36 Yalta Boulevard

by Olen Steinhauer

  She nodded doubtfully, then looked up at the bedroom door. Jan stood in it, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, smiling at her. “Christ, it’s good to see you here.”

  When Jaroslaw returned that night, they were in the kitchen, drinking tea without sugar, because there was none in the dacha. Jaroslaw went directly to a kitchen cabinet, where he retrieved a small bottle of palinka that no one had noticed before. When he brought the bottle from his lips the ends of his mustache glistened. “There’s been a little delay—nothing to worry about.” But his nervous fingers flicked against the bottle. “I’ll get you to the outskirts of Budapest tonight. You’ll stay with a friend of mine, then it’ll be taken care of.”

  “For how long?” asked Jan.

  “Don’t worry. We know what we’re doing.”

  Jaroslaw had picked up another shipment in Budapest; this time it was canned apricots. They again camped behind the boxes, teeth rattling as Jaroslaw sped along and stopped twice for road checks. But he was a regular along this road, too, and the soldiers chatted with him and scolded him for his excessive lifestyle (he told them he was rushing back to see his Budapest mistress) and happily accepted the bottles of palinka he gave them.

  They reached the maize farm east of Budapest a little after midnight. Jaroslaw ushered them out of the truck, tossed the suitcases down, and knocked on the door of a farmhouse with a steep, clay-tiled roof. A short man with a heavy limp greeted them and introduced himself as Adam Madai, the manager of the region’s farming collective. As soon as they were inside, Jaroslaw shook the farmer’s hand, wished them all luck, and left.

  Madai was an energetic man, chain-smoking Moskwa-Volga cigarettes throughout the night. He kept getting up from the table to refill glasses and winked continuously at Petre—who, after blushing a few times, finally warmed to their host—the whole time chattering away. He knew their language well and said with visible pride that he was also adept at Romanian, German, and English and was now learning French from Juliette Greco records. He learned these languages, he told them, at the school of necessity. “No one, but no one, speaks Hungarian in this world.”

  He said he’d gotten his limp in ’56, during the Revolution. He’d been in the streets with his brothers—that was the word he used for them—shooting at Russian tanks from behind barricades. Brano listened to his descriptions of walls exploding over his head, seeing his brothers dead in the street, the dread when he realized he’d used the last of his ammunition. By the time the Russians retook Budapest, he had slipped into the countryside, having been lucky enough not to make the lists of those destined for prisons and firing squads. Brano listened to everything, and by the end decided that Adam Madai was lying about all of it.

  But that didn’t matter. Madai was a generous host, choosing to sleep on the couch while they used the two bedrooms. In a bedroom drawer, Brano found an electric bill in Madai’s name—at least he hadn’t used an alias with them. And when Brano poked his head out at three in the morning to make sure their host had not slipped away to turn them in, Madai sat up and offered him a shot of Unicum, the syrupy national liquor that few outside the country had a taste for. Brano politely refused.

  15 FEBRUARY 1967, WEDNESDAY

  •

  Their breakfast was a plentiful spread of coffee, salami, cheese, and pickled peppers that Madai jarred in his own basement. “The water around here is too hard, much too hard for pickling. So I have to drive over to Érd once a week for bottles. Erd water …” He closed his eyes. “Soft water—you can taste the difference.”

  “Yes,” said Brano, wiping his eyes. “I can.”

  “Have some more coffee. You look tired.” Madai reached for his hat. “I’m going to run into town to set things up. I should be back by the afternoon.”

  “When are we leaving?” asked Jan.

  “Hard to say. I’m not the one to do it, so it’s not up to me. But I need all your luggage.”

  Lia, on the couch, said, “You need what?”

  “Your luggage,” he repeated. “We’ll ship it separately. It’ll be waiting for you in Vienna.”

  Lia raised her hands. “My whole life is in that bag, and you expect me to just hand it to you in the hope that it’ll make it over the border? I’ll keep my things with me, thank you.”

