Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

“I will,” replied the man. At once Gordon tore himself free of the man’s grip and swung his right fist into the other’s cheekbone. The man staggered and then slumped against the wall but did not fall down. He just stood there, head drooping. Gordon was about to step past him when the man looked up. Gordon did not wait to be attacked. This time he delivered a deep uppercut to the chin. The man’s head hit the wall with a thud, his eyes went blank, and he began sliding toward the floor. His eyes moist and fist sore, Gordon again moved to walk past the man now lying on the floor. With a sudden start, the man grabbed his ankle. Gordon spun to look down at the man. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth to the floor and his eyes were foggy, but his hold did not slacken. Gordon tried to yank away his foot, but the man somehow gripped even tighter. He then leaned up on his left hand and the life returned to his eyes—eyes that looked with such loathing upon his foe that Gordon didn’t hesitate another moment before planting yet another punch on the other’s cheekbone, this time with his left hand and every ounce of strength he had. The man fell flat at once, his head knocking against the floor. The blood trickling from his mouth began to form a little puddle.

Gordon slumped against the wall and slid slowly to his knees. He moved the fingers of his right hand. They worked, but hurt terribly. He could hear the man’s hushed gurgling breaths. Gordon took a deep breath and stood up slowly, shaking and massaging his right hand. He opened the door his attacker had been guarding. Inside the room, a burly man was shadowboxing; his movements were slow but strong. Gordon stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Without saying a thing, Jacek watched Gordon from the corner of his eye. Gordon just stood there by the door, looking on until the boxer finally lowered his arms and, with a slight Polish accent to his otherwise clean, crisp Hungarian, spoke.

“What do you want?”

Gordon pulled out a chair from under a table and straddled it. “I have a business proposal.”

“What sort of business?”

“I heard that the result of this evening’s match has been decided in advance.”

Jacek slammed a fist down on the table. “But we agreed with Pojva that we’d play clean for once.”

“I think you don’t understand. Pojva is bragging that tonight he’s not going to sweat it out, because someone has paid you off.”

“Me?” Jacek flared up. “Me? I never sold a single match in my whole life. Understand?”

“I understand. I’m sure you’re right. But I thought I should let you know.”

“This will be my twelfth match, and I’ve never taken a dive. How dare Pojva say that?” thundered Jacek, veins bulging on his neck.

“That much I don’t know,” said Gordon, rising from the chair. “That’s all I wanted to say,” he said, heading toward the door.

Jacek just stood there stewing helplessly in his rage, but then he called after Gordon: “You mentioned some sort of business.”

“Why of course,” said Gordon, slapping his forehead. He reached in his pocket, took out fifty pengős, and set them down on the table.

“What’s this?” asked Jacek.

“Just a little contribution to Hungarian-Polish relations.”

“To what?” he asked, looking at Gordon with incomprehension.

“To that, son, to that. Besides, you yourself said you never lost a match. So don’t you lose now.”

With that, Gordon stepped out the door. The man was still lying in the hallway. Amid his halting breaths the bleeding had stopped and the puddle was gradually congealing. Gordon stepped over him and went back to the main part of the cellar and the ring.

The match was to begin in a couple of minutes. The room was filled with a terrible cacophony of voices. The bookies were doing their utmost to outshout each other, and the referees were standing in the ring with their sleeves rolled up. The smell of smoke, sweat, and beer permeated the cellar. Gordon passed his eyes over the crowd. Everyone was on hand: factory workers, carriage drivers, office workers, and, of course, more than a few dubious characters. A bit farther from the ring were gentlemen dressed in meticulously tailored, top-quality suits, and Gordon was not surprised to see them there.

The iron door opened at one minute before six. Pojva was the first to come out, with a surprisingly calm expression, and he was followed by Jacek, whose resounding steps were replete with both resolve and rage. His face spoke only of determination.

“Kill him, Pojva!” someone yelled. This voice was now joined by a chorus: “Kill him! No mercy!” At this, the other fighter’s fans broke in: “Show him no mercy, Jacek! Go for the head!”

The two boxers reached the ring. One of the referees lifted the rope, and the fighters stepped in. Jacek was stretching his neck and relaxing his shoulders, while Pojva looked on with a grin. They wore neither gloves nor even handwraps. There was no weighing in, though Pojva and Jacek looked to be about the same weight. The head referee herded them into opposite corners, whereupon an older man in a tux and a top hat stepped into the ring and, shrieking in falsetto, introduced the two fighters.

“In the blue corner we have the famously brutal Pojva, who knows no fear—Pojva, owner of the most dangerous fists around!” The crowd flew into a passion. Now the old fellow moved toward Jacek. “And in the red corner is the butcher and slaughterman from Łódz´, the man whose fists the Poles are so afraid of that he had to come all the way to Budapest—none other than Jacek himself!” More cheers. Men lined up in front of the bookies to place last-minute bets: eyes glittering, they jostled to push their way to the front, waving banknotes. Then the old man in the top hat climbed from the ring, and the head referee called on the boxers to shake hands. Both stepped to the middle of the ring. Pojva reached out his hand while gloating at the crowd. Jacek seized his hand and squeezed it tight. All at once Pojva’s face contorted, and the referee had to push Jacek out of the way. The bell rang, the referee gave the signal, and the boxers moved toward each other again. Pojva began with a few faltering jabs that Jacek effortlessly avoided before going on the attack. With his long arms, he aimed for Pojva’s chin, but missed. Pojva now moved forward, and to the extent that he could, given his age, he took to dancing about to avoid the other’s punches. But with a well-directed swing, Jacek caught him on the chest, which sent Pojva staggering. He did not fall, but the grin froze right off his face.

Even from a distance, Gordon could see clearly when the two boxers began wrestling, as it were. It seemed as if Pojva had said something to Jacek, who responded by pushing him away and swearing at him. This sent Pojva on the attack. Jacek’s right hand swung, but all at once Pojva caught it under his arm and wouldn’t let go, hitting the Pole with his left elbow. This was too much even for the referee, who separated them. The bell rang again: the round was over.

The two boxers flopped down onto stools in their respective corners. Their assistants washed their faces with ice water and fanned them with towels. Pojva leaned back, eyes shut, gasping for breath. But Jacek shook off the water and sprang to his feet. Pojva stood only at the sound of the bell. The referee gave the signal, and they fell upon each other. Pojva tried every dirty trick in the book. While putting his left arm around Jacek’s waist, he leveled a blow at his opponent’s kidneys. The referee stepped between them. At this, Pojva now let his left fist fly with surprising agility, tearing up Jacek’s eyebrow in an instant. The referee stopped them. He examined the wound but saw that it wasn’t bleeding too much. Jacek shook himself off and moved forward. Pojva gave a desperate knee kick toward the other man’s groin. Again, the referee stepped between them. The crowd was in a rage. Screwed-up faces egged on the boxers, who heard nothing of it. Pojva defended his head with both hands. Jacek had found the right moment. He sent a punch flying at his opponent’s belly, at which Pojva lowered his left hand. At that instant Jacek’s right fist delivered an uppercut onto Pojva’s chin.