The Corpse with the Ruby Lips

by Cathy Ace

  “I could think of a thing or two,” was out of my mouth before I had a chance to press my internal edit button. Luckily, instead of shocking Zsófia, it made her giggle, and I felt the tension between us subside a little. I didn’t mention how stupid I thought it was to not have kept a copy.

  “I’ll give Klara and Tamás a call and ask them to look for it at their house. Maybe I did have it with me during the week. I don’t know.” At least the girl’s tone was more suffused with hope.

  “Sounds like a plan. I am guessing you’ve been through your house, from top to bottom?”

  Pulling out her phone Zsófia answered easily. “Yes, everywhere. Except in Uncle’s rooms. I went in there to look yesterday and—well, you saw what happened.”

  I was glad of the chance to find out more. “He found you hunting about and didn’t react well?”

  “Depending on what sort of day he’s having, he can be extremely touchy about people coming into his rooms. I went there, knowing I wanted to search, but I ended up putting on one of his costumes so he could see how it moved when I ran. Of course, I indulged him. I always do. Then, when he went off to make some notes, I had a bit of a dig about. He found me looking inside one of his drawers, and became angry. He didn’t recognize me, you see. And sometimes he thinks everyone is spying on him.”

  I managed to stop myself saying, I know how he feels, and said instead, “If he’s finished the books, why does he need to be making notes about how clothing moves?”

  “Yes—that’s another thing. I know he’s finished the books, because I’ve put all his handwritten pieces together now and can see it’s the end. He seems to think there’s more to do—but there can’t be. It’s not possible. Unless he’s going to start something new, and he hasn’t said so if he is. Besides, the costume was the one I wear when I’m being the first queen.”

  “But she died in book two, didn’t she?” I knew she had.

  “She’s back again in book six, right at the end. You didn’t see that bit. Almost everyone is dead, and they all meet up in the afterlife. Uncle outdid himself. It’s fascinating. The queen has her chance for revenge on her family, and the entire bloodline. That’s what I mean about it all being finished. I could tell you about the bits you missed, if you’d like. Just let me call Klara, and I’ll fill you in. We could have a coffee next door, in the espresso bar. The terrace would be too cold, but it’s cozy inside.”

  I agreed with her idea and waited while she made her call.

  “Tamás answered,” she announced as we left. “I told him I was with you and he said he’d like to meet you. He’s going to come here to collect me so I can go with him and look for the manuscript myself.”

  Coffee Chatter

  BY THE TIME WE WERE settled on comfy red-upholstered chairs in the warmth of the Gellért Espresso, I felt more than ready for a Turkish coffee and a gargantuan slice of something called Esterházy torte, which Zsófia assured me I would enjoy. Its spider-webbed topping, the pinstripe layers of vanilla- and cognac-flavored butter icing studded with crushed walnuts, and macaroon pastry were just what I needed. Mentally, I justified my indulgence as I devoured it by telling myself the nuts made it healthy.

  Ten minutes later I was dancing on a sugar high, topped off with richly caffeinated coffee, and in heaven. I didn’t even mind that it was a non-smoking café, and told myself maybe nicotine would be just one chemical too many for my body to bear.

  I felt able to focus more clearly on Zsófia’s problem, and suggested, “Might Valentin have taken the manuscript, to work on it some more, and not told you?”

  “That’s why I wanted to hunt about in his quarters,” agreed Zsófia nibbling a dismally plain-looking sponge finger. “After the incident yesterday, Martin gave him something to quieten him down, but I didn’t feel up to having a look for it right then, and his nurses have been buzzing around him all day today. He’s having a quiet day—which means he’s feeling rather weak and is confused about where he is, and when it is. When he’s this way, in his mind he can be in Canada as a child, or even in the world he’s created in his books as any one of the characters. It’s as though he ‘remembers’ being them all, you see. He tells me he’s lived every life he’s created. It makes for a challenging situation all round when he’s out of step with the world about him, as he is today.”

