The Corpse with the Ruby Lips

by Cathy Ace

  I decided my time might be better spent with Patrik than Zsófia, so wished her and her fellow musicians luck, thanked them for the beer, and wended my way back to my original seat. Settling in I asked Patrik, “Who was that chap who came to speak to you? A friend of yours?”

  Patrik pursed his mouth into his characteristically prudish bud, then smiled, tilting his head. “Laszlo was asking the same thing. As I told him, I do not know the man, he simply commented we were the oldest people here, and he was glad he wasn’t the only person over fifty to enjoy the music of today.”

  His response was too smooth for my liking, and I didn’t believe a word of it, but I chose to not comment.

  “Another six months and I’ll be joining you in that age group,” I replied.

  “Are you that old?” asked Laszlo, grinning wickedly.

  Patrik and I shared a brief moment of strained bonhomie as we discussed the views of the young on what constitutes “old,” then the general hubbub died down as the accordionist took the stage. I looked around; the Russian was nowhere to be seen. Would he miss Zsófia’s performance after all?

  I needn’t have worried; the musicians took the stage alone and delighted the crowd with two stirring instrumental numbers that owed more to the roots of Roma music than anything else. The Russian was back at his table before Zsófia stepped up to the microphone, and I wondered what she’d sing. The crowd showed its delight by becoming almost unnervingly quiet for her first piece, which was a haunting ballad sung in Hungarian. Next the audience hummed along as she sang the Sinatra standard “One for My Baby,” which I’ve always loved. She continued with a mix of standards in English, Roma songs, and a few pieces I recognized as being reinvented versions of up-to-date hits. Finally, after about fifty minutes, she wrapped up her set with a hand-clapping, foot-stomping local favorite to rapturous applause and a good deal of cheering. I was happy for her, and applauded madly. Laszlo was on his feet, glowing and screaming. Patrik clapped politely, his mouth pursed. The Russian was typing on his phone. I didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign.

  Following the general rush to get drinks after the performance, the audience settled again to a noisy level of conversation, and I decided it was time I made my way back to Zsófia. I leaned toward Laszlo, “I’m off to congratulate our songbird. Coming?” The young man shot up and we told Patrik we’d be back soon.

  Finally able to talk to each other alone as we moved slowly across the room, I confirmed that Laszlo had no idea why Patrik had shown up, and hadn’t heard what the Russian had said to him. We agreed we’d take things slowly with Zsófia and not mention the record producer until she did.

  When we arrived at her table a good deal of hugging ensued, and we shared the jug of beer I’d brought so we could toast the performers. I was delighted, and apprehensive, when I saw the Russian approaching. Zsófia was on her feet in an instant and shook the man’s hand as though he were royalty. The accordionist gave up his seat, then leaned in to listen to the man introduce himself as Stanislav Samokhin. He handed out cards, his fingers lingering on Zsófia’s as she took one. I felt everything in me clench—not just because of the way his eyes were sliding across Zsófia’s bosom, but because the way he presented himself wasn’t endearing at all; there’s only so much bling a person can wear before you begin to wonder why they need to have that much gold about their person at all times.

  As a psychologist I’m aware that what many refer to as “gut instinct” is, in fact, the accumulated wisdom of their experience. As someone adept at reading people, I often find myself an impassionate observer; not on this occasion. I decided to trust my assessment of the man, and opened with, “Would you have worked with any artists an old fogey like myself might have heard of?”

  Stanislav shrugged. “Maybe not.”

  He rattled off a list of names—some of which sounded like mere syllables rather than people—and I caught just enough to be able to reply, “Didn’t a couple of those people die recently? One was a drug overdose, another a shooting, I believe.”

  Another shrug. “Sometimes people I represent early in career move away from me and become involved in lifestyle that I, of course, do not control. It is sad.” His accent was a strange mix of heavy Russian and American twang.

  “Sad, maybe, but surely you work with these artists, and their management teams, to try to ensure their wellbeing?”

