by Adam LeBor
The lower body, however, is unclean and must not be displayed. Like Orthodox Jews, Gypsies believe that menstrual blood is a pollutant. Orthodox Jewish women sleep separately from their husbands for seven days before and after their period. Romani women are not banished from the marital bed but their skirts must never come into contact with anything to do with food, such as pans or cutlery. If a woman wished to humiliate a man, make him mabrime, she only needed to wave her skirts over his body.
Sitting in the courtyard, waiting for his brother, triggered a rush of memories. By the standards of Budapest’s inner city, the building was comparatively small. There were four flats on each floor, two on either side, and a central staircase that stood in the middle. The courtyard was about eight yards wide and ten deep. The front doors of the ground-floor flats opened straight onto the courtyards. An inner balcony snaked around the first and second floors, held in place by ornamental buttresses underneath, each with a metal fence topped with a wooden handrail. The building had been ramshackle and dilapidated while Balthazar was growing up, the stucco peeling, the courtyard tiles cracked and broken, cables dangling, the metal fence so loose in places that it seemed about to fall off. A century before, the building had stained-glass windows looking out from the central staircase, but they had long been broken, replaced by plain glass and ugly aluminium frames.
Balthazar had grown up here, one of five children, three boys and two girls. His earliest memories were of living in a cramped three-room flat on the third floor, with a toilet in the courtyard. Laszlo, his father, had run a handful of local streetwalkers. Marta, his mother, kept the family home. With his profits, Laszlo had bought a nightclub, with an attached strip club and row of private cubicles. The private cubicles, he soon realised, were the biggest money-makers and he branched out into brothels.
As Laszlo’s business grew, the family expanded their living space, buying neighbouring flats, removing walls or installing doors. The change of system in 1990, and the arrival of vadkapitalizmus, wild capitalism, brought lucrative new opportunities. The state had owned vast amounts of property, but when the state no longer existed it was easily acquired. Balthazar’s father had followed a well-honed path: he set up a company to buy the flats from the municipality. The company received a loan from the bank. After a couple of months, the company sold the flats to Laszlo’s relatives at a knock-down price. The company went bust and the bank loan was written off. Any ‘difficulties’ were smoothed out by well-stuffed envelopes. Laszlo bought up several dozen flats across Districts VI, VII and VIII. Some of them he sold on, but he had retained almost twenty. Most were rented out, but three or four were used by his working girls. By the mid-1990s, the family had taken over all of number 15 Jozsef Street. Balthazar and all his brothers and sisters had their own rooms, for most children in Jozseftown an unimaginable luxury. The apartments were now all occupied by Balthazar’s siblings and their children and his parents. Fat Vik and the Lacis also had their own places. Now the paintwork was fresh and even, the cracked brickwork repaired. Even the stained glass had been replaced.
Balthazar’s older brother, Melchior, had become a musician, spent much of his time travelling with his group, Roma Drom, Roma Way, on the international festival circuit. Balthazar’s two sisters were both younger than him. Ildiko had married one of the family’s many cousins. She kept the books – one set for the authorities and another that showed the actual money movements – and still lived in the family building, on the top floor with her husband and three children. Flora, the youngest, ran a hipster art gallery on Brody Sandor Street, in the heart of the Palace Quarter in District VIII. To the shock and dismay of her parents, she lived alone in her own flat, not far from Balthazar, on Wesselenyi Street in District VII. Flora was away with Marta this weekend, visiting relatives in the countryside.
Balthazar glimpsed movement by a window on the top floor. A male profile, bulky, familiar. His father stood there, looking down, but gave no sign of recognition. Balthazar closed his eyes for a moment, trying and failing to ignore the stew of feelings that the sight of his father triggered.
Gaspar, he told himself. He was here because of Gaspar. As if sensing his thoughts, he felt Gaspar’s gaze on him. A look passed between the two brothers, layered with affection, love, mutual exasperation and more.
Finally, the line of supplicants ended. Fat Vik picked up the last few envelopes and sat down next to Gaspar. Gaspar gestured to his brother to sit next to him on the sofa.
