EVA FEJOS

VACATION IN NAPLES

Erawan Publishing House, 2014

Translated from the Hungarian into English: Ildikó Naomi Nagy

Eva Fejos: Vacation in Naples

ISBN 978–615–5469–18–3

Copyright © Éva Fejős, 2013

English translation © Ildikó Naomi Nagy, 2014

© Erawan Publishing House, 2014

Contact:

facebook.com/fejoseva1 (Hungarian)

facebook.com/evafejos (English)

website: fejoseva.com

facebook.com/Erawan Könyvkiadó

website: erawan.hu

To my Beloved, my family, friends, and faithful readers.

Thank you for always being at my side.

The following story is a work of fiction. The characters of the novel are of my own invention, but have been living “within me” for a while now. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The captain could not find his crew. They had hidden themselves somewhere, and the helmsman had simply abandoned ship. They were caught in a violent storm which was destroying everything. What use is the statue if they lose their lives? Suddenly, a voice resounded over the raging tempest. “Posa! Posa!” it said, meaning, “Put down! Put down!” The crew immediately appeared. Everyone understood the message. They had to get rid of the Madonna statue. They had to put it down on dry land if they wanted to survive the devastating storm. The Saracens put all their weight into heaving the oars so they could deposit the stolen icon on dry land as soon as possible. As soon as they put it down, the fury of the sea abated.

The statue was found by local fishermen who had heard the mysterious, booming voice coming from the ship. They named the settlement Positano and erected a church on the spot where they had found the statue.

Centuries later, during the restoration of one of the church’s paintings, a restorer found an old inscription on the back of the canvas. He copied it and took it home. He gave it to his wife, who didn’t understand it very well, so she tossed it into the crate she used to dry citrus peels for holiday pastries.

Many years later, when the family estate was being liquidated, an heir of the restorer from generations past found it among the dried–up Sorrento lemon peels. He understood most of the text, and what he didn’t, he supplemented with his own knowledge.

Thus, his life took a new turn.

I.

Nikolett Ladányi stood in the living room of her parents’ house. From here, she had a view of her old room, which was mostly used for storage ever since she’d moved to Békásmegyer. Niki used it as her “seasonal” closet, while her parents shoved it full of all their own unused stuff. The drying rack for laundry was also set up in here. She stood in the middle of the room and couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“So it’s true? He really moved out?”

“Why don’t you ask him if you don’t believe me?”

“I believe you.”

“I’d be happier if you asked him. Personally. Will he be able to face you? I wonder how he’d break it to his daughter… if he even has the guts to tell you.”

“Mom, I’m not a kid anymore. He doesn’t owe me anything.”

“No? I’d be curious all the same, to see if he could look you in the eye. After all these years… how could he… do this to me?”

Niki’s mother burst into tears again. She had already cried her eyes red and the puffiness around them made it clear that she had been crying for days. Niki had no idea what to do as she stood there. She wasn’t even capable of sitting down. Thinking was out of the question. She’d barely returned from her trip to the Caribbean. She had scores of her own problems, and to top it off, she now had to face the crisis between her parents.

“Maybe he just wants to be alone to think things over.”

“Fat chance. You know him.”

The two women were silent. If Niki was silent, and if her mother was silent especially, it meant that something was definitely wrong. Her mother was usually a motor–mouth who feared silence and used speech to defend herself against it. Niki stared out the window.

“He left me because of another woman.”

“Men never leave because of another woman,” Niki corrected. “The problem is rooted in the original relationship…”

“Fuck that self–help junk,” her mother declared furiously. “Your father left and pretty soon he’ll have the rest of his stuff hauled out of here too. To another woman’s place. Period. There’s no point in analyzing or picking apart the nature of the original relationship. Your father walked out. He left me. He’s a piece of shit.”

Niki was silent.

“I just wish I didn’t love him… Anyway, he can drop dead.”

Niki stood despondently by the window. She could see her grandmother’s yard from here. Oh, God, she prayed to herself silently, please don’t let Gran come over now to muddle the situation even more. Her griping was the last thing they needed right now.

