Under Budapest (12 page)

The rest of the ride they don't speak. The car is loud. The seat vibrates. His mother sits, hands on her lap, weirdly slack without her purse. They get out of the cab in front of the Canadian Embassy and he says, “I'm sorry, Mom. That must have been awful.”

She shrugs. The way only a Hungarian can shrug. They enter together.

The process for reporting a stolen passport is standar­dized, they find out from the receptionist. “It's happening more and more often these days,” she says. “You can't be too careful.” She doesn't say, The gypsies. She doesn't say, You stupid old lady, carrying your passport in your purse.

When she sees Agnes's maiden name on the form, she switches to Hungarian. Agnes answers in English. She wants none of this girl's presumptuous familiarity. In this embassy they are on Canadian soil. She will speak Canadian.

Tibor steers his mother to a chair in the waiting room and again approaches the receptionist. “I have a problem. I'm hoping you can help me.” He whispers, leaning as close to the woman's ear as appropriateness allows.

His mother watches, questioningly. He gives her a reassur­ing, don't-worry kind of smile. To the woman, he whispers, “I'd rather my mother not be privy to this problem.”

Her name is Manna. Manna stares, stolidly unresponsive. She's thinking underage hookers, venereal disease. Not
that
kind of problem. “I believe I am being framed for murder.”

Manna doesn't bat an eye. Manna doesn't believe him. She says, “Oh?”

Tibor leans closer. “May I speak with someone in authority, please?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I'm being framed for murder, and you think I'm putting it in my Daytimer? You have got to be kidding. Manna is not kidding. Manna has probably never joked in her life. Not in this office. Not in her job description.

“It's sort of urgent.”

Manna clicks her mouse, surveys the computer screen. “Tomorrow at two?” She scans. “Oh. Sorry. Make that four-thirty. Does that work for you?”

No, you fat, fascist bureaucrat, it does not.

“No, it doesn't. Listen.” Tibor checks over his shoulder. His mother is perusing a newspaper. “I witnessed that murder on Gellert. Do you understand? One of the murderers is a police detective, Detective Tamas Sarkady. He intimidated me. He's had me followed. And now he's setting me up.”

“I'm very sorry, Mr. Roland, but Mr. Sutherland is simply not available until tomorrow at 4:30.”

“Do you think I'm making this up? I'm telling you my life is in danger. If Mr. Sutherland doesn't talk to me now, he'll be visiting me in prison.” That was louder than it should have been. His mother has put the newspaper aside and is now approaching the desk with that firmness of intent he remembers from when he was a child and she was about to scold his teacher.

“I understand your concern, Mr. Roland. If you, and your mother”—she nods toward Agnes, who now stands beside Tibor—“would like to remain at the embassy for the day, or even a couple of days, you are welcome to do so. But Mr. Sutherland has a full schedule…”

“And who is Mr. Sutherland?” Agnes interrupts. She'd thought Tibor never stood up to anyone. Obviously, she has underestimated him. He has more of his father in him than she'd thought, and she feels a sharp, loving pain for this immature son of hers.

“The head of embassy security, Mrs. Roland.”

“Why do we wait for a security guard? We will see the ambassador.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Roland, but your son has expressed a security concern. Mr. Sutherland is the
head
of security.”

Agnes remembers this kind of woman. The landlady of their building, who reported on the doctor. The pharmacist's wife, who took the bribe her father offered for her mother's medication and then reported him. The woman next door, Mrs. Nemeth.

“We won't be here tomorrow. That's too bad. Steven will be sad that we weren't able to pass on his little gift for Ambassador…”

“Ambassador Nolan,” Tibor supplies.

“And his dear wife. That's Steven Harper. We promised him we'd stop by. Give the Nolans a sincere and off-the-record thank you for helping us keep those awful gypsies out of Canada. They went to school together, you know.”

There's nothing more convincing than a woman in her seventies, Agnes thinks, as Manna ventures what might be called a smile and reaches for the phone.

