Budapest Noir (29 page)

“What do you want?”

Gordon pulled out a chair from under a table and straddled it. “I have a business proposal.”

“What sort of business?”

“I heard that the result of this evening’s match has been decided in advance.”

Jacek slammed a fist down on the table. “But we agreed with Pojva that we’d play clean for once.”

“I think you don’t understand. Pojva is bragging that tonight he’s not going to sweat it out, because someone has paid you off.”

“Me?” Jacek flared up. “Me? I never sold a single match in my whole life. Understand?”

“I understand. I’m sure you’re right. But I thought I should let you know.”

“This will be my twelfth match, and I’ve never taken a dive. How dare Pojva say that?” thundered Jacek, veins bulging on his neck.

“That much I don’t know,” said Gordon, rising from the chair. “That’s all I wanted to say,” he said, heading toward the door.

Jacek just stood there stewing helplessly in his rage, but then he called after Gordon: “You mentioned some sort of business.”

“Why of course,” said Gordon, slapping his forehead. He reached in his pocket, took out fifty pengős, and set them down on the table.

“What’s this?” asked Jacek.

“Just a little contribution to Hungarian-Polish relations.”

“To what?” he asked, looking at Gordon with incomprehension.

“To that, son, to that. Besides, you yourself said you never lost a match. So don’t you lose now.”

With that, Gordon stepped out the door. The man was still lying in the hallway. Amid his halting breaths the bleeding had stopped and the puddle was gradually congealing. Gordon stepped over him and went back to the main part of the cellar and the ring.

The match was to begin in a couple of minutes. The room was filled with a terrible cacophony of voices. The bookies were doing their utmost to outshout each other, and the referees were standing in the ring with their sleeves rolled up. The smell of smoke, sweat, and beer permeated the cellar. Gordon passed his eyes over the crowd. Everyone was on hand: factory workers, carriage drivers, office workers, and, of course, more than a few dubious characters. A bit farther from the ring were gentlemen dressed in meticulously tailored, top-quality suits, and Gordon was not surprised to see them there.

The iron door opened at one minute before six. Pojva was the first to come out, with a surprisingly calm expression, and he was followed by Jacek, whose resounding steps were replete with both resolve and rage. His face spoke only of determination.

“Kill him, Pojva!” someone yelled. This voice was now joined by a chorus: “Kill him! No mercy!” At this, the other fighter’s fans broke in: “Show him no mercy, Jacek! Go for the head!”

The two boxers reached the ring. One of the referees lifted the rope, and the fighters stepped in. Jacek was stretching his neck and relaxing his shoulders, while Pojva looked on with a grin. They wore neither gloves nor even handwraps. There was no weighing in, though Pojva and Jacek looked to be about the same weight. The head referee herded them into opposite corners, whereupon an older man in a tux and a top hat stepped into the ring and, shrieking in falsetto, introduced the two fighters.

“In the blue corner we have the famously brutal Pojva, who knows no fear—Pojva, owner of the most dangerous fists around!” The crowd flew into a passion. Now the old fellow moved toward Jacek. “And in the red corner is the butcher and slaughterman from Łódz´, the man whose fists the Poles are so afraid of that he had to come all the way to Budapest—none other than Jacek himself!” More cheers. Men lined up in front of the bookies to place last-minute bets: eyes glittering, they jostled to push their way to the front, waving banknotes. Then the old man in the top hat climbed from the ring, and the head referee called on the boxers to shake hands. Both stepped to the middle of the ring. Pojva reached out his hand while gloating at the crowd. Jacek seized his hand and squeezed it tight. All at once Pojva’s face contorted, and the referee had to push Jacek out of the way. The bell rang, the referee gave the signal, and the boxers moved toward each other again. Pojva began with a few faltering jabs that Jacek effortlessly avoided before going on the attack. With his long arms, he aimed for Pojva’s chin, but missed. Pojva now moved forward, and to the extent that he could, given his age, he took to dancing about to avoid the other’s punches. But with a well-directed swing, Jacek caught him on the chest, which sent Pojva staggering. He did not fall, but the grin froze right off his face.