  “Li,” said Jan.

  “What? Am I the only one who understands this?”

  “You’re right,” said Brano. “But we don’t have much choice. I imagine our escape path won’t work if we’re all carrying suitcases.”

  “Exactly,” said Madai. “I don’t have to do this, you know. I’ve given you food and drink. I’ve kept you safe. At great risk to myself. Aren’t you comfortable here?”

  “I’m scared out of my mind.”

  “Come on, Li,” said Jan.

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child!” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “I don’t know how you can do this. Giving yourself over to strangers.”

  “You don’t trust him?” asked Brano.

  “About as much as I trust you.”

  Petre bounced out of the bedroom and ran through the living room, making buzzing sounds like a plane.

  “Well, I can’t bring you along,” said Madai as he pulled on his coat.

  “Why not?” asked Lia.

  “First of all, you don’t speak Hungarian.”

  “I do,” said Brano. “A Balatonnál tanultam mez magyarul.” I learned Hungarian at Lake Balaton.

  “And second of all, none of you have travel papers.”

  Brano reached into his jacket and took out his documents. Inside his external passport was a slip of paper folded into quarters. Madai read it briefly and handed it back.

  “Well, one of you has travel papers.”

  “Then he can go with you,” said Jan.

  Lia tightened her grip on herself.

  “I don’t know,” said Brano, rubbing his sore eye. “If I’m caught …”

  “But you won’t be caught,” said Jan. He looked at Lia. “Okay, then? Is that good enough?”

  She glared at Brano. “I guess it’ll have to be.”

  “Well, then?” said Madai. “Will you get your goddamned bags now?”

  They took Madai’s stumpy flatbed truck, a Russian UAZ, into Pest, the sooty Habsburg buildings growing more frequent as they neared the center.

  “I can’t take you to him,” Madai said as he drove. “You know this, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Brano. “But we’ll see how it goes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Brano stopped gazing at the buildings for a moment to focus on him. “Have you been told what I do for a living?”

  Madai’s tongue moved around his mouth. “I was told what you did.”

  “Yes, well, I think you know what I mean, then.”

  Madai remained quiet until they parked along Kerepesi út, across from the rail tracks that led to Keleti Station. He opened the door and reached behind the seat for the luggage. “Are you really going to follow me?”

  “You point the way,” said Brano.

  As they waited for the number 7 tram, each with two suitcases, Madai grew visibly nervous. He kept wiping his hands on his pants, glancing at the crowd of young men and women waiting with them. Brano, though, ignored the others and kept his eyes on Madai, which only increased the man’s panic. Then the yellow streetcar approached; above its front window perched a decorative red hammer-and-sickle.

  They rode the bumping car westward to Blaha Lujza Square, then walked south along the busy shopping boulevard that looped around the city, split by sporadic electric trams. Brano’s gaze wandered in a Balkan manner, taking in the exceptional faces of the Magyar women bound in their long coats and hats—pale cheeks, bold eyes. When they reached Rákóczi Square Park, Madai stopped beside a tree. “I can’t take you any farther than this.”

  There were two militiamen loitering on the opposite corner of the park, smoking in the cold. “How can I trust
someone I haven’t met?” asked Brano.

  “It’s impossible. You know that. You just have to believe me.”

  The two militiamen noticed them and began to walk in their direction. “But what am I going to tell the Sorokas?”

  “I don’t care what you tell them. I’m doing all of you a great favor, and I don’t have time for this.”

  Brano set down his bags. “Don’t look, but two militia are coming over here.”

  Madai paled. “Do you understand now? Go. Meet me back at Kerepesi in two hours and we’ll return together. Can you manage that?”

  Brano smiled and held up his hand in farewell, as if they were old friends. “Szia.”

  “Szia,” Madai replied, adding the other two bags to his load. They turned and walked in opposite directions. The militiamen, still far away, stopped again and rested against the fence of a small playground empty of children.