  “I am also manager for some. When I am, I do.”

  His responses seemed to be worryingly conditional.

  “Do you have a manager, Zsófia?” I asked. I knew she didn’t.

  The girl’s eyes opened wide. She looked panicked. “Not yet. But maybe if an experienced producer agreed to work with me, I might find a company to manage me.” She lowered her eyes and bowed her head. A lamb to the slaughter?

  “Surely you should attend to that before signing any contracts. And I bet Mr. Samokhin agrees with me when I say it’s not ideal for a producer and manager to be one and the same—there’d be a conflict of interests.”

  The Russian didn’t shrug this time. Tilting his head toward me he said, “Who are you? Her mother?”

  “Cait’s just my professor,” snapped Zsófia.

  I understood her reaction, but it stung. I’d been working on her grandmother’s case, and I’d roped Bud into it back in Canada to the extent that he’d come to the attention of some government people I didn’t like the sound of. I’d put many hours of reading, talking, and thought into the whole thing, and had even exposed myself to the infighting of her family. Now I was being cut off with a “just my professor?” Nope—not going to happen.

  I stared her down as I replied cuttingly, “That’s correct, I am just this girl’s professor, and a visiting one at that, but I can tell you now that, even if you offer her a recording contract on the spot, I will do whatever I can to talk her out of either accepting or signing it. Career-making decisions shouldn’t be made in the heat and enthusiasm of the moment. If you think she can be a hit, others will too.”

  Zsófia’s mouth fell open. “Cait, you have no right to speak for me like this.”

  I silently admitted to myself she was right, but defiantly stuck my chin toward the Russian.

  The man grinned. Even his teeth were gold. “You have someone to fight for you? Maybe this woman should be your manager. I do not talk business at venue, with person who is not a manager. Is too important. If you have people who are loyal to you this way, Zsófia, you listen to them. I think you have good voice. Others will agree. I want to make money from your talent, so will others. I believe I can handle your career so we both benefit. Call my number. I hope you call. You are good. I am best at making the good better. But I do not need confrontation like this. I am in Budapest two days more, then I go back to Moscow.”

  Stanislav stood, bowed, and left—his otherwise dramatic exit marred by the fact he had to wait while a boy carrying four jugs of beer passed our table.

  I watched him leave, then turned to see Zsófia staring daggers at me.

  “You did not catch any monkeys,” said Laszlo to me quietly, looking worried.

  I cursed inwardly, and set about rebuilding bridges between me and my student, whose chin was beginning to pucker. The accordionist looked at me as though he wanted to smack me over the head with his instrument, and his two colleagues both had their arms around the young singer’s shoulders in an attempt to comfort her. They shielded her from me as though I was dangerous, and she accepted their protection.

  Eventually, she wiped her nose and looked at me. Her eyes were red, her lipstick smudged, her eyeliner just a memory. She appeared about twelve years old. “You and your stupid words—you just made that man angry. Maybe you have destroyed my best chance to get away from here, to be a success. Why? Why would you speak to him like that? He is an important, successful man. He has made many great careers.”

  “And he’s overseen some spectacular falls from grace too, Zsófia. He specializes in propelling young, solo female sin
gers into the spotlight, working them until they collapse, then watching them slide down the charts until almost no one remembers them—and all this in about two years, according to his track record.” I’d spent an hour doing my own online research into the man back at my apartment.

  The usually meek girl’s eyes glittered with disdain. “Fashionable performers have to make the most of their chances, then they will not be fashionable anymore. I could be a different type of star—I love the old songs, and I could appeal to more people. You saw how the audience at the New York Café liked me—they were all ancient. Like you. If they enjoy me, and my own age enjoys me, I can succeed. I can be better than his other girls. I can have a great career and leave this little city and everyone in it behind me. I won’t have to perform in grubby student bars like this anymore—I can have great musicians on stage with me, people who really know what they’re doing.”

