Budapest Noir

by Vilmos Kondor

There was hardly any traffic on Pasaréti Street. In this neighborhood of villas, a nanny walking a child or pushing a baby carriage occasionally turned up on the sidewalk, but for the most part the apartment buildings stood sullen, unapproachable, and vain behind thick hedges and tall fences. The fallen leaves had been raked up in preparation for winter. Gordon glimpsed gardeners busily at work as he passed by a couple of villas. Smoke poured from the chimneys, but there were few other signs of life.

  Forty-eight Pasaréti Street was likewise guarded by a tall fence, but not quite tall enough to block the view of the opulent building behind it. It couldn’t have been built more than ten years ago. Stairs climbed up on both sides to the terrace. The boxed shutters over the second-floor windows were closed, the balcony was empty, and nothing stirred beside its lace curtains. Rows of birch trees populated the yard along with a few other trees, and a magnificent larch at least fifty feet tall was sagging from its many clusters of cones.

  Gordon approached the gate and rang the bell. A maid soon appeared, wrapped in a shawl.

  “Who are you looking for?” she asked with suspicion.

  “I’m from the Evening newspaper, and I’m looking for the master of the house,” replied Gordon in a tone of voice meant to persuade this girl that her only duty was to let him in.

  “He is not home. His lordship is in his office.” Chilled by the brisk autumn air, she pulled the shawl tighter around herself. Gordon nodded. This was exactly what he’d expected.

  “And her ladyship?”

  “She is home.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Gordon cast her a piercing look. “Let her know I’m here.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the girl, opening the door. Gordon followed her into the building. A pleasant warmth enveloped him in the vestibule. He looked around. This home had obviously been arranged with exceptional taste, yet it wasn’t homey in the least. Everything sparkled, everything was lovely, everything was elegant. Gordon handed his jacket and hat to the girl and followed her into the living room. Expensive, massive pieces of furniture greeted him. Persian rugs. Biedermeier armchairs, chairs, and a divan—original, figured Gordon. A crystal chandelier, a Zsolnay vase, and a brocade curtain. As if he were in a museum or in an elegant furniture store, nowhere a personal object, a wrinkle on a tablecloth, nowhere a book left behind. Gordon sat down in the armchair beside the coffee table, which was lovely but uncomfortable. He saw no ashtray on the table. He was adjusting the bandage on his hand when the door opened and in walked Mrs. Szőllősy—a tall, slender woman whose dress swept the floor. Her waist was thin, her back was stiff, and her brown hair, interwoven with gray curls, was tied up in a knot. “Good day,” came the woman’s measured greeting.

  “Good day,” replied Gordon, standing up.

  “The girl said you came from a newspaper.”

  “Yes,” said Gordon. “From the Evening. We’re writing an article about the coffee trade, and I would have liked to speak with your husband.”

  The woman seemed to calm down somewhat. She sat on the sofa and rang for the maid. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked Gordon.

  “Thank you.”

  “Coffee, Anna.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Why didn’t you look for my husband in his office?” she asked, looking Gordon squarely in the eye.

  “Well, I had some business in the neighborhood, and so I thought I’d try to find him at home. He heads a large corporation—perhaps he doesn’t have to go in every day.”

  “My husband heads a large corporation precisely because he is in the office every morning at eight. And he works.” With a subtle movement, the woman now adjusted her hair. Gordon saw that the skin on her hand bore the signs of aging. Notwithstanding this, she was in fine form. It was obvious that in her younger days, men had waited in droves to curry her favor. Of course, it must not have been easy for her, what with such a reedy frame, but her regal comportment and her confident expression must surely have shooed away the dowry hunters, the dandies, and the other men buzzing about her without serious intentions.

  “I understand. I’d still like to ask a few questions. Just briefly.”

  “I am listening.”

  “If I’m correct, Arabia Coffee is one of the largest coffee importers alongside Meinl.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And it has stores not only in Budapest but also in Germany.”