Even from a distance, Gordon could see clearly when the two boxers began wrestling, as it were. It seemed as if Pojva had said something to Jacek, who responded by pushing him away and swearing at him. This sent Pojva on the attack. Jacek’s right hand swung, but all at once Pojva caught it under his arm and wouldn’t let go, hitting the Pole with his left elbow. This was too much even for the referee, who separated them. The bell rang again: the round was over.

The two boxers flopped down onto stools in their respective corners. Their assistants washed their faces with ice water and fanned them with towels. Pojva leaned back, eyes shut, gasping for breath. But Jacek shook off the water and sprang to his feet. Pojva stood only at the sound of the bell. The referee gave the signal, and they fell upon each other. Pojva tried every dirty trick in the book. While putting his left arm around Jacek’s waist, he leveled a blow at his opponent’s kidneys. The referee stepped between them. At this, Pojva now let his left fist fly with surprising agility, tearing up Jacek’s eyebrow in an instant. The referee stopped them. He examined the wound but saw that it wasn’t bleeding too much. Jacek shook himself off and moved forward. Pojva gave a desperate knee kick toward the other man’s groin. Again, the referee stepped between them. The crowd was in a rage. Screwed-up faces egged on the boxers, who heard nothing of it. Pojva defended his head with both hands. Jacek had found the right moment. He sent a punch flying at his opponent’s belly, at which Pojva lowered his left hand. At that instant Jacek’s right fist delivered an uppercut onto Pojva’s chin.

Time stopped. Even from afar, Gordon could hear the cracking of bones. Pojva’s head snapped back, his eyes rolled upward, and his arms flopped down lifelessly to his sides. He collapsed like an empty sack of potatoes. For a moment the crowd fell silent and then, all at once, began to roar. Jacek was still standing in the middle of the ring. The referee pushed him into the corner, stepped over to the body lying on the floor, and, kneeling down, put his hand around Pojva’s wrist.

By now a good number of onlookers had hurried toward the steps leading out of the cellar. The referee held Pojva’s wrist in his hand for a while, and then he shook his head. He stood, went over to Jacek, and raised his hand in the air. But the crowd was already surging up into the courtyard. The referee whispered something to Jacek, who nodded, quickly lifted the rope, and headed toward the iron door.

Gordon did not leave. His right hand hung limp by his side; his left raised a cigarette to his mouth. The iron door opened again, and two men emerged, one of them pushing a wheelbarrow. The cellar had emptied out with surprising speed, and by now even the referees had fled. Gordon watched from the shadows as one of the men jumped up into the ring and kicked Pojva’s body to the ground. His partner grabbed the corpse under the arms and pulled the upper body onto the wheelbarrow. The other man now took the legs, flung them up as well, and then they hurried off toward the door.

Gordon went up the stairs to the courtyard. The more daring bookies and their clients were still there hastily arranging their affairs. Gordon followed the dark hallway back out to the factory grounds. A horse-drawn carriage stood at one of the delivery ramps, half filled with firewood. The door leading to the ramp now opened, and out walked the two men he’d seen in the cellar. They were pulling a sack, which they now picked up and flung on the back of the carriage. One of the men jumped in after the sack and in no time covered it with firewood. The other got in the driver’s seat and cracked the whip, whereupon the caretaker, who had already left his booth, opened the gate. Gordon stepped out the side entrance onto Gubacsi Road and watched the carriage fade into the night.

Eleven

G
ordon walked over to Soroksári Road and stood at the tram stop. When the tram arrived, he flung away his cigarette butt and got on. The city turned increasingly colorful and bright the closer they got to downtown. Fewer and fewer people on the streets were making their way home from work, and ever more were looking for evening entertainment. Illuminated boats swayed out on the Danube, and on this crisp autumn night every single window of the fortress up on Castle Hill was clear as day. Calvin Square was teeming with cars, and the traffic was heavy in front of the hotels. Restaurant windows revealed packed tables and, occasionally, the glint of a Gypsy band leader playing his violin. The National Museum sprawled out in all its stateliness from behind the tall trees on its grounds. Neon lights flashed on Apponyi Square, marked by the quiet chaos of buses, trams, and horse-drawn carriages.

An enormous clock in the display of a jewelry shop showed the exact time: seven-twenty. Gordon headed toward the newsroom.