“I lost thirty–three years of my life… or more,” her mother said, sniffling. “Whoosh! Gone. Whisked off. Everything I thought was good… it was just an illusion.”

Niki forced herself not to interrupt. Her mother only wanted to vent her anger and pain. Niki wasn’t going to argue with her, especially because she had no idea how to help. What should an adult daughter do if her parents split up? She loved them both. Who’s fault was it? She couldn’t take sides, and if she thought about it, she wouldn’t have been able to, even if she wanted.

She’d dropped straight into the middle of a marriage crisis: her parents’ marriage crisis. Why now, when she had no idea what to do about her own life?

“How can I help you?” she asked softly.

“Help me clean this mess up. To sort through… my life… And you might talk to him. Answer the phone when he calls. He says you don’t answer when he tries to phone you. I don’t want him passing messages through me.”

“I was barely awake when you told me the news. He called me right after. I didn’t answer because… I wanted to see for myself what was going on first.”

“I’m not in the habit of lying. You could have believed me without seeing it with your own eyes. But now you can really believe it.”

Niki switched her phone off instead. And she kept it off for the rest of the weekend.

Her mother was fueled by anger and impulse. She began her mission on Friday, and by Sunday, the house was nearly unrecognizable. Gone were the family photos and the old trinkets that Niki’s father had bought her mother. Her father’s favorite pillow, which he always put under his head while watching TV, and his favorite mug were stuffed into a bag. Niki rescued a pot of blooming orchids from the garbage can. Her father had given them to her mother at the end of last year. The clothes her father had left behind were also removed from the closet. Niki’s mother dragged the TV into a different corner of the living room, rolled up the rug in the bedroom, moved the dog into the winter garden, smashed a vase she and her husband had brought home from Istanbul, meticulously swept up the shards from the floor, proceeded to snip a lace bra to pieces – Niki didn’t want to know the story behind the lingerie – grabbed a can of anchovies, her father’s favorite, from the fridge and flung it in the garbage. The purging fit began on Friday afternoon and by Sunday they were up in the attic. Niki helped unobtrusively, and though she did not wholly agree with this cleansing, she nevertheless understood the purpose it served. She was just like her mother. The cleansing type. Anything you didn’t need or was not attached to you, anything that was unreliable: you get rid of it! It was a trait she’d clearly inherited from her mother.

“I haven’t been up in the attic since I was a teenager,” she smiled.

“Then it was about time.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Nothing. We’re tossing out your father’s stuff. Haven’t you noticed yet?”

“Here’s my doll. Little Hanna,” she said, picking up the toy.

She tipped it forward and the baby doll cried. Niki replaced it in the toy crib.

“I’m happy for you, but concentrate on looking for your father’s old boxes instead. He always said he’d unpack them someday. Well, he’s not unpacking them anymore… not in this house, anyway.”

Her mother had used up mountains of tissues already. Her nose was red from all the wiping, but she didn’t look like she was starting to feel better. Niki crouched above the dusty boxes. Chilled, she pulled her coat closed. The old goose–down coat she’d left here years ago when she moved out had come in handy today. Now, she recalled how she’d always enjoyed sitting up here in the attic on hot summer mornings, when the sun blazed through the small skylights, casting a mysterious light on all the attic’s treasures, and how, in the afternoon sunset, everything in the attic seemed luminous with an unusual color. Treasures, shelves, chests, boxes, odds and ends: everything was coated in a fine layer of dust and illuminated by the setting sun. She liked the sweetish smell of the attic. Now that her old room functioned as storage, her childhood all came back to her here, in the attic. In her mind’s eye, she saw the girl of long ago who’d once promised to go out on a date with a boy, and as she and her friend played treasure hunt in the yard, she panicked when she suddenly saw the boy appear on their street… How they’d laughed after they dashed into the house and watched the boy from the window as he hung around outside... They breathed a sigh of relief when he finally left.

“What’s this?” Niki said, opening a box and pulling out a snapshot.

