The Exiled (24 page)

IT WAS SO TERRIBLY HOT.
Mosquitoes flew in through the cracks in the plank walls, buzzing and stinging. Dzsenifer rubbed her itchy arms against the rough surface of the wall. She was thirsty. The grey-haired man had brought her food once, taken the gag off her mouth and allowed her to eat and drink, but she couldn’t remember how long ago it was. Time seemed to go so slowly. Dzsenifer drifted in and out of sleep. Sometimes light filtered through the cracks between the planks, but for the most part it was pitch dark. The mosquitoes were buzzing constantly. Dzsenifer was so thirsty she couldn’t think of anything else. All she could feel was her dry throat, the old rag stuffed into her mouth and her sore, itchy arms. She tried not to think about where she was or how she could get away. She wasn’t afraid of the grey-haired man coming back and she didn’t think about her brother. She didn’t listen to the sounds around her – there wasn’t much to hear, only birdsong and every now and then the sound of barges passing on the river and sounding their horns.

The heat and thirst had made her weak. All she could do was lie on the floor of the wooden shack and dream of water. As if through the mist, she saw a woman’s face, a hand holding her a bottle of water. The hand pulled the rag from her mouth, and she drank and drank. Deep inside her she knew it wasn’t real. The rag was still in her mouth, it stayed put, sucking up every last droplet of spittle, but she didn’t have the strength to care. Again she drifted into sleep. Or rather, she lost consciousness.

When Dzsenifer next forced her eyelids open, it was dark again. This time she heard a sound there was no mistaking. Small, bright, bell-like pattering. Somewhere near her droplets of water were falling to the ground. The sound grew stronger, reviving her will to live just as it was about to fade away. She began crawling towards the sound, felt the ropes tightening around her hands and feet each time she
tugged, then relaxing as she stopped to gather her strength and listen to where the droplets were coming from.

What a sensation when the water hit her face. At first she let it drop on her cheeks and forehead, then she found a position where the drops fell directly on to the rag stuffed in her mouth. Slowly the fabric began soaking up the rain. Dzsenifer passed out again for a moment and snapped to when she realised the rag was heavy and wet and that she could suck a little bit of water from it. Thunder roared overhead, electrical silver light flared between the planks as lightning flashed across the Tisza.

For the first time in her life, Dzsenifer hoped and prayed that the thunderstorm would never end.

ANNA STEPPED INTO
the dark hallway, inhaling the familiar scent of home. She closed the door as quietly as she could and locked it behind her, trying not to wake her mother. She crept into the kitchen to make some tea, wondering whether she should try to get a few hours’ sleep or whether it would be best to try and stay awake. They had set off very early to get back to Kanizsa, because Péter had to work that morning. The car had sped through the brightening Vajdaság dawn: the drowsy roads, the stirring landscape; Anna relaxed after a night with Péter; Péter tired and distant; strips of cloud smudged across the sky.

On the kitchen table was an envelope. It was addressed to Anna. Who could be sending me post? she wondered and tore open the envelope. Inside was a print of a document typed up on a computer. Anna read it twice.

STOP YOUR INVESTIGATION IMMEDIATELY AND GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM OR YOU’LL REGRET IT.

‘What’s that?’ Anna heard her mother’s voice behind her and was so startled that she almost dropped the sheet of paper.

She handed the letter to her mother. Her mother read it. At first her expression was one of disbelief, then panic and finally anger.

‘You have to go back to Finland,’ she said.

‘I can’t.’

‘Of course you can. You’ve got a new passport now. Go and pack your things and tear up those disgusting papers on your wall. This minute,’ her mother said.

‘Have you been raking through my room?’

‘I don’t need to rake through anything to see what you’ve been up
to. A picture of István on the wall, too. Imagine what it feels like to see his picture on your wall among all those papers. What have you done? I can’t bear this a moment longer!’

‘When did this letter arrive?’

‘Yesterday, in the post.’

‘It’s postmarked here, in Kanizsa. I have to think about this.’

