Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

“Let’s just say I do.”

“Let’s just say. And let’s also say I’ll have that picture of you and Gerő sent right to Schweinitzer in the taxi that’s waiting outside. Where does that leave you?”

Skublics did not reply.

“Don’t go hoping they’ll hand you over to the Soviets like they did with Gerő. You can hope for anything, but not that. They’ve got a dowry-full of Hungarian Communists, and they don’t need another one. Especially not this sort, not an informer. True, you’re not a state security informant, but what does it matter?”

The old man calculated feverishly. Finally, he reached a decision. “I don’t know his name,” he began. “But I do know who brought her there.”

“I’m listening.” Gordon sat down in the other armchair and pulled the candle closer to himself as he took out his notebook.

“One of Zsámbéki’s girls.”

“Who is Zsámbéki?”

“He’s got exclusive girls in the center of town—in the fifth district.”

“More precisely?”

“On Báthory Street. There’s an apartment there, full of girls. Ten or twelve of them. But they don’t do anything there. They just sit and wait. Because there’s this book, a catalog of sorts. That’s how our distinguished representatives choose their girls from the back rooms of the Parliament building. I take the girls’ pictures. The gentlemen point to one, word goes out to the apartment on Báthory Street, and then they meet up in a hotel room.”

“You’re saying the girl was a tart for members of Parliament?”

“For upper-house gentlemen, too. Yes, mainly for them. The lower house is packed to the heap with boors and country bumpkins. Anyway, Zsámbéki is the one who found this girl. He got word that there’s a cultivated, especially beautiful creature in Csuli’s gang.” The old man licked his chapped lips. “True, a Jew, but some want that. And she spoke several languages. So then, Zsámbéki went to Csuli and bought the girl off him. He dressed her up really nice and sent her over to me with Red Margo.”

“Who is Red Margo?”

“She’s the madam.”

“She lives on Báthory Street?”

“No,” said Skublics, shaking his head. “A few blocks away, in Falk Miksa Street.”

Gordon wrote down the address. “So you don’t know the girl’s name?”

“You think I pay attention?”

“And what sort of picture did you take of her?”

“The sort you saw.”

“Nothing else?”

“I wanted to, but Margo didn’t let me.”

Gordon’s hand again tightened into a fist. He stood and stepped in front of the old man. “Get the hell out of here.”

“You’re telling me to leave my own apartment?”

“Leave the country, you swine. You wretched swine. I’ve heard there’s demand in Paris for pictures of naked girls. You can meet up with your comrades there, too. And if you listen to me, you’ll pull up stakes right this instant, because maybe you were wrong to trust me. Besides, who knows? If you don’t get a move on, I might just write an article about you. Which our Paris office could publish, too. This sort of juicy story goes over well there.” Skublics just sat there, staring at the carpet and stroking his beard. Gordon slammed the door shut behind him, walked out to Holy Trinity Square, and got back in the Opel Regent.

“Where to?” asked Czövek.

“Lövölde Square,” replied Gordon.

“Shall we hurry?”

Gordon looked at his watch. It was a couple of minutes past noon. “Take your time. Lunch can wait.”

Gordon could smell Krisztina’s potato pasta with onions and paprika from the stairwell. On stepping into the flat, he saw Mór’s overcoat on the coat stand. His grandfather often stopped by Krisztina’s place, only a couple of blocks from his own, always bringing a jar of jam as an excuse. Today he had complemented his concoction with some crêpes.

“My apple jam turned out so well that I had to cook up some crêpes to tuck it into,” he said, beaming. Krisztina grabbed the pot of potato pasta from the stove and set it on the living room table. “Come on, you two!” she called.

The three chatted over lunch, but Gordon didn’t want to tell Krisztina in front of his grandfather what he’d managed to find out. As for the old man’s newest creation, the crêpes, Gordon’s initial caution gradually gave way to enthusiasm. “Opa, these aren’t so bad. They aren’t bad at all. How much sugar did you put in to keep it from falling apart?” he inquired.

“No small amount,” replied the old man with a furtive smile, “no small amount.”

After dessert, Gordon lit a cigarette and turned toward Mór.

“What are you up to this afternoon, Opa?”

“Son, I’ve got loads of pears waiting for me at home, and I bought some more rhubarb, so I’ve got plenty to do.”

Gordon went on: “I only ask because I want to check out a boxing match this afternoon. There’s this butcher from the town of Csepel who, I’ve been told, can outbox Harangi.”

“No one boxes better than Harangi!” the old man exclaimed.

“You mean Imre Harangi, who won a gold at the Berlin Olympics?” asked Krisztina.

“That’s the one,” said Gordon.

“Son, I’ve seen quite enough blood in my life,” said Mór with a wave of the hand, “and I’m not interested in seeing any more.”

“As you wish, Opa.”

“Zsigmond,” said Krisztina, “you haven’t forgotten that we’re going to the cinema tonight, have you?”

“Of course I haven’t,” said Gordon, and he asked his grandfather to fill him in on the jams that awaited him this afternoon.

No sooner had Gordon stepped into the Ironworks Sport Club near the West Railway Station than the familiar smell hit his nose: the mix of sweat, stifling heat, and cigarette smoke. He stopped in the doorway of the boxing arena and looked around. He hadn’t been back among the cheering crowd for two weeks. He was relieved to finally take a break from his busy schedule.

Two rings stood in the middle of the enormous arena. Training was under way in one, while in the other they were preparing for the match. The league manager and the head referee were busy putting the competitors and their corner guys in their proper places, and—although it was a friendly, amateur bout—all concerned appeared to be taking it seriously indeed. A teeming mass of spectators surrounded the ring, many of them chatting enthusiastically, with coats flung over their shoulders; others, still in their overcoats, watched events unfold while standing a bit farther back from the crowd.

Gordon moved closer. Several people greeted him, and as he shook their hands, they exchanged a few words about the celebrated match back in June between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling, and of course about Harangi’s triumph in Berlin. Gordon regretted not having been able to make it to the Olympics, but his paper didn’t let him go. True, that hadn’t stopped him from listening on edge, like so many of his compatriots, to the radio broadcasts from Berlin by the incomparable Hungarian sports announcer István Pluhár. He’d even been on hand in the Ironworks Sport Club boxing arena for Harangi’s triumphant match: the radio had been placed in the center of the ring, and the crowd listened to it with rapt attention, as if the Olympic championship had in fact been unfolding live before them. When the ref held up Harangi’s hand, everyone shouted along with the announcer, including Gordon, of course. It was a wonderful evening, and he’d been there in the cheering crowd when Harangi arrived home from Berlin with the rest of Hungary’s Olympic team. In those moments, Gordon didn’t care about anything else. He, too, flung his hat in the air as he joined the crowd accompanying Harangi out of Budapest’s East Railway Station. He couldn’t remember ever having been so happy about a boxing victory. Gordon had been a devoted fan of Harangi for years, transfixed by the boxer’s self-confidence, nimbleness, unbelievably quick right hand, and air of calm superiority.