‘Mond, tell me,’ said Gaspar.
Balthazar took out his notepad and read out the phone number that Maryam had told Eniko. ‘Mean anything to you?’ he asked his brother. Gaspar shook his head, turned to his consigliere. ‘Nope,’ said Fat Vik. ‘Whose number is it?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ said Balthazar. He took out his telephone and called up the photograph of Simon Nazir. ‘What about him? Familiar?’ he asked, as he passed the handset to his brother.
Gaspar grimaced as he looked at the picture of the dead man. ‘Not to me.’ He gave the telephone to Fat Vik. ‘Do we know him?’
Fat Vik stared at Nazir’s body for several seconds. ‘We did.’
NINE
Retro-kert, Kazinczy Street, 8.25 p.m.
Eniko Szalay was not sure which was making her more uncomfortable: the whisky fumes that Roland Horvath was breathing over her, or the fact that he was sitting so close to her that she had no choice but to inhale them. ‘Kriszta was waiting for you in her office at two o’clock. So was I,’ he said.
Eniko closed her eyes for a second. Shit. She had completely forgotten that she was due to meet with the news editor that afternoon. But there had been no mention of Roland. Why had he been there as well? He continued talking, ‘And you didn’t call or message her. She tried to call you but could not get through.’
Contrition, Eniko decided. Contrition, and mild – very mild – flirtation if absolutely necessary. Lately, Horvath had been coming on quite strongly to Eniko, with clumsy attempts at gallantry. Hungary was an old-fashioned society where working women had to contend with a much higher level of sexism than their western counterparts. Middle-aged men, especially, still seemed to think that a stream of compliments and comments on a female colleague’s appearance were a likely path to seduction. Thankfully, apart from being over-attentive, Horvath was still behaving himself in the office. His hands did not wander. But now they were having an after-work drink, at his insistence, and she was scared they soon would. Eniko could have thought up an excuse, she supposed, but on balance had decided it was better to get the encounter over and done with.
Horvath reminding Eniko of her missed meeting was a way to get her on the back foot. Horvath was trying to show her who was in control, even outside the office. But she also had some weapons in her armoury. The editor of 555.hu was a lonely divorcee, she knew. His former wife, Julia, was now the government’s spokeswoman. Julia was married to the mayor of District VIII. Horvath had a teenage daughter called Wanda he adored but rarely saw. Eniko had several times seen him browsing Wanda’s Facebook feed on his office computer.
Eniko turned to Horvath, leaning in closer. ‘Roland, I am so sorry. My phone was stolen. But of course I could have got a message to her. It’s completely inexcusable, especially as I also wasted your time. Not too much, I hope. Let me get you another whisky,’ she said, resting her hand on his arm.
Horvath glanced down at her hand, turned pink. ‘No, I’m fine. Thanks.’ He kept looking down at his arm. She lifted her hand up, picked up her mineral water and sipped it, feeling guilty and uncomfortable. Was that all it took?
They were sitting on an old school bench on the top floor of Retro-kert, the oldest, largest and best known of the ruin pubs in District VII, on Kazinczy Street, a couple of minutes’ walk from Balthazar’s flat on Dob Street. Retro-kert took up the whole building. The walls were raw brick, covered with spray-painted graffiti, torn flyers and handwritten notes. The floor was bare concrete, the furniture a
shambolic array of old-school furniture and cheap office chairs. Three Trabants stood in the centre of the courtyard, each with its roof removed. A decade ago, Retro-kert had been edgy, an Ungar outlier crowded with Budapest’s bohemians. It was now in every guide book. Eniko had not been back for years.
Loud shouts in English and cheers carried up from the ground floor. She glanced down, grimacing as she watched a pale man in a vest and Union flag shorts carry a tray of beers to his friends. A woman, slim, in her thirties, her dark-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, walked in. She was not exactly pretty, but she had strong features that made you look twice. The blonde woman passed the stag party, smiled in an amused way at their invitations to sit down, and walked over to the far corner of the ground-floor bar area. She looked familiar. Where had she seen her?
