listlessly at the counter, between flirtatious strolls among the cheap wooden tables and their mismatched chairs. The walls were brown wood, stained with decades worth of nicotine, and the floor a worn linoleum. It was a glorious dinosaur and would probably be a hamburger restaurant within six months.
They sat at a corner table. Feher smiled at a waitress with a black beehive hairdo that seemed to defy gravity. She quickly brought a tray of coffees and glasses of sticky Hungarian brandy, together with a plate piled high with chocolate cake and apple strudels.
“These are on the house. He was a regular here, and we’ll miss him,” the waitress said. Alex and Feher chatted for a while about the funeral. Feher turned his attention to the cakes. Alex tried not to stare as Feher wielded his fork with rapid precision, eating silently with a look of intense concentration. Two pieces of chocolate cake and a slice of apple strudel disappeared in a few minutes. Alex looked up to see an elderly man with thick hornrimmed glasses wearing a threadbare army greatcoat approach their table. He clutched a bundle of different newspapers, some so fresh that Alex could smell the ink.
Feher put his fork down and greeted the newspaper vendor. “My old friend Eduard Szigeti. Good day to you.”
Alex stood up, shook hands and introduced himself, surname first, in the Hungarian manner.
“Farkas. A relative?” asked Eduard.
“He was my grandfather,” said Alex.
“My condolences. I just saw the funeral on television. A fine turn-out.”
“What’s this?” asked Feher, waving at the papers.
“Special edition.
Magyar Tribün
Friday lunchtime extra. Eight pages. Tibor Csintori is no more. Parliament is in emergency session, arguing about how to form a new government. And I’ve got all the others, if you’re interested.”
Alex’s hunch had been correct. “Csintori’s resigned?” he asked.
Szigeti looked amused. “In a manner of speaking. He keeled over in Parliament in the middle of a speech about the European presidential election. He’s dead. A heart attack, they say.”
“A heart attack?” asked Alex, amazed. “He was forty-six.”
Szigeti tapped the newspapers. “Are you buying, or you want all the news for free?”
Feher bought two copies of the special edition of
Magyar Tribün
and asked for that day’s
Ébredjetek Magyarok!.
Szigeti raised his eyebrows but handed both newspapers over. Feher handed one of the special editions to Alex. It was full of long think pieces about what Csintori’s death meant for the future of Hungary, several of which referred to Natasha’s article on the
Budapest News
website about Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann. There was silence for several minutes as they both read. Feher looked thoughtful.
“He was a Professor of Cultural Aesthetics, you know,” he said, sipping from his coffee.
“I thought he was a sociologist,” said Alex, puzzled.
“Szigeti, not Csintori. He taught for forty years at Budapest University. They sacked him last month with two hours notice to clear his office. His replacement is teaching a new course on ‘The Lifetime Achievements of Admiral Horthy.’ Apparently, he had no choice but to ally with Hitler and hand over half a million Jews in six weeks. Well, it’s one point of view,” he said, dryly. “As for Csintori, he had no history of heart trouble, did not smoke and had an excellent ECG reading from his last medical...”
“How do you know?” asked Alex, looking anew at the elderly lawyer.
“I hear things.” Feher took a cigarette from a packet made of cheap white paper. The label showed a cogwheel, and the Hungarian word
Munkas
, worker. A leftover from the days before advertisements and fast-food. Alex noticed a long smear of blue ink on the arm of Feher’s white shirt, near his wrist, as he lit up. He realised the stain was not on the fabric, but on Feher’s forearm. He tried not to stare, but like a roadside car crash, the tattooed numbers
They sat at a corner table. Feher smiled at a waitress with a black beehive hairdo that seemed to defy gravity. She quickly brought a tray of coffees and glasses of sticky Hungarian brandy, together with a plate piled high with chocolate cake and apple strudels.
“These are on the house. He was a regular here, and we’ll miss him,” the waitress said. Alex and Feher chatted for a while about the funeral. Feher turned his attention to the cakes. Alex tried not to stare as Feher wielded his fork with rapid precision, eating silently with a look of intense concentration. Two pieces of chocolate cake and a slice of apple strudel disappeared in a few minutes. Alex looked up to see an elderly man with thick hornrimmed glasses wearing a threadbare army greatcoat approach their table. He clutched a bundle of different newspapers, some so fresh that Alex could smell the ink.
Feher put his fork down and greeted the newspaper vendor. “My old friend Eduard Szigeti. Good day to you.”
Alex stood up, shook hands and introduced himself, surname first, in the Hungarian manner.
“Farkas. A relative?” asked Eduard.
“He was my grandfather,” said Alex.
“My condolences. I just saw the funeral on television. A fine turn-out.”
“What’s this?” asked Feher, waving at the papers.
“Special edition.
Magyar Tribün
Friday lunchtime extra. Eight pages. Tibor Csintori is no more. Parliament is in emergency session, arguing about how to form a new government. And I’ve got all the others, if you’re interested.”
Alex’s hunch had been correct. “Csintori’s resigned?” he asked.
Szigeti looked amused. “In a manner of speaking. He keeled over in Parliament in the middle of a speech about the European presidential election. He’s dead. A heart attack, they say.”
“A heart attack?” asked Alex, amazed. “He was forty-six.”
Szigeti tapped the newspapers. “Are you buying, or you want all the news for free?”
Feher bought two copies of the special edition of
Magyar Tribün
and asked for that day’s
Ébredjetek Magyarok!.
Szigeti raised his eyebrows but handed both newspapers over. Feher handed one of the special editions to Alex. It was full of long think pieces about what Csintori’s death meant for the future of Hungary, several of which referred to Natasha’s article on the
Budapest News
website about Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann. There was silence for several minutes as they both read. Feher looked thoughtful.
“He was a Professor of Cultural Aesthetics, you know,” he said, sipping from his coffee.
“I thought he was a sociologist,” said Alex, puzzled.
“Szigeti, not Csintori. He taught for forty years at Budapest University. They sacked him last month with two hours notice to clear his office. His replacement is teaching a new course on ‘The Lifetime Achievements of Admiral Horthy.’ Apparently, he had no choice but to ally with Hitler and hand over half a million Jews in six weeks. Well, it’s one point of view,” he said, dryly. “As for Csintori, he had no history of heart trouble, did not smoke and had an excellent ECG reading from his last medical...”
“How do you know?” asked Alex, looking anew at the elderly lawyer.
“I hear things.” Feher took a cigarette from a packet made of cheap white paper. The label showed a cogwheel, and the Hungarian word
Munkas
, worker. A leftover from the days before advertisements and fast-food. Alex noticed a long smear of blue ink on the arm of Feher’s white shirt, near his wrist, as he lit up. He realised the stain was not on the fabric, but on Feher’s forearm. He tried not to stare, but like a roadside car crash, the tattooed numbers
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