by Anna Porter
There was one more question Helena had wanted to ask Géza and now asked Klara instead. “Did you go along on Géza’s trips to Hungary?”
“Oh no,” Klara said. “He usually went for All Saints, to put candles on his parents’ graves. It’s something he always wanted to do alone.”
“And when he went to Bratislava?”
A big, open smile. Would she have known about Gertrude?
“He was visiting relatives, and I don’t speak Hungarian. We have two wonderful children, Ms. Marsh. They have always wanted to go to Hungary, but Géza didn’t want to take them.”
“Did you ever meet Gertrude?”
“Oh no,” Klara said again, pursing her lips to emphasize the “o.”
“And Jenci?”
Klara poured herself another glass of wine and suggested they go into the house. It looked like rain.
CHAPTER 34
Attila had always been fond of Tibor’s mother. During the days when he lacked the funds for a good meal, Mrs. Szelley used to serve him thick slices of fresh chewy bread with butter and salami, one or two short sticks of Csabai sausage, and a piece of strudel or cake. Learning that he had just returned from Slovakia, she dished up her famous Dobos torte with the élan of a master pastry chef, a smile in place for his groans of appreciation.
Attila didn’t disappoint her, although he had promised the girls that he would start reducing his belly. He was confident that an hour or two in the baths would do the trick; he didn’t have to be churlish about dessert. Nor did he have to decline Mrs. Szelley’s offer of a generous splash of J&B. Tibor lingered by his elbow, drinking but not eating. “I saw myself in shorts yesterday,” he explained, much to Attila’s annoyance.
The Király Bath was an easy walk from the Szelleys’ apartment, but Tibor drove anyway. The car smelled of scented cigarettes and aftershave. “What is the point of having a flashy car,” he said, “if you don’t get to show it off?” At the bath, a valet parked the car for them in a guaranteed secure place.
Once they were settled in the Turkish thermal pool, Attila told him about the woman who had saved his life in Bratislava, about his conviction that Németh could not have wanted his old friend dead, and about Jenci not being Krestin’s son.
“That would explain why they separated. Though for a while he seemed to be fond of the boy.” Tibor said. “But he was frugal with support payments to his ex. She used to send the boy down to Budapest every few months to beg for cash. And Krestin would keep him waiting for hours, paying him no heed, so I’ve been told.”
“What did Vera make of that?” Attila asked.
“No idea. She is a hard woman to read. But one of my friends who was a frequent guest at the Krestins said she actually liked the boy.”
“That’s another thing,” Attila said. “Everyone talks about him as a boy. The guy is thirty-six, not much younger than Vera. Did you ever see them together?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Tibor ducked underwater for a moment, then raised his head and shoulders out of the water. “It’s too damned hot in here today. We’ll have a beer when you finish grilling me about the Krestins. This time it’s your treat.”
“Why wouldn’t they get it on?” Attila persisted. “He is not a bad looking guy in a weedy, undernourished sort of way, and she is pretty in an icy sort of way. It’s not like Krestin was likely much of a sex fiend, not at his age.”
“Because he wasn’t her type.”
“How would you know?”
“I know.”
“So who is her type?”
“Someone more like me, buddy,” Tibor was squinting up at the spots of daylight shining through the dome. “In fact, much more like me.”
Attila started to laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I am not kidding,” Tibor said. “I never kid about women.” But he was laughing and flapping about in the water like a carp in mating season. “But I didn’t kill him, in case you’re wondering. Ask my mother. She and I were drinking J&B on the balcony with a couple of her bridge-playing friends until suppertime, when I left to dine at the Gellért.”
“Whew!” Attila said. When he recovered, he asked whether Tibor was still fucking the widow.
“None of your business,” Tibor said. “Besides, since you seem interested, I was not the only one. And no, she sure as hell didn’t kill that asshole. She enjoyed his money while it lasted and all the perks that went with it.”
***
After downing a beer in the outdoor bar, where Tibor could finally smoke, and a short stroll with Gustav, Attila checked in with Tóth to see if there were any new developments. Tóth seemed almost sad. He complained about pressure from upstairs to make an arrest, no new evidence, the uncooperative widow, and a persistent pain in his gut.
Vera Krestin’s alibis had all checked out, the diary was still missing. Krestin had phoned Németh in Bratislava in the morning, but there was no evidence that Németh had visited Krestin the day of the murder. He had also talked either with Gertrude or his son four times during the day. They had phoned him, not the other way around. He had also called Kis. The Russian and the Ukrainian were both gone the afternoon Krestin died, and Tihanyi was in Rome. Krestin had owed a lot of money to Tihanyi and to the bank. “I would be grateful if you could identify the person who almost killed Németh,” he suggested, rather than ordered — a whole new phase of their relationship.
Then Attila called Helena at the Gresham and left her a message, saying, “It would be good to know whether you like the coffee in Bratislava.” He left his cell number.
A mistress of many disguises, Alexander had said. And a deft hand with a knife. She may have saved his life in Bratislava and, even if she did kill the Bulgarian, it was probably in self-defence. No one cared about that man anyway, except maybe his mother.
