by Cathy Ace
He looked surprised as he raised his almost-full bottle of Borsodi. “I don’t seem to be able to keep up with you.” Even though he giggled like a naughty schoolboy, he made me feel as though I was being judged. His prissy, “I will take my time, thank you,” made me want to pull one end of his bow tie and flounce off.
Instead, I managed a polite, “If you don’t mind, I’ll pop to get another for myself then, Patrik. I’ll see you later, maybe.” I didn’t hang about.
I wriggled my way toward the busy end of the boat. Milling about within the throng I felt uplifted by the snippets of conversation I overheard between staff and faculty, and within student huddles, though I noticed the lines between the different age groups were pretty sharply drawn and the cliques weren’t mixing much. The fee I’d paid for the trip included a buffet dinner, and I’d opted for what they referred to as the “optional beverage package,” which I discovered meant I could have as many soft drinks and beers, or glasses of a few nominated wines, as I liked. As I sucked on my second beer I suspected a slippery slope was ahead of me unless I switched to something non-alcoholic, and promised myself I’d do just that after the second bottle.
I was a little apprehensive when Zsófia, with the inevitable Laszlo in tow, approached me. I knew she wouldn’t want to talk about her family while we were in the company of others, but everything I’d discovered about her circumstances weighed heavily on my already overloaded shoulders.
“It is good to see you, Professor Morgan,” said Laszlo loud enough to be heard above the babble. “This is a good night, is it not? I see you have a beer. May I bring you another?”
“Thanks, I just started it,” I said, holding my half-empty bottle toward him.
“Cheers!” he said in English, clinking the neck of his bottle against mine.
I returned the action and repeated it with Zsófia, then noted, “I was told earlier this isn’t something Hungarians do. Indeed, it was suggested to me they haven’t done it since 1848.”
The two youngsters exchanged a significant look and giggled. “Was it Professor Matyas who told you this?” asked Laszlo, grinning.
I shrugged, knowing they’d both understand.
“Ignore him,” said Zsófia, bending toward my ear. “He’s a funny little man who thinks himself a nationalist. He has no idea everyone thinks he’s hilarious.”
“He’s not funny, he’s dangerous, Zsófia,” said Laszlo in a lower voice. “I keep telling you this. He’s not the sort of man you laugh at. He looks at people as though he knows all their secrets. And he’s so sly, I bet he does.”
“Come off it,” guffawed the girl. “He’s creepy, yes, but he’s a buffoon, and we all know it. But he must be respected because he is a professor, so we all keep quiet and pay attention in his classes, and listen to him drone on and on about the paper he was involved with a hundred years ago. I don’t think he’s published anything much himself; he’s only ever co-authored.”
“No originality,” observed Laszlo sagely.
The young can be so earnest, even while being illogically idealistic and judgmental. I decided not to comment. It was more fun to watch the scene play out.
“The one thing you can be certain about is, if he were a part of a group, he’d be the least dynamic person in it,” said Laszlo, nudging Zsófia’s arm.
The girl played along, acknowledging the boy’s joke about Patrik’s area of specialism, and I gave him a weak smile in response to his little dig at the man who was, after all, my co-worker—even if only for a little while. “He worked with Hollingsworth, in Vancouver,” I said, trying to give my colleague the benefit of the doubt.
“Don’t we know it,” replied Laszlo, rolling his eyes.
Zsófia agreed, “He mentions it in every class, without fail. It was his shining hour, he tells us. It seems he peaked early.” She caught the slight rebuke in my eyes and changed the subject. “But enough about him, what shall we do tonight, professor? Would you like to see the sights as we cruise? You should; it’s the best way to see the city, from the river. Will you be a tourist tonight?”
Suddenly the idea of huddling into my coat on a cool—okay, extremely chilly, but at least less noisy—outer deck seemed appealing.
“I might do just that. We seem to have stopped turning, so I suppose we’ll head off now.”
