Cafe Europa

by Ed Ifkovic

  “But Wolf is an American.”

  “He says he is.”

  “You doubt that?”

  “He’s Hungarian.” Said emphatically, his eyes locked on mine.

  “There is so much I don’t understand,” Winifred said.

  I nodded my agreement. “But how do you know?”

  But Winifred suddenly asked, “What about this István Nagy?”

  “An anachronism, that one,” Endre maintained. “If there is a spy in the house, it is…well, I can’t say for certain. But he has made himself the watchdog for the empire. That fussy Hungarian had a moment in Vienna years back when his poetry was popular with the academy. Now he is living on some family money. Some say he reports everything to the authorities. But what does he see? He despises the new currents of Hungarian—European—poetry and art and music. Bertalan Pór and Lajos Tihanyi are enemies knocking on his door. Bertalan Pór has a wonderful sketch of him in the café: moody, bitter, sly, pretentious. A few strokes of charcoal and the man is on the page. They confuse me, those two, but they also amaze.”

  “I like them,” Winifred said.

  “István Nagy also believes Americans are to blame for everything.” Endre was smiling mischievously.

  “But he struck me as harmless,” I said.

  Endre got serious. “No one is harmless these days. The misspoken word, the gesture, the brief conversation on the street…”

  I shivered. “Spies.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Zsuzsa?” I wondered.

  “One of the true innocents, I insist. I was wrong when I said no one is harmless. Poor Zsuzsa is, but sadly. A woman still with fire in her eyes and belly, but smoldering. The throbbing Gypsy blood in her veins, if the old stories are to be believed. A woman I fear is slipping away because there is no other road for her. She blames herself for Cassandra’s death.” He blushed. “I feel guilty for the way I attacked her in the café. Blamed her. I was wrong to do that to such a sad and lonely woman. She struggles to live. I was a little drunk and I…you know…”

  “You were grieving, Mr. Molnár.”

  “But I was wrong. I was…”

  I interrupted. “And now she probably blames herself for Harold’s death. The two were…” I hesitated. “I mean, Zsuzsa and Harold…”

  Decorously, Endre nodded. “Everyone knows of their affaire de coeur. On her part. Maybe his. Over a glass of barack Harold did confess to me a growing fondness for her, which”—a wonderful grin—“surprised even him.” He stopped. “I have no right to talk to you of this. Improper of me. My apologies.”

  “But it’s what we want to hear.”

  “Perhaps you Americans are like the French. You hunger for scandal.”

  “But madness in her?” I was bothered. “We had a talk with her that told me she has moments when she sees herself…well, honestly.”

  “But she spends too much time in her own head, that lovely woman. And the echoes there confuse her.”

  A long silence followed, all of us lost in our own thoughts. Finally, my voice creaky, I asked him, “What will happen to you if there is a war?”

  “Ah, the echoes of dear Harold still carry on.” But he deliberated, glancing sideways toward the entrance where the two men stood, statues, unmoving save for the chain smoking. “If war comes, I will fight for my country.”

  “Hungary?”

  “It’s part of the empire. I have no choice.” He whispered, “But I confide to you only—I despise the empire. My beloved Hungary is treated like an unwanted child forced to sit in the corner. In the Imperial Army all orders are given in German only. Magyar—it is forbidden. And in so many places. Hungarians only speak German when they have to.” He smiled. “To communicate with Americans, for example. Magyar is the ancient beautiful language of the plains and the horsemen and the poets. It is treated like the speech of a gutter rat.”

  “Maybe there will be no war.” I glanced again toward the entrance.

  “No, I’m afraid Harold was right. War—and soon. You can hear the drumbeat under your feet. The bodies will fill up the fields of Kerepesi, our cemetery. The old emperor doesn’t want war, but the military—Count Conrad who believes war is a man’s duty, and even our fabled Count von Erhlich—they ready the military with glee and sweat, and the Serbians continue to spit in the face of disaster.”

  “Horrible, all of it.”

  He sat back. “But there is a chance I’ll miss the war. There is a chance I’ll disappear into Austria’s death prisons, staring at the damp walls and begging for bread, and then I will die.”

