The Tragic Fate of Moritz Toth

by Dana Todorovic

  How I failed in my assumption! I should never have allowed myself the grave error of underestimating him, for, just as I had done so, Ezekiel disappeared from the window, and when he reap peared he sprung a surprise on me – a surprise that served as a reminder of how I always seemed to resort to bad judgement at the most crucial of moments. He reappeared, and in his hands he held a piece of cardboard on which there was a message in capital letters that I couldn’t make out from where I was standing. It is obviously a message, but what kind of a message? I mused. Who is it for? Could it be for me? If it is, what does he want to tell me? I squinted through the intertwined branches, meditating on whether to move closer, but my yearning to read the message was so intense that I suddenly found myself ambushed from all sides by blaring horns and a stream of obscenities, which was when I realized that I was standing in the middle of the street as an obvious target for oncoming traffic. I hurriedly moved on to the pavement, stopping near the tall, wrought-iron entrance to his building. By this time I was as filthy as a sewer rat, with streaks of mud on my trousers as a punishment for the incident I had nearly caused. All I had to do in order to find out what Ezekiel was trying to tell me was to tilt my head back slightly, and this is exactly what I did, even though by then I was close enough to him that I could smell the bad omen as I would rotten meat. His static eye hovered above the sign as I read, as if to underline each individual word:

  A CURSE BEHAVES LIKE A LIVE ENTITY. HE WHO FAILS TO RID HIMSELF OF IT SHALL INVITE IT TO MULTIPLY.

  The instant I finished reading the horrific message, an elongated shadow arched above him like a claw. I felt my heart leap in my chest, my cheeks burning from the rush of adrenalin, while Ezekiel con tinued to stand there benumbed, with a hint of sadness in his expression as if a web of ill fortune had spun around his life and he was utterly powerless to free himself. Then a knotted, bone-white hand reached across the window and a curtain of blinds descended over the entire image.

  On my way home even the smallest drop of rain – hitting my skin like a razor – exacerbated the anger I was feeling. It would be safe to say that certain sentiments had prevailed to the detriment of reason and had awoken in me a primitive desire for revenge for all the turmoil the two men had caused me. I dare not deny that my next move was radical – I had considered it to be so even at the height of my fury – but did they alone not invoke the satanic in me, and is it not their own fault that they drew the bow so taut that it snapped before they were able to release the arrow?

  There is, however, a much simpler explanation for my next move – that, quite simply, I was by this time exhausted by the whole affair. I was tired of continuously being thrust into a state of trepidation. I was tired of hiding and of playing the sleuth. I was tired of being consumed with guilt, of moments gone by, and I was also tired of Ezekiel and his partner in crime. But, above all else, I was tired of living my life under overcast skies.

  To my great surprise, the first reflection of this new sentiment appeared later that afternoon when the sun finally emerged from behind the clouds and illuminated my birth town with its warm copper glow, at which point I knew that even the most covert forces in the universe had finally allied themselves to my cause rather than that of my opponents.

  ‘Just as I had intuited, an examination of the “Report on the Present State of the Subject” proved to be of indisputable value, allowing me to view the subject Moritz Tóth in a whole new context. Certain details of the Report captured my attention in particular, and I would like to ask you a few questions about them, if you don’t mind,’ offered the Presiding Officer, eyeing Tobias with expectation, as though genuinely requiring his approval to proceed. Tobias nodded without delay.

  ‘What is the number of cases that you have processed as Adviser to the Great Overseer?’

  ‘For the three years that I have been working in his Office, I have processed a total of fifty-seven cases.’

  ‘What specifically do your duties entail?’

  ‘My principal duty is to observe the life paths of the subjects over the monitor and, on the basis of my observations and the official “Report on the Present State of the Subject”, to compile a “Proposal on the Further Course of Action” for each case individually. An adviser is also permitted to operate the Extraordinary Activity Device should he intend to direct the subject to the Guidelines on page 249. Should he, however, wish to exert his influence at his own discretion – as was pointed out a number of times since the beginning of these proceedings – previous approval from the Great Overseer is required.’