  Despite a decade’s passage, there was still lingering evidence of the ’56 uprising in the bullet holes scratched in the Habsburg masonry he passed on his way down Rákóczi út toward the Danube. Workers in blue coveralls passed on the street, preceded by clouds of breath; women tapped by on well-worn heels; children stumbled along, packed tight in winter wear—as best he could tell, he was alone. He stepped inside the gloomy splendor of the Parisian Arcade at number 5 Ferenciek Square.

  The dark, domed ceiling was stained glass, and the walls carved, blackened wood. A few stores hid in here, but he was only interested in the one at the arcade’s elbow, where it turned to exit at Kigyó utca: the Párisi Udvar Könyvesbolt.

  There were stacks of books in the window, where Brano paused, scanning titles, then shortened his focus to the glass-reflection of the archway where he’d entered—empty. He went inside.

  The only customers were two women standing together before a display of picture books about the city. From their mutterings and their quality clothes, it was obvious they were Yugoslav tourists. He went to the counter, where an old man with glasses read the day’s Magyar Hirlap.

  “Jó napot.”

  The man looked up. “Jó napot kívánok. Tessék.”

  Brano placed his fingertips on the counter, leaned a little closer, and said that he was interested in a book on First World War automobile electronics.

  The man opened his mouth, paused, and said, “Talán Debrecenben, a Déry Múzeumban megtalálja.” Perhaps you should try the Déri Museum in Debrecen.

  “I don’t have time. Maybe you have something on the Russian Enlightenment?”

  The old man stood up, nodding. “In the back … I think we have some titles for you.”

  Brano followed him into a small room filled with boxes. The man pushed his glasses closer to his eyes and examined him. “This is a surprise. I haven’t heard from anyone in a while.”

  “I need to talk to az Orvos.” The Doctor.

  The man stroked his gray cheek. “Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll tell you what. In a half hour, be at the Grand Hotel Margitsziget. The bar. You know how to get there? Need some tram tickets?”

  Brano nodded. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be there.”

  Váci utca was just around the corner, and he walked the pedestrian avenue with tourists from other corners of the Empire who gazed into store windows. There were more tourists here than back in the Capital, and perhaps that added to Brano’s sense of dislocation—everything was still so strange. All this place did was remind him of the understocked shopping streets that branched off of Victory Square back home, and when he got to the Beograd Landing and looked across the broad Danube to the Royal Palace in Buda, it only reminded him of Mihai Boulevard, which ran alongside the Tisa and faced the less than grandiose Canal District.

  He caught the number 2 tram, which carried him north along the Danube, looping around the Parliament, then to the end of the line where Balassi Balint ran into the Margit Bridge. He walked quickly across, coat tight against the Danube winds, and entered Margit Island at the bridge’s midpoint.

  He was running late, so he did not loiter with the occasional chilled tourists who stood around the dry Habsburg fountain and wandered the parks. Hands deep in his pockets, he half-jogged through the thickening woods until he saw the empty outdoor tables behind the Grand Hotel.

  Around the front, he paused again beneath the long awning. Behind him, through a wall of bare trees, the Danube flowed. He seemed to still be alone.

  Inside, he walked past a long lobby filled with men reading newspapers in many languages. Diplomats, Western tourists and businessmen, and spies. Brano had known so many hotel lobbies in his lifetime and had often been one of those men pretending to care about the current events of the world.

  He continued ahead, up a few steps to a wide, marble-lined lounge littered with faux-Habsburg furniture and a small bar along the right wall. The chairs were empty except one in the opposite corner, where a young English couple sat with a pile of suitcases, arguing tiredly.

  Brano took a stool, nodding at the fat bartender. “Egy tejeskávét kérek.”

  The bartender started up his coffee machine, and over the gurgle asked, “Cigarette?”

  Brano shook his head. “I’ve quit five times.”

  “Six is the magic number.”

  The bartender grinned, took out a pack, and offered one to Brano. “Who comes up with these passwords? I think they must be feeding him opiates.”

