District VIII

by Adam LeBor

  He looked across the street. A short, overweight man in his forties, wearing a stained vest and lurid yellow shorts, was leaning against the wall, cigarette in one hand, bottle of Dreher beer in another. He nodded at Balthazar in greeting. Csaba Kiss was the owner of the twenty-four-hour ABC grocery store on the corner of Dob Street and Klauzal Street. Balthazar nodded back. The shop served as an impromptu pub for those who could not afford to drink in the Irish pub, or any actual bar. Csaba’s cronies would soon start gathering for an evening of carousing inside and out on the pavement. The nightly gatherings were technically illegal, but Balthazar had no intention of intervening. Csaba always shut down the party around ten p.m., considered the time when decent people were readying themselves for bed. He raised his bottle to Balthazar: ‘Want one?’ Balthazar thanked him, shook his head.

  Balthazar checked the row of parked cars on both sides of the road: all were empty. There was nobody he could see who looked out of place, or trying to look like they belonged, waiting or lurking behind a newspaper, or playing with a smartphone. The door of his apartment building opened behind him and he looked back. The six-storey, flat-fronted building had been built in the 1930s, with a restrained, modernist elegance. Balthazar had bought his flat nearly three years ago for the equivalent of €35,000. It was now worth three times that. In the last decade District VII had transformed from a rundown part of the inner city into a major European hipster destination. The quarter’s narrow streets and tree-lined squares were packed every night with Budapest’s bohemians and tourists. Csaba’s ABC was one of the last bastions. No doubt, it too would soon be turned into an artisan coffee bar or street food eatery.

  Balthazar’s apartment building, untouched for decades, was now restored to its art deco prime. Each flat had a small balcony with curved railings. Stylised reliefs of workers and families marked each floor on the front of the apartment house. A plaque by the front door commemorated Laszlo Seres, the composer of ‘Gloomy Sunday’, who had lived in the building until he’d had too many Sundays altogether and jumped from his balcony.

  Eva neni, Auntie Eva, stepped outside. Dressed in her usual floral housecoat, her grey hair tied up in a bun, Eva was barely five feet tall. She lived alone in a small flat on the ground floor, from where she was responsible for looking after the building. She guarded her territory as ferociously as any bulldog and even in her eighties, her eyesight – and street smarts – were as sharp as ever. Eva neni had lived in the building all her life. Her only daughter had moved to London a decade ago, taking her children with her. Eva neni didn’t like aeroplanes and the daughter came home once a year at the most. Eva had since then more or less adopted Balthazar. She looked him up and down, taking in the plasters across his knuckles, the bruises around his mouth and scratches on his face. ‘I hope you gave it back twice as bad,’ she said, her voice sharp.

  He smiled. ‘I tried.’

  She shook her head. ‘Are you OK, Tazi? You look like you should be in bed.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘I will be soon. A couple of errands I need to run.’

  Her face softened. ‘You need something? Apart from a wife? Food? Soup? You know where I am.’

  Balthazar laughed. ‘Thanks. I’m fine. Let me know if you find any candidates.’

  Eva neufs bright-blue eyes narrowed. ‘I saw your friend leave here before. She’s very pretty. Are you...’

  ‘Friends. Yes. We are.’

  ‘Your handsome son. When’s he coming over?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Balthazar’s voice turned serious. ‘Eva neni, can you do something for me?’

  Eva neni nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Keep an eye on the place for me. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Let me know if you see any—’

  Eva neni finished his sentence for him. ‘... suspicious characters. What do you think I have been doing ever since I’ve known you, Detective Kovacs?’

  Balthazar leaned forward and kissed Eva on her cheek. ‘Thanks.’ She blushed and pushed him away, her manner brusque but her eyes alight with pleasure. ‘Get going, then.’

  He turned right onto Klauzal Square. The open space was lined on all sides by apartment buildings, low-rise by downtown Budapest’s standards, many just two or three storeys high, some dating back to the early nineteenth century. During the Second World War, Klauzal Square and its surrounds had been the heart of the Jewish ghetto. After the Arrow Cross took power in October 1944, Klauzal Square had been a giant open-air graveyard, where frozen bodies had been stacked up like logs. Eva neni had told him graphic stories of how she survived the war, hiding in cellars and attics from the Arrow Cross militiamen who had roamed here, rounding up Jews before marching them down to the banks of the Danube and shooting them into the river.