In the hallway behind Manna, a door opens. Three men step out. One wears a sharply pressed blue uniform and police officer's cap. Even before he turns, Tibor knows it is Ferenc. Have they put out a warning against him? Reported him to his own government? “Thank you for your time,” says Tibor. He grabs a pamphlet from the desk, takes his mother by the elbow, and hustles her toward the exit. “We'll come back later for your passport.”

“Persze, Tibor. Persze. My arm.”

Walk, walk, walk. Tibor lunges ahead impatiently, then stops to wait for her to catch up. Thank God she wears her Adidas shoes today. Could they not just wait for a bus? It's colder today, all yesterday's melt frozen fast, and the shade of tall walls hides patches of glare ice. She extends both arms like a kid on a balance beam. Chasing her son at break-hip speed. Ha. She wants to share the joke with him, but he's at least fifty paces ahead. What are they running from? Where is he headed?

For heaven's sake. “Tibor.”

But the ice is faster and she's down as her son strides away. “Tibor.” What is that look on his face? Apology? Alarm? He's jogging back toward her. She should tell him it's all right. I'm fine, Tibor. I was only a little frightened. And disappointed. And angry, mostly at myself. You see, I can stand on my own. It's too hard to speak. Whew. Dizzy. I'd rather sit. But there's no hurry. I know the march was only a march and I'm not a criminal. We can leave this country any time, like normal people. We can simply go to the airport and cross a border that is only a line taped on the floor. Isn't that remarkable? We can file onto an airplane, crunch our bottoms into narrow seats, and push off into a gunless sky. I'm too old to run, Tibor.

“I left without Zsofi. I left her in the revolution and she was only sixteen.”

“It's okay, Mom,” Tibor is saying.

Has she said this out loud? So it makes no difference, after all, to confess. She'd thought the black box inside her would shatter, but no. Still there. Might as well have kept it inside.

He's lifting her up. A good son, her Tibor. So protective. He's found a bench in the sun. He folds his scarf for her to sit on. That's nice. Solicitous and kind.

“Wait here. I'll find a phone and call us a cab.”

She wakes in the dark. It's 10:30, according to the idiotic clock. Tibor beside her, clicking away at his computer. “It's too late to be working.”

“Mom. How are you feeling?”

“Sore.”

“You fell on the ice.”

“I said sore, not senile.”

“Do you want some soup?”

“I want to go home.”

“I know. We'll pick up your passport tomorrow.”

“Why did you have to run so fast?”

“Long story. I'll tell you tomorrow.”

“I would like some water.”

“Here you are.”

“I would like to go home.”

“Tomorrow, Mom. Like I said.”

“I thought you were running away from me.”

“I wasn't.”

“I ran away.”

“I know.”

“I ran away from my family.”

“You ran from an oppressive regime.”

“I left Zsofi.”

“It's okay, Mom. You told me, remember?”

“I did?”

“Gyula told me you were brave.”

“Gyula?”

“I called him.”

“Gyula was my lover.”

“He told me that too.”

“He talks too much.”

“Call if you need me, Mom. You need to sleep.”

“And tomorrow we'll go home?”

“Promise.”

His hotel room is almost too quiet. Across the black Duna, the parliament pretends to float. Snow gusts.

Why haven't they arrested him already? They have the lying eyewitness, Csaba Bekes. They have the incriminating photographs on his camera. His footprints right next to where they found the head. And despite his lie, they know where he is staying.

They're not sure they can get away with it, was Gyula's assessment. Or maybe they just need a diversion. They need to look like they've
almost
got the guy, they're closing in on him, but somehow you slipped through their fingers.

The thought is not quite soothing.

He tried to call Lucia first, but when she didn't answer, he found Uncle Gyula's number. Whoever he was, judging by his clothes, he was obviously pretty well to do. And Tibor had to admit he was reassured, dealing with Gyula. Sometimes, a well-connected older man is just more solid, more credible, than a young, politically outraged woman.

Tomorrow, Gyula would meet him here around three. One more time, Tibor would walk through every event in detail, as best as he could remember. The party at the squat. The moonlit jog. The voices and the names he was positive he hadn't misheard. Gyula would put in a call to the National Police. Then they would go together to the consulate at four-thirty. And then what? He wouldn't speak unless someone could guarantee his protection. Gyula had agreed that was the right tactic, so that's what he'd do. But he could also just leave. As long as there was no warrant for his arrest, as long as he was only the useful diversion, he could simply book an earlier flight and, with his mother, fly away home.

