Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

She said something about certain financial advantages. That was laughable, because I knew that my friend's financial situation was worse than hopeless. The rent he offered to pay for the room should be considered symbolic. They didn't even mention food. Anyway, what they ate they grew in the garden. At worst, they'd give my family a little less of their surplus. In short, they grew fond of him and were trying hard to find a material framework and financial assurances for their affection. The unconditional admiration they had for me they now transferred to him. What is more, his conduct fit their ideals better than mine ever did. In three whole years he had no more than five entirely harmless visitors. While they kept busy around the house or in the vegetable garden, he worked silently in his room. Between eight in the morning and three in the afternoon not a sound was heard from that room. He ate little and went to bed early. But a new taste in the kitchen, a winter sunset, a late-blooming plant that defied the season — such little things could make him happy. He helped with the more difficult household chores. He chopped wood, carried manure, could work the chain saw, repaired broken objects. And what was most important, he listened to them, and not just patiently but with genuine interest in what they had to say.

His stay, assumed by all to be temporary, aroused a mixture of suspicion and curiosity in the village. My aunt reported that some of the villagers asked for permission to peek into his room, through the window, when he was out. What they really wanted to see was what anybody could be doing alone within the four walls of a room. He knew nothing of this specific request, but he felt his situation to be precarious. He was afraid, he once said to me, that my aunts might look at his manuscript one day. If they did, he'd surely lose their trust. He was also afraid, he said another time, that when he got up from the table at three in the afternoon everybody knew what he'd been up to, because he felt he was walking stark naked among them. He was afraid, he said with a laugh, that one day they'd club him to death like a mad dog. And it was true that the villagers didn't know what to make of his long, solitary walks. A few times a ranger followed him from a safe distance, but of course my friend noticed him. The Protestant minister was the first man in the village whom he befriended. The old women called the minister the man with a smile.

The police investigation concluded that three motorcyclists were the likely perpetrators. Because of good visibility that day and unmistakable track marks, the possibility that the death was accidental was all but ruled out. A body lay on the gravelly shore closer to the water than to the retaining wall. When the water recedes as far as it did that autumn, one can see the layout of the riverbed. There is a wide strip of sand, closest to the central channel, above that a narrower band of silt strewn with larger pebbles, and the area nearer the shoreline is covered with fine pebbles. He was lying on his back, on a towel. His head reached the strip of silt. He'd probably fallen asleep. Before that he may have gone for a swim, or at least a dip, because his swimming trunks were still wet. The three cyclists, riding side by side, were approaching at about forty kilometers an hour on the slightly sloping, pebbly, dried-out shore. In principle, it's not possible to ride any faster on such terrain. They were coming upriver. At the same time, from the opposite direction, a tugboat towing barges was heading to the nearby pier. Otherwise the riverfront was in all probability deserted. Vacationers are gone by this time of the year. And the villagers come to the river only to scrub down their horses or to fetch a wayward goose. There was no one at the boat station either. When they were about sixty meters from my friend, two of the cyclists accelerated, though the experts could not agree on the rate of acceleration. The third cyclist followed suit only when he was about forty meters away; perhaps he hesitated, or maybe he was the last one to spot the fallen figure. In any case, he rode over the legs. The middle one rode over the chest, then tipped over. After a long skid upward, he slid into the hardened strip of silt. The third hit a stone, leaped in the air, and then landed on the victim's head. The one who fell over got back on his bike, made a loop around the body, presumably to have a look, and only then did he follow his friends. About ten minutes later death completed the job they had started. While waiting for the third to catch up, the other two apparently kept looking back; for about a thirty-meter stretch the two sets of tire marks showed them circling, weaving in and out. Then the lines became straight again and in parallel formation led to the pier. Here they formed a single file and got on the paved road. And that's when the tugboat reached the pier. From the deck, one of the ship's engineers saw the three cyclists. Although he couldn't give anything approaching a detailed description, he thought they were young men, possibly teenagers. Later, he also saw a man lying on the shore, but thought nothing of it.

By the time I made it to the village, alerted by my aunt's telephone call, the police had already finished taking pictures and examining the evidence. It was almost dark. His body was brought up from the shore on a makeshift stretcher. I walked alongside him, accompanied him. Once, just once, I cast a glance at what remained. One of his hands hung down and flapped about. The outspread fingers now and then grazed the ground. I would have liked to catch that hand, hold it, put it back in its place. But I didn't dare.

When the water level was low, local boys often rode their motorcycles along the shore, emulating cross-country competitions. Now each and every motorcycle in the area was thoroughly examined. Nothing substantial turned up, no lead, nothing to build a case on. At the hour in question, the men in the village who owned motorcycles or knew how to ride them had not yet returned from work. One man, a baker, left for work two hours after the murder, but because of other circumstances he had to be considered above suspicion. This late in the season the campground at the edge of the village was no longer open, but some rowing enthusiasts always pitched their tents there. They hadn't seen any cyclists either. The investigation was never officially closed, but with three years gone, nothing is likely to turn up. From the very beginning the inspector in charge thought they should be looking for drunken rowdies who were also quite young. He seemed to be the right man for the job. I don't think anyone in the village knew more about the taverns and pubs of the area than this officer. He was looking for three young men who were clearly drunk when they left one of these taverns. He was looking for three motorbikes parked in front of a pub. Until the day of the funeral I, too, was inclined to believe his theory.

Vince Fitos, the pastor, eulogized my friend in the village cemetery. While he spoke, dried leaves kept falling from the trees, spinning slowly to the ground. It was a pleasantly mild, breezy autumn day with a faint smell of smoke in the air, and an unusually large number of people came to the funeral. The old peasant women sang psalms at the open grave. I kept looking at the faces around me. At the minister, crushed by the event, struggling hard with his tears. And at the infamous house at the foot of cemetery hill where, to meet the demands of the recent increase in tourist traffic, an inn had opened. The memory of its former inhabitants will live forever, because among themselves the local people insist on calling it the Three-Cunt Inn. We could hear the clatter of dishes and even got whiffs of the heavy kitchen smell.

And then I thought of something. It was no more than a hunch, but I seized on it eagerly. If it was done by some drunks, it had to have been an accident — a shameful, terrifying accident. And then there would be no explanation for it.