  Balthazar glanced at the square. It was hard to reconcile the tranquil summer evening with what had happened here decades ago. A huddle of teenagers stood by the entrance, smoking and passing a bottle of wine from hand to hand, tinny rap music drifting across the street from their mobile phones. Half a dozen neat green Bubi bikes, municipal bicycles, were parked in their docks, waiting for their next riders. The square itself was now a green oasis, with lush grass, verdant trees, neat paths and flowerbeds, and a modern playground. A woman in her thirties, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail under a blue baseball cap, sat on a bench on the other side of the square, facing the street, reading that day’s issue of Magyar Vilag. Balthazar did a quick double take. She looked vaguely familiar. Had he seen her before? He was not sure. And the baseball cap was obscuring her face.

  He put the thought aside and walked onto Klauzal Street. Here, many of the buildings were still ramshackle, unrestored, their doors and entrance areas covered with graffiti. The tiny shops offered the services of watch-repairers, cobblers and denture-makers. The street was straight and quite narrow, which meant it was easy for any followers to track him. But easy too, for Balthazar to spot them. Just before Klauzal Street ended on the corner of Wesselenyi Street, he reached into his trouser pocket and took out a packet of chewing gum. He squeezed out a single piece then dropped the packet, turning to look back as he picked it up. The street was empty. No sign of any watchers or the woman in the baseball cap reading Magyar Vilag.

  No sign, either, of the SIM card that he had found that morning. He had looked around his flat, checking the bed, the area around the chair, anywhere where it might have fallen out. The most likely answer, he knew, was that Eniko had taken it while he was asleep. Which was actually quite serious, and a crime. The SIM card was his main lead, although he had to admit that Eniko had found out more than he had so far. It was clear now that the dead man was Simon Nazir, and that Hungarian government officials were somehow involved in selling passports. As was Gaspar. He took his phone from his pocket, scrolled down the menu, called up Eniko’s number and was about to press dial, when he stopped himself. This was not a conversation for the phone.

  He walked across Wesselenyi Street, continued on Klauzal Street past the empty lots untouched since Allied bombing raids in the Second World War, and the modern glass-and-concrete office buildings that were completely unsympathetic to their surroundings, until the end of Klauzal where it met Rakoczi Street. There he turned left and walked up Rakoczi, crossing Blaha Lujza Square into District VIII and then further up Rakoczi Way, heading for the moneychangers’ shop, where Maryam was staying. Deep in thought about how he could persuade his brother to get out of this business, at least while the refugee crisis continued, Balthazar did not notice the man handing out flyers for the Bella Roma restaurant watching him, then take out his phone.

  Kovacs family residence, Jozsef Street, 8.00 p.m.

  There were twenty-two districts in Budapest, and District VIII was one of the largest. Its lower edge touched the belvaros, the inner city, facing the Astoria Hotel, a historic landmark on the edge of the Jewish quarter that had served as Adolf Eich-mann’s headquarters in 1944. Under Communism, despite its central location, this had been a ramshackle, d
ilapidated quarter. Now the wide streets and elegant tree-lined squares of the southern part of District VIII had been renamed the Palace Quarter, to attract foreign investors who were buying up the fine old villas and mansion blocks here and turning them into boutique hotels and trendy cafés. The upper sector, a couple of miles away, was another world. Bordered by Hun-garia Boulevard, it was lined with panel-lakasok estates, cramped tenements flats named for the slabs of concrete from which they had been constructed in the 1970s and 1980s.

  The Gypsy quarter, sometimes known as ‘Chekago’, lay somewhere in the middle, concentrated in the narrow, nineteenth-century side streets that ran north from the Grand Boulevard, the inner-city ring road. Jozsef Street, site of Balthazar’s childhood home, was in the heart of Chekago. The door to the courtyard at number fifteen was open when he arrived, and a small crowd milled around. They tried not to stare at the scratches and bruises on his face, and made way for Balthazar as he stepped inside. Gaspar, he saw, was in his usual place: sitting on an oversized white leather sofa in the middle of the courtyard, watching Fat Vik hand over an envelope to an elderly, grey-haired lady who was dressed in a .shabby blue polyester blouse and worn slippers. She clasped his hand, bent over and kissed it, thanking him repeatedly, pouring blessings on Fat Vik, Gaspar and his family.