  ‘Of which you have only theoretical knowledge, since you considered this specific situation far too urgent to wait for approval – as the law commands – but rather went on to satisfy your unquenchable desire to act at your own discretion by unlawfully setting a trap for the cyclist in the form of an egg-shaped pebble?’

  ‘That is correct, Mr Presiding Officer, sir.’

  ‘You said that your intention was to help the subject by stimulating in him the awareness of the freedom to choose. I assume this means that at the moment of your interference you had reason to believe that he was lacking this awareness?’

  ‘Instead of paving his own road towards achieving his newly arisen ambitions, the subject had acquired the habit of viewing both himself and the world around him through a stereotypical framework, of unjustifiably stigmatizing himself and, most importantly, of assuming the role of a victim. These patterns of behaviour were a major hindrance to his true potential and genius.’

  ‘On this point we agree. But on the other hand, Mr Keller, his behaviour caused no obstruction to anyone nor did it place anyone at risk, which is why I have to admit to being somewhat surprised that you prevented him from doing as he pleased, and even more so if I take into consideration your position on the issue of free will.’

  ‘Any final decision would have been left to him. My sole intention was to interfere with the status quo, to introduce some winds of change, to extend the range of possibilities. Would it have been a better solution if I had chosen to sit with my arms folded? And as far as his lack of interest is concerned, do you not see that even when he refrains from choosing, a person is still making a choice to do so and, with this choice, is moulding not only his own image but also the image of the entire human race? “In choosing myself I choose man,” to quote Sartre.’

  ‘I respect your opinion, Mr Keller. Whether or not I share it is a different matter. Now I would like to give the floor to Mr Diodorus,’ said the Presiding Officer and turned to face the Prosecutor.

  ‘Mr Diodorus, I understand that as we review the topic of the Report you are faced with the unfavourable circumstance of being forbidden by law to inspect it. However, should you believe that any of the answers provided to us by Mr Keller need clarification, please step forward.’

  The Prosecutor rose and approached Tobias with an air of motivation. The Presiding Officer observed a certain fluidity in the Prosecutor’s movements and was glad that he had seemed to resolve the family crisis that postponed the session to ten o’clock.

  ‘If I understood correctly, Mr Keller, you wished to encourage in the subject the awareness of his freedom to choose. But can one go so far as to abuse that freedom? What if the winds of change that you had chosen to introduce were, in fact, vicious and vile winds that would induce an act of evil and prompt the subject to commit a sinful deed?’

  ‘That seems a rather far-fetched scenario considering that my intentions were not evil. Those winds had originated from me, and I would be surprised to discover that I am capable of inflicting evil upon another.’

  ‘I beg to differ. I believe that in the course of yesterday’s session we were given a perfectly good reason not to be surprised by the notion of a devilish quality lurking in the big heart of Tobias Keller … unless the dualities of which he spoke do not refer to him. If I were you, Mr Keller, I would be more careful with what I preach.’

  ‘Mr Diodorus, please adhere to the information a
vailable. You are once again basing your arguments on hypothetical situations,’ ordered the Presiding Officer impatiently.

  The Prosecutor looked slyly at the Presiding Officer, as if to communicate that this was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. ‘Hypothetical?’ he asked quietly and then continued in the barest of whispers, ‘… then a vicious wind blew my way, swaying the branches and causing them to swoop very low …’

  As if having taken a slap in the face, the woman in the reseda-green dress gaped at the Prosecutor in disbelief. Most of the participants, in fact, were unable to conceal their astonishment, and as a result of this collective disbelief nobody bothered to second-guess the reason for hers. It went without saying. How fortunate for the lady!

  ‘Mr Diodorus, I am warning you that it is strictly forbidden to reveal details from the “Report on the Present State of the Subject” in front of the defendant.’

  The Presiding Officer’s chief responsibility in case of a violation of confidentiality was to invest all efforts to prevent any further disclosure of information before the defendant, which meant that he had to refrain from opening the question that was now on everyone’s mind. How had Diodorus got his hands on the Report?

