Budapest Noir Read Online Free PDF Page A

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,