‘There’s nothing to think about. You’re going back to Finland right now. They’ll kill you too. I told you not to stick your nose into things round here. I knew this would happen! Why won’t you ever listen to me?’

By now her mother was shouting at the top of her voice. Her body was trembling. The letter fell to the floor. The tea water started boiling, but neither of them moved to turn off the stove.

Ákos appeared at the door.

‘What’s all this racket?’

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ said Anna.

‘Well I am. I thought it would have been cool to hang out with you yesterday, but you’d already gone to Belgrade with that man of yours.’

Ákos took the kettle off the stove, poured water into three cups and sat down at the kitchen table.

‘Tell me what all the shouting is about.’

‘Anna’s received a threatening letter,’ said her mother, snatching the paper from the floor and handing it to Ákos.

‘
A francba
! What the hell have you been up to? Why hasn’t anybody told me what’s going on?’

The day shone in through the kitchen window as it always had done, innocent and carefree, as Anna told them both everything she had found out so far. She decided, however, not to mention that someone had tried to run her over, though by now she was convinced it wasn’t drunken teenagers fooling around.

When she finished her account, all three of them sat in silence, looking anxiously at one another and thinking. My family, thought Anna. My poor, truncated family – and now it’s in danger of losing yet another member. How could I have done this to my mother?

‘So what are you going to do now?’ Ákos eventually asked, breaking the silence.

‘You’re going back to Finland,’ said her mother.

‘I can’t leave this situation unresolved,’ said Anna. ‘Besides, I’ve got a warrant from Interpol that will probably allow me to interview a witness – he’s serving a life sentence. All I have to do is apply for clearance from the local court. I’m planning to go to Szabadka to make the arrangements. Today.’

‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Again her mother raised her voice. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

‘Mum. Surely I – we – have to know the truth about what happened to Dad and what the theft of my handbag had to do with it.’

‘We don’t have to do anything.’

‘Would you rather Dad’s killer was walking around a free man? Is that what you really want?’

‘It’s all just gossip,’ her mother muttered.

‘I might be able to believe that if it weren’t for all the coincidences that seem to indicate something else altogether. I must get to the bottom of this.’

Her mother started to cry. Anna’s conscience stung her like an angry wasp, but she steeled herself and brushed it aside.

‘I promise I’ll be careful,’ she said. ‘I’m a police officer. I know how to handle this.’

‘So was your father,’ shouted her mother and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

Anna sighed. She looked out of the window at a butterfly dancing across the flowerbeds.

‘I’ll have to go to Szabadka soon,’ she told Ákos.

‘I could come with you, if that’s all right.’

‘What, as my bodyguard?’

‘If you like. And there are a few things I want to talk about.’

‘Okay. I’m going to have a shower and change. Then we’ll leave.’

THE JUDGE WAS A SMALL,
stout man who clearly enjoyed fatty food and plenty of it. He had red, chubby cheeks, and his double chin wobbled every time he took a breath. Anna imagined him roasting whole pigs on a spit, licking the melted fat from his fingers and happily smacking his lips. More importantly, though, he seemed like a decent, friendly man.

Anna showed the judge the document she’d received from Interpol, explained in detail why she wanted to meet Farkas Lajos, and even managed to force out a few convincing tears as she talked about how much she missed her father. Anna’s strategy was not to put too much emphasis on the possibility of a wrongful conviction but to stress that she was a grieving daughter who wanted to come to terms with her tragic past. To her surprise she saw that her plan seemed to be working. The judge asked her a few clarifying questions, and expressed his sympathy and condolences in such lavish terms that Anna didn’t understand a thing and Ákos had to interpret for her. Then the judge explained something about visiting protocol at the prison and wrote Anna a warrant allowing her to see Farkas Lajos. The meeting would take place the following day between two and three in the afternoon, and there would be no guard. Anna and Farkas would be alone together.

‘You understand this is all highly irregular,’ the judge explained. ‘If you weren’t a police officer and if your father hadn’t been a police officer, I couldn’t possibly allow this,’ he stressed. ‘I trust your professionalism and I hope this will give you peace of mind.

