Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

“Sir, do you have the time?” asked a man in a hat who suddenly approached him.

Gordon looked up and, though he sensed there was trouble, could not do a thing about it. He was just about to take a step forward when someone seized his arms from behind him and held them tight. He tried looking up, but his hat slipped over his eyes, and it was in vain that he sought to tear his hands free. He was held in an iron grip. His attacker pulled him into a doorway. The other man now stepped in front of him and tore off Gordon’s hat. Gordon jerked up his head, but a streetlamp shining behind his assailant kept the man’s features obscured. He thought of shouting for help, but he knew it would be pointless. They needed only a couple of seconds to take care of him. One blow, one gunshot, that would be it. The man behind him held tight. Gordon tried scrutinizing the eyes of the man before him, but he still couldn’t get a good look. Lightning-fast, the man socked Gordon in the gut. He doubled over and began heaving. The man behind him still had him in a certain grip. Gordon knew he shouldn’t, but he prepared for the next round by tightening his stomach muscles. The second blow filled him with excruciating pain. Tears came to his eyes. His legs gave way beneath him. He tried catching his breath but couldn’t. It was as if a lead cube locked away in his stomach was now seeping metal toward his lungs. He did everything to keep from letting panic get the best of him. The man raised his arm to ready for another blow, and Gordon tried slackening his body. Although it didn’t hurt as much this time, his stomach contracted and he began heaving once again. A foolish thought popped into his mind: Lucky he hadn’t had supper in the hash house, or he’d have been throwing up as well. Gordon could hear the man’s fingers cracking as he made a fist. He didn’t even see the fourth blow coming—which for once didn’t land in his gut but on his chin. Gordon felt his lips tear and heard his teeth grind as they slid over each other. The man behind him now let him go. Gordon collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. His head knocked hard against the pavement. He felt blood start running from his forehead. And yet he hadn’t bitten his tongue. Perhaps something had stayed with him from all the boxing matches he’d seen: “Put your tongue to the roof of your mouth, don’t think a thing, and just leave it there.” On the ground, he wanted to spit but couldn’t. Saliva mixed with blood dripped from the corners of his mouth. The man in the hat now leaned over him.

“You should call it quits here and now,” he hissed. Gordon looked in his face. He saw little, but what he saw was quite enough. He caught a glimpse of his mouth, if it could be called a mouth at all. The lower lip curled downward, he had hardly any bottom teeth, and Gordon could make out only his canines up top. Above the mouth was a nose so terribly crooked that Gordon couldn’t even imagine how its owner could take in air. “You should call it quits here and now,” he resumed. “If you don’t, your pretty little girlfriend won’t look so pretty with a sliced-up face.” Gordon groaned. He shouldn’t have. Again he started heaving, and blood gushed from his mouth. The man with the crooked nose stood upright, dusted off his trousers, and stepped back. He kicked Gordon in the belly so hard that Gordon’s world turned black. He didn’t even feel the man level the one solid good-bye punch to his kidneys. But when he stepped onto the palm of Gordon’s right hand, as if stomping out a cigarette butt, Gordon came to. A car turned onto the street, and the two men vanished in an instant. It was all Gordon could do not to focus on the pain, but he was afraid of losing consciousness again if he didn’t. He lay there like the drunk vagabonds in front of the bars on Ülloi Street. The nausea was unrelenting. Finally, he tried sitting up by leaning on his right hand, but a sharp pain shot through him. He rolled onto his back and out onto the sidewalk, then slowly managed to sit up, this time using his left hand for support. He threw his back against the wall and felt his right hand. The slightest touch was enough to make the hand contract. The pain was great, but he tested his fingers one by one. With the exception of his index finger, which alone rested at an unnatural angle, every finger moved. Now came his wrist. He managed to move it left and right, though he heard occasional cracking. There was pain, of course. Slowly his breathing took on a more normal rhythm. He shut his eyes and took ever deeper breaths. At first, he’d wanted to vomit every time he inhaled, but some five minutes later the queasiness passed. He wasn’t in a hurry; he knew he could not count on help.

A couple was approaching on the sidewalk. The woman wore a cocktail dress and a mink coat, and the man had on a tuxedo, hat, and a camel-fur jacket. On noticing Gordon’s filthy, bloody figure, they hastily crossed the street. Gordon waited another couple of minutes. When he felt he had enough strength, he tried staggering to his feet. It didn’t work. His belly throbbed, as did his hand. Again throwing his back against the wall, he began pushing himself to his feet. His legs were nearly straight when all at once he felt the building’s foundation come to an end, and the ornamental brickwork begin. He took a deep breath, placed his hands just above his knees, and pressed himself until he stood erect. Dizziness set in. He leaned against the wall to keep from falling. The blood ran from his forehead into his eyes. He wiped it with his coat sleeve.

He checked to see how far he was from his building door. His flat was at the head of Lovag Street, just two buildings down, close to Nagymező Street. He had four doors to go. Pulling himself together, he pushed himself away from the wall and tried staying on his feet. This is when Gordon really felt the blow leveled against his kidneys. Had he been unable to grab hold of a brick jutting out from the building wall, he might well have fallen again. And he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand up one more time. Gordon leaned against the wall with his left hand. He would be strong enough.

Slowly, step by step, he moved forward. With his left hand he grasped another brick, then moved his left foot, then his right. Left hand, left foot, right foot. Left hand, left foot, right foot.

On reaching the door, Gordon had to gather all his strength to be able to knock. Then he turned around, fell against the door, and slid slowly to the ground. The door opened and the super looked out. On glimpsing the slumped figure, he moved to close the door, but Gordon called to him: “It’s me, Iváncsik.”

The super leaned down and looked into Gordon’s face. He exclaimed in astonishment: “Don’t you move, Mr. Editor!” Gordon had no intention of moving. “I’ll help you right away.” With that, he carefully reached under Gordon’s arm, did his best to help Gordon to his feet, and led him to his little flat underneath the stairwell. The super’s wife stood in the kitchen as if looking at a ghost. “Don’t just stare like that. Irénke!” Iváncsik yelled at her. “Run, go get the doctor!”

“There’s no need,” Gordon moaned.

“Who are you kidding, Mr. Editor? The last time I saw this sort of thing was on the Italian front. We need a doctor right now.”

“Go up to my flat,” said Gordon softly. “Krisztina is waiting for me there.”

“Right away,” replied the super. “Irénke, don’t just stand there twiddling your thumbs, you heard the man. Get a move on.”

His wife hurried off as Iváncsik now slipped Gordon from his shoulder onto a stool. Not even a minute had passed before Krisztina appeared in the kitchen. But for her cheekbones, which were flushed, her face was a deathly white. She knelt down beside Gordon.