“Then don’t listen.”
“Don’t you worry, I won’t. And before I hang up on you, I’ll tell you that Mór stopped by this afternoon and brought another jar of jam. I haven’t tasted it yet, but this time it looks edible, surprisingly enough.” With that, she slammed down the receiver. Gordon shrugged and put down the phone. He couldn’t know whether Valéria was looking his way from behind her dark glasses, but he suspected she was. He nodded her way and then headed home.
The next morning Gordon woke early and started his day at the Abbázia Coffeehouse on the Oktogon, the bustling eight-sided intersection where the Grand Boulevard met Andrássy Street.
“Good morning, Mr. Editor,” the waiter greeted him before leading him over to his usual table, placing the morning papers before him along with the freshly arrived papers from London and New York. The fellow then hurried off to get Gordon his breakfast. Gordon sat and stared out at the Oktogon for a while. He’d often been asked why he liked the Abbázia, since it was so passé compared to the Japán Coffeehouse barely a block away. Gordon would always shrug and reply, “Their coffee is good.” Not that this was true; the coffee at the Abbázia was average, and for one pengő and sixty fillérs, the breakfast wasn’t exactly filling. Gordon liked it because he was a regular. He could sit at the same table by the window, watching the busy Oktogon in the morning and Andrássy Street decked out in lights at night.
That morning, however, the Oktogon was far from busy. It could have been 6 A.M. on a Sunday. The noisiest thing in sight was the tram, and he saw far fewer cars and buses than usual. Most shops hadn’t even opened, and two out of the three coffeehouses were closed. The usual surging crowd had vanished: there were no onlookers; no maids headed toward the market on Lövölde Square to shop; no shoe shiners; no kids making a racket. Those passing by were clearly going about their business resolutely.
Gordon shook his head. It wasn’t possible that everyone was mourning Gömbös. Nor were they worried about the government—Hungarians didn’t worry over the government even when they should. Kálmán Darányi had been overseeing day-to-day affairs for a good month already, and Gömbös was missed by few. There certainly was no crisis. Of course, the government ministers all submitted their resignations, and the nation’s regent, Miklós Horthy, accepted them. But it would be days yet before Horthy would formally assign Darányi the task of forming a new government. At such times Gordon didn’t mind being a crime reporter. He had little affinity for politics, and when he thought about the impassioned and hot-blooded politicians clashing over which political faction Darányi would invite into his government alongside his National Unity Party, Gordon found the whole affair simply ludicrous. He had no patience for it, and he also knew this: he wasn’t alone in his silent apathy. The question wasn’t really who Darányi would share power with, but in what direction he would go. And unfortunately he knew full well—he could see—which way the new head of government was moving. It wasn’t by chance that Gömbös had been receiving medical treatment near Munich of all places.
At the same time, Gordon was also certain that a huge crowd had gathered along the route of the funeral procession and in front of the Parliament building. Even in this country, it wasn’t an everyday occurrence for a prime minister to be brought home dead from abroad.
Gordon grabbed a newspaper, 8 O’Clock News. He flipped through, then picked up the next. He got through the Budapest News every bit as fast. In the city’s German-language daily, Pester Loyd, he read the accounts of the German stock exchange, the most vivid reading possible of that country’s situation. Gordon noticed his coffee sitting in front of him on the table and, beside it, a brioche. He leaned back in his chair and savored the unusually silent spectacle of the Oktogon along with his breakfast; he wouldn’t have another minute’s rest until evening, that much was certain.
Gordon grabbed his hat and caught the next tram, watching the eerily deserted boulevard in the half light of dawn until he reached Berlin Square. Just as all the police officers and gendarmes had been ordered to the streets on account of the procession, so, too, were journalists assigned to cover only the funeral that day. Sports reporters, Gordon’s colleagues on the police blotter, stock exchange correspondents, editors, and apprentices—all were focused on Gömbös. Gordon couldn’t complain about his assignment; he was to go into the Parliament building to speak directly to the funeral’s organizers, those doing the real work, versus those merely giving their names to the event. On Berlin Square he fought his way toward Kaiser Wilhelm Road through the crowd of people making their way to the West Railway Station carrying suitcases, bags, and baskets. No matter the occasion, there was always a huge hubbub at the station.
On Kaiser Wilhelm Road, however, it was utterly quiet and calm. Although the procession carrying Gömbös’s body had long since arrived at the Parliament building, the police officers and the stone-faced gendarmes still lined the road, standing there so erect it seemed they might snap.
Gordon picked up his pace a bit. He’d already had enough, and he wanted to get to Krisztina on time today. He still had half an hour. Anything that couldn’t be found out in that much time wasn’t even worth it, he figured.
In front of the Parliament building stood an honor guard and even more policemen, as if concerned that someone might want to cart Gömbös’s body off to a taxidermist. A small group of detectives stood by the main entrance. Gordon didn’t even have to take out his ID; one of the detectives recognized him at once and waved a hand to the policemen by the door to let him in. Gordon gave an appreciative nod and stepped inside. The bier was already there in the rotunda under the building’s imposing dome, filling the cavernous space with all due somberness but a bit too much grandeur. Gordon was just about to look for the person in charge of the funeral when he noticed three men behind one of the columns. He took a step back and to the side, to get a better look without being seen. There was nothing unusual about two of the three men; they, of all people, certainly belonged here. Miklós Kozma, the interior minister—a tad plump, with a full mustache and slicked-back hair, wearing a dark, simple suit—stood opposite Tibor Ferenczy. Budapest’s chief of police had to lean down a bit to catch the interior minister’s glib yet soft voice. The chief also wore a dark suit and his graying hair was likewise combed back; his eyes were piercing. Although the third man stood with his back toward him, Gordon had no problem recognizing the lanky, slightly stooped figure with his hands, as always, clenched behind his back. Gellért had been up and about all night, and so his jacket was just as wrinkled as before.
Gordon drew back farther into the shadows. What was Gellért doing here? Of course, he had to know the details of the funeral procession, but why was he beside the bier of all places? What was one of the heads of the homicide unit talking about so intensely with the interior minister and the chief of police? Gömbös’s funeral was not an occasion for investigating a murder. Gordon glanced about for József Schweinitzer. In the best-case scenario the state had to be on the lookout for a modest public disturbance—at worst, an assassination. And this was the job of the state security police, under Schweinitzer’s command. But Schweinitzer was nowhere to be seen, and the body language of these three men told Gordon no one else around would be privy to their discussion.
Having finished speaking, Kozma looked at Ferenczy, who said something to Gellért, whereupon the two senior officials went off toward the building’s north wing. Gellért turned, and Gordon stepped out of the shadows.