  “Yes.”

  “In Berlin, Munich, Stuttgart, and Bremen.”

  “Nuremberg,” the woman corrected Gordon.

  “Yes, Nuremberg. Then your husband must have exceptional contacts.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked the woman, jerking up her head.

  “Well, Nuremberg is the hotbed of National Socialists. Hitler’s rallies, the September marches, the Nuremberg laws.”

  “What are you actually asking me?” She slid out to the edge of the sofa.

  “I am suggesting merely that it can’t be easy for a Hungarian merchant to run a business in the Nazis’ citadel.”

  “We import coffee, not fascism.”

  “I didn’t suggest that for even a minute,” replied Gordon.

  “My husband worked hard to secure the German market. He made many sacrifices. He’s hardly ever home; he spends so much time out there, mainly in Berlin.”

  After knocking softly, Anna entered the room carrying a silver tray bearing an entire Meissen china coffee service. She put it on the table and quickly left the room. The woman reached for the coffee pitcher and filled the cups while Gordon continued. “And here is my next question: What will become of your business, your empire? Will your daughter take the reins?”

  He might as well have slapped the woman on the face. Her hand stopped in midair, the pitcher trembled. She took a deep breath, set the pitcher back on the tray, and in an icy voice that only confirmed the fear and loathing in her eyes, she replied, “If you want to talk about the business, go find my husband. If it’s our family you’re interested in, it’s best that you leave at once. Hack writers have no business looking into our private affairs. The maid will escort you out.” She stood and left the room without looking back.

  Gordon took a sip of the coffee. He didn’t understand what all the fuss was involving Arabia and Meinl. Coffee—black and bitter, plain and simple.

  The maid reappeared in the doorway. Gordon put down his cup and followed her out to the vestibule, where the girl helped him put on his jacket. Gordon sized her up. Her hair was braided on two sides; her eyes were blue and big, very big. With her bony hands, she fiddled with her apron. “What happened to Fanny?” he asked quietly.

  “Good God, sir, please don’t ask such a thing,” replied the girl with a frightened stare.

  “Why not?”

  “Because no one here talks about her. I haven’t been here long, but they haven’t even said her name in front of me.”

  “How long have you been serving here?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “And your predecessor?”

  “She went back to her village.”

  “Which one?”

  “Bükkszentkereszt—up north, hours from the city, in the Bükk mountains.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she have a falling out with your masters?”

  “I don’t know,” said the girl, looking about with alarm, “I beg you, sir, please leave.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Teréz Ökrös,” she replied. “Goodness, she could embroider like a charm. You never saw such pieces, sir.”

  “That I believe,” said Gordon. “So what’s up with your master’s daughter? What happened to her?”

  The girl turned pale. “Don’t talk so loudly, sir!” She got so nervous that the northern provincial accent that until now had o
nly filtered through suddenly erupted with full force. “I said I don’t know a thing about her. My masters haven’t said a word about her. I was in her room only once, and it was as clean as if no one had ever lived there. They even had it painted over.” She defiantly threw back her head. “Now please leave, sir, because I don’t want them to fire me, too.”

  Gordon raised his eyebrows but didn’t ask a thing. He took his hat and stepped out the door. Once outside, he turned around and looked back up at the lovely house. The curtains hung motionless and he saw no movement from within, as if no one was inside.

  Gordon boarded a tram on Italian Row and transferred to another on Kálmán Széll Square. He hurried home. Mór unlocked the apartment door from the inside.

  “Finally, son,” said the old man with a look of relief. “We were starting to get worried.”

  “No problem, Opa. I’m home. Krisztina?”

  “She’s working in the living room.”

  Gordon took off his jacket and went to her. Krisztina had moved everything meticulously to the side on Gordon’s desk and was sitting there, drawing away. The India ink was flowing effortlessly under her hand.

  “So you turned up,” she said, looking up at him.

  “That’s right.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” replied Gordon.

