary. I don’t want trouble to come your way. I hope I’m wrong, but I think these people are capable of anything. I have to act fast to head them off. I’ll leave the car here for you. By no means should you head back before lunch. Go to Mór, not home. I’ll explain everything.