Only a couple of people were still in the office. Gordon greeted Valéria, hung his jacket on the coatrack, and headed to his desk. But Valéria now looked up from her novel and called after him in a raspy voice.

“There was a telephone message for you.”

“You’re kidding,” said Gordon, turning around.

“It was Krisztina. She wants you to call her, something about her asking whether . . .” Valéria leaned closer to the sheet of paper, for she couldn’t even read her own handwriting. “. . .  to reserve a table.”

“I understand.”

“Or if the preserve is edible . . .” she added, then went back to reading.

Gordon pulled out his chair, switched on his green glass banker’s lamp, and sat down. For a while he just stared at the typewriter, but then he pulled his notebook from his pocket and turned the pages. He rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter, drew the machine in front of him, and slowly began to type. Not that he’d learned anything new from Gellért about Róna, but Gyula Turcsányi was already eagerly awaiting the article. Gordon got down to writing what little he knew until an apprentice reporter walked up to him: a thin, pimply boy barely twenty years old and wearing a blazer one size too big.

“What do you want, son?” said Gordon, raising his eyes.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” the boy anxiously replied, extending a typed page toward Gordon, “could you look over this article? The deadline is tomorrow.”

“What is this?”

“An article. I . . . I wrote it,” he stammered. “No one else was in to write it. Mr. Turcsányi said you were out sick.”

“And?”

“He also said you’d be in tomorrow and that I should show you then.”

“Fine, then. Show me tomorrow.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you’d look at it now,” said the boy, his face flushed. “I’ve never written an article like this.”

“And what is it about?”

“A suicide.”

“How many suicides does that make for the week?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Editor,” replied the boy.

“Let’s see it.”

Gordon put the sheet of paper in front of him and reached for his red pencil. The pain had by now subsided sufficiently in his hand. Gordon read, underlined, crossed out, and corrected.

“Please, sir, don’t cross out the word
suspicious
,” said the boy.

“Why not? A suicide can’t be suspicious.”

“Sure it can,” the boy protested. “I called police headquarters a little while ago, and one of the detectives said the man died under suspicious circumstances.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Chief Inspector Szrubián.”

“Well then, you just go on over to the telephone and call Chief Inspector Vladimir Gellért, who is also a section head. Tell him I told you to call. Maybe he’s still in.”

The boy nodded. Gordon took out his cigarette case and lit a smoke. A couple of minutes later the boy returned.

“Chief Inspector Gellért said it’s not suspicious.”

“You see,” said Gordon with a nod. “So then, the title of this article should really be: ‘Wealthy Merchant’s Unexpected Suicide.’ It would be suspicious if the detectives suspected that someone had killed him.” He looked down at the article, then back up. “A stranger. Or his wife. But that’s not what happened, is it?”

“No,” replied the boy with a frightened look. “Chief Inspector Gellért said everything about this case is perfectly clear, and that it was a suicide.”

“The rest is fine,” said Gordon, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Just be careful with what comes first in the lead. That’s very important. You wrote, ‘This afternoon in his home on Pasaréti Street, using a revolver, the owner of the Arabia Coffee Company took his own life.’ The important thing is neither when nor where. But who. Thus: ‘The owner of the Arabia Coffee Company took his own life with a revolver this afternoon in his home on Pasaréti Street.’ And who he left his estate to, that doesn’t belong in the lead, either. It’s enough if you mention the maternity home only farther down. So then, go on back now and retype the article.”

The boy took the sheet of paper and headed back to his desk.

“Son,” Gordon called after him.

“Yes, sir?”

“There’s one thing you shouldn’t forget. Your job is to write what happened. Leave out the speculation. It’s not your job to go guessing about the
why
.”

The boy sat down at his desk and began rewriting the article. Gordon typed the final keystroke of his own article and pulled the sheet of paper from the machine. Pulling on his jacket, he placed the article on Turcsányi’s desk. Then he went to Valéria’s desk, picked up the telephone, and, with a less than certain grip, started to dial with his right hand.

About the Author

VILMOS KONDOR graduated from the Sorbonne in Paris with a degree in chemical engineering before returning home to Hungary. He lives with his wife, daughters, and dog in a quiet village near the Austrian border and teaches high school mathematics and physics.
Budapest Noir
is his first novel.