This is when I discovered that the Red Priest, that is Il Prete Rosso, had been the nickname of the legendary Italian violinist and composer Antonio Vivaldi on account of his flaming red hair and the fact that he had briefly studied to become a priest. As a hardcore punk, I owed my flaming red hair not to genetics but to a tube of Koleston hair dye of the shade 77/44, and my wardrobe at the time consisted of scruffy woollen sweaters stretched down to the knees and black T-shirts dedicated to the Funeral, Stairway to Hell and Filthy Communion. In conjunction with this, I sported outlandish fashion accessories, such as a pair of thick safety pins in each ear and a BMX bicycle chain around my neck.
Filthy Communion was the name of the punk band in which I played during my late adolescent years. There were four of us in the group, Izsák Gaál on bass, Bodi Mészáros on drums, Attila Varga, the lead vocalist, and my humble self, Moritz Tóth, on guitar. Be it justified or not, we proudly harboured the conviction that our musical style could be defined as a cross between the Sex Pistols and the Dead Kennedys, with aesthetic elements of horror-punk borrowed from the Misfits and expressed through an ultra-eccentric style of dress and makeup. Like all other anonymous bands, we performed in cheap local joints, at student events and minor socio-political protests. We had a following of anarchistic high-school kids and misunderstood philosophy and art students, although our gigs were never complete without the presence of some impoverished layabout who would stop by for the cheap beer and end up sleeping face down on the podium.
My beginnings in the provocative musical movement and subculture of punk were marked by the moment I sold the violin my grandfather gave me for my fifth birthday and traded it for an incomparably cheaper used electric Ibanez. Having already been so well acquainted with a stringed instrument, I mastered the guitar in a flash. Nonetheless, I had to be extremely skilful to hide my business transaction and newly discovered passion for the guitar from my grandfather, knowing his heart would split in two if he found out I had sold my violin. And keeping this secret was no easy task, considering that I lived with him in a forty-square-metre, one-bedroom flat.
My grandfather was a member of a highly successful travelling Gypsy ensemble called Honey Cakes. Rumour had it that during some festive get-together the ensemble’s double bass player was so impressed by my grandfather’s virtuoso skills and daring improvisations that he got down on his knees and begged him to join them on their upcoming tour, which was how my grandfather became the first non-Roma member in the history of the ensemble. He would often take me along on tour to Romania, Austria, even Russia. Looking back, I can safely say that I had spent the most memorable moments of my childhood on the pavements of central-European capitals as well as on shabby wool blankets in front of crackling fires, immersed in the aroma of warm bread and the pleasing sound of cimbaloms.
The repercussions of my failed attempt to hide the guitar from my grandfather surfaced on one cold January evening – I recall that the streets still quivered from the dim glimmer of dying Christmas lights. I had returned home from my afternoon classes to find my grandfather seated at the dining-room table with an unusual, almost remote sadness in his eyes. In contrast, his violin shone with contentment behind the glass double door of the china cabinet. I had an instant visual of the events that had taken place, and the feeling of guilt that came over me at that very moment has lingered to this very day. What had happened was that my grand father decided to reward his violin for its many years of service with a good polish. He had intended to do the same with mine, but my instrument was nowhere to be found, and in its usual place, under the bed in my room, stood a bizarre electric device connected by cable to a glaring red guitar.
My grandfather and I never spoke a word about it. At the time my adolescent mind accepted his decision to remain silent as an alleviating circumstance, but the event would later cast a shadow of distrust on our relationship, while the memory of it would come back to haunt me in my later years.
I have permitted myself this short digression into childhood in order to truthfully depict the emotion that crept up on me when, after all those years, I tentatively took his violin out of the dust-covered suitcase, guided by the profound impression that the opera Turandot had left on me. I held my grandfather’s most precious possession in my sweat-soaked hands, which trembled as though the instrument were made of the most delicate of crystals. I gently placed my jaw on the chin rest of the violin, and for the first time in fifteen years I hesitantly drew the bow over the strings. Only a fleeting moment later, I could feel my heart ascend to the first few measures of Sarasate’s Gypsy Airs.
‘Your name?’
These were the Presiding Officer’s first words to Tobias. His voice was rather thin for such a large man, and Tobias suspected that he was burdened with something of an orthodontic anomaly, as he spoke with a certain impediment, causing missiles of saliva to shoot across the room at random targets.
‘Tobias Keller,’ he answered.
‘What is it that you do, Mr Keller?’
‘I am the Adviser for Moral Issues with the Office of the Great Overseer.’
‘I see. That would –’
‘A philosopher …’ mumbled the Prosecutor, who was seated to the side, his gaze fixed on a willowy woman with a yellowish complexion and large round glasses, who had taken notice of him upon his bombastic entrance and in whom he recognized an excellent opportunity to gain the sympathies of the Disciplinary Committee.
‘Mr Diodorus, what gives you the right to interrupt me?’ the Presiding Officer asked sternly.
The Prosecutor started, surprised that the Presiding Officer was able to hear his quiet remark, then flashed a wide grin to both him and the members of the Committee.