  “On the way?”

  Gordon didn’t answer; he was already standing by the telephone and calling a cab. He was getting so good at using his left hand that he didn’t even need a pencil to dial. “Got it. We’ll be down in ten minutes. Tell him we might even spend the night there, so he should come prepared.” With that, he put down the phone and started rummaging about among the papers on the telephone stand. He pulled out a brochure, dialed again, and reserved a double room for two nights.

  “What’s this all about, Zsigmond?” asked Krisztina, standing up.

  “I’ll tell you in the car.”

  “What?”

  “What I found out.”

  “And this is so dangerous that we have to leave?”

  “It might be,” said Gordon, going over to the closet. “But I’ll need your help, too,” he said, looking her in the eye. “I’ll throw together a few things right away,” he said, and he flung a couple of pieces of clothing onto the bed. “Would you get yourself ready? I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

  Krisztina sighed, then angrily gathered up her drawings and packed away her pencils, pens, and notebooks. Mór meanwhile stood quietly at the kitchen door.

  “Opa,” said Gordon, as he turned to his grandfather. “Would you get my suitcase off the top of the closet? I can’t grab it.”

  The old man walked over to the closet and pulled down the worn old vulcanized fiber suitcase, which had seen better days. “What have you gotten yourself into now, son?”

  “Nothing I can’t climb back out of,” replied Gordon. “Opa, I’ve reached my hand into something that could go who-knows-where. I’m worried for Krisztina and for you, too. I know you don’t want to come with us, because . . .”

  “My jams and preserves,” said Mór.

  “Them. And you don’t want to travel anywhere else, either. But at least keep the door locked, even when you’re home. Have you bought enough fruits and vegetables?”

  “I’ve got apples, pears, and grapes—sure, the grapes are a bit shriveled up by now—but the chestnuts will soon be ripe, too. Why?”

  “I won’t be so worried if for a couple of days, just a couple, you didn’t go roaming away from home. You’ve got enough fruit now for canning. And you’ve also said you never have time to write down your recipes.”

  Sticking his index finger in his vest pocket, Mór looked at Gordon without a word.

  “You’re right,” he finally said. “It wouldn’t hurt if I wrote down the best ones.”

  “You see. There was the one from the other day, the apple jam.”

  “That,” said the old man with a dismissive wave of the hand, “that was nothing special.”

  “It was to me. Write out the recipe. We’ll be back on Wednesday. Maybe sooner.”

  When they got down in front of the building on Lovag Street, the taxi was already waiting for them, and behind the wheel was Czövek, as Gordon had requested. The cabbie grinned with satisfaction. “I kiss your hand, miss. I heard we’re off on an outing. Where to?”

  “To Lövölde Square,” replied Gordon. With a look of profound disappointment, Czövek put the car into gear and headed off. He didn’t say a word; nor did Krisztina, who drew to the far side of the backseat and stared out at the traffic. Gordon quietly cursed himself for not having had Mór rebandage his hand, but he hadn’t had the time. He’d ask for cold water at the hotel.

  After they parked on Lövölde Square, Krisztina turned to Gordon. “Wait for me here. You don’t need to come up, Zsigmond. I’ll hurry.” Czövek opened the door for her, and as she exited, she lit a cigarette. Gordon leaned back and shut his eyes. The trip wasn’t a short one to begin with, and it would feel even longer with Krisztina in such a merry mood. But he didn’t blame her.

  He opened his eyes a few minutes later at the sound of the door slamming shut. Krisztina sat down next to him, and Czövek slipped back in behind the wheel. “And where are we going now?” he asked. “Back to Lovag Street?”

  “To that little resort village up in the Bükk mountains. Lillafüred, to be precise—the Palace Hotel.”

  Czövek gave a quiet whistle, adjusted his driver’s cap, and backed the big, bulky car out onto the street. He then drove down Andrássy Street toward Heroes’ Square. From Arena Road he turned onto Kerepesi, which would take them to Route 3. Gordon looked at the speedometer. Sixty kilometers an hour. Glancing at his watch, he calculated that at best they’d arrive at 6 P.M., if not later.

