“And what do you want to do?”
“Do? What do I want to do?”
“Yes. What do you want to do? That’s what I asked.”
“Why do I need to do anything at all?”
“Because it’s suspicious, Zsigmond. Don’t you think so?”
“I’m not saying a few details don’t add up.”
“Add up?” Krisztina stopped in her tracks. “A few details?”
“Krisztina, don’t go making a fuss. A girl died on Nagy Diófa Street. That’s it. It’s not exactly a safe neighborhood.”
“Let me put it another way. Even if that picture hadn’t been in Gellért’s desk drawer, doesn’t it seem suspicious to you that a Jewish girl should be found dead not far from Klauzál Square? In a seedy neighborhood like that?”
“Why should it be suspicious? Dohány Street is close by, too.”
“How many Jewish girls from Dohány Street have you heard of who work the streets?”
Gordon looked toward Blaha Lujza Square. He shuddered at the shrill ring of the tram behind him.
“Not a lot.”
“And surely you haven’t heard of one with a siddur in her purse, and nothing else.”
“What are you talking to me about some siddur for? As if I’m supposed to know what that is.”
“Zsigmond, it’s been five years already since you moved home, but there are a few things you still need to remember.”
“Don’t say it.”
“But I will. Here and now, in this country, it does indeed matter who is Jewish and who is not.”
“Now you’ll go telling me again about your Saxon roots, and that back in Transylvania you even had Jewish friends and Romanian friends.”
Krisztina pulled her arm from Gordon’s, turned about-face, and headed back toward the Oktogon with determined steps. Gordon hurried after her.
“Don’t be angry.”
“You’re such a boor sometimes that I don’t even understand why I let you into my bed.”
“Into your bed? You got that modern monstrosity from me.”
“But I’m the one who sleeps in it. And you, only when you happen to remember I exist.”
Gordon took a deep breath. He didn’t want to ratchet up the tension any more. “All right. Don’t be angry. I beg your pardon. I was a boor. And you’re right, this whole affair is suspicious to me, too.”
Krisztina nodded. “What are you going to do?”
“I have no idea. Unless . . .” He thought for a moment. “Unless I go find Vogel. Maybe he knows who took the nude picture.”
“You just said that as if I’m supposed to know who Vogel is.”
“The police reporter for Hungary,” replied Gordon. “I even showed you that terrific series he wrote about the city’s sex industry.”
“About Csuli and his gang?”
“See there, you can remember if you want.”
The Zanzibar’s flashing neon lights clashed with the deserted boulevard. Gordon went ahead, and they left their coats in the cloakroom. They sat down at a table far from the stage. The bronze lamps on the tables emitted a reddish light, and the orchestra played in muted tones in preparation for the evening’s main performance. Waiters bustled about with trays stacked full, couples cuddled, and the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with that of bean goulash and Wiener schnitzel.
Gordon lit a cigarette, then waved for the waiter. He ordered Krisztina a glass of red wine and French cognac for himself. The musicians stopped playing, and the MC announced that the program would continue with the singing sisters from New York after a ten-minute intermission. The patrons grew louder, and Gordon was too busy scanning the audience to hear Krisztina at first.
“What did you say?”
Krisztina sighed. “That something happened to me today, too.”
“Tell me,” said Gordon, leaning on his elbow.
“I got a letter from London.”
“From London.”
“Right. They say . . .” She paused, reached inside her purse, and took out an envelope. “Read it.”
Gordon reached for the envelope and took out the letter: “To Miss Krisztina Eckhardt, Budapest . . .” So began the letter, the figure of a stupid little penguin sitting atop it. Gordon skimmed it, then gave it back.
“Aren’t you happy?” asked Krisztina.
“Sure I am.”
“Don’t you want me to go?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You want me to stay?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
Krisztina shook her head, looked toward the stage, and then took a sip of her wine.
“An English publisher saw your work on the Berlin Olympics,” said Gordon, lighting another cigarette, “and decided that it’s you they want in their design department.”
“Exactly.”
“Good. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to sound sarcastic, nor do I want to seem like a boor. But would you explain to me why a publisher that does not publish illustrated books and that uses the same sort of cover design for each of its books—white in the middle, with only a different border—needs a graphic designer?”
“So you know Penguin?”
“I do.”
“Then you should know that not every cover of theirs is quite the same. Besides, I’d design other things for them, too.”
“Sounds good.”
“And I’d go only for a year.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“In case you don’t recall, a couple of weeks ago I was asked to design the materials for the International Eucharistic Congress. Well, some of the materials.”
“That’s a year and a half from now.”
“I know. That’s why I’d come back after a year. And as long as we’re on the subject, you could come join me.”
“In London.”
“Right.”
“I can’t go, Krisztina, and you know this full well. Because of Opa.”
“I know. So what do you say? Should I go?”
“If it’s important to you.”
“Is it important to you that I stay?” asked Krisztina.
“It’s important to you that you go,” replied Gordon.
It was already past nine by the time they left the club. Krisztina hadn’t enjoyed the main act in the least, whereas Gordon had listened to the two American girls with rapture, pleased with their performance and their white smiles and sizable wigs, as they jumped about in their fishnet stockings.
“So go ahead and show me where it happened,” said Krisztina, pulling her coat tighter.
“Where what happened?”
“The dead girl. Where they found her.”
“On Nagy Diófa Street.”
“I know,” said Krisztina. And she headed toward Blaha Lujza Square.
“Now where are you off to?” Gordon called after her.
“Nagy Diófa Street,” she replied. “I’ll ask someone which doorway the body was found in.”
Gordon sighed deeply, flicked his half-smoked cigarette onto the road, and went after her.
“What was she wearing?” asked Krisztina when he caught up. Gordon conjured up the image and told her. “Her nails? Her hands?” Gordon said the girl’s nails were manicured. “Her hair, was it greasy? I mean, unkempt? Colored?” No, Gordon shook his head. Krisztina pressed on with her questioning, and Gordon patiently answered when he could. “What is it you noticed, after all?” she asked, looking at the corner of Wesselényi Street and Erzsébet Boulevard. “You would have made one rotten detective.”
Gordon didn’t say another word until they reached Nagy Diófa Street. He turned and stopped in front of the second building on the right. “This is where they found her.” A window was thrown open above them: “Manci! Get yourself up here this instant!” came a drunken shout.