CHAPTER 35
When she arrived back in Budapest as Eva Bergman, Helena didn’t bother to try a quick change in the back of the limousine. She was too tired and too anxious to conclude the deal, get the painting delivered to Géza so she could collect her fee, then return to Paris to make an offer for the not-Corot, and take a long rest. She was beginning to think that perhaps her future should have fewer surprises, and that there could be some place that didn’t require her to resort to self-defence. There had to be another way to live. There had to be a way to stop paying for Simon’s sins. Maybe, just maybe, there could even be someone who could share her life.
At 7 a.m., the Gresham was quiet, with just a couple of guests in the breakfast room, the concièrge reading the morning papers, the smiling young man at the front desk who wished her a good morning. Yes, it could be another fine day in Budapest.
There were messages from Grigoriev (he was back to his apartment in London and waiting to hear from her), Kis (he wanted an urgent word with her since he hadn’t been able to reach Mr. Márton directly), and one from Attila about coffee.
She called Attila right after she had a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. He was still asleep when he answered the phone, his voice gravelly and soft, his breathing heavy. She wondered whether he was a snorer.
“I love Bratislava,” she told him. “It’s full of old-world charm, and it’s sparkling with new-world enthusiasm.”
“Mmmm.”
“As for the coffee, it’s no contest. Budapest coffee is better.”
“You were there when Krestin’s friend, Bika, attacked me.”
“I assumed you would thank me, or whoever it was who saved your life.”
“He is too old and uncoordinated to have done me much harm, but I owe you, although you weren’t really there. Captain Tóth checked on your whereabouts yesterday, and he was pleased to learn that you hadn’t left the city.”
“I won’t be here long,” Helena said. “I will buy the painting tonight. Whoever is looking at it will have confirmed it is a fake. There w
ill be no reason to deem it a national treasure, and it can leave the country.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely. No underqualified Central European art appraiser is likely to second-guess Dottore Giorgio Matamoros of the Gallerie del’Accademia on the authenticity of a Titian.”
“Not even you?”
She laughed. “You’ve been spending time on the internet,” she said.
He was out of bed now, pulling on his pants and looking for Gustav’s leash, the phone firmly held between his shoulder and chin, until it slipped and fell and he yelled “Bassza meg.” He thought she wouldn’t understand, but he was wrong. “Do you have time to meet?” he asked somewhat breathlessly when he regained the phone.
“Today?” she asked.
“Today would be good,” Attila said. “Or dinner tonight would be good. I thought you wouldn’t have —”
“Quite right,” she said. “I don’t have anything more interesting to do, and, besides, you owe me.”
He pulled on his T-shirt and jacket as they settled on lunch. Then it was once around the block with Gustav, a quick call to the ex confirming next weekend with the girls, and a sprint to catch the bus. He wanted to visit Vera Krestin before he was to present himself at the Police Palace at 11 a.m. The prospect of lunch with Helena Marsh was making him feel young again.
There were no policemen around the Krestin house. The camera on the other side of the street was still angled away. The camera above the garage door was still angled uselessly down; it wouldn’t record a robber unless he was crawling on hands and knees. The stone fountain in the centre of the lawn had been turned off, and there were signs of digging in the flowerbeds under the bevelled windows. The Mercedes Benz was parked in the driveway.
The lone policewoman in Tóth’s department answered the bell almost immediately. She must have been waiting somewhere near the front door. A cheerful, fresh-faced, young recruit, she had no trouble recognizing Attila, although she did have to check with the sergeant whether Attila would be allowed inside. The sergeant had no objection to his visit. Tóth, having made no progress in the investigation, must have wanted to share the blame.
“Mrs. Krestin,” the policewoman said, “is in the living room with Mr. Krestin.”
“With whom?”
“With Mr. Krestin,” she said matter-of-factly, but a tad louder, in case Attila was deaf.
“But Mr. Krestin is dead,” Attila said.
The policewoman smiled indulgently. “It’s Mr. Jenö Krestin,” she said. “I will show you in, if you like.”
“Charming,” Attila mumbled. “You stay here long enough, you’ll qualify as a maid,” he added, enjoying his own rudeness, “or a butler.”
She ignored the jibe and escorted him along the discreetly lit hallway hung with old photographs, a few gold-framed paintings, and a drawing of a hairy naked man and a fleshy woman cavorting on a bed of pillows. In the bottom-right corner there was Picasso’s flamboyant signature. Attila wondered whether Helena had seen this one and, if so, what she thought of it. Would she find it amusing? Would she talk about it being high art? Was she a prude? Would he ever find out?
The living room was three times the size of Attila’s entire apartment. Its tall windows threw a soft light over the huge painting that dominated the space. It was overwhelming: the gilded frame, the darkness around the grainy white figures, the grey donkey in the middle, and the glowing purple figure in the centre, a shaft of blue-white light making his head glow. There were drops of red around his neck and red in the faces looking up at him, making them seem sinister, except for the face of the one woman in front of the donkey, her arms full of green fronds. She wore a green robe. Her face was pale pink and white, her eyes stared directly at Attila.
