“And a dead girl was found in Terézváros. A dead Jewish girl.”
“A Jew? As far as I’m concerned, she could be Hindu.” Waving a hand in resignation, Turcsányi continued: “And I won’t even ask why you didn’t check with me.” His anger slowly petered out. “Now go sit yourself down at your desk and write me an article about what the international press has been saying about Gömbös. And if you’re not at the bier tomorrow at noon, I’ll personally kick you from here to Hamburg, so you can catch the first boat back to America.”
Gordon sighed deeply and, without a word, held Turcsányi’s stare. For close to half a minute they just stood there facing each other: Turcsányi, the forty-plus, slightly paunchy editor whose clean-shaven face always wore a harried expression, and Gordon, hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, eyes fixed and uncompromising. Finally, Turcsányi looked away and stormed off into his office. No one saw the interaction; everyone had better things to do than to watch the two of them stare each other down. They knew full well that Turcsányi was all talk, that he wouldn’t let things reach their breaking point. He would never find a better crime reporter than Gordon. Turcsányi knew it well, and so did Gordon.
On Gordon’s desk was a heap of daily papers from all over the world. The latest issue of the Evening was on his typewriter. Gordon picked it up and read a bit of the obituary: “It is to his credit that it isn’t the nation burying itself,” wrote the newspaper’s deputy editor-in-chief, who went on to praise Gömbös for not subverting his constitutional role as head of government with a dictatorship tailored in foreign lands. Gordon put the paper back and took a seat. He picked up the first paper from atop the pile. Popolo di Roma began by writing that Gömbös had been a sincere friend of Italy. And, of course, of Mussolini. And Hitler. The Times of London referred to Gömbös as “Hungary’s strongman,” observing, “Gyula Gömbös, although an advocate of a one-party state who would have preferred military rule for Hungary—ideally conscripting every respectable Hungarian into his party—had yet been kept by his patriotism from breaking with Hungary’s ancient constitution.” Gordon didn’t quite understand this, but he underlined it all the same. According to the conservative Morning Post, the Germans would “exploit the funeral to reemphasize, in diplomatic and military terms, German-Hungarian solidarity.” Then he picked up the French papers. According to Le Figaro’s commentator, “Gömbös had been driven by a passionate love of his country. He worked ceaselessly for his nation’s rehabilitation, and his aim had been the restoration of Greater Hungary. Gömbös was not exactly enamored of France. We fear that his predilection for friendly ties with Germany will outlive him. What is certain is that no big changes can be expected in Hungarian foreign policy.” Gordon pulled the German papers from the pile, read on, and finally slid the typewriter in front of him, typing:
The German press mourns Gyula Gömbös as a fervent Hungarian patriot, a statesman of European stature, and a most sincere friend of the national socialist German empire; as a leader who was first among foreign statesmen, and who was able to forge both political and personal ties with the chancellor, Adolf Hitler, as well as the interior minister, Hermann Göring.
It was past seven by the time Gordon finished writing. His head was abuzz from all the clichés, and he was sorry he’d even read the obituary in the Evening. He gave his piece to Turcsányi, who grumbled something about making sure to be there the next day at the Parliament building. Gordon nodded, then put on his jacket and his hat.
He would have headed home, but it occurred to him that the girl’s autopsy would have been finished by now. He turned along Rákóczi Street toward Apponyi Square. The rain again took hold, and fog had descended on the city, but not even this could keep the newsboys from shouting their lungs out to let anyone in range know: Kálmán Darányi had been declared the acting prime minister. As if it could have been anyone else, thought Gordon.
As he passed by Nagy Diófa Street, Gordon took a look down the block but saw only a few windows shrouded in fog. He couldn’t shake the image of the girl lying there like a rag doll. Or the photograph he’d found in Detective Gellért’s drawer. He’d been on the crime beat for too long now to believe in chance. Moreover, the girl reminded him of the first article he’d ever written, for Philadelphia’s Hungarian newspaper in December 1922. On the twenty-third, to be precise. A girl named Mariska Ifjú had committed suicide, and not even her mother suspected the reason. The girl had taken pills, a lot of them, and Gordon’s editor, Ferenc Pártos, had sent twenty-two-year-old Gordon to check things out. The paper’s owner and editor-in-chief, Béla Green, insisted that the story be covered, and by a reporter on the scene. The young woman lived in West Philadelphia with her mother, and hers was the first corpse Gordon had seen in his life. Mariska was lying on her stomach in front of her bed, her head against the edge, and Gordon couldn’t decide whether it was merely his imagination playing a stupid game on him or if this girl and the one on Nagy Diófa Street really had been found in a similar position. With trembling hands, he took notes, stepping aside to avoid having to look at the sobbing mother or that pompous priest, János Murányi. He wrote as much as he was able to, and the same day he delivered the article to the newsroom on North Sixth Street. Later it occurred to him more than once that he might have guessed why Mariska had done herself in.
Gordon still believed he wouldn’t be devoting so much attention to the case of the dead Jewish girl now if Skublics hadn’t riled him up. Of course, a front-page story wouldn’t hurt, either; if for no other reason than that it would keep Turcsányi’s mouth shut for a while. He’d been writing about crime long enough to form an almost inexplicable sixth sense. He couldn’t even tell Krisztina, but when his stomach churned like this, it was as if his gut was warning him: Things are not what they seem. Gordon couldn’t even remember when he’d last felt this. A long time ago. It wasn’t a yearning to reveal the truth that drove him as he wrote, as he collected facts and sometimes investigated. Gordon had never studied philosophy, but he suspected there was no such thing as the truth. Even if he could reveal the facts, what good would that do? Admitting it to himself was hard, but what interested him most was each person’s fate. And death was the last stop on the road of fate; it all somehow led to death. Gordon was interested in the road. Whether he cared about these people he could not have said for sure, but their fates interested him more than anything else.
At Apponyi Square he boarded a tram. The Budapest transport company had again raised fares; Gordon couldn’t even keep track anymore. He gave the conductor a pengő, pocketed his change, and sat down on the cold, damp wooden bench at the end of the car. Traffic was brisk on Üllői Street. Wagons, horse-drawn carriages, buses, and cars were all heading out of the city. The day was over.
Luckily, a car beeping its horn snapped him to attention; when Gordon looked up, he saw that his stop, Orczy Park, was next. He got off, and in the misty light of the streetlamps, he headed toward number 83. He knew the terra-cotta brick building housing the Institute of Forensic Medicine quite well, and the guard let Gordon in right away. He went down the stairs to the cellar, where a cold light was glowing. Dr. Pazár was sitting at a table in front of the cadaver room and having his supper: bread, a slab of roast bacon, onions, and beer from a clasped bottle. The big, bald man waved to Gordon to sit down.
“Want some?”
“I’ve already had supper.”