  The Prosecutor was insolent enough to turn a deaf ear to the Presiding Officer’s warning and continue with his misdemeanours. ‘And is the summoning of satanic forces in the thoughts of Moritz Tóth indicative of sin? What do you think, Mr Keller? Could the – what did he call it? – radical move he decided to plunge into possibly foreshadow a sinful deed, something he may well regret after the anger subsides?’

  This final onslaught of questions made the Presiding Officer’s blood boil, and he decided to take measures against Diodorus which, in his twenty-five-years’ experience, he had never before taken against a Prosecutor.

  ‘Mr Diodorus, consider yourself dismissed from the proceedings! Even if you are so impertinent as to violate the Law on Disciplinary Proceedings before my very eyes, I would think that you would at least have the sense not to quote the subject’s thoughts out of con text. And you may be certain that I intend to find out from your superiors exactly how you obtained access to the Report.’

  In retrospect, this war of words might best be remembered as the moment when the romance between the Prosecutor and the woman in the reseda-green dress finally took its last breath – a romance that left a permanent scar in the hearts of those it affected during its short lifespan. In the heart of the lady it left a feeling of resentment, because of the mistake for which she knew she could never forgive herself, while in the big heart of Tobias Keller it sparked the growing unease of a man who – only moments before he was due to present his defence – begins to question the ethical value of his actions.

  The first thing I did when I got home was reach for the old tin chocolate box on top of the wardrobe. It contained my grandfather’s old documents, photographs from his international tours and Juliska’s letters. I rummaged through the box, searching for the note with the scribbled address that I had received from Géza Bala, the double-bass player in my grandfather’s band. The note was torn off a newspaper that was wrapped around Géza’s jam strudel when we met on the pedestrian crossing in front of the town hall. It had been a very pleasant morning, with a jovial Norwegian jazz quartet jiving to a rendition of ‘April in Paris’. I repeated the name on the note to myself, allowing it to echo in my mind while recalling the distinctive appearance of the statuesque man with classic facial features, who resembled Cary Grant in his more mature years.

  The widely admired Mr Béla Hadik was a close friend of my grandfather. In spite of having come from a blue-blooded family, he lived a life at odds with the trends of aristocratic society. He chose to associate with ordinary folk untarnished by the sugar-coated rules of etiquette – as he liked to call them – and the only indi cation of his aristocratic background was his passion for hunting small game. Time and again I would find myself reminiscing about our visits to his family estate on Lake Balaton, the succulent roast rabbit in the aromatic herb sauce, the ivory handles on the silverware, the lingering smell of pine trees. Even more vivid is my recollection of the occasional moments when I would sneak out of bed in the small hours of the night, wrap myself in a blanket and sit at the top of the wide marble staircase so that I could eavesdrop on the stories coming from the salon – stories about things of which I had no knowledge, such as adultery, the misconceptions surrounding the then-topical proletarian utopia, as well as something called ‘nepotism’, to which – as my well-oiled grandfather kept repeating one night – government officials were especially prone.

  When I ran into him in front of the town hall, Géza told me that Béla had left the estate as a result of an ownership feud and that he had purchased a flat in Buda, near the Gellért Hotel. We agreed that it must have been a tremendous sacrifice for Béla to leave the family estate, the two of us nostalgically grinning as I reminded him of the bet he and Béla had made – that Béla would one day succeed in convincing the soft-hearted Géza to shoot a pheasant. I asked him if he knew what Béla was up to nowadays, and Géza replied that although Béla did still occasionally go hunting, he had been devoting most of his time and energy to his new hobby of collecting hunting weapons – a detail that flashed through my mind like lightning nine months later. How strange it is that a seemingly insignificant piece of information can fundamentally alter the course of a person’s life.

