Temptation

  The Constable drew the letter from his pocket.

  “Did you read it?”

  “N-no,” I mumbled. “Why would I?”

  “Read it,” he said, handing it to me.

  I looked at him none the wiser—I had no idea what he wanted. The envelope was still sealed.

  “Open it,” he said.

  I tore open the envelope and stared at the paper inside in disbelief. There was nothing on it.

  The Constable grinned.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  There was something of the cheap thriller about it all. This letter, this flat, this war hero turned rag merchant . . . until now, I’d thought this sort of thing existed only in pulp novels, and the trouble is, so did everybody else. It was in secretive rooms like this, with anonymous characters like him, it was in this humble and clumsy way that the plot of Europe’s historical thriller began, whose blood-thirsty authors—back in those days—elicited only laughter from their unsuspecting victims.

  I was not laughing. I was frightened, like the whole world would be in a few years, and the Constable was clearly enjoying it.

  “Tell me,” he said in a strange, melodic tone, “do you remember what I told you in that little inn in Buda?”

  “I do,” I stuttered.

  “All of it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What would happen to you if you failed to carry out my orders?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me what I said.”

  “I . . . I don’t remember the words exactly sir.”

  “No?”

  The Constable smiled. It was a gross, frightening smile, deforming his thin, cruel mouth.

  “Then let me remind you,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word separately, and coming so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “I said I’d beat your brains in.”

  This, too, he said with a smile, a heady and hopeful smile, as if already savouring the prospect.

  “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right.”

  “Did you carry out my orders?”

  “Please, Doctor, I—”

  “Stop gibbering! Did you carry out my orders? Yes or no?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So why do you think I haven’t beaten your brains in? Why haven’t I said anything? Why did I wait?”

  I didn’t reply. What could I have said? I was so dizzy I could barely keep my eyes open.

  “Nothing to say?” he said with mock politeness, and smiled. “No matter. That time hasn’t come yet, anyway. There’s a couple of things I want to ask you first. Do me a favour and don’t lie for once. Provided, that is,” he added unctuously, flicking a bit of dust from my uniform, “you intend to leave here with your head still attached to your shoulders. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” he nodded, went back to the bookshelf and downed another little glass of pálinka. “Question one. Think about your answer carefully. Who knows about what I told you in that inn?”

  “No one.”

  “Your parents?”

  “No.”

  “Friends, lover?”

  “No one, sir.”

  “What about Elemér?”

  “Oh, not a chance,” I blurted out in genuine protest. “He’d be the last to know.”

  The Constable scanned me.

  “Why the last?”

  “Because . . . I . . . um . . . never talked about you with him, sir.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “All sorts.”

  “Politics?”

  “Ummm . . . sometimes.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me he was a Communist? That’s question two.”

  “He told me he was a Social Democrat, sir.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Everybody did. He told the others the same thing.”

  “He wasn’t as close to them as he was to you. Which reminds me, question three. Why did you deny being friends with him?”

  “I don’t have any friends, sir.”

  “Oh, the solitary sort, are we? Poor boy.” He looked concerned, shook his head. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Somebody told me you used to hang around together every morning in Buda. Apparently, they were lying.”

  “No, sir. That . . . that’s true.”

  “Really?” he said, astonished. “What an odd sort of solitary sort you are. You work all night and then at closing time, instead of going home, you stay in the hotel to meet up with someone in the morning who . . . is not your friend. Tell me, aren’t you at all attached to that solitary little head of yours?”

  “Sir . . . I—”

  “Don’t mumble!” he shouted.

  “All I said, sir—”

  “Leave it,” he said, dismissing it with a wave of the hand. “Question four. Why didn’t you join the Party if you two got on so well otherwise? Elemér must have tried to convince you.”

  “No, sir.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Strange,” he said absently, and gave me a massive slap. “Your friend said just the opposite down at the police station.”

  Impossible! I thought. After all, it had been me who wanted to join the movement and Elemér who dissuaded me. If he’d hit me two minutes before, when I really had been lying, I would have understood, but now . . . Why was it this answer in particular that made him angry?

  “Surprised?” he grinned. “Your friend admitted plenty more, too. Not right away, of course. It took quite a while. I can tell you now that was why I didn’t say anything all this time. Your friend is a remarkably reticent fellow. He finds it exhausting, talking. Our little chat, for example, tired him out so much that he’s going to need a little rest in hospital. Broken ribs and whatnot. Yes, my friend, that’s what happens when you . . .”

  I didn’t hear the rest. Oxen and peasants can take a lot, but there is a limit, after all. The midnight hunt for my mother, the constant fear and anxiety, the weeks of starvation, and now this . . . The world went suddenly black before me.

  It was hound-face who roused me, dousing me with water. It can’t have been his first time with that sort of thing. The Constable was looking on dispassionately from an armchair, like a surgeon waiting to operate while his assistant does the prep work. When he saw that I was better, he gestured to the valet to leave, then stood up, had a little tot of pálinka, and came over to me.

