The Corpse with the Ruby Lips

by Cathy Ace

  Despite knowing I could get a bus at the end of my road that would take me almost directly to the Fisherman’s Bastion—another of Budapest’s legacies from the 1896 Millennial celebration—I decided, instead, to take myself off to the aptly named House of Terror. I suspected I’d find it much more interesting to muse upon man’s inhumanity toward man, than to find myself mooching about in the chilly climes with hundreds of other tourists, all trying to take grinning selfies with the Danube at just the right spot in the background.

  By a little after one o’clock I was surrounded by all manner of exhibits telling the tale of two reigns of terror in Budapest—that of the far right under the Nazis for a year or so, and that of the Communist regime, which had lasted four decades. It was a grim museum, but fascinating too. Portraits of proud military types overlooked the tools of the most dreadful torture. The dark, dismal basement filled me with dread; I had the certain knowledge I could leave whenever I wanted, so I shivered alongside my largely silent fellow visitors at the thought that, for so many, it had been the last place they’d drawn breath.

  I watched the videos of the remnants of the Communist army leaving the city in the 1990s, then walked solemnly through one of the final parts of the exhibit—which showed row upon row of simply framed photographs of the Hungarians who had supported the Communist regime and helped it retain its iron grip on the populace. Grainy shots of the days when the false hope of the Hungarian Spring flourished were also displayed. The good people of Budapest had dragged the secret police and the informants—their neighbors and fellow citizens—out of hiding and strung them up. Knowing I was standing in the very building the secret police had used as its headquarters during both the Nazi and Communist occupations made the display seem even more viscerally real.

  I paused, recognizing a face I’d seen in the photos Zsófia had given me. Smiling down at me was a man named as Tamás Örsi, Informant. Here was the man I knew to be Zsófia Takács’s great-uncle, husband to the singer Klara, and brother of the woman whose death in Vancouver had become such a large part of my time in Budapest. It seemed fitting that in this bleak place I’d find a connection with the blackness I was feeling in my heart—remorse for having let loose at Zsófia the night before. I must have lingered in the same spot for several minutes, trying to decide if it would be wise to contact Zsófia to apologize; I had her cell number, after all.

  “They blight our lives, even now,” said a voice cracked with age from behind me. I turned and looked down into a wizened man’s face.

  “The informants were never charged?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “It is our national shame,” he said quietly. His strong accent told me he was Hungarian, his worn, old clothing, bowed back, and gnarled hands spoke of a heritage of hard, physical labor.

  “It must be difficult to cope with, especially if some of these people still live in your city,” I said.

  A smile showed two blackened teeth, and gums. “Difficult for us. Almost impossible for them.”

  “They are known and victimized?” I guessed that was what he meant.

  Showing tremendous shock and dismay he replied, “No, they are not victims. Two wrongs do not make a right. They are known and they are watched, as they once watched us. They are reported upon, as they once reported upon us. They know what it is like to have no privacy—a luxury we were all denied for so long. It is a type of justice.”

  I was thinking it sounded more like a form of retribution, but said, “Are many still living?”

  Beckoning me along the wall he pointed high. “Her? She was active until 1991. She was still young then, as you can see. She now lives on the Buda side of the river in a good house. When the Communists left she began to work for a Western advertising agency here, now she is in charge of it. Today she is forty-eight years old, has two daughters, one of whom has just married and will soon have children of her own—or maybe not. A dozen of us attended her daughter’s wedding and held up copies of this photograph. Some were the children of the people this woman informed upon. Their parents could not be there because they died under the Communists, some in this very building. We did not speak, we simply bore witness for ourselves and our loved ones.”

  I pondered the tragedy of which he spoke. “You think the children of those who informed should have their lives impacted even though they had nothing to do with their parents’ crimes?”

  “The children of those who died or suffered have to live with the results of the informants’ actions, why should the lives of the informants’ children be any different? Injustice has long arms. It reaches out and touches those who come afterward. Justice should do the same.” He didn’t sound bitter; it was clear he felt he was stating simple facts.

