Imre Kertész: Detective Story

So, that was how matters stood when we had to decide whether to arrest Enrique Salinas or simply put him under surveillance.

No.

Events are now getting muddled and snarled together in my brain: the strands of the investigation that I, as investigating officer, held in my hands; the interrogations; Enrique’s diary; the lengthy chats that I had as ostensibly supplementary interrogations with him and his father, the elder Salinas, that utterly determined old fox; the tape recordings of the conversations they had with each other in prison; and finally my own unformulated thoughts about it all, which have subsequently confused the case in my mind so thoroughly that speaking about it will prove harder, I fear, than I suspected at first.

At that time we had done nothing more than open a file on Enrique. We already knew about him. He featured in the records as an abstract piece of data, and we knew that sooner or later he would have to play a part in person. We didn’t speak about it: there was nothing to say, but we just knew. We waited patiently, without even thinking that we were waiting; as I have said, we had a lot to do at the time. We had an atrocity to prevent. Whether his case would fall within the scope of the case set in motion by the atrocity, or of some other case, we truly couldn’t have cared less. Any person who was in the records was going to end up as a suspect sooner or later, no question. That’s as sure as the fact that I am sitting and writing in my cell here, until … But let’s drop that subject. The sentence has not been handed down yet, and even when it is, I shall be granted a short time afterward, at least until an appeal is heard. I know how it goes in this sort of case.

In short, our records had already identified that Enrique was going to perpetrate something sooner or later. As far as we were concerned, his fate was sealed, even if he himself had not yet made up his mind. He was hesitating, playing for time. He roamed the streets or wrote in his diary, raced around in his Alfa Romeo, visited on friends, or popped into bed with some silky-smooth kitten, if he happened to feel so inclined. Enrique Salinas was young, just twenty-two; his long hair, his wisp of a mustache and beard alone marked him as suspicious in our eyes. He brooded, rushed around, and made love. He did not spend much time at home. Maria, for her part, sat by the window and waited for him. Not that she could have seen much from the eighteenth floor of the Salinas luxury apartment building. From up there the milling bustle of the Grand Boulevard looks like the teeming of ants. Nevertheless, Maria Salinas, Enrique’s mother, spent all her time by the window.

That was where old Federigo Salinas found her when, on returning from the office, he crossed the apartment’s opulent salons in search of his wife. He stood behind her back without uttering a word.

“I’m scared,” he hears Maria say after a while.

“We have no reason to be scared, Maria,” he retorts. They fall silent.

“Hernandez has disappeared. Martino has been executed. Vera was taken away from her home,” Maria recites without even turning around.

“We’re not the kind of people they take away.” Salinas put an arm around her shoulders.

Maria was somewhat comforted. A sense of strength emanated from Salinas’s arm. Strength, superiority, and certainty. Slippery as an eel was old Salinas, though one should not picture him as being old: he looked young for his age. He was fifty, in the prime of life in certain respects.

“Look!” he hears Maria’s agitated voice again. “Federigo, look down there!” She was pointing at the street. He could see a black limousine. It was one of the vehicles that belong to our department — from time to time we had a job to do on the Grand Boulevard.

“Come away from the window, Maria!” Salinas spoke firmly to her.

Don’t go thinking I am just making up these exchanges. I wasn’t there, of course, how could I have been? But they have passed through my hands. I have seen them and heard them, watched them and interrogated them. I made records of what they said, to the point that all at once the records began to take charge of me.

We interrogated Maria as well — most certainly I interrogated her. That was at Diaz’s express request, incidentally. I objected, because I saw no point. Diaz, however, insisted. So I interrogated her. I interrogated her once, and then again on several further occasions, as Diaz wished. Maria was an attractive woman, slim, trim, and elegant. She had left her dark hair undyed, with good reason: the few gleaming silver strands only heightened its sheen. She was forty-eight, and it was still possible to fall head over heels in love with her, you bet! Those eyes! I was glued to them like a fly to flypaper. Sometimes I almost felt as if she were interrogating me, and not the other way around. But then I would notice the fear in those eyes, and that would at least restore order between us, even if I was unable to fully regain my composure. No, if a woman like that is afraid, that is alarming.

We were not going to be able to learn anything from her — all of us were clear about that. I have no liking for senseless work, and I said as much to Diaz, as I have already mentioned.

What I said to him was:

“There’s no sense in this. If it were up to me, I’d leave the woman out of the case.”

“That’s not possible. Besides, she would be offended,” he brushed me off. A helluva witty guy Diaz could be. At the time I just put that remark too down to his wit, but then things turned out differently. As I say, I was the new boy, and I was not yet in a position to appreciate all the subtleties of our work. Maria Salinas had to survive so as to grieve and bring us into disrepute. No one was left without a role in this game, and that was her role. So we handled her with kid gloves. She underwent formal interrogations, with polite questions and tactful expectations. These were more in the line of visits to a clinic, with a tidy transcript attesting to each of them. That sort of thing is important as proof of the impeccable legality of our procedures.

With Salinas I was able to speak more freely. Over time, once we were able to regard his case as closed, I managed to gain his trust. Later he even came to welcome the chats. That’s understandable, since he was then able to bring up all the things he had ever been fond of. He was thereby able to relive the various episodes of his life and ponder his misfortune. I, for my part, was able to forget who I was supposed to be (the case was closed, after all) and, as a faithful witness, listened to him like some kind of reverential pupil.

So I am very well aware what they talked about, better than if I had been there in person.

“Federigo … how long can this go on?” Maria asked.

“The name says it all: a state of emergency,” said Salinas. He was getting a bit bored with the matter. He had already said it all a hundred times over, but he’d say it another hundred times if necessary. He lit a cigarette. Salinas smoked fragrant cigarettes — a stylish brand, in this as in everything. That was something in which he could indulge himself, that’s for sure.

“Not long, then?” Maria badgered him some more, but this time she got no answer. “It won’t be for long?” she pressed him. “Not for long, Federigo, will it?”

“No,” Salinas reassured her. “It’s always like this. I can give you any number of examples. They come and they go; the worse they are, the quicker.” He paused. “One only has to get through it. And we have every chance of doing that, Maria,” he finished off with a smile.

A nice line, for domestic consumption, and Salinas had by now carefully polished every detail. Maria knew the follow-up herself: