by Imre Kertész
No one reached out to catch it, so I, the new boy, fielded it.
“For the time being,” I say, “we’re at a dead end.”
“Hmm,” the Colonel mused. “A dead end. And what am I supposed to understand by that?” he asked me in none too friendly a manner.
“At present,” I say, “our inquiries have thingy … run out of leads.”
“Hmm. So, what do you propose be done?” A nasty question, that, and extremely hazardous. I could have said very cagily that Diaz was the only one who had the authority to make a suggestion here. Out of the corner of my eye I picked up Diaz’s inimitable smile and the leopard glower of Rodriguez’s smoldering eyes. But I had caught the ball, and now that I had caught it, I was going to run with it.
“We ought to set them free.” This time I didn’t even stutter.
“Hmm. And what condition are they in?” the Colonel asked.
At that point there was silence, to be sure, a big silence.
“Hmm.” The Colonel’s voice gradually grew louder, more highly pitched and threatening, like a siren. “So my Corps is holding innocent people prisoner. My Corps is grilling innocent people. My Corps is torturing innocent people. What am I to say to parliament? What am I to say to the chamber of commerce? What am I to say to the foreign press?”
By now he was standing in front of me and yelling at my face:
“Inspector, I’m holding you personally responsible for this! I’m holding you responsible! I’ll have you sentenced and locked away to rot in prison! Do you understand?!”
I understood all right, you bet I did. I understood well enough to be quaking in my boots. But it was not due to the Colonel that I was quaking, though you might well think so. At that moment I was quaking due to the logic, and nothing else.
Then all at once the Colonel gripped me by the nose, right and proper, between two fingers, the way one does with a young kid. He gave it a few twists, then benevolently made a dismissive gesture.
“You little monkey!” he says affectionately. “You little monkey!”
With that, he stepped over to Rodriguez’s desk. The model had caught the Colonel’s eye—I had noticed that earlier.
“And what’s that?” he inquired.
“That?” Rodriguez cracked a bashful smile. “That’s a Boger swing.”
“Boger?” It’s interesting, but everyone always questions that right away. “Why Boger?”
“He invented it,” Rodriguez explained, and launched into a recital of the details. You are familiar with the spiel, and I am loath to repeat it. “This bit here”— he traced a small circle over it with his finger—“is freed up.”
He didn’t need to say much more; the Colonel soon got the gist.
“Pigs,” he said affectionately. “You filthy little piggies.” He spun the doll a few times. “Send this Boger to me for a talk.”
“We can’t do that, Colonel,” Diaz apologized.
“Why not?” The Colonel was startled.
“Because he’s serving a life sentence in Germany.” Yes, that’s Diaz for you. He says nothing but meanwhile checks on things, then suddenly brings out a nugget of learning, always when it’s awkward for somebody. He makes no exceptions, not even for the Colonel.
“Bloody fools!” The Colonel’s brow darkened as he rushed for the exit.
“Colonel!” Diaz tossed after him. “What are we to do in the Salinas case?”
The Colonel turned and pondered for a second. “Gather your evidence. A summary court will be convened an hour and a half from now.”
Not that Diaz needed an hour and a half. I’ll be hanged if anyone could have put together as speedily as Diaz a watertight investigational file on conspiracy to engage in criminal acts endangering Homeland security.
Two hours later we were standing in a window bay with Diaz. It was a classical window bay, in one of the Headquarters’ classical corridors. It overlooked a narrow courtyard. There was a line of posts on one side. The two Salinases, father and son, were tied up against two posts in the middle. Opposite them were two rows of guards: the firing squad.
“Uncivil.” Diaz made a wry face. He was in a gloomy mood; it would sometimes come upon him in his idle moments. “Our line of work is hazardous,” he mused. “Today you can be standing up here at the window, but then tomorrow, who knows? You may be down there, tied to a post.”
At that moment the fusillade cracked. Did I jump? I don’t know. All at once I sensed that Diaz was looking at me.
“Scared?” His smooth face beamed with insolent curiosity. I would have been more than happy to take a swing at him. I already knew then that, when the time came, he would make himself scarce, and it would be futile sending out an APB. He would never be captured. It is always me whom they catch—people like me, I mean.
“Of what?” I asked Diaz.
“Well.” He nodded toward the courtyard where the two Salinases were sagging on their fetters like empty sacks. “Of that!”
“That.” I shrugged. “I’m not afraid of that. Only the long road that leads to it.”
After all, I was still just a new boy then, as I say.
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Copyright © Imre Kertész 1997, 2001
Copyright © Rowohlt Verlag GmbH, Reinbek bei Hamburg 2004
English translation copyright © Tim Wilkinson 2008
Cover Illustration © Harry Tennant
Imre Kertész has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published with the title Detekívtörténet by Magvetö Könyvkiadó, Budapest 1977
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Harvill Secker
This edition reissued by Vintage in 2017
www.penguin.co.uk/vintage
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099523390
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