‘Forgive me, sir, but I couldn’t resist conveying my modest impres sions to the charming lady in the reseda-green dress. You may rest assured it will not happen again.’
The yellowish complexion of the woman with the round glasses suddenly turned pink, and she looked away from the Prosecutor.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the Presiding Officer and took a thick bundle of documents out of his drawer. He rummaged through the bundle until he finally pulled out what he had been looking for.
‘I shall now deliver the opening statement of this hearing,’ he began in an official tone.
‘The defendant Tobias Keller is charged with committing the criminal act described under Article 98a of the Causal Authority Regulations, the reasons being that at six fifty a.m. on 12 March of the present year he connected the Extraordinary Activity Device to the faculty of his free will, and, having observed over the monitor a set of circumstances on the scene which would allow him to carry out his plan, he set a trap for the cyclist in the form of a sizeable egg-shaped pebble, after which the cyclist abruptly veered off his path in an attempt to avoid the above-mentioned pebble and sped towards the hydraulic digger that was advancing from the opposite direction, thus causing a sequence of events with the purpose of involving an intermediary in order to exert an unanticipated influence on the subject, i.e. Moritz Tóth, as the final destination on the path of influence, that is to say …’
At this point the Presiding Officer paused, cast a superficial glance over the text that followed and, realizing that there was more than he had expected, uttered, ‘Well, I don’t see the need to preoccupy ourselves with the details … I imagine you all skimmed through the material that was handed out prior to this hearing.’
The members of the Committee nodded in unison.
‘In that case,’ said the Presiding Officer, significantly deepening his voice as if to emphasize the importance and weight of his words, ‘the key question that now lies before us is …’
The Presiding Officer paused then spoke directly to Tobias. ‘Mr Keller, did you commit the act I had just described?’
‘I did, sir.’
The Presiding Officer was visibly confused by Tobias’s affirmative response, which, in turn, puzzled Tobias, since he had already notice
d that his confession to the inspector was among the documents on the Presiding Officer’s desk. The Presiding Officer needed a few moments to gather his thoughts.
‘Good … or, shall I say, excellent! The identification of the perpetrator is of vital importance to the disciplinary proceedings!’
The obsequious Prosecutor compliantly nodded at the words of the Presiding Officer, who was gazing around the room, clearly indecisive as to the further course of the proceedings.
A strange sort of silence followed, which to Tobias seemed to last an eternity in the presence of this bizarre group of people. The Presiding Officer kept fidgeting in his chair and producing guttural sounds that were presumably supposed to aid his thinking process, until he unexpectedly broke the silence by hitting his palms resolutely on the desk and concluding, ‘In that case, we shall take a short twenty-minute recess.’
One by one they all left the room – the Presiding Officer being the last among them as lifting such a massive weight off a chair was no easy task – while the dispirited Tobias simply remained slumped in his seat. Even though he was left alone once again, Chamber C of the Second Wing no longer seemed that empty.
It was three and a half months later, as the first blush of morning rose over the town, when I first took notice of that dreadful creature. I had risen early so that I could practise a technically demanding ascending sequence on my violin in the absence of the squeal of the old tram tracks and the jovial voices of children. I liked to practise right next to the window, under the delicate morning light, and this is where he caught my eye. He was leaning on a birch tree in front of number thirteen on the opposite side of the street, gazing in my direction. The reason I have chosen the words ‘in my direction’ is because I was not entirely sure whether he was looking at me in particular or if it was something else that was holding his attention – in fact, I wasn’t even sure he’d seen me.
Odd in appearance, he was a rather chinless creature, with a beaky nose and a pair of peculiar, abnormally large eyes. Even though his hair was predominantly thinning, its remaining long strands, the colour of ash, danced wildly above his head in the wind, as if taking on a life of their own. As for his manner of dress, adorning his stocky figure were a formal white shirt, a faultlessly ironed sky-blue evening jacket and matching trousers. He also wore a navy-blue necktie, and a neatly folded white linen handkerchief was visible from his jacket top pocket. In short, the impression he gave off was that of a windswept quail on its way to a dinner party.
Unsure of what to do, I knew I had three possibilities: to withdraw, to step out into the light or to stay as I was. My reasoning was thus: if I stayed as I was I would buy myself some time but hardly resolve anything; If I withdrew, he might think that I was intimidated by him – an outcome I by all means wanted to avoid, whereas if I stepped out into the light and faced him openly, he might interpret my move as confrontational, particularly if he were of a more sensitive nature, as one might expect from a person with such an unusual appearance. I finally concluded that the least painful solution for us both would be if I stayed exactly as I was, but, clumsy and uncoordinated as I am, only seconds later I somehow managed to shuffle out into the light completely.
Much to my surprise he reacted immediately. He jolted as if woken from a deep sleep and darted towards the pedestrian crossing bearing the sign ‘Beware! Construction Work Ahead’. He must not have noticed it, since in all the urgency and alarm he tripped over a large chunk of broken asphalt, plummeted to the ground head first and landed on his palms and knees, staining his sky-blue trousers with the granular black asphalt remains. The expression that formed on his face after he rose to his feet and realized that his immaculately clean trousers were now adorned with two unsightly symmetrical stains resembling the Rorschach inkblot test was that of utter horror and bafflement. He was so distraught by this unfortunate incident that he seemed to have forgotten I had ever existed. Seemingly determined to attend to the problem as quickly as possible, he ran to the other side of the street – his dishevelled hair blowing in all directions – and vanished from view. The only thing he left behind was a silvery cloud his warm breath had painted on the canvas of cold air.