  “I hope that little fainting fit has brought you to your senses,” he said more peaceably, and sat down opposite me. “Are you ready to talk honestly, at last?”

  “Yes, sir,” I groaned.

  An unexpected twist followed. The Constable said:

  “Elemér told us at the station that the reason you didn’t join the Party was because you’re a Fascist sympathizer. Is that true?”

  Suddenly, it all made sense. That was Elemér for you, that was Pokerface all over. First, he lends me his clothes, then his heart and mind, and now here he was, sticking his neck out for me. I couldn’t speak. I was on the verge of tears.

  I nodded. I knew that I was doing what Elemér wanted me to do; I knew that he wanted it this way, and yet I was still indescribably ashamed of myself.

  “Then why did you lie?” he asked. “You must have known you were hurting your own cause. Were you really so afraid for that rascal?”

  I burst into tears. That “rascal” was now lying in a prison hospital, ribs broken, beaten to a pulp. I pictured his bandaged head on the hospital bed as he looked at me with his prematurely aged cat’s eyes, shrugging, as always, when I tried to thank him for something, and saying: “Ah, it’s nothing! We working-class boys have to stick together, that’s all!”

  The Constable leant forward and put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Tell me the truth,” he said. “That’s the only thing that can help you now. Were you covering for him?”

  “Yes,” I sobbed.

&nbs
p; “All right,” he nodded. “I can sort of understand that, even. But why didn’t you go and work for me within the Party if you really are a sympathizer? Did Elemér notice something? Did he threaten you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who threatened you, then?”

  “No one.”

  “In that case, I just don’t understand you, my friend. And when I don’t understand someone, there’s trouble.”

  There was silence. All I could hear was my own sobbing.

  “Stop weeping like an old maid!” he said. “Tell the truth, like a man.”

  I just kept on crying, I couldn’t stop. I tried clenching my teeth, but in vain—I tried gathering all my strength, but it was no use. The tears flowed out of me like blood from a severed artery. In the end, the Constable lost his patience.

  “Why don’t you answer me? Do you want me to have you fired? Have you blacklisted? Make sure you never find another job in the entire country?” He snatched up the blank letter from the hotel off the table and waved it around in front of me, his eyes flashing. “I can write anything I like on this!”

  I knew that was true, but nonetheless I wasn’t scared. The same irrational, perverse desire came over me that had almost driven me to murder after they arrested Elemér: I wanted to go to prison. I longed for some earth-shaking cataclysm—the Flood, or fire and brimstone, or for a policeman to come and take me away, for the Devil to come and take the whole world away.

  The Constable stood up.

  “I hope you know,” he said with an ominous smile, “that you’re not leaving here until you come clean. So why are you being such a coward? Why don’t you confront the truth?”

  I don’t know why it was this, specifically, that made me lose my head. Anything else would probably have had the same effect. I wasn’t entirely responsible for my actions by this point.

  “I am not a coward!” I screamed hysterically, jumping up and waving my hands. “I may be just a bloody peasant the upper classes can treat whatever way they want, but I won’t have anybody calling me a coward, because . . . because . . . all right . . . it’s true that I’m crying, but that’s . . . that’s only because . . . because . . . I’m weak with hunger . . . it’s true . . . I’m not ashamed . . . we’re working class . . . and . . . we’ve got nothing to eat . . . though . . . the three of us work like dogs . . . and my poor mother has worked herself half to death, and . . . the ambulance picked her up last night in the street . . . and they said . . . it was life-threatening . . . and then on top of that . . . you think I’ve nothing better to do than go around sniffing out secrets, when . . . when my poor mother’s lying in the Rókus . . . and . . . and they’re going to evict us come the first . . . and . . .”

  I don’t know what else I shouted in the state I was in. The surprising thing was that the Constable took it. He didn’t shut me up—just the opposite. He nodded gravely to say he understood it all, but behind his yellow, blinking eyes prowled the hound, ears pricked, just waiting for the rabbit to bolt its hole.

  I snapped back to my senses.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, and collapsed dizzily into the armchair. The room was spinning around me, I thought I was about to faint again.

  The Constable sat down beside me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all that before?” he asked. “We’re both human. We’re both Hungarians. Maybe I could help.”

  He watched me, waiting for the effect.

  “Yes, sir,” I mumbled, bathed in sweat.

  The Constable leant closer.

  “If you brought me some interesting information,” he said, his voice slightly lowered, and smiled ingratiatingly, “then . . . I think . . . I could get you some money. Not a lot,” he added carefully, “the police aren’t exactly generous, but,” he said, patting me encouragingly on the shoulder, “it would be enough to cover the rent, with a little left over for a crust of bread.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, because I could see he was waiting for an answer, but I thought: I’d rather starve!

  The good Doctor, who was so adept at treating people’s political illnesses, was not so skilled, it seems, in the art of psychology.

  “Do we have a deal?” he asked, unsuspecting, and was so sure of himself, he was already extending his hand.