  “I know someone convinced it’s a computer under Yalta.”

  “A computer wouldn’t be creative enough. Would it?”

  “I have no idea, Orvos.”

  The Doctor placed a caffe latte in front of Brano, then a dish of crackers, taking one for himself.

  “Better watch those,” said Brano. “You’re getting fat.”

  “I’m getting settled, that’s what I’m getting. Married two years ago, and all she does is cook. I think she’s trying to ruin me for other women.”

  “She’s a smart girl.”

  The Doctor forced a laugh and wiped the counter. “So what the hell are you doing in Budapest, Brano?”

  “I thought maybe you’d know.”

  “I know a few things, but I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “I’m trying to close down an operation. Didn’t think it would bring me this far. Do you have a pencil?”

  The Doctor took one out of his breast pocket, and Brano wrote on a napkin.

  “Roman”—Volga GAZ-21, UZ-546: path: Nienaszów, Toki, Nw.-

  Źmigród, Kity, Krempna

  “Jaroslaw”—deliveryman, safe house over Hungarian border

  “Adam Madai” (not alias)—maize farm east of Pest

  Madai’s contact in 8th District, near Rákózi Park

  The Doctor glanced at the list, then slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll hand this over.”

  “We’ll be leaving for Austria soon. I don’t know the route, but it doesn’t matter. Send some men to Adam Madai’s this evening, and we can learn the rest from him.”

  “No problem.”

  “This is important,” said Brano. “I’m in a bind with Yalta, and to tell the truth I’m scared. I certainly don’t want to end up in Austria.”

  The Doctor winked at him. “Nothing to worry about. We’ll wrap this up for you and send you back a hero. You won’t dirty yourself with Austrian soil.” He took Brano’s empty cup. “Better go now. The manager will be checking on me soon. But take this.” He reached behind the counter and took out a copy of The Spark. “Keep it. You might be interested in page two.”

  When Brano reached Kerepesi út, having taken a tram south from the bridge through the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh districts, Madai was rounding the corner behind him. They met beside the truck without shaking hands. “I’ve been around this block four times,” said Madai. “Standing still makes me feel conspicuous.”

  They left town again along the same road, neither speaking until they were out of the city. Brano cleared his throat.
“So you made contact?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s all settled, Comrade Sev.”

  “You don’t want to tell me?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. We’ll be met by someone else, who will take over.”

  “The man you contacted?”

  “Probably.”

  Brano looked at Madai’s hand tapping the wheel, and the blank eyes watching the road. He imagined Madai complaining to his contact about the ex–state security officer who came with him into town, and the contact, alarmed, reminding Madai of the techniques of vagueness. Don’t give him silence—let him trust you. But avoid details at all cost.

  Madai kept the plans vague with the Sorokas at dinner. Jan nodded; he knew the routine. But Lia shook her head over her soup. She asked Brano if it all made sense to him as well.

  Brano said it did, but he was still distracted by the newspaper he’d dumped in a garbage can on the edge of Margit Island. He had opened The Spark during that long walk back through the woods, and before scanning the headlines on page two, he had seen that it was yesterday’s paper. That only made his surprise more acute when he found the photograph of himself halfway down the second page, an old one from his file, under the headline:

  MAJOR BRANO SEV, ARCH-MURDERER, FLEES THE COUNTRY!

  The words had nearly doubled him over; he had to fight to avoid vomiting in the trash can. And it wasn’t until that drive back to the farm that he understood what it meant. News of his escape had reached The Spark on the same day he had left. Pavel Jast had learned of it from his friend Roman, then passed the news on to his superiors, who had expediently printed it in The Spark. Pavel Jast had been working for Yalta all along.

  Lia was saying something.

  “Yes?”

  “What did you do in town, Comrade Sev?”

  “Since I couldn’t meet our host’s friend, I walked by the Danube.”

  “Pretty, was it?”

  “I prefer our stretch of the Tisa. Not as grand, maybe, but it has its charm.”