As much as I was confused by the event, I was now certain of one thing: he was looking at me after all! But why, I wondered. I knew he could hardly have been moved by my interpretation of the ascending scale of B-flat minor … What was it about me, then, that had caught his interest? Then suddenly it dawned on me. Was it possible that I was as hideous in his eyes as he was in mine? Could it be that the individual standing by the second-storey window of 16 Ostrom Street on this brisk March morning was, in fact, a terrible sight to behold?
Having continued to ponder this potential revelation, I stepped into the bathroom and took a good look at the figure standing before me in the mirror. It belonged to a pitiable and neglected half-creature, a parody of a man. The crimson letters on the T-shirt, which read Punk Is Not Dead, seemed to dominate the image, as if attempting by gravity to keep my slouching, rickety frame in one piece and to ensure its flaccid limbs didn’t disperse into the cosmos. Further north, the bright-red strands of peroxide-fried hair and shiny metal objects in the ears seemed a mocking contrast to the lifeless, watery eyes and drooping eyelids.
The figure I saw in the mirror that day made me realize that it had been a while since the mask I so persistently wore reflected my inner state of being, and I concluded it was high time I changed my image.
When I walked out of the bathroom and back towards the living-room window, my eyes became fixed on a detail that I had not noticed before. In the middle of the street, among the pieces of broken, black asphalt, lay his linen handkerchief – as white and immaculate as the first snowflake in winter.
The legal system Tobias was obliged to honour considered the death penalty an utterly inhumane measure and did not practise it. In this legal system the equivalent of the death penalty for a man of Tobias’s rank was dismissal from official position. However, his was not a position one may acquire by means of education, recommendations or a six-month training course. On the contrary, the journey a man must take in order to attain this type of position tends to be immeasurably difficult and thorny, and a shortcut has yet to be discovered.
Tobias was reminiscing about the ground he had had to cover on his journey – a journey he was rather fond of despite the hard ships – when the Prosecutor stepped forward and commenced his address.
‘Are you aware, Mr Keller, that the most severe penalty you could face in case of a violation of any article of the Causal Authority Regulations is your removal from the position of Adviser to the Great Overseer?’
‘Yes, I am,’ responded Tobias after refocusing his attention on the Prosecutor. Although he spoke with dignity, there was a certain bitterness to his words as he finally verbally acknowledged the outcome he feared the most. Tobias could hear his response echo in every corner of Chamber C of the Second Wing.
‘Hmmm … I am surprised that a man of your rank would allow himself such an omission,’ said the Prosecutor, meditatively stroking his goatee and resting his elbow on the chair of the woman in the reseda-green dress.
‘Mr Diodorus, do you have a specific question for Mr Keller or is this simply a rhetorical remark?’ the Presiding Officer interjected, who, to Tobias’s relief, also seemed somewhat bothered by the Prosecutor’s air of self-importance.
The Prosecutor reassumed a professional demeanour and approached the defendant with determination.
‘I imagine you have been made aware, Mr Keller – and I ground my assumption on the fact that prior to being appointed adviser you were obliged to sign the document stating that you were in agreement with the Rules of Service – that pursuant to article 98a of the Causal Authority Regulations, as an adviser you have the right to exert your influence on the subject only when referring him to the Guidelines on page 249 of the aforesaid Regulations. One may circumvent the Guidelines and freely exert one’s influence only if one po
ssesses an official, stamped approval from the Great Overseer.’
‘Yes, I am aware of this,’ responded Tobias briskly.
The Prosecutor felt like strangling Tobias Keller because his question failed to provoke in him the kind of reaction he was hoping for. By the time he posed his next question he was circling the room angrily, and his voice assumed a conniving and ironic tone.
‘Yet this had somehow slipped your mind at the moment the act took place, isn’t that so? At the moment you committed the act and set the trap for the cyclist in the close proximity of the subject Moritz Tóth, you were miraculously deprived of your ability to use sound judgement!’
‘I never said it had slipped my mind,’ was Tobias’s quiet response. It made the Prosecutor come to an abrupt halt and turn towards him.
A deep silence suddenly filled Chamber C of the Second Wing. The Prosecutor stared blankly at Tobias, failing – perhaps not even attempting – to hide his disbelief. He then posed his final question. ‘Are you saying that at the moment you committed the act you were consciously violating Article 98a?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’
Beaming with delight, the Prosecutor shot meaningful glances at the members of the Disciplinary Committee. To admit to having committed an act was one thing, but to admit to having been conscious of the actual circumstances at the time of perpetration, as well as to intent, was a different matter altogether. The Defendant Tobias Keller seemed an easy target from the onset, but the Prosecutor never could have guessed it would be that simple.
The Tragic Fate of Moritz Toth Page 2