  “It’s a difficult disease, for all concerned.”

  “It is. Mama copes as she can—usually by turning up the volume on her music. She wears headphones a lot of the time, so she doesn’t disturb Uncle. But she’s alone in the house all day, and she doesn’t mix much with anyone really. She tries to lose herself in her music. She has a particular fondness for Liszt and Bartok.”

  “Did your home used to be a social meeting place? Before your uncle’s illness?” I said.

  Zsófia’s laugh was genuine. “Oh no. Never. I was not allowed to bring friends to visit when I was young.”

  You’re still young, I thought. “Me neither,” I said. “I didn’t have a lot of friends, and those I did have didn’t visit often. I don’t know which came first—the not having friends, or the not visiting. It just all seemed normal to me. My friends were all in books.”

  “Me too,” said Zsófia, grinning. “Since I can remember, Uncle’s characters have been like real people to me. I suppose I have lived their lives too, like he has. Even the weird ones.”

  “Did you have a cat that raided the hen house?” I asked.

  “You mean like in book three? No. That was Grandmother’s cat, Uncle said. It got out of their home when she and Grandfather were still living in Budapest, when they were just married, and it got into a neighbor’s hen house. In those days many people kept hens for the eggs. It was in the 1950s, so they needed all the food they could manage to get for themselves. Uncle said there was a big fight about it. Of course, that was a long time before he was born to them in Canada, but she told him about it, it seems.”

  “I enjoyed reading your uncle’s books. Even though I know you don’t want me involved in your lives any more, it’s been a pleasure and a privilege to meet your family. I hope you all find peace with each other, and your shared history. Real, and fictionalized.”

  Zsófia put down her dainty coffee cup. “It’s been a difficult few weeks for us all. I don’t know how to say this, but I really would like to know what happened to Grandmother. But now . . . I daren’t ask again. We have been . . . hot and cold about it. That’s correct?”

  “It is, and you have been. I suppose it’s understandable, in some ways. To want to know, but to be afraid to uncover the truth.” I made a decision. “Zsófia, I have stood down. If you want me to step up again, I think I should wait until Bud arrives at the weekend. He’s the one who’s been doing all the work back in Canada.”

  Pink-faced, Zsófia pulled at the scarf she still had wrapped about her neck. The loosened folds revealed red welts from her uncle’s grip. Bruises were setting in too. I felt sorry for her, but took her motion to suggest she was not only getting overheated, but she trusted me enough to allow the marks to show. “I said some terrible things to you at the club the other night, Cait.” It was the first time she’d called me anything but “Professor” since then. “I was on a high. Those pills I took. And the adrenaline. You talked about how that can make human beings do some strange things in one of your lectures. Stanislav Samokhin is the best person in the world to help me have the career I want. I know I could have many hit songs with him behind me. Having him in the room was the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to me. Then you said what you did, and, I admit it, I hated you for doing it. Now I see things differently. You were right. I had lost perspective. I know his reputation, and I truly believe it would be different for me, that I am strong enough to avoid the temptations such a life would place before me. I am still not sure you had the right to speak to him as you did, but I am certain I absolutely had no right to speak to you as I did. I am sorry.”

  “Words can never be unsai
d. They ring in our ears forever—sometimes when we least want them to. But I understand what you’re saying. If what I said has helped you decide to share your hopes and dreams with your mother, then maybe it was for the best. With her support you might be even less likely to founder in your career. Has there been an opportunity for her to hear you perform yet?”

  “Not yet—though I have sung for her at home, and she enjoyed it. I didn’t sing the old songs, of course, and I still haven’t told her I’ve been spending time with Klara and Tamás. That might be too much for her all at once. However, in time, that will come too. I must be more mature in my dealings with her.”

  I couldn’t help but smile as I asked, “Tell me why your mother is so set against you mixing with your great-aunt and uncle. Is it solely because of your great-uncle’s role as an informant under the Communist regime?”