  Fat Vik wore an oversized black T-shirt and a pair of loose grey jogging pants. His nickname was apt – he weighed at least two hundred pounds and had a substantial belly that preceded him. Vik gently moved the woman’s hand and guided her away. Balthazar stepped forward and greeted Vik and his brother. Gaspar smiled, revealing two rows of mainly gold teeth, and tried, too quickly, to stand up. Defeated by his bulk, he sank back down into the sofa. Gaspar was even bigger than Fat Vik. Vik stood up and offered his arm to Gaspar. Gaspar raised himself again, this time successfully.

  Balthazar winced as Gaspar hugged him. Steel bolts of pain shot around his chest and midriff. ‘Batyam,’ wheezed Gaspar. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, ocsim,’ said Balthazar, gently disentangling himself from Gaspar’s embrace. ‘A few bruises. It’s nothing.’

  Gaspar stepped back, looked Balthazar up and down, stared into his eyes. He touched the side of Balthazar’s face, his stubby fingers surprisingly gentle. Balthazar breathed in his brother’s odour – tobacco and sweat, mixed with the tang of alcohol and something else, indefinable, warm and familiar: the smell of home.

  ‘You were knocked out. That’s something. You have to take it easy. Why didn’t you call for help? Fat Vik and Laci and kis Laci were nearby.’ He gestured across the courtyard. Nagy Laci and kis Laci were Big Laci and Little Laci, two dark-skinned, burly men in their early twenties who stood smoking nearby, keeping a wary eye on the long queue of people standing waiting. The two Lacis were cousins, distant relatives of Balthazar and Gaspar. The cousins had grown up in a children’s home, joining Gaspar as soon as they turned eighteen. They caught Balthazar’s eye and nodded.

  Balthazar nodded back. The two Lacis had started out as runners and lookouts. After a while, they had progressed to distributing bribes to the local cops to turn a blind eye to Gaspar’s streetwalkers. They now worked as Gaspar’s bodyguards and enforcers. Both spent several hours in the gym every day and certainly would have changed the odds in Balthazar’s favour.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Balthazar. ‘But there was no time.’

  Gaspar looked him up and down. ‘Batyam. If you don’t want a couple of girls to look after you, I’ll send the Lacis to stay with you for a few days. I think you need them more than me.’

  Balthazar laughed, the movement sending fresh bolts of pain across his ribs. They both knew that Balthazar could not be seen in public, let alone go to work at the Budapest police headquarters, accompanied by two known associates of the most powerful pimp and brothel owner in the city.

  Gaspar continued talking. ‘Five against one. These gadje,’ he said, turning to the side, making to spit on the floor. ‘Come, sit down. We’ll talk soon.’

  Balthazar shook his head. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow. I forgot what day it is.’

  ‘See, I told you you need to rest. You are here now, where you should be. And you are not going anywhere, except over there.’ He pointed at a white leather armchair, next to the sofa.

  Balthazar sat down and watched the supplicants line up in front of Gaspar. His visit to the moneychangers’ on Rakoczi Way to look for Maryam had not been successful. The father, who ran the business, somehow sensed, perhaps because of Balthazar’s battered appearance, that this was not official police business. He had denied any knowledge of Maryam or any refugees and told him to come back with a search warrant if he wanted to look inside. The vehemence of his denials confirmed to Balthazar that Maryam was inside. But legally the father was correct and there was no chance of obtaining a warrant at this time on a Friday night.

  While Balthazar had thick black hair, Gaspar kept his head shaved. The evening was still hot and sticky, and little air flowed in the crowded courtyard, but Gaspar wore an oversize black silk shirt, open halfway to his midriff to display a thick gold chain with oversized links, and a pair of baggy, shiny trackpants. On his surprisingly dainty feet, he wore handmade black patent loafers, each with a diamond-studded brooch. Heavy jowls hung from either side of his face and his brown eyes were set deep in a doughy face. Obesity, like lavish hospitality, was a sign of prosperity in Gypsy culture. Even without the pile of envelopes stuffed with cash, there was no danger of anyone believing Gaspar to be poor. There were three heavy rings on the fingers of each hand, bright gold, inset with a heavy stone, either a ruby or emerald.