“We’ll come with you,” said Zsófia with enthusiasm. A few minutes later I was wrapped in my coat and scarf, the icy breeze chilling my nose. The three of us found a spot out of the worst of the wind to take in the sights gliding past us. The sky was black; no stars or moon showed through the clouds, which was the perfect backdrop for the floodlit beauties of Budapest. I enjoyed the maniacally Gothic parliament building, the graceful swags of the suspension bridges, the stark white of the Fisherman’s Bastion and Royal Palace, and the glistening reflections of it all on the inky waters of the Danube. I struggled to stop the “Blue Danube Waltz” from playing in my head, but failed miserably, as I suspected every tourist did. Zsófia and Laszlo threw me titbits of history as we moved along at a stately pace, but eventually it got too cold for us all, so we moved back into the warmth of the interior areas.
“Let’s go here before they open the buffet,” said Zsófia, steering me toward the WC. Once inside the tiny compartment she whispered, “Are we on for lunch tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’ll arrive around two, as you asked. I should have finished reading your uncle’s books by then, and Bud has said he’ll send me any updates he gets by email, though I don’t have much fresh news for you.”
“Anything at all?” pleaded the girl, whose face, like mine, was pink with cold.
We both used toilet tissue to tackle our suddenly runny noses. “I know you’re intimately familiar with your uncle’s books, but have you ever considered why he writes them? I mean, why those tales were inside him, needing to be told?”
Zsófia stopped tidying her windswept hair and stared at me, the light of an epiphany in her eyes. “You’ve been reading them as a psychologist, haven’t you? I should have done that,” she snapped, clenching her little fists with annoyance. “I never thought of them that way before. I’ve only ever considered them as something he’s made up. As pure fiction.”
“I understand why you would do that, but you’re right, I’ve been reading them in a different way, and I have a few questions for your mother. Do you think she’d be open to that?”
The girl clutched my arms. “Cait, there’s been such a change in Mama. It’s as though a dam has burst. She’s spoken to me about her young life in Canada more in the past week than for the whole of my life. I’ve even learned she used to play the piano and enjoyed singing when she was a girl—though she hasn’t done any of that since Ilona’s death, it seems.” Zsófia added, “I know she drinks too much sometimes. She’s been that way ever since Uncle Valentin was diagnosed. She wasn’t like it before, and she’s been a little better this week. It’s like having my old mama back—but even better. I know this is difficult for her, but I think maybe we’re doing the right thing.” She locked herself in the cubicle and shouted, “Not a word out there, okay?”
“Okay,” I replied, then a woman I vaguely recognized, who worked in the payroll office, squeezed into the waiting area, and I chatted with her as loudly as I could, so Zsófia knew we had company.
The buffet was plentiful, varied, and welcome. I’d only had cheese and bread for lunch, so engrossed in Valentin’s otherworld of warriors and bloodshed had I become. To be frank, the amount of carnage in his work didn’t exactly stimulate the appetite.
I didn’t really need Laszlo’s kind explanations of the dishes on offer; due to my many visits to various butcher shops over the past weeks they were all pretty familiar. The obligatory steaming goulash, crisply roasted chicken dusted with paprika, glistening mounds of soft polenta, and perfectly spiced cabbage rolls all found their way into my rumbling tummy, and I even managed to squeeze in a couple mouthfuls of apple strudel with whipped cream. I thanke
d my stars I’d worn an elasticated waistband.
As we ate and drank our fill—I was glad I’d made the change from beer to iced tea, because I’d have exploded otherwise—I couldn’t help but wonder about Zsófia’s own relationship with alcohol and drugs. If her mother had been drinking heavily for a year or so maybe Zsófia had become accustomed to someone she loved downing a bottle or two of wine each day; I noticed she, like her mother, glugged her drinks rather than sipping them. It made me recall the time my now-late grandmother told me to look after myself when I started dating Angus: “It’s not what he drinks, it’s how he drinks it,” she’d said, rather enigmatically. As time passed I realized she was right; having grown up the daughter of a pub landlord, I guessed she’d seen her fair share of people who drank in many different ways and, in Angus’s case, she’d nailed it. Was I seeing the evidence that maybe Alexa’s love of booze was something her daughter had inherited? Or was I merely witnessing a young girl blowing off some steam at an event that had been organized with the sole purpose of encouraging conviviality? I hoped it was the latter.