Her mother… what a beautiful woman she’d once been. Like an Italian film star. Black hair, snow white skin, an attractive figure, and a sweet but still somehow erotic smile. A young man stood beside her. He was masculine, but still more a boy than a mature man. He was handsome and tall, a casual smile on his face, gazing at Niki’s mother lovingly.

It took a second glance to realize that the man was not her father.

“Leave it. Just leave it,” Niki’s mother said, trying to pull the whole box away from her. But she suddenly changed her mind and plucked only the black and white photo from between her fingers.

Her gaze softened. Niki noticed a date on the back of the photo: 1976. She hadn’t been born yet. A quick calculation told her that her mother had been eighteen then.

“Who’s that guy? He’s a hunk,” she said in recognition.

“Alessandro Grotti.”

“Hmm… an Italian? Where was this taken? And who is he? Why didn’t you ever tell me about him?”

“I’m not required to tell you every detail of my life. You weren’t even been born yet when this was taken.”

“But who is he? Some mysterious, distant relative?”

“No. He’s a…” her mother paused, searching for the right words, smiling faintly. “…a boy from Naples… and the past.”

“Where could he be now? Do you keep contact?” Niki inquired, while attempting to maintain a nonchalant expression.

She and her mother were sitting around in the kitchen having coffee. Niki’s jeans were dirty and her muscles ached from three days of lifting and packing, but suddenly she was very curious about that Italian boy from her mother’s past.

“No.”

“No? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re not very talkative. I’ll leave you here with Gran then. She’s on her way over right now. Here she comes, across the yard.”

“You can’t do this to me.”

“The two of you can rag on Dad together.”

“If you don’t leave me with her now, I promise to tell you… about Alessandro.”

“Deal,” Niki nodded.

Maybe a pleasant story from the past would take her mind off her own problems and her father’s unexpected desertion. Now she had to worry about keeping her mother’s spirits up. Hopefully, her mother wouldn’t do anything stupid in her state of despair. Niki didn’t want to see Mom crushed and lonely. She had a whole bunch of problems she needed to solve and her parents’ sudden breakup had caught her off guard.

***

A bolt of pain shot through him at even the slightest movement, but nobody suspected that he was doing squats and strengthening his arms in between the two beds so soon after the operation. He was lucky (though he wouldn’t have quite called it luck) that he was alone in the double room. When they came around to take his temperature, it was still high. This was due to the series of exercises he’d completed a little while earlier, as well as his ability to raise his body temperature at will when they came around to stick the thermometer into his ear. He appeared feeble and kept his eyes closed. He heard the nurses talk to the guard outside his door: “He’s asleep now, but it might be from the fever.” He hoped this information would make the guard’s attention slacken. He had a lot at stake in keeping the nurses and doctors thinking that he was weak. He needed the time to get his strength back, while pretending he could barely get out of bed. He had to avoid getting sent back to his jail cell, because there was no way out from there. The next few days were crucial. But he might already have to act tonight.

Verbovszky thought about the girl who had taken his freedom. He hadn’t thought much of her. But he had underestimated her, and the price he’d paid was great.

He had to prolong his stay at the hospital, because here, freedom was within arm’s reach. He must prevent them from taking him back to prison. Right now, his job was getting his strength back while convincing the doctors that he was recovering at a much slower rate than expected.

***

András Zsoldos could have entered with his own key. After all, he was the one who’d had the locks changed when they caught Verbovszky in Niki’s apartment. Afterwards, the place needed a little fixing–up. The bed, for one, had to be replaced. This was explicitly requested by Niki. It wasn’t hard finding a place to put the old furniture: they went straight to the institution where Aranka lived. The crafts room at the Home for the Mentally Handicapped needed the new furnishings anyway, and they did not remind Aranka of the time she had spent as Verbovszky’s prisoner in Niki’s apartment, on her couch.