Anna thanked him, took the warrant, placed it carefully in a plastic envelope and put it in her bag. She couldn’t go back to Finland yet, despite her mother’s worries. The threatening letter only proved that she’d found something that had been kept carefully hidden for a very long time. Now all she could do was wait for her meeting with the prisoner the following day.

After they left the judge, Anna and Ákos visited the Roma shantytown, asking after Dzsenifer, but nobody had seen her. Rambo was lying in his shack, clearly drunk. His clothes looked dirtier than before and the room smelled of rotting leftover food. Anna noted Ákos’s expression as the man slurred his words. She was certain that Ákos saw himself in Rambo and she hoped the image would leave a lasting impression on her brother and prevent him ever going back to his former life.

As they were leaving the shantytown, Ákos suggested they have lunch in Szabadka; Anna was more than happy to agree. They went back into the town centre and found a cosy Italian restaurant along one of the pedestrian streets with a good antipasto and salad selection. Anna’s mouth watered as she read the menu. She’d already had enough of white bread and fatty food. It was a sign that some part of her was already yearning to go back to Finland.

Ákos talked about anything and everything, the conversation twisting and turning like a plane waiting to land, as he waited excitedly for his food. Anna ordered
insalata mista con pollo
, Ákos took a pizza. They tucked in, chatting about the weather, the incredible heat wave of the last few weeks, which would dry out the wheat fields if it continued. Then they talked about the price of food in Finland and Serbia; Ákos’s old friends and what they were up to these days; the widowed old lady next door; their mother’s habit of washing the dishes with a kitchen broom, which disgusted them both; and eventually, finally, Ákos mentioned Kata. He looked so happy, so healthy and glowing. Anna didn’t have to ask; she knew the answer already.

‘Are you planning to stay here?’ she said nonetheless.

‘That’s what Kata and I have been talking about. I think it’s the most sensible solution, at this stage at least. We don’t want her kids to have to switch language all of a sudden. It’s a tough process, as you know only too well. And they’d be too far away from their father.’

Anna felt like saying she understood perfectly well, there was no need to explain any further, but she remained silent and let Ákos finish speaking. He talked about Kata’s good job, about how it would
probably do him a world of good to get away from the old Koivuharju gang, about how a guy in Szeged had already promised him a bit of casual work. Once Ákos had finished, Anna finally spoke.

‘What about me?’

Ákos stood up from his chair, took a few steps to her side of the table and wrapped his arms around her. Anna could feel the tears running down her cheeks and did nothing to try and stop them.

‘Anna, you’ve always been a fighter,’ said Ákos. ‘You can pull through anything in the world. I’ve always envied that about you.’

‘You envy me? How can an older brother envy his little sister?’

‘Easily, if he’s got a sister like you. You’re smart, good-looking and in damn good shape. And you haven’t got any problems.’

‘Me, no problems? If only you knew…’

‘I mean the kind of problems I’ve had. I really think it’ll be easier for me to stay away from them here. To remain sober.’

‘I’m not really a fighter, you know. And I’m going to miss you.’

‘I know, I’m going to miss you too. At least we’ve got Skype and Viber and all that. And there are cheap flights these days too.’

‘You can never afford a plane ticket, no matter how cheap they are.’

‘Then it’s a good thing you can, isn’t it?’ said Ákos and laughed happily.

After lunch they wandered round the streets of Szabadka, admiring the beautiful old buildings like tourists. The idyll was broken only by the sight of the refugees lying in the parks. Clothes were hung out to dry on the branches of the trees, people lay asleep on the park benches. And yet the atmosphere was surprisingly calm. The locals were leaving the strangers in peace.

Anna bought a few souvenirs to take back to work: packets of cookies and several bags of melt-in-your-mouth Kiki caramels, which she used to eat as a child. Back then this country was still called Yugoslavia, she thought. Wars had broken out, people had fled from their homes and died, but Kiki caramels had remained unchanged.

Back in Kanizsa, she felt a peculiar sadness as she packed the caramels away in her suitcase. Would the refugees of today ever be able to experience the tastes and smells of their childhood again?