  “Justice is a complex concept,” I said. “Sometimes retribution wears justice as a mask. It takes wisdom to know the difference.”

  “Wisdom? Maybe I am not so wise then. I could not escape the clutches of those who held me here and beat me for a week, trying to make me tell them which of my friends had marched in the spring of 1956. We were happy in those days—we thought the Communists had gone for good. Why would we not smile and cheer at the young men and students with movie cameras who were waving our flag, themselves a part of our throngs? When the Communists came back, they seized those films and used them to identify the people who had marched. It was terrifying. We hid in basements, attics, or barns for months. Like rats, we lived. Someone told them where I was hiding. I never found out who did it.”

  He stared up at the rows of photographs. “Maybe it was one of these. I wish I knew.” His tone suggested the outcome for the culprit might not be good if he gained that knowledge.

  Turning back to me he continued, “After I was picked up, I was tortured, then sent away to a camp. I managed to survive for ten years. I was young and strong when they sent me there. They broke my back, but I wouldn’t die for them. They starved and froze me, but still I lived. Then they were done with me. I did not go to the streets to cheer when they finally left for good. I stayed at home, alone, and cried for the good friends I once had who were not alive to see that day. Now I am here, to bear witness. We must do it, or it will be repeated. Our government even now spies on us, and listens to everything we say and do on the Internet and on our telephones. How else can these people we keep close watch on suddenly change their plans so our observers lose them?”

  The bitterness in the man’s voice told me he wasn’t just feeling the pain of old wounds. These were fresh sources of anger.

  He thrust his chin, as best he could with his bowed back, toward the photographs. “Right, left—Nazi, Communist. It doesn’t matter what you call them. Victors, despots, even elected officials, they are all the same. Their currency is information. This place should be called the House of Terror and Information, because that is what they have always used to control us—our own words.”

  A group of five other people had joined us, and were silently listening to the elderly man with grim expressions, transfixed by his tale. When he paused, it was as though the spell was broken, and they turned away, peering watery-eyed up at the walls, not knowing what to say.

  “You have my sympathy for all you have been through. I hope that, sometimes, you are able to see the beauty of life, and enjoy it. Thank you for sharing your memories.” I shook the man’s hand warmly, and made my way outside into the bustle of a Saturday afternoon on Andrássy Avenue, trying to free myself from the shadow of the twentieth century’s horrors.

  After a few deep breaths of the chilly air, I decided to find myself a bar where I could get a coffee, a brandy, and maybe something sweet. I strode out, trying to put as much space between myself and the ominous House of Terror as I could as quickly as possible, heading toward the major crossroads area known as the Oktogon, which had the advantage of offering a choice of bars and a metro station.

  It also meant I was walking toward Zsófia’s home, but I told myself that was pure coincidence. I stopped in my tracks and had a
silent conversation with myself. I knew I’d have to pass her front door to reach my destination, so why was I going that way? I thought about Bud’s words the night before, and him telling me that Zsófia might regret what she’d said to me at the club and want to apologize. I tutted as I realized I should be the one apologizing. Yes, she was young. I wasn’t. Not anymore. I was staring fifty in the face and I should act it. I strode on, deciding it was time Cait Morgan held out an olive branch to a girl who, given her family circumstances, could probably do with one.

  As I got closer to Zsófia’s imposing home I found myself forming sentences I could use when I faced my student. Since I’m not used to apologizing I found it difficult to come up with anything more than a string of platitudes, and I knew I had to do better. What had Bud said? “Allow yourself to feel with your heart, Cait, not just think with that huge brain of yours.” Amid everything else he’d said, that was the suggestion that struck home at that moment. I had to allow myself to feel with my heart, and speak from it to Zsófia. I tugged at the bell pull, my nerves jangling, and waited.