András stood for a little while longer in front of the barred door on the ninth floor. He rang the buzzer again, then walked back to the elevator. Niki should have already returned from that cruise. She’d promised to call him when she got back so they could meet, but her phone had been switched off for days. He could have gone in with his own key, because Niki had told him to keep a copy till she came home and to give the other copies to the fitness instructor girl who was her neighbor. But he couldn’t just go barging in. Niki was probably fine, but even if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be the least bit pleased if he’d enter her apartment uninvited. She might be spending a long weekend with someone… maybe at home. Probably not, but he had to take every possibility into account, especially in his line of work.

He pressed the elevator button and when he got in, he seriously considered scrawling a heart with their initials on the elevator wall while he rode down the nine flights. But of course he just stood motionless until he reached the ground floor. He walked down the three steps to the front door and stood around outside for a little while longer. Maybe he would spot her. But after a while, he got in his car and slowly rolled out of the parking lot. Even as he turned onto Szentendrei Road, he couldn’t stop thinking about Niki. He would have liked to bring her flowers, but he suspected that she probably would have thrown him out, along with the bouquet. They’d had a flower–tossing incident in the past… and right know András had no idea where their relationship stood. Was there any way back to a relationship with her? Actually, he had no idea why she’d broken up with him in the first place. Her explanation was unclear, and so was the possibility of getting back together. Niki’s behavior was incomprehensible, so he tried to think like her. He was usually good at this when it came to other people, but when the subject was Niki, he rammed straight into a wall. And now he had no idea where she was. Had she even returned, or had she missed her flight? Or did she find something out in the world that she had to investigate and write about? She’d given him enough assignments by way of her last series of articles, and András was reminded not only of Verbovszky, but the other well–known individuals, politicians among them, who had become victims of blackmail because of their association with prostitutes. Niki had shed light on this business by writing about it, even without using any names. András thought it probably hadn’t been a good idea to have himself transferred to the Internal Affairs Bureau. He often wondered if there could be another way of life for him. He could accept the job he’d been offered abroad, where he might be able to improve his skills… Of course, the best idea would be to just go back to being a “simple” detective, but he had a million reasons not to. And even if he could ignore those million reasons, there was one big reason he could not overlook. It was the one he had to face.

***

He crossed the street. He loved this city, it’s colors, the smells, and he liked the salty mist in the air as it hovered over the city in the morning. He enjoyed the climate even now, in winter, when you didn’t need heavy, warm coats, just a jacket or maybe a transitional coat, but he liked the city in summer too. He didn’t understand how he could have left this place. How had he been able to live in Rome for years? The capital had not found its way into his heart. Compared to Naples, Rome was much too structured for his taste. The pizza there was worse, there were fewer smiles on faces, and the place as a whole was somehow so… elderly. Venice was different. He almost felt at home there, but Naples was special … Naples was young, chaotic, colorful, smelly, and humid. In sum, it was much, much better. Was it a sign of aging if he looked back with nostalgia on the city where he had grown up? Was he already old and nostalgic as his thirty–fourth birthday crept up on him?

He hadn’t visited his hometown of Naples for a long time. He was curious to hear what his father had to say. Their long–distance relationship worked fine, but their emotional ties had long since been broken. He’d had to break away from his father. He’d felt smothered by him, not so much his person, but by his character, and well, there was always that old incident hanging over their heads… Breathing in the old scent, or rather, the smell of Naples, the humidity settling upon the city as Giacomo walked along the Corseo Vittorio Emanuele, the scent of coffee wafting in his direction, his nose suddenly told him he was home. He took a long walk. He wanted to feel, to experience the Naples of old times, when his whole life had been here. He suddenly changed course, dashed across the street, and looked down over the cliff, at the sea. He studied the view (everything was just as incredibly amazing as it used to be) and walked into a café. He drank an espresso surrounded by two university students, two garbage men, and a few office workers. This was part of Naples too. It was a place where you didn’t have to pretend you were someone else.

Giacomo was finally back, and for a moment he toyed with the idea that this wasn’t just a visit; he was home for good.