  As she spoke, I noticed her three accompanists become rigid with shock. Laszlo’s expression folded into puzzlement. All four of them were unprepared for Zsófia’s display of self-belief. Having seen the girl so nervous before appearing on stage just a few weeks ago, and even earlier that night, I, too, wondered about the source of her seemingly newfound confidence. I didn’t believe I was witnessing true bravado, nor hubris. I looked at her almost untouched beer—maybe she’d taken a few shots of something stronger earlier on for courage, and it had worked its way through her system to become aggressiveness? Maybe she’d taken a few hits of something other than alcohol. The idea scratched uncomfortably at the back of my brain, and I ran through the types of drugs that might have been at work. Her confidence, her railing at her family, Laszlo, and me as all trying to work against her . . . maybe cocaine, with its subversive cocktail of boosted energy and accompanying potential paranoia?

  Of course I kept my thoughts to myself, and also watched my tablemates. The two young men who’d been comforting Zsófia had removed their arms from her and were nursing their drinks. Laszlo was speaking to her, low and fast, in Hungarian, assuring her I was just looking out for her best interests. The accordionist had retaken his seat and pulled out a running order of pieces of music to study. Zsófia pushed Laszlo away, and stormed off toward the ladies’ washroom as best she could, given the crush. I mouthed to the distraught Laszlo that I’d follow her, and then I did, catching up with her at the doorway, which was blocked by a line of other females all keen to use the facilities.

  Using an old-fashioned compact from inside her fire-engine red purse, Zsófia studiously ignored me as I spoke to her in tones as low as possible.

  “You can’t go rushing into things,” was the summary of my speech, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. As truculent as a teen, she turned her back on me, and I wavered. Then the dam burst.

  Grabbing her shoulder, I spun her around and addressed her loudly, “Zsófia, don’t you dare treat me this way. You are my student, but we crossed a line when you asked me to look into that matter back in Canada for you.” Even now I didn’t want to break her confidence in public. “You have brought me to meet your family, about whom you have told me many secrets—and you’ve encouraged me to unearth others. You trusted me to know all that, and about your uncle’s work and your role in it. I have accommodated you, and I’ve dedicated more than a little time to helping you and your family, as has my husband. When I spoke out in front of that odious man, I did so for your sake—not mine. In a few weeks I’ll have left here, and your future success or failure as a singer will be neither something over which I will have any control, nor something in which I will have any part to play. But while I am linked to you by a mutual trust, I will speak out when I feel I must. That man has a questionable track record when it comes to young women under his supervision, and I believe you have the chance to succeed with or without his controlling your future. You have shut out your family—except your great-aunt, from whom you are supposed to be cut off in any case—from this part of your life. In some cultures, you are seen as an adult; as a psychologist I know you are still developing your mental and moral map to manage your life. Since there was no one else to speak for you, I had to do so. So listen to me, will you?”

  Zsófia sneered at me, “You have worked on my behalf? For my family? No. It is all for you. I knew about you and your love of puzzles before you got here. You think you are so clever, unmasking killers wherever you go, working with the police, writing papers that talk about victims as though you care. Now, I am finished with you. I do not want you in my life anymore. Good-bye.”

  I was speechless. She’d used me! She’d researched me, found my weaknesses, and just plain used me. And I’d fallen for it. I’d actually liked her. I turned, shoved my way back to my original table, grabbed my coat, and said good night to a confused-looking Patrik, who was still sitting there sipping a warm beer. I don’t lose my temper often, but I knew I was at a point where I shouldn’t say anything more, so leaving was all I could do. I silently cursed myself, the entire Takács/Seszták clan, the weather—which was bitter—and the slippery streets. I eventually got to the nearest taxi rank, and then sat fuming the entire cab ride back to my apartment. I texted Bud, who said we could Skype. The minute I saw his face, I burst into tears and babbled the whole evening’s events out to him.