  I closed my eyes. This lovely man, so passionate and vibrant— despite that mountainous moustache that admittedly was starting to grow on me—a good man who would be lost. Like Cassandra and Harold. Lost in the unrelenting sweep of troubled days.

  Endre’s eyes got dreamy and faraway. “Remember me.”

  ***

  Bertalan Pór and Lajos Tihanyi arrived the moment we were leaving the restaurant, as we casually strolled past the two watchers who now stared, suddenly enthralled, at their scruffy boots. They’d been arguing, the two artists, I could tell, because Tihanyi was gesturing furiously, sputtering mouth noises, jabbing his hand into Pór’s shoulder. Bertalan Pór, looking at us apologetically, kept shrugging him off, and finally strode ahead, leaving the other man pouting, hands on hips, sucking in his breath noisily.

  Pór bowed to us. “My friend refused to leave his unfinished canvas, and when I remind him of this…this invitation”—he bowed to Endre—“he stabs at the painting, ruins it, tears it, and splatters paint on his shirt.”

  Lajos Tihanyi was now standing at his side. “Kérek,” I said in my best fractured Hungarian, and Tihanyi’s eyes got wide with surprise. Please. Or at least I hoped that was the right word, though I saw Endre smile.

  “He’s like a child, this one,” Pór went on. “But he is my good friend.” A half-hearted smile toward Tihanyi. “And a talented artist, one I taught to draw so many years ago. So I suppose there must be…” He stopped and then spoke his final word in Hungarian.

  “Allowances,” Endre translated.

  “The soul of the artist,” I said.

  “Is like a brat in the schoolyard,” Bertalan Pór finished.

  “And you?” I asked.

  A mischievous smile. “I bang the wall only in the darkness of my small rooms.”

  “Doubtless a pleasure for the neighbors,” Winifred told him.

  He laughed out loud and pointed a finger at her. “The price the world pays to have an artist in it.”

  Endre said his goodbyes and headed off to meet a friend at St. Lukács fürdö, a thermal mineral spa in Buda. Immediately, stumbling over his English, Bertalan Pór began talking about the illustrated book he and Tihanyi were assembling: the impressionistic or satiric sketches of café society in Budapest. Winifred asked a ton of questions, and Bertalan Pór sidled next to her, the two of them chatting away like old friends. Tihanyi, calm now, brushed against his friend’s shoulder, attempting to comprehend, now and then uttering a sentence in what I assumed was his skewered Hungarian. I felt the outsider, though once again I found myself wondering about those sketches. So many of them, especially the ones drawn at the Café Europa. At the back of my head ticked an idea—look at them, examine, explore. Something might be there. A key to murder.

  Lost in thought, I lagged behind the three, and watched the curious dynamic before me. Winifred was in her element. It gave my heart a start, that beautiful tableau. The woman found in Budapest a haven. Bertalan Pór as kindred spirit, a fellow lover of the art she championed. Watching them now, I experienced a tinge of jealousy, so intense their intimacy, that shared communion, that sympathetic bond. I lacked that. So, watching Winifred and Bertalan Pór chat, speaking over each other’s words, I chided myself for being so petty. Here was an impossible sa
lvation for the beleaguered Winifred Moss. These men—and I included Harold in that group—had helped soften her edges, and not in any patronizing way, some ugly stroke of masculine authority. Rather, the opposite—sharing perhaps, and thus salvation for the woman who fled her country because she’d decided she had too much hate in her. She was discovering the spark of life again. These were wise men, Tihanyi and Pór—and, I insisted, the lamented Harold Gibbon, imp of the perverse at the dinner table.

  It gave me pause, such thoughts. Away from my mother, I felt—adrift. But then, an unexpected tick inside of me, I felt a wave of freedom wash over me.

  I was an outsider here, but no matter. So I shooed them on, and the last thing I heard was Winifred’s uncharacteristic laughter as they turned a corner.

