Imre Kertész: Detective Story

“Do you need a hand, Dad?”

“No, it’s okay now.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s okay now. I wanted what was best for you, Enrique. You didn’t know what you wanted … You couldn’t have known. You had to live, that was my only purpose … to win time, to survive.”

“I hope they kill us.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense, Enrique! They have no real evidence. We did nothing. They’ll have to release us!”

“I no longer want to get out of here. They have to do me that one favor. They may even do it, what’s more, as they don’t know that they’d be doing me a favor.”

“You’re raving, Enrique! Think about life! Think about the world!”

“I can’t. You turned the world upside down for me, Dad. If they don’t kill me, I’ll become a murderer. And it could be that you will be first, Dad … You want some water? More water?”

The spool spins, my memory is chock-full of sounds.

“Is it evening yet, Enrique?”

“Probably, Dad. Beyond these walls, right now, people are saying ‘Good evening, ma’am. Good evening, sir. Nice evening we’re having. And how’s the family?’”

“Have you any idea, Enrique, what an evening on the outside is really like? A simple everyday evening … when the city lights suddenly come on … Simple, familiar lights that offer aperitifs, refreshments, trendy and durable goods. The smells, Enrique — petrol, sweat, cologne. The sounds …”

“Don’t fantasize, Dad. We’re going to die before too long!”

“No. Enrique! No! My friends can’t leave me in the lurch. My death would cast a shadow on them too, a massive shadow. No, there’s no way they’d be able to tolerate that … I wouldn’t tolerate it either, if I were a big businessman on the outside, a leading businessman … No, it’s not possible! Even now your mother will be leaving no stone unturned out there … throwing every contact onto the scales. Commerce is the state’s raison d’être, is that clear? Even the Colonel has to bow down before commerce!”

“You amaze me, Dad! You’re still living in hope, even now? But what do you want? What can you still want, after everything that has happened?”

Now there was a sound. A word that I didn’t understand. I had to double the volume to make out the whisper. And even though I am unable to share in it, now that my own future has become decidedly dubious, I’m coming round to an understanding of the rapture that Salinas distilled into this one word:

“Life.”

Then one day the atrocity took place. You will undoubtedly recall it. How could you not! There was a huge commotion: a combing of the scene, a state of alert, and whatnot. Cabinet sessions, a parliamentary commission, a diplomatic scandal, international protests. For a few days the whole world yammered about nothing else.

And the Colonel graced our office with a visit.

“Bloody fools! What are you wasting your time on here?” For five minutes he unleashed a torrent of anger on us, and we could only cringe with bowed heads, like plants in a downpour. Then he slowly calmed down, rather like a passing thunderstorm.

“What’s happened in the Salinas case?” he suddenly asked — not directing the question at Diaz, at Rodriguez, or at even me, but tossing it up in the air like a ball, for whoever fielded it.

No one reached out to catch it, so I, the new boy, fielded it.

“For the time being,” I say, “we’re at a dead end.”

“Hmm,” the Colonel mused. “A dead end. And what am I supposed to understand by that?” he asked me in none too friendly a manner.

“At present,” I say, “our inquiries have thingy … run out of leads.”

“Hmm. So, what do you propose be done?” A nasty question, that, and extremely hazardous. I could have said very cagily that Diaz was the only one who had the authority to make a suggestion here. Out of the corner of my eye I picked up Diaz’s inimitable smile and the leopard glower of Rodriguez’s smoldering eyes. But I had caught the ball, and now that I had caught it, I was going to run with it.

“We ought to set them free.” This time I didn’t even stutter.

“Hmm. And what condition are they in?” the Colonel asked.

At that point there was silence, to be sure, a big silence.

“Hmm.” The Colonel’s voice gradually grew louder, more highly pitched and threatening, like a siren. “So my Corps is holding innocent people prisoner. My Corps is grilling innocent people. My Corps is torturing innocent people. What am I to say to parliament? What am I to say to the chamber of commerce? What am I to say to the foreign press?”

By now he was standing in front of me and yelling at my face:

“Inspector, I’m holding you personally responsible for this! I’m holding you responsible! I’ll have you sentenced and locked away to rot in prison! Do you understand?!”

I understood all right, you bet I did. I understood well enough to be quaking in my boots. But it was not due to the Colonel that I was quaking, though you might well think so. At that moment I was quaking due to the logic, and nothing else.

Then all at once the Colonel gripped me by the nose, right and proper, between two fingers, the way one does with a young kid. He gave it a few twists, then benevolently made a dismissive gesture.

“You little monkey!” he says affectionately. “You little monkey!”

With that, he stepped over to Rodriguez’s desk. The model had caught the Colonel’s eye — I had noticed that earlier.

“And what’s that?” he inquired.

“That?” Rodriguez cracked a bashful smile. “That’s a Boger swing.”

“Boger?” It’s interesting, but everyone always questions that right away. “Why Boger?”

“He invented it,” Rodriguez explained, and launched into a recital of the details. You are familiar with the spiel, and I am loath to repeat it. “This bit here”— he traced a small circle over it with his finger—“is freed up.”

He didn’t need to say much more; the Colonel soon got the gist.

“Pigs,” he said affectionately. “You filthy little piggies.” He spun the doll a few times. “Send this Boger to me for a talk.”

“We can’t do that, Colonel,” Diaz apologized.

“Why not?” The Colonel was startled.

“Because he’s serving a life sentence in Germany.” Yes, that’s Diaz for you. He says nothing but meanwhile checks on things, then suddenly brings out a nugget of learning, always when it’s awkward for somebody. He makes no exceptions, not even for the Colonel.

“Bloody fools!” The Colonel’s brow darkened as he rushed for the exit.

“Colonel!” Diaz tossed after him. “What are we to do in the Salinas case?”

The Colonel turned and pondered for a second. “Gather your evidence. A summary court will be convened an hour and a half from now.”

Not that Diaz needed an hour and a half. I’ll be hanged if anyone could have put together as speedily as Diaz a watertight investigational file on conspiracy to engage in criminal acts endangering Homeland security.

Two hours later we were standing in a window bay with Diaz. It was a classical window bay, in one of the Headquarters’ classical corridors. It overlooked a narrow courtyard. There was a line of posts on one side. The two Salinases, father and son, were tied up against two posts in the middle. Opposite them were two rows of guards: the firing squad.

“Uncivil.” Diaz made a wry face. He was in a gloomy mood; it would sometimes come upon him in his idle moments. “Our line of work is hazardous,” he mused. “Today you can be standing up here at the window, but then tomorrow, who knows? You may be down there, tied to a post.”

At that moment the fusillade cracked. Did I jump? I don’t know. All at once I sensed that Diaz was looking at me.