  Nothing to Say

  I STOOD THERE FOR WHAT felt like an age trying to imagine a scenario in which there wasn’t a single person in the house, then I tugged at the bell pull again, and even tried the door itself. Of course it was locked, so I knocked. I could hear the family’s little dog yapping inside, and imagined it slithering across the marble floor to ward me off. I seemed to be there for hours, but I supposed it was only a matter of five minutes.

  Alexa was surprised to see me when she opened the door. “Cait! Were we expecting you?” She reeked of alcohol, though she looked steady on her feet, her eyes bright and focused.

  “Hello, Alexa. No, you weren’t. I was passing by and wondered if I could have a word with Zsófia. Is she at home?”

  Alexa seemed unsure. “I think so. I think she was with Valentin. Maybe it’s not a good time.” She didn’t open the door and invite me in, and I wondered if I’d get the chance to be magnanimous, as I’d planned.

  Both Alexa and I started as a piercing scream reached our ears. It was followed by a clattering of feet on one of the upper floors. I wasn’t sure how to react. Was this another everyday occurrence at the house? I watched Alexa to take my cue. She blanched.

  “That’s Zsófia, I’m sure of it,” she said, turning and abandoning me at the open door. She raced to the stairs and began to run up them. I hovered for a second or two, then decided it was best to follow her. I slammed the door behind me and followed my “hostess.”

  It took every ounce of energy I had to run up the stairs, and I silently cursed each cigarette I’d smoked in the past few weeks. The door to Valentin’s rooms was open and I dashed inside, panting. Both he and Zsófia were on the floor, each in some sort of medieval costume. Zsófia was half sitting up, rubbing her throat and moaning, her mother at her side. Valentin had a gash on his forehead, and a silvered helmet lay on the floor beside him, badly dented. He wasn’t moving.

  I could see Zsófia didn’t need my attention as well as that of her mother, so I focused on her uncle instead. I tried to find Valentin’s pulse, but to no avail. A moment later Martin ran into the room.

  Alexa was wailing rather than comforting her daughter, who was trying to get up, though her mother seemed to keep pushing her down. Martin managed to find Valentin’s pulse, then called for the help of his colleague. It took about half an hour, but eventually Valentin was put to bed under the watchful gaze of his two nurses. I sat with Zsófia and her mother in their salon, taking tea; it was a bizarre scene of normalcy, save Zsófia’s odd costume and some blotchy marks on her throat.

  “So you have no idea why Valentin tried to strangle you, Zsófia?” I asked. It wasn’t a topic I’d expected to be discussing when I’d rung the doorbell with an apology on my mind.

  The girl was sipping tea into which I’d stirred three spoonfuls of sugar—I’d heard my own mother’s voice when I’d handed it to her saying, “There, there, that’ll help a bit.”

  Zsófia was still tearful, but trying to put on a brave face. She half smiled. “He’s sick. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and there certainly doesn’t have to be a reason for him doing it. Not this, not many things. It’s not his fault.”

  I knew it wasn’t my place to comment upon how poorly the family seemed to be dealing with a man whose illness was making him a danger to others, and possibly himself, and—for once—I managed to say nothing. I’d arrived ready to apologize for speaking out of turn—I didn’t want to leave having created another situation that demanded I eat humble pie.

  The only reason I was still there at all was because I’d felt I had to request tea be served by the cook, rather than the large brandies Alexa had suggested, and then had to stay to drink it myself. Alexa was in a state of nervous exhaustion—something I believed she was on the edge of at the best of times, so the fact that I didn’t know how Zsófia was now feeling about the events of the previous night hardly seemed relevant. It was clear the family had reached a crisis point in their “management” of Valentin’s condition, and I thought it would be best, once the two women were as settled as possible, to leave quickly. I drank my tea as fast as I could. Of course I was desperate to know what precipitating event could have led to Valentin trying to choke the life out of his niece, but I bit my tongue.

  Having drained my cup, and scalding the roof of my mouth doing so, I said, “I’ll show myself out.”

  Zsófia insisted on accompanying me to the top of the stairs, much to her mother’s chagrin.

