The Tragic Fate of Moritz Toth

by Dana Todorovic

  ‘I’m in danger, Béla,’ was the first sincere statement that came out of my mouth that morning. Béla lit the cigar half with a match and drew the smoke deep into his lungs, sensing that a serious matter was at hand. ‘I am a victim of a conspiracy, and it is a matter of life and death. I wish I could tell you more, but I’m afraid that’s impossible – for your own safety.’

  On hearing this, Béla gave me an inquisitive look.

  ‘What I’m trying to say is … You shouldn’t get involved any more than is absolutely necessary,’ I added carelessly and prematurely, causing Béla to tighten his jaw and slightly raise his head.

  ‘Have you informed the police?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s far more complicated than that. The plot was designed by a brilliant and cunning mind and has been conducted in such a way that when observed from the sidelines it seems utterly unconvincing. But herein lies the remarkable skill of those involved, because they have managed to cloak evil in the entrancing elements of the fantastic. If death were to walk through that door at this very moment wearing a black cape, would you take it seriously? No. It is out of the question. No way can the police be involved’.

  The expression on Béla’s face suggested that my explanation left him dissatisfied, yet this was the most coherent explanation I could offer at the time. He leaned towards me and spoke in a soft, quiet voice. ‘Moritz, you know I would do anything in my power to help you … You’re like family to me. If you’re in debt, if you need money –’

  ‘It’s not a question of money’, I interrupted, ‘but of logistics … which is why I have decided to ask for your help.’

  ‘You see, Béla …’ I bravely continued, ‘what I need to do is to arm myself. As I already explained, it’s a matter of life and death, and I need to take preventive measures and prepare myself for the worst-case scenario. Of course, it is possible that the situation will not develop to my detriment … Perhaps an unexpected factor prevents the execution of their evil plan … Perhaps they end up making a wrong move, and it backfires on them …’

  None of what I had said – except for the first, crucial sentence – seemed to reach his ears. Instead, my words remained hovering in the air between us.

  Béla’s face suddenly grew dark. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you … ’ he said, looking away.

  A brooding silence fell over the room. Béla gazed out of the window, his eyes blankly following the swaying motion of the lilac branches. Stung by a feeling of shame for having come to visit him on such a dreadful occasion, I sat there on the divan, desperately trying to come up with a way to redeem myself, until Béla unexpectedly broke the silence.

  ‘Do you know how I’ve been spending most of my time, Moritz?’ he asked. His tone was strangely reserved – a tone he had never before used with me – and all the tenderness had vanished from his voice. There was no doubt in my mind that he understood the reason for my visit, which was why his question struck me as both redundant and mocking, like he was trying to rub my nose in the fact that he had refused to help me. I saw no point in gratifying him with an answer.

  ‘Most people consider collecting a hobby,’ Béla continued, ‘but this is because they fail to realize the value of collected items, which can not be measured in dollars or pounds. There are stories behind these items, you see, and I would even go so far as to call collecting a method of communication, considering that each item is a token of a time or historical era of which you are reminded every time you hold the item in your hands. Come with me. There’s something I’d like to show you.’

  I followed Béla into the hallway. We walked past the spacious, tastefully decorated dining-room and a few other rooms until we reached an impressive leather-padded door at the end of the hallway. Béla opened the door slowly, and it responded with a quiet squeal. As we stepped into the cool room, I was met by the pungent smell of lacquer. Only enough light had crept in between the thick curtains to allow me to distinguish the rough contours of the objects inside. Béla then flicked the switch on the wall, and a crystal chandelier illuminated an elongated table draped with blue velvet. Arranged on the table in a museum-display fashion was a variety of hunting rifles. The only other furniture in the room was a shelf crammed with books on hunting and a small dresser.

  Béla began to circle slowly around his collection, examining each piece in the process. He eventually picked up a rifle from the first row.

  ‘This one belonged to my uncle,’ he said, ‘the good old Winchester 70. It’s what I call a field vehicle among hunting rifles – robust in appearance but, in my opinion, one of the most reliable models.’