  With the lilacs, magnolias and roses in full bloom, springtime in Buda was a true festival of colours and scents. The address on the note had led me to an elegant, cream-coloured villa surrounded by vines and resting in a yellow-rose garden. Near the front gate hung a metal plate with a stylized inscription that read: ‘Welcome to the Amália Bed and Breakfast’. Given that the bed-and-breakfast was on the ground floor of the two-storey villa, I concluded that Béla must be living on the floor above. As I was approaching the villa I noticed two overweight, casually dressed women with belt bags also heading in the direction of the gate, so I hurried towards them to prevent the gate from slamming shut. I climbed up the stairs and halted before an ornate double door. I duly rang the bell, and a few seconds later the door opened.

  ‘May I help you?’ asked the man in loafers and a towelling bathrobe.

  A waft of cool air greeted me from the flat. Probably because of the hot temperature outside, the curtains were drawn over all the windows, and the face of the man addressing me was half obscured in darkness.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ I asked sheepishly.

  The man gave no reply. I could sense his curious gaze fixed on me, and then he started to approach me until the morning sun – penetrating through the elongated stained-glass window above the staircase – illuminated his face. It was the handsome face of a man well-advanced in years, slightly thinner and more pallid than I had remembered it, but it was, without a doubt, the face of Béla Hadik.

  ‘Moritz, is that you?’ he asked with apprehension.

  Before I was given a chance to respond, a controlled but excited cry of welcome spilled from his lips. Being pulled into his embrace, I hung over his shoulders, reluctant to reciprocate the affection for fear that my emotions would spiral out of control and that I would end up pouring my soul over his neat-looking loafers.

  ‘You’ve changed …’ he concluded after releasing me from his embrace. ‘Come in.’

  The moment I stepped inside Béla drew the curtains open, allowing bright light to illuminate the antique furniture in the spacious living-room. I settled on what might be called a divan, upholstered with chocolate-striped olive green satin.

  Béla continued to stare at me, his face revealing utter disbelief at seeing me after so many years, until he finally asked, ‘May I get you something to drink? Do you like iced tea?’

  Having sat down on the divan, I realized that my knees were trembling in apprehension of the favour I had come to ask. In my mind I cursed Ezekiel and the day I became aware of his existence. My eyes fell on an ebony sculptur
e spiralling upwards between the divan and a nearby rocking chair. It was a representation of a lanky African woman with an elongated neck, balancing a large jug on her head, and it seemed to perfectly reflect my inner state. I desperately needed a chance to compose myself, a moment or two of solitude, so I accepted the offer of iced tea, and Béla left the living-room.

  As soon as he reappeared with the glass in his hand, he showered me with questions. He enquired what had been happening in my life, if I had completed university, what I was doing for a living, whether I was in touch with Géza or old Bodi. He made no reference to my grandfather. He was well aware of how attached I was to him and probably feared that the mere mention of his name might rekindle delicate sentiments. Although he was cautious with his questions, the weight of one particular question he was unable to foresee. He asked if I were married. I told him I had been – I suppose a part of me also must have felt like talking. I told him about Juliska, the humble blue-eyed girl who was brutally taken away from me in the full bloom of our love, about our irrevocable vows. Speaking about her again made me realize that I had presented the identical story to Dr Horvát a year earlier while affecting the same pathos in my voice.

  ‘Life is full of surprises, Moritz. We constantly worry about the hand it would deal us, only to be dealt the one we never expected,’ Béla concluded through a heavy sigh and wobbled over to the carved wooden cabinet. I remained slumped on the divan, his remark leaving me at a loss for words, as I never could have suspected that Béla – the man who had once embodied all the qualities I strove for in life – could be suffering a secret affliction of his own.

  He walked back from the cabinet carrying a Cuban cigar and a small bladed device resembling a mini guillotine. He carefully removed the cellophane from the cigar, split it in two and offered me half. I declined his offer, which he didn’t seem to hold against me. He leaned back in his rocking chair, slowly rolling the cigar between his thumb and index finger, looking forward to savouring it while reminiscing about the good old times in the company of a dear friend. Regretfully, I was about to disappoint him.