  “I’m so hurt, Bud. You know me—you’re the only one who does. I’ve gone through so much of my life with walls built around myself, not letting anyone in. It was the only way I could cope after the way I allowed Angus to hurt me and grind me down into nothingness. Then you came along, and I allowed myself to open up a bit. Now this. See? I’ve been right all along to not trust anyone. I feel so stupid. So . . .”

  “Human? Cait, don’t cry. I can tell you’re feeling fifty percent angry and fifty percent hurt, but try to make those feelings subside into realizing you’re just another human being, please? You trusted someone. Isn’t it better to trust and be let down occasionally, than to never trust at all? And it’s me saying this—a cop with a track record of working out who to trust and who to use.”

  I wiped my eyes. “At this moment, Bud—no, I don’t think it’s better to trust and be let down. I think it’s better to act as though everyone’s going to be horrible to me, because they usually are. Eventually.”

  “Oh my darling wife, don’t say that.” I knew we both wished we were in each other’s arms. “You might not see it yourself, but when we worked together and were just friends, one of the aspects I noticed about you was how you shut people down, and shut people out. It was something most people noticed—you didn’t trust anyone. Of course neither I nor they knew at the time that was because of what you’d been through with Angus; we both know, professionally speaking, how devastating it can be to endure an abusive relationship . . . but I don’t think you’ve ever really come to terms with how very much he damaged you. Now I think you’re beginning to, and you need to do that to heal. I know it’s what you’d say to someone else in your situation. I’m right, arent’ I?””

  I knew he was.

  Bud reached forward and pointed at his wedding ring. “Look at this, Cait—look what we’ve done, what we’ve agreed to do. Our rings tell the world we’ve committed to one another. But we also have to commit to ourselves, to be whole for each other. I like to think our love has allowed you to let people in, to see people for who they can be beyond a collection of traits and behaviors like you usually do. As I say, you might not really have noticed how much you’ve opened up, but I have. And it’s not a change I want to see you unmake. Your life, our lives, can be so much richer if only you share your true self with others. I’m sorry this girl has let you down, Cait. But listen, she’s young; she probably doesn’t realize how hurtful her words were. Maybe she’ll apologize. It doesn’t mean you have to climb back into your protective shell and hide from everyone for the rest of your life.”

  As I blubbed aloud in my suddenly bleak apartment thousands of miles from the man I loved, I gave Bud’s words some thought. The bottle of Bombay Sapph
ire gin in the fridge, the packs of cigarettes dotted around the place? They spoke of the new Cait trying to act like the old Cait because, finding myself alone again, I didn’t know what else to do. Old patterns of behavior can be tough to break. In my heart I knew my husband was right; I’d changed a lot during the past couple of years and now was not the time to backtrack.

  Finally, Bud’s kind, gentle words had helped me calm down, and I listened to his soothing tones as he wound up with just what I needed to hear.

  “Don’t worry, Cait. I know how much you care. However high you might try to build those walls around you, you still care. But this? This is something you can walk away from with a clear conscience. You and I have done all we can.”

  “Yes,” I sniffed. “We have.”

  “I love you, Cait Morgan.”

  “Even when I wear horizontal stripes just to confound the fashion police, like I did tonight?”

  Bud smiled, which was all I needed to set me off again. “Even then.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you more.”

  “Love you most, Bud Anderson.”

  Silent Terror

  SATURDAY DAWNED BRIGHT AND CLEAR—and well below freezing. I dawdled over my coffee, did a little final polishing of my research paper, which I’d finished, and sat in front of the window taking in the view below me. Other than being herded about to HUB-organized events I’d seen relatively little of Budapest, so I decided I’d take a day for myself. I reckoned I deserved it, and hoped doing something a bit selfish would help me shrug off the terrible weight I was carrying on my shoulders after the events of the night before. The weather forecast suggested the temperature would be a balmy forty degrees Fahrenheit by noon, so I decided to head out by then, giving me about four hours before the thermometer began to plummet toward the promised low of twenty degrees.