The painting overpowered the colourful Persian carpets and even the furniture arranged around a marble coffee table in the centre of the room. Two people were reclining in velvet armchairs, glass goblets in hand, their faces turned to the painting. One of them was Vera Krestin in a white skirt that rode midway up her tanned thighs — a welcome change from her earlier dowdy attire. The other was Jenci Krestin in a grey three-piece suit.
He looked ten years older than the last time Attila had seen him, and it wasn’t just the suit. His shoulders seemed wider, his face less pallid, his eyes were brighter.
“So,” Attila said, “this is the famous painting.”
Neither Jenci nor Vera confirmed the obvious, nor did they stand to welcome the visitor.
“The police,” Vera said coolly, “have not discovered anything new, I presume, or your boss would have called me.”
Attila didn’t bother explaining the intricacies of his relationship with Tóth, but her tone was annoying enough that he decided to bypass the pleasantries. “On the contrary,” he said, “we have discovered a number of interesting facts, which is why I am here.”
Jenci raised his eyebrows, making his eyes seem rounder than they were already.
“We have interviewed Mr. Németh, who was in Gulag 442 with your husband and has been in your home a number of times, including once this past week. Oddly enough, he was here the day before your husband was killed.”
“He was?” Vera asked. “Then, I assume you have arrested him?”
“No, we have not because he is not the killer. But I thought it interesting that neither you nor the previous Mrs. Krestin saw fit to admit to us that your husband had been in the Gulag, that he was there at the same time as this guy Németh and also Géza Márton, the man wishing to buy this painting. Curious, don’t you think?”
“Why?” Jenci asked.
“Why is it curious? Because Mr. Krestin bought this painting from someone who had no wish to sell it but had no choice. In the Gulag, rules of right and wrong didn’t apply. Now we have laws of restitution.”
Vera Krestin stood, smoothed down her skirt and walked over to a delicate-looking side table, pulled a thin file out of one of its shallow drawers and took it over to Attila.
“I think you will find that this painting was bought after Mr. Márton had already left the country and that the vendor was not him but his father,” she said. “The provenance is in order. The papers were certified by the head of European Archives of the National Gallery. And the bill of sale to my husband is confirmed by the Hungarian government.”
Attila looked at the top sheet. It was, as she said, confirmation that on September 21, 1961, the government of the Republic of Hungary “condoned” the transfer of one million forints to the account of one Géza Márton, a resident of Toronto, Ontario, Canada. The funds were deposited by Comrade János Krestin, in consideration for the painting allegedly by Italian artist Tiziano Vecellio, purchased by said János Krestin from Károly Márton.
Attila remembered that September 20, 1961, was the date Károly Márton had been released from the notorious Recsk prison. It was in the mid-1960s that Géza Márton bought his first major tract of land in Canada. One million forints, while not a big sum for a real Titian, must have been enough to purchase some fallow farmland north of the city of Toronto. It was the beginning of Géza Márton’s becoming a wealthy man.
Both Vera and Jenci were looking at him as he read the documents, she with a little smile, he with utter concentration.
“Interesting,” was the best Attila could come up with at the end of his scrutiny. “We will have to ascertain that the papers are in order.”
“My husband had them verified in 2000,” Vera said, “long after the so-called democratic reforms. But go ahead, you can do it as well. But please leave now. I am rather busy at the moment. I have a funeral to organize, lawyers to meet, debts to settle, and we must deal with the will and conclude the sale of this painting.” She was on the verge of pulling a cord near the window when the policewoman reappeared. She must have been standing at the glass double doors, listening.
�
�The will,” Attila said. “You are the beneficiary?”
Vera sighed theatrically. “I already informed you that I am not the sole beneficiary.”
“He would have left something for his son?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“You are still selling the painting,” Attila said.
“As I said to you and to your boss, that is my intention.”
“To settle the debts?”
“I don’t see how that could possibly be any of your concern,” she said.
He tried to imagine her being charming and sexy but failed.
“Mr. Krestin,” he said, “I assume your mother mentioned that we checked your father’s telephone records and there were five calls from your number in Dunajská Streda to this house on the morning that Mr. Krestin died. What did you talk to him about?”
“I was arranging another visit to Budapest,” Jenci said.
“Yes, I gather you have been coming quite often. Was it to collect your allowance from Mr. Krestin?”
“I had no allowance,” Jenci said, his voice cracking. “I came to collect what we were owed. He had financial obligations to my mother. It was in the divorce settlement that he was to pay her each month. Most of the time he forgot.”
“He was paying child support?”
Jenci stood up, tensing his shoulders as if he were readying for a fight. He turned to Vera, but she had nothing to say. “I am not a child,” he spluttered finally.
“Nor, as I understand it, Mr. Krestin, were you ever his child. Isn’t that right?”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the doorway where the policewoman had been waiting for Attila to leave, but Vera remained impassive. “What possible difference could that make now?” she asked with obvious contempt.
Attila tried to imagine her naked and having fun with Tibor. He thought that would help control his desire to deck her.
“Question is, did János Krestin know you were not his son when he prepared his will? Or did he find out on the day he was murdered? Was he planning to make a new will that excluded you?”