Roland watched Eniko looking at the scene on the ground floor. ‘What is it?’
Eniko smiled. ‘Nothing. Just another stag party.’
Eniko watched him look down at the boisterous group. He was about to turn back to her when his eye caught something. He was staring hard at the far corner of the bar, where the blonde woman had sat down, she noticed. He turned back to her, picked up his whisky and took a large swallow. Then Eniko remembered. At Keleti Station. The blonde woman was a taxi driver, always hanging around outside. What was she doing here? Why was a taxi driver making Roland nervous? Or maybe she was just over-thinking things.
‘Really, Roland,’ said Eniko, pointing at his drink. ‘Let me get you another one.’
Roland shook his head. ‘No, no, don’t worry. One is enough. I’m sorry about your phone.’ His voice turned serious. ‘But where were you?’
Sitting on my ex-boyfriend’s bed, wondering if I had made a huge mistake, after he was beaten unconscious by the Gendarmes, then doing something so appalling for a story that I don’t even want to think about it, she wanted to say.
‘With a contact. Working on the refugee story.’ That was more or less true, she thought to herself. Or at least a version of the truth, which was good enough. ‘There’s so much material. And the refugees keep coming in. It’s amazing that there has not been a riot at Keleti.’
Horvath frowned. ‘They are not all refugees. We need to talk about our house style. Half of them – more probably – are economic migrants. I see a lot of fit, healthy, young men in their twenties. Not so many women and children. Wasn’t there a mini-riot today? Someone was attacked. A cop, I heard.’
Eniko was about to answer when Horvath’s iPhone beeped. Eniko sneaked a glance as he checked his screen. A text message, she saw. Just a time: 9.00 p.m. No name or initial or number showing. That was curious. She glanced at her boss. Worry, even anxiety, flickered across his face. Who was he meeting? But at least she could escape in twenty minutes at the most, perhaps less. ‘Anything important? Do you have to go?’ she asked, making sure to keep the hope from her voice.
He glanced quickly downstairs, Eniko noticed. ‘No. I’m meeting someone here later.’
He put his phone down, turned to Eniko, fixed her with his pale-blue eyes.
‘What do you know about the attack at Keleti today?’
‘Not much. Only what I saw on YouTube.’
Horvath frowned. ‘You’ve spent days there. You must have some contacts. A policeman was beaten up.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Where you there?’
Eniko nodded. ‘At Keleti. Yes.’
‘Then why didn’t you file something? An eyewitness account, some colour, anything? We could have had it up on the website immediately.’
Eniko thought quickly. That was a good question. But not one she would answer truthfully. ‘I was on the other side of the Transit Zone, interviewing a family from Afghanistan. By the time I walked over to see what was happening, it was all over.’ She looked at him, gave him her brightest smile. ‘Sorry, Roland. It seemed quite a minor thing, compared to everything else going on.’
Eniko had planned to go back to the moneychangers on Rakoczi Way to check up on Maryam after she left Balthazar’s flat. But Roland had called, insisting that they get together so she could bring him up to date on her progress. And she’d been ready to leave Balthazar’s flat. Horvath’s whisky breath was at least a distraction from the powerful sense of guilt that she felt. She had several times forced herself to ignore the overriding urge to touch the right-hand pocket of her jeans, and check that the SIM was still there.
‘It’s not minor. It’s major,’ said Horvath, his voice focused now. ‘The guy who was attacked was a cop. Balthazar Kovacs. A detective. You know him, I believe.’
Eniko thought quickly. Roland was a recent arrival. Her relationship with Balthazar had ended six months ago. Her editor was sharper, or better informed, than she had realised. ‘I know lots of people,’ she said, wary now. ‘That’s my job.’
‘Not like you know him.’
Eniko sat very still. Had he really said that? ‘I don’t think my personal life is any of your business, Roland.’ Her voice was cold.
