Aleksandar Tisma - The Book of Blam

Whenever he took walks with the family, holding hands with Estera (attired in white or navy blue like him) and walking in front of his parents, who kept nagging at them not to stray into the mud, Blam would look at the oval park through the gate, but he never asked the names of the trees that caught his eye by swaying gracefully in the breeze. For Blam a tree was a tree, something big and strong, yet pliant, alive, in cheerful contrast not only to the gray plaster of the street but also to the cartloads of raw, dry timber that arrived at the house at the end of every summer to be hewn into manageable chunks by woodcutters amid the buzz of saws and the smell of shavings and sweat. And while he was vaguely aware that “beech wood” and “oak wood” also came from trees, those trees grew in distant, unfamiliar woods he had never seen and were chopped down by lumberjacks and transported to the city in open freight trains.

Then one day Čutura said, “Hey, let’s get some of that fruit!” He jumped over a bent spike between two slanting iron posts and stepped into the bushes. It was about noon and blazing hot, the sun casting its golden lances through the leaves into Čutura’s long hair and acned face. Blam followed Čutura’s lead cautiously, but caught a trouser leg on the spike. Looking for a place to leave his satchel and free his hands, he saw Čutura’s books scattered on the ground in the sun (Čutura had no satchel). But out of habit Blam walked on until he found a shady spot under a tree for his satchel. Only then did he look to see where Čutura was. He found him hanging from the lowest branch of the tree, his open shirt revealing a muscular stomach indented at the belly button. All at once Čutura swung, planted his feet on the branch, and in no time had hoisted himself up. “Catch!” he shouted, throwing Blam three deep-red hawthorn berries still connected by stiff stems. Blam caught them but did not know what to do next, until he looked up and saw Čutura picking more and popping them into his mouth, chewing them, and spitting the tiny seeds out through his teeth. Blam decided to try one. The moment he bit into the berry, a warm, pulpy sweetness flooded his tongue and coated the roof of his mouth. It was like nothing he had ever tasted: it was like chewing spots of sun or a dusty leaf or the rust on the iron fence; it was like eating raw earth, dry and brittle, lying on the earth, burrowing into it. He kept taking fruit from Čutura, popping it into his mouth, chewing it, and spitting the seeds all over, stuffing more and more into his mouth until Čutura grew tired and sprang to the ground, lithe as a cat.

IF ČUTURA WERE still alive, the beautiful summer afternoon might well have lured him out to the square, thus making him a witness to Blam’s encounter with Funkenstein. Perceptive, enterprising witness that he had always been, he would have come within earshot and, after their abrupt leave-taking, pressed Blam into a conversation that might have run like this:

“Who was that man?”

“Forget him. His name is Funkenstein. He’s a real estate agent. A former real estate agent.”

“You were talking about the house you used to live in, weren’t you?”

“Right. I thought I’d take the opportunity to bring it up.”

“And?”

“You heard. He said he was sure my father had received the full sale price.”

“And you never saw a penny of it.”

“Right.”

“Well, what happened? Or, more to the point, who took it?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“You don’t seem to have gone out of your way to find out, either.”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t dare, if you really want to know. I didn’t dare inquire after my parents’ bodies to say nothing of their money. I was scared.”

“Yes. At the time that made sense. But what about later? Have you ever tried to find out who robbed them?”

“How would I do that?”

“How! It seems perfectly simple to me! I mean, it could only have been an inside job. One of the tenants. You must have known that from the start. Remember the Hungarian who moved in with the woman renting the apartment in your yard? What was his name?”

“Kocsis.”

“That’s right, Kocsis. Well, I used to see him with an Arrow Cross in his lapel. Just the type to get rid of your parents and take over the house.”

“How can you say such a thing!”

“Because it’s absolutely clear he’s the one. He was there the day of the raid, wasn’t he? The militia must have asked him about your parents. They used Arrow Cross people all the time. They needed informers. He was perfect for them.”

“You’re just guessing.”

“I’m just being logical. You should have at least looked into the possibility. You didn’t do a thing.”

“No.”

“Which basically means you let those crooks get rid of your parents and grab everything they had. Where are they now?”

“Who?”

“Who! Kocsis and his mistress.”

“How should I know?”

“You mean you don’t even know that? Did they stay on in the house?”

“I think so. For a while, at least. But then they moved to Budapest. At least that’s what I heard.”

“So you did ask around! And did a little guessing of your own!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I had to go back to the house to collect what was left of my parents’ belongings. It was the new tenants who told me that Kocsis and the woman had moved to Budapest.”

“But you didn’t find the money.”

“No.”

“Of course not. The money’s what got them to Budapest. They wouldn’t have been able to budge without it. But if it hadn’t been for the money and the part they played in your parents’ death, they wouldn’t have needed to move. Can’t you see that? They were afraid they’d get caught, so they beat it. They didn’t realize they were dealing with someone like you, who wouldn’t lift a finger to avenge the death of his parents. They could easily have stayed. They may even have come back. After they saw that nobody was going after them or making any claims and realized the dust had settled. In fact, I’m sure they’re back. How much could it have come to anyway? Ten thousand pengő? Fifteen thousand? That’s nothing for a bastard like Kocsis who can’t hold on to a thing. And when the money was gone and the fling was over, back they flew to the nest. Because I bet they left someone here when they went off on their ‘honeymoon.’ ”

“I don’t think she had anybody. Just a daughter, and I’m sure she took her with them. But Kocsis was married, if I remember correctly, and had children.”

“Well, then, it’s easy. All you have to do is track down the family and get them to tell you where Papa is.”

“No, it’s not so easy. I never really knew them. I don’t know where they lived.”

“The Bureau of Internal Affairs has all kinds of records. Might I ask the first name of this Kocsis character?”

“Lajos. His name was Lajos Kocsis.”

“I see. Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to look up every Lajos Kocsis in Novi Sad. Are you game?”

“Game?”

“To let me take over. I don’t share the compunctions you seem to have when it comes to the man. I think his crime cries out for revenge. The people who killed my family had my brothers to reckon with, and this Kocsis is getting off scot-free. I feel it’s my duty to do something about it, if only because of Estera, in her memory.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s the right way.”

“We won’t know until we try. But you can’t have anything against my asking around.”

“Of course not.”

“Good, it’s a deal. And you can be sure I’ll have something to report before long.”

BUT ČUTURA IS no longer among the living, and Blam leaves the square for the former Jew Street, unencumbered by third parties, thinking his own thoughts. As he makes his way along the resplendent shopwindows lining both sides of the street, he feels a venal shudder of regret that Funkenstein would not let him turn and look at the adulterous couple caught in the act. Again he pictures the dark, nattily dressed man and the tall blond woman, her skirt pulled tight around her thighs, pictures them embracing, and realizes it is a goodbye embrace, the repetition of an embrace he witnessed long ago and experienced as a personal farewell.