  I took it, of course—what else could I do? Then he threatened me once more, purely as a formality, it seems, that he would beat my brains in if I didn’t obey his orders, and started talking about more practical matters. He made me promise to join the Party within twenty-four hours, and that I would be a good little comrade. I would say what they wanted me to say and do what they told me to do. I would try to get lost in the crowd, but if it came time for action, I would be the bravest, ready for any sacrifice, and na-tu-ra-lly—that was how he said it, crunching the word like a dog a bone, na-tu-ra-lly, I would be the most radical of them all. His paternal advice extended to everything. He was astoundingly familiar with every nook and cranny of the young workers’ movement, the financial situation of the various leaders, their principles, habits and even their weaknesses. He explained in excruciating detail how I was to ingratiate myself with each of them. He called my particular attention to the female comrades.

  “In bed and in the bar, everybody talks too much,” he explained with professional precision. “Trouble is, the bar’s no use, because the little Commie saints are teetotal almost to a man. They’ve got principles, don’t you know!” he laughed. “They only get drunk on words. But the female comrades, they like to . . . um . . . well, you know . . . and you can go and do your proletarian duty. Not such a bad deal, eh? Ha ha ha,” he laughed, and I too, tried to laugh, yes, that’s right, ha ha ha.

  We were frightfully chummy now. Then the Constable looked me up and down and said, out of the blue:

  “If you have any self-respect, a year from now you’ll be wearing a different uniform.”

  I looked at him in surprise, which he evidently relished. He loved these unexpected twists. He inserted his monocle slowly and fussily, and smiled mysteriously.

  “Tell me, what do you know about Hitler?”

  I knew quite a lot. Elemér had talked often during our walks in Buda about National Socialism, and Elemér was a good teacher. The Constable could hardly contain himself. He was simply delighted with me.

  “Very good,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “I can see you’re serious about this. In a few weeks, we’ll be setting up the National Socialist Party in Hungary, too, and if you’re smart, you can have a great future in it. Ever heard of the Hitler Jugend?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you know what I mean,” he said confidentially. “We, too, will be organizing a youth movement like it. Not,” he added proudly, “that we’re copying Hitler, mind you. The truth is, Hitler’s copying us. The Hitler Jugend is nothing more than our own Cadet Movement. In fact, National Socialism itself is nothing more than what we Hungarian counter-revolutionaries managed in 1919. Where was Hitler then? Where was Mussolini? The world was still dreaming Mr Wilson’s democratic dream, and we smoked democracy, Socialism and the Jews out of the country under their very noses. We didn’t give a damn about their peace treaty. We armed ourselves openly, and anyone who got out of line got a bullet in the head. Those were the days!” he mused lovingly. “We took on the world and won. Problem was, we won too easily. The French and the British, who’d put the wind up everyone so thoroughly, were licking Horthy’s boots a year later, and the old lecher loved it. He stopped halfway and now we’re slowly slipping back to where we started from.” He waved bitterly. “We were teaching the world a lesson, and now our students are running rings around us. Take this Hitler, for example. He’s not going to stop halfway—no, not him! Did you read what he said to the judge? He told him, right there in open court at his trial, that when he gets into power, heads will roll. That’s the spirit, there’s a real man for you. Today, the whole world’s laughing at him, but I can see those laughing heads rolling—oh yes, my boy, I can see t
hem roll already!” he said, and I believed him.

  I must have looked very strange, because he suddenly fell silent.

  “Why do you look so scared?” he asked, laughing. “You haven’t been seduced by the priests as well, have you? I’m a good Christian, my boy, but Christianity was only great when the Church thought the way Hitler does. Or do you think heads didn’t roll under the Inquisition?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied obediently.

  “Well then let’s not kid ourselves,” he said. “Whoever’s not with me is against me, and whoever’s against me, I’ll bash his brains in. The weak keep gabbling on about equality—but the world belongs to the strong. There have always been masters to give orders and there will always be servants to obey them. The trouble is that these days the masters aren’t masters and the servants aren’t servants. Even the cattle are unionized, and every ass thinks he’s smarter than his master. But we’ll put an end to that, my boy. We’re going to bring back the old order, and anyone who doesn’t like it won’t keep his head on his shoulders for long. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, with great conviction, because I felt he really couldn’t be making himself any clearer.

  He made me understand something that the world couldn’t understand even years later, and he convinced me so thoroughly that by the time I left him, I no longer had any doubts. I knew what I had to do.

  •

  That very afternoon, I got hold of their address, and as soon as I got out of the hotel, I went to visit them. They lived in Angyalföld, not far from the edge of the world, where according to urban legend, not even “coppers” dared take their watches with them. The house was down a sloping alley, and I went all the way round it before I went in, because I was afraid that it was being watched. It was a dark, stiflingly hot night, the slanting, heavy drops of a rain shower battering the walls. There was no one in the alley, and the gate itself was deserted, too. I read the list of residents three times over, but couldn’t find the name. I stood there before the battered list, speckled with fly droppings, confused. Had I got the wrong address? Had they moved?

  I heard footsteps. A boy in a worker’s hat, soaked to the skin, ran in from the street. He must have been an apprentice, about fifteen or sixteen. I asked whether he knew them.