  When we were finally alone I said, “I know you have Martin here, so you’ll get the proper attention you need from a healthcare professional, but I also know you have your final exam for my course on Tuesday. If you need a medical exemption, I would be prepared to assess your course grade on the basis of the work you’ve already turned in, and your participation in class. I’m sure it can be sorted out within the department, and it won’t jeopardize you getting the credits, or the marks, you deserve.”

  Zsófia smiled weakly. “Thank you, Professor. I’ll see what Martin says, and I’ll see a doctor if I need to. Maybe I will feel well enough to take the exam. At this moment, however, I believe I will accept your offer. This has shaken me, and I am greatly concerned about Uncle Valentin.”

  The student I’d come to admire in class was back; the harpy from the night before had been replaced by a sweet, vulnerable girl. I was pleased, but deeply puzzled. I weighed the risk of asking her what on earth was going on against the need to know.

  “Last night . . .” I began.

  Taking her hand from the bannister, against which she was steadying herself, Zsófia waved away my question.

  “I wasn’t myself last night. I am now. I—” she paused for at least ten seconds, “I did something very foolish last night. I took some pills that were supposed to calm me before my performance. I was so terribly nervous, you see, and I didn’t want to spoil my big chance. They seemed to work, but they had the opposite effect afterward.” Her eyes dropped. “I shouldn’t have listened to the person who advised me to try them, and I certainly shouldn’t have drunk beer at the same time. I know that now. I will never do it again.” She looked back at the room we’d left. “Please, don’t tell Mama. She’d be angry with me. It would hurt her.”

  “Was it Stanislav who gave you the pills?” I was immediately angry.

  “No, it was someone else. Someone I know a little at the HUB. They meant well, I believe. But I learned my lesson. Truly I have.”

  I thought about all the stupid choices I’d made in my life and decided to be mature about it—Zsófia didn’t need me nagging her to “just say no.”

  Zsófia’s face brightened when I nodded my acceptance of her contrition. “Maybe something good came from last night,” she said. “What you said, about not just one record producer thinking I am good, has helped me decide to talk to my mother about my singing. I will invite her to a performance. We will discuss what I should
do after that. I was caught up in the emotion of last night. I apologize for speaking foolishly, and rudely, Professor. You have shown nothing but kindness to me and my family.”

  Her eyes were downcast, her lip trembling, hands shaking. I suspected she was suffering shock after the attack, and knew it wasn’t the time to give a speech, so I said, “Zsófia, I’m glad something I said has made a difference, but, in all honesty, I am the one who should apologize. I had no right to speak as I did. I came here today to say that, and want you to know I acknowledge it.”

  I let myself out onto the street glad I’d had the chance to speak as I had, but wondering what had precipitated her uncle’s attack. The fact that she was dressed as a medieval princess wearing a leather battle-bodice was also something that hadn’t been broached . . . which might have been for the best.

  Chilling Words

  ALTHOUGH I’D TALKED ALEXA OUT of force-feeding me brandy, I knew I felt like a drink. I found the bar I’d been heading for before my detour to the Seszták/Takács house in just a few minutes, managed to get a window seat, and allowed myself to give in to the guilt-ridden joy of a cigarette. When I caught the eye of a waiter I ordered a large gin and tonic; I don’t really care for brandy, and I didn’t need more tea and certainly didn’t want a coffee—my entire body was still vibrating from the “excitement” I’d just experienced.

  A couple of drinks, a plate of cold sausage and cheese, and several cigarettes later, I was feeling much more composed and a good deal less sweaty. I knew I wasn’t far from a metro station, and that I could get back to my apartment within an hour, but I didn’t want to do it in the dark. With the end of the day not far off, and temperatures dropping, I decided I’d better make a move.

  Just as I was pulling on my coat, my phone rang inside my purse. Of course, by the time I found it, it had stopped. I checked to see who’d phoned me. I didn’t recognize the number; it was local, which I thought odd. The phone played its little tune again before I’d reached the door to leave, and I paused in the warmth of the café to answer it.