  Alone, joyously unfettered, I wandered the streets, stopped for a lemonade at a small booth on a street corner, and then sauntered leisurely through a small park near the hotel where I spotted Jonathan Wolf sitting on a bench under some beech trees, his head buried in a book. I stopped walking, but I knew his being there had to be pure happenstance. For once he was not the mysterious man on the edge of all our lives, but a man in the park reading a book. As I approached him, he looked up and closed his book. I glanced at the cover. A title in Hungarian.

  I stood over him, imperious. “You’re Hungarian.”

  He shook his head back and forth. “I’m an American.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He pointed to the bench, and I sat down.

  Quietly, he repeated, “I am an American.”

  “Who are you?”

  His fingers drummed the book and he laughed out loud. “I tried to make myself invisible, but I did just the opposite. Everyone wonders about me.”

  “With good reason, sir. You spend much of your time spying on us.” I faltered. “Or perhaps I’m wrong. But at crucial moments you’ve been spotted close by.”

  I sat on the edge of the bench, away from him, but turned to face him. He was debating what to tell me—that I could clearly see. His brow furrowed, his lips drawn into a tight line, he watched me closely. Finally he sighed and looked over my shoulders, choosing his words carefully. “I am not Jonathan Wolf.” But then he backtracked. “Actually I am, but…”

  “Sir,” I broke in, “what lunatic talk is this? Just who are you?”

  “I need to trust you.”

  That startled. “What?”

  “I can trust you, Miss Ferber. I know that now. Too much has happened. I do have a confession to make. Yes, my name is Jonathan Wolf but not in America. You see, my real name is Ivan Farkas, which, translated from Hungarian into English, is, in fact, John Wolf. Stupidly, visiting here, I thought I was being clever. No one would catch on to my little joke.”

  I was confused. “But why, in God’s name? So you come to Hungary and assume an Anglo-Saxon name—to disguise your Hungarian name?”

  “The fact is, I was born in America to Hungarian parents. My father is a diplomat—was a diplomat in Budapest before emigrating decades ago. The rumors are true, at least some of them—I’ve heard them all. Yes, I did go to Harvard, and I do have a family business. And I am here on business. But my business here is really in the employ of certain Hungarian colleagues who have an interest…”

  I held up my hand. “I’m not following any of this, sir.”

  “Everyone thinks I’m a spy.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I am.” He chuckled to himself. “I am. You’re a savvy lady, Miss Ferber. I’ve watched you and your friend, Miss Moss. You don’t miss much.”

  “Well, obviously that’s not true. I’ve missed a few pertinent facts about your biography—and occupation.”

  “I am a businessman here, but…” He put the book down on the bench and scratched his head absentmindedly. “I’ve visited Hungary before, of course, so I was asked by some connections to see if I could pinpoint some shady business dealings here. So I’m a different sort of spy. Not the kind you’re imagining. I can tell you about it now because it’s over—my spying. You see, there are Hungarians—friends of mine—connected to Marcus Blaine’s investment interests in Budapest, and there were irregularities, questions. Folks thought he was not—well, honest. There was money missing. A lot of money. Money sent back to America by way of someone else in Budapest.”

  “So you were sent to the Hotel Árpád…”

  “To spy.” He laughed. “Casually, unofficially, hopefully unnoticed. Lord, I failed at that task. I’m not good at being a spy—clearly. You caught me watching Cassandra Blaine. At first I thought she was involved. Your Harold Gibbon suspected me from the first, but he thought I was involved with politics. That’s what everyone thinks in this part of the world. But not quite.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Yes, I did, but it doesn’t matter now. Marcus Blaine has left Budapest and is back in America. Tracks have been covered. But he was definitely up to some shady dealings. My Hungarian friends have lost their investment. But there is nothing that can be done about it now. Mr. Blaine is a very clever man. So I have no purpose here now.” His eyes darkened. “But I sensed Mr. Blaine was making deals with Vienna—with the royal court, in fact.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yes, he was betraying his Hungarian partners—but I got an inkling that he was trying to buy influence with the Austrian court. Secret meetings. But”—he sighed—“that’s over now.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  A long pause. “Harold Gibbon’s murder. You know, I first suspected he was working secretly with Marcus Blaine, a courier of sorts, but that became an impossibility. He was just too honest about things—and too much a maverick. Lord, I don’t think even Hearst could contain him. I learned that fact early on. Blaine may have been embezzling cash on his own, some curious sleight of hand, but odds are he had an accomplice here. Some underling. No matter now. But I came to admire Harold Gibbon. So, frankly, his murder compels me to talk honestly with you. That has become my only interest now.”

