The Budapest Protocol, page 5
“Alex, my friend. Come, sit down,” he said, leading Alex to the back of the room.
Mubarak Fonseca was a half-Palestinian, half Cuban leftover from Hungary’s communist era. His father and mother were engineering students, who had met and fallen in love at Budapest University in the 1960s, when Hungary was carrying out its fraternal internationalist duty, educating students from the developing world. His parents had long since divorced, and gone home, but Mubarak had stayed. He had inherited coffeecoloured skin from his father, dark curly hair from his mother and engaging brown eyes from both. Someone along the line of ancestral Palestinians and Cubans had passed him down a business sense as sharp as his dress sense was atrocious. He was wearing pink flared trousers, a tight black shirt, and a maroon velvet jacket.
Mubarak was also a former national karate champion, which had proved useful in his struggle to remain king of Budapest’s black market money changers. Mubarak’s rate was always better than any bank. He never short-changed his customers and always paid off the police on time, which was why they let him stay open. Even the Russians used him, once a peace agreement was drawn up after an unsuccessful attempt to muscle in that ended in several of their foot soldiers returning to Moscow for lengthy periods of convalescence. Very little of significance took place within Hungary’s black economy, and its darker criminal offshoots, without Mubarak’s knowledge. The two men sat down at a corner table.
“Alex, firstly my sincere condolences on the death of your grandfather,” said Mubarak. The barmaid brought a plate of pistachios and coffee in tiny cups. “It is a terrible tragedy.”
“Thank you,” said Alex. He took out his mobile telephone and showed that he was removing the battery. Mubarak followed suit, and reached into the plate of nuts. He cracked one open with his teeth and dropped the shell into the ashtray. He was an addict and usually ate a bag a day.
“I had us swept for bugs yesterday,” he said, gesturing at the ceiling. “But soon they will find a way to listen to us, even without the battery in, you know.”
“Perhaps they already have.”
“You know, you are probably right,” said Mubarak, shaking his head wearily at the difficult ways of the world. They chatted for a while, exchanging pleasantries, as ritual demanded.
“You said you may have some news for me,” said Alex, sipping his coffee.
Mubarak sat up straight, scooping up a handful of pistachios. “I hear things, that money is moving. A lot of money, coming from the west. From Austria, and from Germany especially. Old friends, coming home to where they always felt comfortable, bringing lots of old money, money that nobody even knew they had. Hungary is a democracy now, of course. But still a young one, impressionable. Like a teenager, easily swayed by fast cars and rolls of money. Follow the money trail, my friend,” he said, offering the plate of pistachios to Alex.
Alex took several. “If you know something about my grandfather’s death...”
“Nothing concrete, just my intuition. Something is happening. I just wonder if it is connected,” Mubarak said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together and crinkling his nostrils. “I know I am a black marketeer, but people need euros and dollars. They don’t want to fill in lots of forms and papers. Who knows on what desk they will land? My rates are reasonable, generous even. And I hand over real money, not rolls of Yugoslav dinars or toilet paper. Of course, the authorities know about me. We have a modus vivendi. I meet a social need. Like George Soros, I am a capitalist building a free market society.”
“And you bribe people,” said Alex, amused at Mubarak’s remodelling of himself as a social philanthropist.
“Well, yes – that as well. But recently my contacts, those who permit me to operate for a percentage, have become so greedy. These people do not think for the future, only what they can get immediately. My margins are terrible. The Socialists were cleverer. They had a long-term view. All those five-year plans give you a perspective. Maybe I will relocate to Cuba. Listen to Buena Vista Social Club, drink rum and smoke cigars with Fidel. They are still communists there, they need dollars.”
Mubarak leaned back, lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. He laid his hand on Alex’s arm and his voice turned serious. “Be careful, my friend.”
FOUR
Peter Feher knew he looked his age. He walked with a stoop and his skin sagged on his bones, as though he had been wrapped in a casing of soft parchment one size too large. His face was pale, and thin white hair lay in carefully-combed strands over his pink scalp. His huge beak of a nose seemed to precede him by several seconds. Over-exertion triggered a watery rattle in his chest. But his pale blue eyes missed nothing, and the years had not dulled his lawyer’s brain. He scanned the rows of black-clad, sombre-faced mourners, crowded around the grave at Budapest’s Jewish cemetery. The turn-out was impressive: MPs from all the mainstream parties, former dissidents who had landed comfortable posts teaching at the Central European University, the theatre crowd, and numerous journalists, some come to pay their respects, others to report. Even Csintori’s Minister of Culture had turned up. Miklos, you would be proud, Feher thought.