  There was no shame in Gypsy culture in conspicuous displays of wealth. Rather, the opposite was the case. Good fortune – however acquired – was meant to be a public affair. Weddings, christenings and funerals were lavish affairs, awash with food and drink. District VIII was home to numerous ‘businessmen’ who operated on the edge of, or far beyond, legality, but Gaspar was one of the best known. Keeping a low profile, not being ostentatious, would have been met with suspicion. But with wealth came responsibilities, and an obligation to help others, bound by kinship, friendship or just neighbourliness.

  Outsiders often believed Gypsy society to be wild and anarchic. In fact, it was governed by strict social codes, the breaking of which could lead to severe consequences, such as ostracism. The first, and most important principle, was loyalty to the family. Family came first, beyond anything else. When the Nazis deported Gypsies to the concentration camps, they refused to be separated from their children. They resisted so ferociously that the Germans decided to let Gypsies live together in Auschwitz, in what was known as the ‘family camp’, although its residents too were eventually gassed. After family, came friends and neighbours.

  There were about twenty people milling around the courtyard in a sort of queue. An elderly man, his gaunt face covered in white stubble, stood at the front of the group. He wore scuffed black plastic shoes and brown trousers held up by an oversized belt and a look of vague shame on his face. The man seemed familiar, and Balthazar realised that he knew him: it was Zoli bacsi, Uncle Zoli, his former mathematics teacher at Fazekas school. Balthazar knew that Zoli bacsi’s wife, Boglarka, was bedbound. Between them, they existed on a pension of 150,000 forints, about five hundred euros, a month. Zoli bacsi caught Balthazar’s eye and gave him a wan smile.

  Behind Zoli bacsi stood a woman in her early thirties, pale, overweight, with dyed blonde hair and dark roots. She wore a pink shell suit, and carried a sleeping baby in one arm while holding a toddler’s hand in another. Judit, one of Gaspar’s working girls, walked up and down the line, carrying a tray loaded with bottles of cola and mineral water and a bowl of sweets. Balthazar watched her crouch down and offer drinks and sweets to the toddler. Judit wore a miniskirt and a black spaghetti-strap top. She was a plump brunette from Budaors, a small town just outside the capital. A law student at Budapest University, Judit mostly worked as an escort and only occasionally s
lept with her clients.

  The first Friday evening of every month was known as boritek este, envelope evening. Friends, relatives, anyone local in need, with some kind of connection to the Kovacs clan, could attend and make their case. It was very rare for a supplicant to be refused. There were three piles of envelopes on the low coffee table in front of the sofa. The first contained a 10,000-forint note, the equivalent of around thirty euros, the second, a 20,000-forint note, and the third, 30,000 forints. Everyone received an envelope and only rarely did Gaspar consult with his consigliere about which to hand out. Alongside the envelopes was a large crystal bowl filled with wrapped sweets, a silver tray, where rows of individual cigarettes were laid out, and a second bowl piled high with nuts and dried fruits.

  Each month the queue grew longer. Pal Palkovics, the prime minister, had won the election by promising to redistribute the country’s wealth. He had kept his promise. Hungary’s wealth had indeed been redistributed – to Palkovics’s straw men, his associates, his and their families. Most nights, when Balthazar went home he found homeless people rummaging through the dustbins, looking not just for something they could sell, but for something to eat. Sometimes Eva neni left packets of sandwiches inside a plastic bag on top of the bins.

  Balthazar checked his watch. Dusk was slowly falling, the fading light and long shadows softening the edges of the tenement building. As Zoli bacsi stepped forward, Gaspar pointed at the third pile. Fat Vik handed over the envelope. Gaspar stood up, his giant bulk wobbling, and the two men shook hands.

  Despite the heat, as a mark of respect, nobody in the courtyard wore shorts. The central law of the Romani social code is the distinction between ‘honour’ and ‘shame’, which can also be understood as ‘clean’ and ‘defiled’, or mahrime in the Romani language. The distinction starts at the human body. The upper part is considered clean and may be exposed without shame or disrespect. Roma men may invoke ’ distaste by not wearing shirts, but there is no shame in being bare-chested, or Gaspar having a shirt open down to his midriff. Gypsy women may go braless in scanty tops, breastfeed their children in public, but the popular stereotype of the Romani seductress is erroneous – and Gypsy society also has very strict sexual codes that do not allow even the discussion of sexual acts in front of women.