  He placed the rifle back on the table, took a few more steps around his collection then halted again.

  ‘And this stylish-looking rifle you see here’, he explained, brushing his fingertips over the detailed silver engraving on a rifle in the third or fourth row, ‘is a Kentucky flintlock, famous for being one of Davy Crockett’s weapons of choice. It belonged to a wealthy estate owner from Pennsylvania.’

  Béla resumed walking around the table and admiring his collection. The next time he stopped, it was to pick up a small pistol. He looked me straight in the eye – for the first time since bringing up the topic of hunting weapons – and said pointedly, ‘This, my dear Moritz, is an excellent weapon. The .22 calibre Colt Woodsman, one of the few revolvers officially used in hunting.’ He handed it to me, and I noticed that it was heavier and cooler to the touch than its appearance would suggest. ‘For those of us who are accustomed to heftier models, this revolver seems like no more than a toy, but, as I am sure you know, appearances can be deceptive. Being so small and easy to manoeuvre, it is ideal for woodland areas and high-density terrain and is typically used for hunting small game, fast-moving targets.’ As he uttered these words, Béla clasped his hands together, spread his fingers into a fan and made them flutter like a bird in flight, which instantly brought Ezekiel back to mind, causing me to cringe at the thought.

  ‘I purchased it quite recently from an American diplomat, for my own enjoyment rather than the collection, to be honest,’ he explained. He took the revolver out of my hands and placed it back on the table. ‘I obtained all the necessary documents, although I haven’t had the chance to try it out. I have been planning to visit an old friend in Békés, but whenever it comes down to actually going, I somehow end up lacking resolve. I even bought the bullets …’ he added, pointing towards the ammunition box.

  ‘There is one thing, Moritz, that every hunter needs to keep in mind.’ His eyes softened, and he was once again addressing me with paternal affection. ‘Not every moving object is a hunter’s prey, nor is a hunter’s prey every creature that fits the description of the target, and power is very easily abused. Sometimes just knowing when to spare your prey is a skill more valuable than the ability to kill or capture it. Such knowledge is what distinguishes a real hunter from an amateur. Having said that, I have to admit to being something of a pessimist, believing that this is not a skill one can learn but something that comes from within – an understanding you either have or you don’t. If you don’t, may God be with you.’

  His lecture ended in the same way that it had begun, without warning, and we returned to the living-room. Béla let out a long sigh as he settled comfortably into his rocking chair. He lit the other half of the cigar and began to rock back and forth while absently gazing at the swaying leaves. Silence permeated the room once again. It was as if we had never left our seats, as if our visit to the rifle room had never taken place.

  Although I had been convinced that I understood the direction in which Béla was heading with his lecture, I left his flat that day feeling like I had achieved nothing.

  I didn’t know where to go or to whom to turn. To the left of Béla’s door was a narrow flight of stairs that led up towards the attic. I climbed a few stairs and sat down, requiring a moment of solitude before returning outdoors amid the cheerful tourists and the profusion of colours and scents. I sat there daydreaming abo
ut Erzsébet Szántó accepting the role of lead soprano in one of my operettas featuring the wondrous melody I had recently created as the main motif. I imagined my name being listed in textbooks of future generations of the Liszt Conservatory as a composer whose unusual arrangements and daringly dissonant chord pro gressions achieved a revolutionary breakthrough on the Hungarian opera scene by tailoring opera to the demands of modern man.

  I didn’t hear him come out; he was so quiet. He simply appeared outside the door wearing a linen suit and a wide-brimmed summer hat. The thought instantly crossed my mind that it would be horribly embarrassing if he were to notice that I was still there, and all he needed to do was to turn his head slightly to the left. But he never did.

  It all happened very quickly – he didn’t even lock the door before heading down the stairs. And yet, there was a definite precision to his footsteps – a rhythmic consistency indicative of resolution rather than urgency. Then, mere seconds before he would vanish from view, I thought I saw him casting a glance at me from the corner of his eye; better yet, it was something I would have sworn he did.