  The buildings gradually grew sparser along the road, and Gordon shuddered. Leaving Pest, even if that only meant venturing to the city’s outskirts, invariably gave him an unpleasant feeling. He couldn’t say why. It was as if he’d wound up in another world. A foreign world whose rules he could only guess at. If he’d had the choice, he wouldn’t leave Pest. Gordon had not spoken of this even to Krisztina, though he suspected that she knew.

  As the buildings became ever more tattered and the side roads looked muddier, Gordon felt worse. Until, that is, they had left the city altogether. Now he breathed a sigh of relief, even if he did continue to look out on the flat landscape with suspicion—small villages nestled off in the distance, dense woods, cheerful little towns. One such town was Gödöllő, where Gordon had been once before. Indeed he’d even gotten into the Grassalkovich mansion, the residence of the head of state, Miklós Horthy. The Evening had sent him to a reception there whose guests included several American diplomats. What with its otherworldly elegance, the mansion made a good impression on Gordon—certainly a better one than did the other people on hand. The Budapesters rode astride the high horse of their big city airs, and those from outlying regions couldn’t have stripped away their stale provincialism for all the treasures in the world. This only confirmed Gordon’s feeling that he was indeed in a different land.

  “I said you should buy a car,” said Krisztina, who was likewise looking out at the countryside.

  “Furthest thing from my mind,” replied Gordon.

  “But there was that pretty little Graham-Paige. It cost just eight hundred pengős.”

  “Where would I go with a car?”

  “Right now, for instance, you’d go to Lillafüred, with me.”

  “And I was supposed to buy a car for that? To take you to Lillafüred?”

  Krisztina looked at him and shook her head, but didn’t reply.

  “Besides,” Gordon added, “I don’t have the nerves to drive in Budapest.”

  Krisztina turned back to the window. Only when they reac
hed the vicinity of Gyöngyös—the town wedged between the northern edge of the plains and the foothills of the Mátra range, and whose proximity signaled that they had at last arrived in the mountainous north—did she speak again.

  “Will you tell me finally what this is all about? Or do you want to keep playing the part of the cloak-and-dagger detective?”

  “Of course,” said Gordon, “of course.”

  “Then tell me. We have plenty of time yet.”

  “The dead girl was called Fanny Szőllősy,” Gordon began. “She was the daughter of the owner of Arabia Coffee, his only child. Just how she ended up in the hands of Csuli, I don’t yet know; which is to say, I know, but I don’t know how things got that far. She was in love with Shlomo, the son of a rabbi, Rav Shay’ale Reitelbaum. I suspect it was the young man who got her pregnant, and then somehow word got out, whereupon the rabbi put his son on a ship to New York.”

  “And how did Fanny end up on the streets?”

  “That I do not know.”

  “Did her father kick her out?”

  “I don’t know, Krisztina, but I believe the answer lies at our destination,” he replied, filling her in on what he’d learned from the Szőllősy family’s maid. And, of course, from the coffee merchant’s wife.

  “So the reason we’re headed to this charming little resort tucked in the mountains,” observed Krisztina, “is to have a chat with the former maid, Teréz Ökrös, in her nearby village of Bükkszentkereszt.”

  “And because you’ve been wanting to come here for a while,” said Gordon.

  “Zsigmond, there’s no sense mixing up the two. We’re coming because you have business here. And not for my pleasure.”

  “And because I didn’t want you to stay in Budapest,” Gordon added. “I don’t think you’re safe there just now.”

  “You’re worried about me?” asked Krisztina, raising her eyebrows.

  “Yes, you.”

  Krisztina didn’t say anything. For a couple of moments she was lost in thought. “What do you figure this is all about?”

  Gordon shook his head. “I don’t know, Krisztina. I only have a hunch.”