“You might want to consider that,” suggested Gyula. They talked with low voices so as not to disturb his mother as she dozed. She'd sprained her wrist but thankfully nothing worse.

Now, he clicks on the TV to catch the eleven o'clock news. Compulsive. He can't help himself. Strange sense that he's eavesdropping on his own life. Or the trap that'll close on it. Another witness has stepped forward, confirming that Hagy left the party in a black Mercedes. Detective Tamas Sarkady says they are getting closer to putting together those last few hours of Janos Hagy's tragically brief life. Police have not yet found the body. Anyone with information is urged to call.

Next, the boy's father. He's just some ordinary-looking businessman in a blue, button-down shirt but clearly shattered, straining for dignity then splitting apart. Please, if you have any information. Please come forward. Whoever did this. Has to be arrested. I just want justice. For Janos. For my son. Who could do such a thing? I loved my son.

I loved him.

Oh, my son.

My son.

My son.

The boy grins out at him from the TV. Cool hat. A pimple on his chin.

And Tibor stares back. And Tibor hates the boy. He resents his smile and the pimple that reminds him that the boy couldn't have known what was coming. The boy looks like a posturing, suburban, self-entitled little fuck. He hates that their lives are now linked.

But there's no getting around it.

Because he was there, when he was there. Because he is the witness, and he is the murdered. A connection not of blood but of circumstance. Not of love but of debt. To what? To the dead. To the dead, Tibor. You owe it not to Janos who lived but to Janos who died. It's not his fault. Whether you tell or whether you run, you'll carry that snapshot of the boy in your head for the rest of your life, along with the fleshy
thunk
of an axe. No posturing now, no pretend. This is your soul speaking.

“Shut up,” Tibor says.

Midnight. Gabor's not at the front desk, and Tibor feels strangely deserted. But wait, there he is. Out of uniform, chatting up the good-looking bartender. That seems wrong, out of character. Seriously precise Gabor shouldn't have a personal life. Most definitely, he shouldn't flirt.

Gabor leans one elbow on the bar. “Edward says I can indeed apply for positions elsewhere. If my English is strong enough and if my performance is virtually flawless.”

She swipes her cloth over the ring Gabor's water glass has left on the counter. “I can't imagine leaving.”

“You see, that's the problem with us. Lack of imagination.”

She shakes her head. “The problem is the forint and the fucking taxes. Do you really think they'll be hiring foreigners in Germany? In England? Have you read the paper lately? We might be at the bottom of the shitter, but it's the same shitter.”

“No, you will not dash my dreams with your determined pessimism, Eva. I will get out of this particular toilet, you watch.”

“Right. Send me a postcard.”

“I will find the meaning of life, you just wait. I'll go to India, to Tibet, but I'll find it.”

So stiff-necked Gabor is a dreamer. Hilarious.

“Mind if I join you?”

The look on their faces—kids caught smoking dope behind the bleachers. Almost funny except that it makes him, Tibor, the party-busting grown-up.

Gabor stands. Nods to the girl. “Good evening, sir,” to Tibor.

“Would you like something to drink, sir?”

Would he be there if he didn't? “Gin martini?”

“Persze.”

Persze, it's a lousy martini. He should've known better. Cheap gin, lukewarm. Whatever. He sits at the window, the only cus­tom­er. The girl swabs the counter again. She cleans glasses. She's busy, busy. A notably North American training they must get here. Never stand idle. Always
look
like you love your job. Fucking Soviet, really. Well, and how is he any different? Glad-handing his way through conferences, smarming up to editors and more important researchers. And what great “networking” he'd done on this trip. Nearly vomited on his own conference paper. Had clung to his old friends, failing to approach anyone of any importance whatsoever. Well, that's it. He'd tried. But here was the truth. Even if he did the right thing, testified, what­­ever, what would it gain him? He would still die alone, having achieved nothing. His mother would be the only one at his funeral.