  This was the moment when all the pieces fell into place. I stood up and headed back into his flat.

  Two days later, when the whole ordeal was over and done with, I paid Béla another visit. While he was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee, I slipped out of the living-room to return the revolver. The least I could do to express my gratitude was to obey his rules of the game, because as far as he was concerned – and me, too, as a consequence – our visit to the rifle room had never taken place.

  The defence that Tobias Keller gave was unsurprisingly short and concise. Atypically for Tobias, however, he presented the reasons for committing the act in the past tense and with a hint of reflective sadness in his voice, as one might expect from a penitent man, while at the same time appearing to be somewhat estranged from his words.

  He claimed that in the moments preceding the act he had recognized an opportunity to assist the subject by exerting his influence in a way that would preserve the subject’s autonomy to a maximum degree, even if that implied a violation of Article 98a of the Casual Authority Regulations. As he went on to cite the reasons for his deed, he was guided by the conviction that no code or set of instructions – including the Regulations – is fit to define the boundaries of man’s moral competence and that no deed induced by such a code alone is capable of reaching the heights of humanity of a deed that originated from the unique symbiosis of man’s two primary inheritances: the graceful perseverance of the heart’s innermost sentiments and the expansive power of the will.

  Tobias could have added more in his defence, but whenever he opened his mouth to speak, the sight of the Prosecutor’s empty seat assertively facing the bench would prevent him from elaborating further.

  I placed the revolver in the most visible spot – on my bed, its steel compactness sinking deep into my lightweight apricot-coloured duvet. It appeared so peaceful, so content, as if it were asleep, and I hoped that I wouldn’t have to wake it, that by means of civilized conversation I would be able to prevent a tragic outcome of events and circumnavigate the evil fate I shared with Ezekiel.

  That day I wore my black corduroy suit over a neatly ironed shirt, as if any possible sins I might commit would be forgiven if I dressed nicely enough. I assumed a position by the window and waited. The silence dragged on, and, although it did occur to me to break it by putting on one of my records, I knew that I had to maintain the highest degree of composure and that I simply could not risk an emotional outpouring. I turned on the radio and tuned to a station with light-hearted Italian tunes featured between newsflashes.

  The eleven o’clock chime on the radio had long since resounded when I saw the man in black rush down the middle of the street. In fact, he was advancing at such speed that I didn’t even get a chance to sneak out of his field of vision. He noticed the light in my window and threw me a hateful glance.

  I was not afraid. I was actually glad that it would all end soon, that I would be a free man released from the horrific shackles they had placed on me. I was also pleased when I noticed him cross over to my side of the street, and when he eventually disappeared from sight I remember thinking to myself, So be it, let him come to me, let him administer the first blow; that way I can say that I acted in self-defence. All of a sudden I heard a loud pounding noise and assumed that he was already at my door, until I realized that the noise was coming from outside. Even if he had decided to come to me, he must have changed his mind along the way, because shortly afterwards he reappeared on the street and continued at the same quick pace in the direction of Ezekiel’s building.

  The moment had finally come for me to make my ‘grand entrance’. I gently took hold of my sleeping companion and headed out the door, grabbing the white linen handkerchief from which I was hoping to finally liberate myself on the way. As I already explained, I was not afraid – truly I wasn’t – it was the uncertainty that was troubling me. Was there a realistic chance that I could outsmart my opponents with a tactful approach and good negotiating skills? Would I ultimately be forced to resort to my own reflexes and similar primitive mechanisms? How would I handle this? As was the case whenever Ezekiel was involved, it was impossible to predict.