  “You thought Harold Gibbon worked with Blaine? Amazing.”

  “At first, yes. In watching Gibbon, hoping I’d see him working something with Blaine, I also sensed that others were watching Gibbon. It didn’t dawn on me at first, but suddenly I felt—the man is living dangerously. And I wanted to help somehow. But then it was too late. He was dead.”

  “Tell me what this all means.” Anxious, dreading his words.

  “No, no, don’t look so alarmed.” He interlaced his fingers, wrapped them around one of his knees. “What little I saw—spied on—made me realize that Harold Gibbon was right. War is on the horizon. But Marcus Blaine also knew that—hence his secreting of monies. He had stopped making payments and was pulling money out of Hungary. I suddenly realized how dangerous it was to invest here. Harold’s political views resonated with me. In America friends of my father have interests in Serbia, in Bosnia. Of course, also in Hungary. There’s a distrust of Austria and the minions of Franz Josef. So it served our interest if folks believed I was a spy for the Habsburgs. There is an undercurrent of anarchism afoot in Hungary. My job was simply to listen—to see who Blaine spoke to. Dealt with. His contacts. Perhaps befriend him, though I learned that was impossible. But someone was obviously warning him about the impending war. He was betraying his Hungarian partners.”

  I shook my head and smiled. “So you were never a spy for political reasons.”

  “No, of course not, though it all comes back to politics. I’ve tried to be rude to folks—to keep them at a distance. Especially with Harold Gibbon—I didn’t want him too close.” A sheepish grin. “You saw that first hand. I was rude to you and Miss Moss.”

  “Yes, I remember. You were hardly a gentleman. Unforgivable, frankly.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He la
ughed. “I’m bad at spying. I’m obviously bad at apologizing.”

  “Keep at it. You may get better. Most men take a while.”

  “I thought if people believed I was a political spy for the Austrians, no one would pay attention to my real activities. István Nagy spotted me and assumed, like him, I was spying for the empire—another factotum of Franz Josef. At first he distrusted me—he actually shoved me one night. But lately he whispers secrets to me, mostly ridiculous. He tells me Bertalan Pór and Lajos Tihanyi are traitors.”

  “I still don’t know why you are telling me all this.”

  “Because of the murder of Harold Gibbon.”

  I sucked in my breath. “How so?”

  “I was watching him. I could see him slipping into trouble. A gadfly, it was obvious he discovered something important.”

  “But what?”

  He shook his head sadly. “He kept that news secret. The reporter in him. Waiting for the big scoop. We did have a few conversations, and I could tell he was following a lead.”

  “What about the murder of Cassandra Blaine? Are the two murders tied together?”

  He didn’t answer. “Inspector Horváth believes they are.”

  “Why?”

  “I have nothing to say about that.”

  “Now you’re being mysterious.”

  He laughed. “Well, that seems to be the image I have created here in Budapest. In my feeble attempt to be anonymous.”

  “Tell me.”

  “There is nothing to tell. Yet.”

  “What do you want from me, sir?”

  “Since I’ve been here, two Americans have been murdered. The crimes must be solved. My own sense of justice demands it. I’ve been watching you, eavesdropping on your conversations.” He smiled. “I’ve actually been closer to you than you often realized. Anyone connected with the Hotel Árpád and the Café Europa—and thus Marcus Blaine—had to be watched. Of course, I didn’t suspect you or Miss Moss—you both arrived too late on the scene…”

  “And illegal acts make me break out in hives.”

  “Good to know. But I did learn something about you. You have a curiosity about what’s going on—and a fierce loyalty to Harold Gibbon. I think you can help solve the murder. I know that you are planning to do so.”