  “Since Mama told me the news about him, we’ve talked about it a few times. It’s been difficult for her. What she said was he could have got another job—that he didn’t have to help the Communists do what they did. Klara stood by him; he was her husband, she loved him, so she would. Mama understands that. When Grandfather brought Mama and Uncle Valentin to Budapest, that was when they found out about Tamás. It seems Grandfather Kristóf and Tamás had been in touch with each other, in letters, over the years, but not so much since Grandmother’s death. They weren’t family, not blood family, though Grandfather treated him like a brother, Mama said. When Grandfather found out Tamás had been on the side of the Communists, he said he was done with him and Klara. In fact, the only reason they didn’t all go straight back to Canada was because Mama had met my papa. They married quickly, because Grandfather was sick by then. After that, she wanted to stay because my papa was from Budapest and his life was here, so Uncle stayed too. When Papa died, Mama stayed on because I was doing well at school, and Uncle Valentin was working with the Hungarian publisher on his books. He’d been working on them since the time Grandfather died, but it took him some time to be ready to show them to anyone. I like my country. I’ve never left it, yet, but I’d like to travel. I’d especially like to go to Canada, where Mama and Uncle Valentin were born. Stanislav said my voice could take me anywhere I wanted, even Canada.”

  Knowing he’d said nothing of the sort at the club I asked, “When did he tell you that?”

  “I called him yesterday morning to tell him I had taken your advice and spoken to my mother about my career. He was angry. He told me many things my voice could do for me. He talked about money a lot. He has no idea who my uncle is and how much money he has, so he would. Most people want money, don’t they?”

  I said I suspected they did, then asked, “How angry was Stanislav? Has he told you he’s not interested in working with you anymore?”

  Zsófia didn’t answer, instead she shot to her feet as a short, round, extremely aged man approached. “Tamás, you’re here.” She looked at her watch as she pulled her scarf about her throat. “I didn’t realize time had passed so quickly. Cait, this is my great-uncle, Tamás Örsi. This is my professor, Cait Morgan, Tamás. She’s the one who’s visiting from Canada. The one I told you about.” Zsófia’s flushed face glowed even more with excitement and apprehension.

  The little man looked to be about ninety. He spoke gravely, “You are the one who has been digging into the death of my sister. I have told Zsófia, I do not think this is a good idea.” It was a strange greeting.

  Tamás peered at me, then at Zsófia, through his round, wire-rimmed spectacles with lenses so thick his eyes looked like raisins. He unbuttoned his coat but didn’t sit. “Whatever you have been doing, I think you have been wasting your time. I do not believe we will ever know who killed my sister. The book is closed on this matter.”

  Zsófia looked at me, her cheeks flushed. “I have explained to Tamás and Klara that it would mean a great deal to me to know the truth about my grandmother’s death.” She glanced at the elderly man. “Klara agrees with me. Tamás does not. We have reached an impasse.”

  I held my tongue. It’s not my first choice as an interrogation technique, but I’ve seen it work for Bud in the past, so I thought I’d give it a go.

  We all sat. “Zsófia tells me you are a very clever woman. So, do you have new ideas about this old death?”

  I shrugged.

  “Cait’s husband was the one doing the research in Canada, I told you, Tamás. Cait cannot do more when she is here. Grandmother’s death will be solved in Canada, not in Hungary.” She sounded certain.

  The old man’s rheumy eyes twinkled with—what was it . . . curiosity, or condemnation?—as he replied, “Sometimes it is enough to know a person is dead. To know why they died is not necessary. Know the life, not the death. That is all that is important.”

  I was fascinated that here was another family member quite happy to not know who had killed Ilona. Alexa, Valentin, and now Tamás were all urging Zsófia to back off. Why on earth wouldn’t they want the truth to come to light? What was it they all suspected—or knew?

  I was intrigued by Tamás’s comment. “What do you mean, ‘Know the life, not the death?’”