Roland flushed again, took a sip of his whisky to cover his embarrassment. He had stepped over a line and knew it. ‘No. And I apologise for that remark. But, you were at Keleti when a policeman was attacked. You didn’t file anything. The policeman is a Gypsy, who you... have some knowledge of. You yourself wrote that “two well-known Roma figures in the Budapest underworld” are rumoured to be connected to a people-smuggling operation. Are they linked to the detective who got attacked? It’s your job to make the connections. You are absolutely right about your personal life. It’s nothing to do with your job. Let’s keep them separate. But a reporter files reports. Do your job, please.’
Eniko nodded. She had been outmanoeuvred. ‘Yes. I will. Sorry.’
Horvath continued talking. ‘OK. Who are the “two well-known Roma figures in the Budapest underworld”?’
My former boyfriend’s brother and his consigliere, Eniko thought, but did not say. ‘I’m trying to get some more details, but I don’t have enough to get it past the lawyers yet.’
‘I am the editor. I take the lawyer’s advice. But I decide what runs. So you can tell me. Who are they?’
For a moment she was back on Balthazar’s bed, watching him while he was asleep, breathing slowly, his battered face restful. Balthazar’s connection to his brother was common knowledge among the police and Gaspar’s ‘associates’ but was not in the public domain. The two-way channel was useful for both sides to exchange information. And Eniko still felt a kind of loyalty to Gaspar, who had once stepped in when her family needed him.
Eniko’s father, once a high-ranking Communist Party official, had walked out in the late 1980s, defecting while on a trade mission to Vienna, where he had been having an affair with an Austrian civil servant. Eniko’s mother had raised her and her brother alone at a time when single parents were rare and unsupported, battling an indifferent bureaucracy, a very conservative society and hostile in-laws. Eniko’s mother was an attractive woman, had remarried and had borne another child. David was seventeen, a gangly teenager, and also went to Fazekas school. The middle-class children were no match for the gangs of street toughs who occasionally waylaid them on their way home in the backstreets of District VIII. After David had his iPhone stolen, Gaspar made some enquiries. The iPhone was returned two hours later. David was not bothered again.
So she did not feel like giving Gaspar up. In any case, what was this about? Horvath had never shown so much interest in one of her stories before. Play for time, she decided. ‘Umm... I don’t have my notes with me, Roland. It’s been a very long day.’
Eniko glanced around. A window was pulled shut nearby. There was no smoking in the bar but the room was hot and airless. Her boss had mild but intrusive body odour, smelling of sweat. She smiled at him, pointed at the window. ‘Would you mind if I opened that?’ she asked. Horvath nodded, and after a second or two realised that he needed to move away from her and let her through. She opened the window and sat back down, this time a good yard away. He notice
d the movement and would, Eniko thought, doubtless exert his power by asking again for the names of the ‘two well-known Roma figures’.
She needed to pre-empt that, for there was no real reason why a reporter would not share such information with her editor, especially when operating in legally murky waters. There was only thing she could think of. She turned to him and smiled, ‘How’s Wanda? How old is she now? Thirteen? You must very proud of her.’
Horvath’s face softened. ‘Almost fourteen. They grow up so fast.’
‘You must have some photographs. I’d love to see them,’ said Eniko, feeling vaguely ashamed of herself for dragging Horvath’s daughter into the conversation.
Her boss did not seem to mind. He quickly took out his iPhone and called up the photographs. A tall, pretty girl with large brown eyes stared out from the screen. Eniko smiled and nodded, made encouraging noises as Horvath scrolled through several photographs, talking Eniko through Wanda’s school exams, her love of horse riding, how he wished he could spend more time with her. ‘I only get to see her every other weekend. I am supposed to get one evening twice a month as well, but she’s so busy with her schoolwork and horse riding...’ he said, swallowing hard, and picking up his whisky.
Eniko felt a curious pang, a kind of longing mixed in with her sense of shame. Shame at exploiting Horvath’s loneliness and love for his daughter. And longing for a father who wanted to see his daughter as much as Horvath did. Her father was a shadowy figure in her memories, occasionally appearing for birthday or name day celebrations or sending gifts, but never present in any meaningful way. Lately, after Eniko’s increasing success and fame as a reporter, he had been reaching out to her. She sometimes returned his calls.