The cemetery was near Budapest’s Keleti, the city’s eastern station. The clatter of the carriages as they trundled along the railway lines, north towards Poland, was a faint murmur in the funeral’s background, carrying over the Rabbi’s prayers as he recited the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. The Rabbi was young and confident, with a clear baritone voice. Feher joined in, carefully reciting the Aramaic words with which Jews have mourned their dead for thousands of years.
“Yisgadal, veyiskadash, shemey rabo, May his illustrious name become great and holy,” he intoned, and the liturgy still came easily to him. Eight-two years on this earth and how long before it’s my turn, he mused. He watched the Rabbi hand Alex the shovel. Alex took it firmly in his hand. He dug it hard into a pile of earth, before lifting it over the grave and dropping the soil over the coffin. It landed with a quiet thump, spilling over the sides. Alex wiped his eyes. Others followed, until it was Feher’s turn. One by one the mourners thanked the Rabbi, and filed out of the cemetery. Alex and Feher were the last to leave. They stood together by the grave for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, and walked back together into the clamour of the lunchtime city. Alex shook Feher’s hand and said goodbye.
“Alex, no, surely you’re not leaving already,” Feher protested. “What’s the hurry? Come and take a coffee, perhaps even something stronger. Of course, if you have the time,” he said, hailing a taxi which stopped a few metres away. Alex followed him to the car.
* * *
The Margaret Patisserie stood at the bottom of St Stephen’s Boulevard, near the Danube. Named after the nearby bridge, it offered not just drinks and snacks, but time travel back to the socialist era. Ranks of brightly coloured cakes were displayed in glass cases, all topped with artificial cream, a brilliant, impossible white. The coffee was thick and tepid, a burst of high-calibre caffeine, fired out of an ancient steam-driven contraption into short, stumpy glasses. Blowsy waitresses smoked 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 drew his eye with an irresistible force.
Feher saw Alex looking at his arm. He inhaled and blew out a cloud of pungent grey fumes. He offered the packet to Alex. “The train journey was indescribable. It took two days. When I arrived they asked me what my profession was. I was a law student. But I could see they didn’t need lawyers there. I told them I was a metal worker. At home I was always in charge of getting the house and office keys copied for my father. Perhaps that qualified me. It was enough. I turned right, my parents and my sister went left,” he said. He raised his coffee cup to his mouth. It rattled against his teeth. “But I’m still here,” he said, smiling as he put his cup down.
Alex did not know what to say. He accepted a cigarette, lit up and breathed in. Something punched him in the throat. Coughing and spluttering, he put the cigarette down. The waitress, laughing, brought him a glass of water, which he sipped gratefully, and tried to sound composed.
“Who do you think killed my grandfather, Peter?” he asked.
Feher shrugged. “I suppose the post-mortem will tell us what he died of. A heart attack perhaps, after being beaten by skinheads who had broken into his flat, according to the speculation in today’s newspapers.”
“Do you believe that?” asked Alex.
“No. Do you?”
“There was a pig’s head in the room, and someone had painted AVO on the wall in red paint,” said Alex, trying not to think of the scene he had discovered. “But he wasn’t in the AVO. He hated communism. The Soviets took his house, his factory, everything the family had. State security officers arrested him after 1956. They put him in prison.”
“And the Soviets liberated him and tens of thousands of other Jews from the ghetto. You should also remember that,” Feher said archly, the smoke drifting from his nostrils. “But you are right, mistakes were made. That was another world. The point is, Alex, that your grandfather was a fine man, a brave man. Clearly someone doesn’t want him to be remembered like that.”
Alex nodded.
“So what better way to destroy his reputation than to accuse him of being a snitch for the communist secret police? There are still people here who think all Jews were communists, and even if they were dissidents they must have secretly been communist spies.” Feher opened Ébredjetek Magyarok!. “Look. It’s started already,” he said, pointing to a banner headline: “Miklos Farkas: Dissident or Secret AVO Agent?”, above a long article by Balazs Noludi, the newspaper’s editor.