As the gypsy violinist who’d been playing throughout dinner rounded the end of our table I saw a light of recognition fill his eyes. Zsófia mouthed a warning at him, placing her hands in a praying position. He smiled almost imperceptibly. He didn’t stay at our table for more than two minutes and, despite his skills, I was grateful, because I’d just about reached my fill of dramatic, tragic violin for the night. My watch, and the familiar sights gliding past the windows for the second time, told me it wouldn’t be long before the boat docked at its berth.
“I must leave you ladies for a moment,” said Laszlo, and we both allowed him to kiss our hands elaborately as he disappeared between the tables.
“You know the violinist?” I asked Zsófia.
“He’s a friend of my great-aunt Klara. In fact, I think he might even be related to her. He’s Zoltán, and he’s been doing this forever. He’s won medals. He’s got real Roma blood in him, like Klara.”
I jumped in. “Your mother said when your grandmother Ilona escaped from Hungary in 1956, her brother Tamás was left behind and that he became an informant during the Communist era. Do you think he would have escaped too if he could, or was he a true believer in the socialist ways?”
With her face glowing in the warm, humid atmosphere, and her perfectly applied red lipstick almost removed by her food, Zsófia Takács looked younger than her twenty years at that moment. She looked terribly vulnerable, despite her coiffed updo and retro-glam dinner dress.
“I don’t know,” she answered gloomily. “Until last weekend, I thought I knew everything about my family, but it seems I don’t know much at all. No one had ever said anything to me about what Tamás did before then. When Mama told you, that was the first time she’d mentioned it. Ever. I never knew why I wasn’t supposed to see them. It was just a rule Mama never explained. He and Klara haven’t said anything about it either. Mama and Uncle keep everything bottled up. I thought that was normal and didn’t question it. I thought it was all because of Grandmother’s murder. But I’m beginning to realize that Tamás and Klara have their own secrets too. Maybe no one ever talked to me about anything because there are so many secrets in our family.” She cupped her chin in her hands and leaned toward me across the table. “Secrets are horrible. They are so foolish, too. No one was ever helped by keeping a secret.”
“You’ve asked me to keep quite a few,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but they are important secrets.”
“I suppose it all depends on perspective,” I replied. I spotted Laszlo making his way back to our table. “Come on, we’ll have time enough to discuss this tomorrow, at your home, over lunch. I’ll see you there, right?” I stood.
Flashing a brief smile at me, Zsófia also stood, then she tilted her head coquettishly at the returning Laszlo, saying, “You said you’d walk me home?”
Laszlo became three inches taller and glowed. “But of course. It would be my honor.”
They departed toward the cloakroom, and I was left alone. Irritatingly, this made me an easy target for the dawdling Patrik Matyas, who made a beeline for me, his eyes glittering conspiratorially. I was trapped—I couldn’t leave without my coat, and the line wasn’t getting any shorter, it seemed. I cursed my lack of forward planning, and decided to endure the man’s presence with as much good grace as I could summon.
I joined the line, and he joined me. We exchanged pleasantries about the food, the sights, the violinist’s talents. He was being obsequious, but I could cope with that. I didn’t even gag when he began to wring his bony hands, Uriah Heep-like, as he described the delightful conversations he’d had with the dean. I made all the right noises in all the right places in our fairly one-sided chat. Then he crossed a line.
“I see you’re becoming quite friendly with the Takács girl,” he said smarmily. “You should be careful. I’ve told you about her—she’s dangerous to know.”
The man seemed to flutter with delight at the merest hint of scandal. I didn’t want to betray Zsófia, or her family, but I felt the right thing to do would be to press him on the matter. I believed I would have done it even if I hadn’t known the girl as well as I did.
“You say Zsófia’s made accusations that have ruined a man’s career, Patrik. I must say I feel it’s highly unprofessional to gossip with colleagues about students. If that’s normal practice here at the HUB, I have to say I don’t care for it.”
“It must be the same at your university,” replied the man, sounding surprised I’d spoken so abruptly. Avid gossipers never seem to think what they do is wrong, I have found.