  Zsófia leaned forward in her seat as the elderly man opposite me shrugged and replied, “I don’t know how much your mother has told you about your grandmother, my dear,” he smiled at his great-niece, “but I believe not much. That is because I do not believe she knows a great deal. When my once-dear friend and brother-in-law Kristóf returned to Hungary he listened to rumors about me. After one terrible confrontation, he cut himself off from me and my beloved wife forever. Since that day, your mother has not spoken with me or Klara. It is her choice. All based on a misunderstanding.”

  Zsófia whispered, “Do you mean you weren’t an informant for the Communists?” She looked excited.

  Tamás looked at her with sad eyes. “No. That much is true. I did inform.”

  “Tamás,” hissed Zsófia, “speak quietly. People will hear you.”

  Tamás surveyed the room. He reminded me of a tortoise peering out of its shell with his head swiveling slowly on his leathery neck. “Tourists, only tourists. What do they care? And the girl behind the counter? She’s your age. She and you live for now. We older ones? We all still live for back then. We have no choice. For us, me and my Klara especially, our neighbors would not allow us to forget, which is why we left the city. They all condemned me. Would you condemn me, Cait?”

  I decided to come clean. “I saw your photograph at the House of Terror yesterday, Tamás. It was on the wall they reserve for portraits of informers. However, what that photograph didn’t tell me was whether you informed because you believed in the party line.”

  Zsófia studied her fingernails.

  “The party line, ah yes,” replied the old man, his head high, “those were the days.” He snorted. “What choice did I have but to inform? None. My darling wife, Klara, has Roma blood. The Communists wanted the Roma to work in their factories—to do the dirtiest, most dangerous jobs. By doing what they wanted me to do I made sure her extended family had cleaner, safer jobs. Her family cast her out because she married a non-Roma. Me. I saved them from bad lives, though they never knew this. Like my brother-in-law, they too cut us out of their lives. Klara and I have each other. Only each other. People who did not live my life do not understand what it was like back then. They cannot understand. To do nothing was wrong. To do something was also wrong. It seemed no one could do anything that was right. I believe that to help those you love to live as well as they can is right. Maybe I did wrong, but it was what I did.”

  His logic contained a certain fatalistic harmony, and he was correct—I had no idea what it must have been like to be squashed by the Nazis, then the Communists, so I decided it was best to just say, “I’m sorry, Tamás. It must have been difficult for you. Sometimes the only choices available to us are bad choices, but they still have to be made. Now you have another choice to make—to tell Zsófia what she has asked to know, or not. To tell her about her gra
ndmother, the sister you knew. It might help her work out whether Ilona’s death was because of the woman she once was here, in Hungary, or because of the woman she was in Canada. Because, let’s be honest, it must have been one or the other.”

  He cackled at me. “You do not understand what you are saying.”

  “Tamás, please don’t laugh at Cait, she’s right,” whispered Zsófia. I could see she was close to tears. “I’m so tired of all the lies and secrets. What you just said about having to do things you didn’t want to do to save Klara’s family—that’s the first time you’ve said something like that to me, or even in front of me. Why does everyone treat me like a child? I’m not. I’m old enough to be told things. I want to know the truth about my family, not to have people trying to protect me from . . . who knows what.”

  Tamás pushed his spectacles up his nose with a wizened finger and looked at his great-niece with what I judged to be a mixture of affection and pity. “You are correct, Zsófia. When you are old like me, it is easy to forget how it feels to be young, and to want to know everything. I know too much. You believe you know too little. I accept you have the right to know about your grandmother, but we should not speak of this here. Come home with me for dinner. We will speak more of this with Klara. She also knew your grandmother when we were all young.” He looked at me. “You come too. You are the sort of woman who always wants to know more.” The thick lenses of his glasses glinted.

  I hesitated. “I’m not sure if I should. I would need to get back here afterward, you see.”

  “Here?” Zsófia was puzzled.

  Rats! “I was thinking of having a night of luxury, here, tonight,” I lied.