Alex glanced at the turgid prose, a skilful cocktail of lies, smears and distorted quotations from Miklos’ samizdat publications. He shook his head wearily. “Unbelievable.” He paused. “Peter, were you a communist?” he asked, carefully.
“Yes, I was, for a while. The Red Army liberated me from Auschwitz. They fed me and brought me home. It seemed completely natural. We thought we were building a new world then. I argued about it all the time with Miklos. He was right, I was wrong. I left the party after 1956. Tell me, how many members do you think the Hungarian Communist Party had in 1989?”
“I don’t know.”
“Eight hundred thousand. That’s a lot of party cards in a country of ten million people. This was the softest regime in the Soviet bloc, and they still clamoured to sign up.” He flicked through Ébredjetek Magyarok!. “Our friend Balazs Noludi was party secretary in his home village. Poor Balazs, he is a quite sad story.”
“Why?”
“He is a Hungarian from a village in northern Serbia. He wrote a novel about countryside life. It was very promising, full of poignant vignettes and good characters: a lonely farmer in love with the village shopkeeper, a mayor whose brother was executed after 1956 who was forced to join the Communist Party, even a Holocaust survivor who was the last Jew in the village.”
“And what happened?”
“He moved to Budapest when the war in Yugoslavia started. He thought he would be invited into the literary elite. But those clever urban liberals ripped his book to pieces. They laughed at the countryside boy with his funny accent. And now he takes his revenge.”
Feher paused and seemed to take some kind of decision. He looked around the room, and moved closer. Alex could smell the cognac on his breath. “He doesn’t matter. This does. In 1944, your grandfather worked as a waiter at the Savoy, with false papers. We had some friends then, not so many, but some. Waiters are invisible, but he watched, and he listened.”
“What did he hear?” asked Alex.
“All through the autumn of 1944, many German and Swiss businessmen appeared at the Savoy. They would stay one or two days, and have long meetings with the Nazis. Then in December the Russians sealed off the city, and nobody could get in or out anymore.”
“What kind of German and Swiss businessmen?” asked Alex.
“The same companies that ran on slave labour then and still control the German economy now, and the Zurich bankers that laundered their blood money. Do you know that the next President of the Federal Monetary Authority will be German? He or she will be able to control the monetary policy of every country in the euro-zone.”
“Yes. But what did Miklos tell you about these meetings?”
“Just that they happened. He wasn’t invited to attend. I worked for the Germans during the war. The conditions were very poor. Most of my co-workers died. The government wrote to me a few years ago, to give me what they called ‘compensation’. One thousand deutschmarks. I tore up the cheque and sent it back.”
Feher’s voice was hard, edged with anger. His hands shook as he lit another cigarette. “Miklos did not die by accident.”
Alex replied: “There were tiny fragments of glass around Miklos’ mouth. He looked almost blue. I smelt bitter almonds. If he died of a heart attack it was induced.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Feher. “The question is, did he decide himself to bite the cyanide capsule, or did someone help him?”
Alex started with surprise. “Is there anything you don’t know?”
“Yes. Why this happened now,” said Feher. He looked hard at Alex. “Go to work.”
* * *
Alex stood for a long while that evening on his balcony, staring out at the night-time city. The Hotel Savoy had recently been renovated, and its Art Nouveau façade was softly illuminated. He watched the excited tourists climbing out of their taxis while uniformed porters picked up their baggage, and doormen helped them inside. The Elizabeth Bridge arched gracefully over the waters, casting a golden glow over the Danube. A boat floated by full of tourists on a night-river cruise. He could see the revellers, distant figures eating, drinking, and dancing. He opened a bottle of red wine, and a book of poems by Miklós Radnóti, a Jewish poet who had died in 1944, shot by his Hungarian guards. His body was later exhumed, his last verses found hidden in his coat. His early work was full of joy and light but Alex turned to the end, verses full of death and anguish. Fifty years later, nothing had changed in the Balkans. Alex saw a Muslim home in a remote Bosnian village. It was seared into his brain.