“No, it’s not. At least, it’s not in the circles with which I am familiar. A person’s reputation is a delicate thing. It’s not to be smeared in the public arena when you have no facts to back up your accusations. Unguarded words can damage a person’s entire life. You told me you weren’t even sure she was the student involved, yet you continue to press the matter. Why is that, Patrik? Surely, as a psychologist, you would expect me to question whether that says more about you and your personality than that of the person about whom you are speaking?”
I reached the front of the line then, and handed my ticket and a tip to the small, round woman who’d spent the past few hours behind the wooden counter of the tiny cloakroom. Patrik didn’t respond with words; instead he looked at me with a mixture of shock and pity. Grabbing my coat, I pulled it on with a swift motion and moved aside to allow the person behind me to step forward.
“Forgive me, Patrik, I need to get back to my apartment as quickly as I can. I have a date with my husband to connect via Skype in—” I glanced at my watch, “less than an hour. I need to get myself a cab and get home. I expect I’ll run into you at the HUB next week. Good night.”
I escaped as quickly as I could, feeling I needed shower.
Official Reports
I CHANGED INTO MY SNUGGLY, chocolate-brown wrap before curling up on the sofa to talk to Bud. I couldn’t get warm, and wondered if I was coming down with something; maybe all of the freeze-sweat cycles of the evening, and mixing with a hundred souls, some of whom were nursing winter colds, was about to take its toll. I hoped not. I didn’t have time to be sick.
When Bud’s face popped up on my screen I could tell he was way ahead of me; red-rimmed eyes, an already pink-tipped nose, and a general pallor announced his sorry, infected state before his croaky, nasal tones confirmed it. We commiserated with each other, and both agreed on having just a quick chat. Having established the state of his parents, I asked, “Any news about the Seszták case?” Bud visibly bucked up a little.
“I have to admit I haven’t gotten around to doing much about it, what with Mom and all, but Jack White’s at it like a terrier. He’s great, Cait. I couldn’t have a had a better mentor, or friend and colleague, and now he’s pulled through for us again, just like he did when we were mixed up with all that business in Mexico. To be honest, I don’t think he
needed much of a push to revisit the case, and he seems to be—well, I guess ‘enjoying it’ isn’t the right thing to say, but you know what I mean. He called me last night, before this bug thing knocked me sideways, so I was able to take down some good notes. But I haven’t had the time or energy to type them up, so how about I read them to you now?”
“If you’re up to it, and you’ve got time.”
“Yeah, now’s as good a time as any. Mom and Dad are having lunch. Ready? Okay, here we go. Most of the senior guys who worked the case with Jack are dead now, so he’s only managed to track down one fellow junior officer of the time. They’ve compared their recollections, which won’t be as detailed as the sort of thing you could come up with, but I think it’s worth getting the extra point of view. Everything we have so far is accurate, as far as they can tell, and they agreed the only key fact not released to the press was the belief that a rock was used to kill Ilona Seszták. After Jack joined the Vancouver PD, this other guy stayed on, and he confirmed the case was never closed, but they kept following tips, especially a year later, when they did a reconstruction of the known events. They even had a woman dress up like the victim and mix with the crowds at the next convocation, hoping she might jog someone’s memory. Jack’s old colleague said it was quite a getup, by the way. Reckoned Ilona modeled her look on Zsa Zsa Gabor. Seems a few students came forward with recollections of possible sightings on the day of the crime, but that was it. All dead ends. Of course, a lot of people who were there a year earlier wouldn’t have been there for the reconstruction, but they thought it was worth a try. The husband did an appeal for information, and they used some pretty new-for-the-day techniques, but this is 1976 we’re talking about, so no social media to use, or anything like it, of course.”
Bud paused to wipe his nose so I took the chance to observe, “It’s a shame. This is just the sort of case, where young people might have been witnesses, when social media could have made a difference. At the party tonight you’ve no idea how many of the students were sitting next to each other, all the while texting or taking photos to post to their accounts. It’s a different world now, isn’t it? Imagine the wealth of information an investigation like this could have garnered if everyone had been using their cameras and maybe snapping shots of Ilona Seszták on the day of her death. Oh—now that’s an idea! I’ll get in touch with the folks at UVan to find out if there was an official photographer on the day who might have got some candid shots of the proceedings.”