  Feeling somewhat unsure of myself, I headed down the stairs and emerged into the cool night air. I turned around to close the door to my building, then hesitated. Under the dim light of the streetlamp, something about the door seemed different. There was something to which my eyes were not accustomed, but I couldn’t put my finger on it as all its components were doubtlessly in place – its wooden frame, the decorative stained glass panel at the top, the aluminium doorknob. Then I took a step back to observe the picture as a whole, which was when I noticed that the plate with the number sixteen was missing. Gradually I was able to distinguish the shape of two sixes that replaced it; these, however, were not red sixes but pale-grey, gothic-style sixes, carved into the façade. Ezekiel’s superior must have removed the plate as he was passing by, which would account for the noise I had heard just minutes before.

  I could suddenly feel a band of pressure tighten around my head, and one of my back teeth cracked as a result of my jawclenching anger. I lowered my gaze – the gun in my right hand was as alert as a tiger poised for attack, waiting for me to give the sign. With a tight grip on my steel companion, I allowed it to guide me as I soared through the sleeping neighbourhood like a phantom. I rushed up the stairs of Ezekiel’s building, impatient to use the gun on them, already imagining the pair of them drowning in a pool of blood.

  On reaching the flat I pounded on the door. The door opened, and I seized the man who opened it by the collar, pulled him towards me and placed the gun against his temple. The stench of an old – albeit hardly unclean – man filled my nostrils. His wilted body, pressed against mine, was starting to give off warning signs of danger. His rapid heartbeat made his bulging neck veins pulsate, the pupil of his healthy eye began to widen, his breathing became shallow and fast. We were so close to one another, as though entwined in a lovers’ embrace, and I was gradually becoming aware of what I had done, and I could hardly recognize the actions as my own.

  ‘Make one move and I’ll shoot,’ I warned the man in black, who was standing in the corner, watching the events unfold.

  It was a tiny, spotlessly clean flat. There was hardly any furniture in it – only a bed positioned by the window, a dining-table accompanied by three chairs, a sink and a small refrigerator. Hanging on the wall facing the street were three framed studio photographs portraying a younger, well-groomed and carefree Ezekiel with a boy of about fifteen in a school uniform. I also noticed that there were cartons of pasteurized milk, fruit juice and containers of ready meals arranged on top of the refrigerator, while from the refrigerator door handle hung the empty nylon bag that on that ghastly night the man in black had carried into Ezekiel’s flat. I felt great unease at the thought that the food items were, in fact, the angul
ar contents that had been in the bag, whereas a mere ten minutes earlier I would have welcomed this realization.

  The man in black caused my attention to shift from the refrigerator when he suddenly kneeled and obediently lifted his hands in the air.

  ‘I said, make the slightest move and I’ll shoot!’ I yelled. My nerves were as taut as the strings on my violin, and I could feel my confidence plummet. ‘Remember, it takes two to carry out your plan, which is why I’m advising you to remain still, unless you wish to be left without your pawn here … your dutiful marionette,’ I added in a forced tone, desperately trying to sound menacing despite the fact that the sweat that ran down Ezekiel’s back was fusing with the sweat that ran down my stomach, that our hearts were beating in a synchronized rhythm, that we were becoming one fragile, indivisible entity.

  The man in black addressed our indivisible entity as he remained kneeling on the floor. ‘Don’t be afraid, Szilveszter … don’t be afraid. I’ll stay still.’

  On hearing these words, Ezekiel let out a barely audible squeal. An expression of concern covered the face of the man in black, but he collected himself soon enough and continued in a smooth, measured tone. ‘Listen to me carefully, Szilveszter. I have your best interests in mind. Do not move; do not turn your head, do you understand? Just shift your gaze slightly to the right. Can you see what it says? Can you see it, Szilvester?’

  Ezekiel timidly shifted his gaze to the right. Following his example, I also looked in that direction and saw on the wall a representation of Jesus Christ in a gold frame – the sphere of healing yellow light generously radiating from his chest. The man in black began to read out the text engraved on a metal plate below the representation.

  ‘Seven is the number of spiritual perfection. There are seven days in a week, seven colours in the spectrum, seven seals of Revelation, seven trumpets … one is the number of unity, for there is only one Lord our Father, whose reign is one and whose power is one … three is the number of divine perfection, the holy trinity – the father, son and the holy spirit …’