But then he roused himself. He knew there was no point in allowing silly nostalgic thoughts to take hold of his mind. That would be wasting time. Now that he’d started down the path he’d chosen for himself, he would walk to the end, and it was a road that diverged from his father’s path. The tailoring business wasn’t a career option for him in the long run. Sure, he was interested in learning why his father had called him here so urgently, but he’d find out soon enough. Only a few more hours, and he’d know.

***

“No. I don’t know what to say,” sighed Niki, and realized she was gripping the phone so hard, her fingers were going numb.

“This isn’t about you,” said her father.

“Well, thank God for that,” she exclaimed, but then continued in a more conciliatory tone. “I’m not a little kid anymore to think that it’s my fault. Did you know that up to the age of five, children believe that they are to blame for their parents’ divorce? It’s because of ‘magical thinking,’” she explained, repeating what she’d heard from a psychologist while researching an article.

She mentioned this because she wanted to keep out of the situation rather than be drawn into it. This was her parents’ business, even if it did concern her. Even if it did break her heart. She’d recently arrived home, well–rested after a Caribbean cruise where… she’d had an unusual experience that made her believe that she could have better control over things in her own life. And now she had to worry about her parents instead. She felt anger and sadness, but didn’t want to be judgmental. And she had no intention of carrying around the burden that her parents had unintentionally put on her shoulders.

“I don’t know what ‘magical thinking’ is, but I wish you’d try and understand me.”

“I’m trying. You fell in love with someone else and left Mom. The end.”

“Would you please hear me out?”

Niki was silent.

“I don’t expect you to take sides. Especially not mine.”

“Why do I have the feeling that I’m about to hear the speech that goes: ‘take care of your mother, pamper her a bit, and don’t get upset if she has a meltdown’?”

“I understand your anger…”

“Really?”

“…and bitterness… But this is my life. And it was a decision I had to make.”

“Okay. I understand. Look… I have to go now.”

“Call me when you have time. We could meet up.”

“Fine.”

She was still rather irate when she walked into the editorial office of Mademoiselle. She bumped right into Anna, the editor–in–chief, who was, as ever, looking like she’d stepped straight off the page of her own magazine. Her hair was blow–dried to perfection; she wore skinny jeans and a loose–fitting, beige sweater, casually gathered near her hips by a wide belt. Her flat, black, ankle boots narrowed at the top, and she’d folded back the edge to reveal the red and green stripe. It was the faintest hint of a label, but it was enough for the trained eye. Niki wasn’t too crazy about fashion and wouldn’t have been able to afford brand names from her freelance journalist wages anyway, but noted Anna’s style with recognition. Niki thought about her own style: yet again, she was dressed like a boy, in biker boots, black jeans, and a thick leather jacket, though she hadn’t even ridden her motor scooter to work today, the weather was so dreadful. She had a hard time dealing with January weather, especially because only a week ago she had been enjoying a Caribbean summer. She had Anna to thank for the trip, who had sent her off on the cruise to do an assignment, which had truly been a reward, a Christmas gift, no matter how you looked at it.

“Well? How was it? Let me look at you. You’re so tan,” said Anna, stepping closer. “Did you just come from a motorcycle gang meeting?”

“Naw. I just couldn’t find any other boots. I’ve got a pair of purple Docs, but I voted against them…”

“How come?” smiled the editor–in–chief teasingly. “It’s good to see you. Csilla just called. She’s home with a fever, and we need someone to take her place and do an interview with Luca Lengyel at her photo shoot today.”

“Who’s Luca Lengyel?”

“She a model. Actually, an ex–model. She’s young, but had an interesting life,” Anna explained. “She lives in London now and will be in Hungary for three days. She’s given us exclusive interview rights. So would you be so kind as to shuffle over to the studio and… She’s only got time to talk now, after the photo shoot. Do you have a recording device on you?”

“Oh, come on…”

“Yes, I know, but this is a trend magazine. We need Luca Lengyel. I think you’ll find her quite pleasant.”

“Luca Lengyel: A simple country girl from a poor family. A photographer discovered her by chance on the street. She had an anorexic phase and was about to make it big at seventeen when she realized there’s more to life than this, and now she’s a ‘chubby,’ 112–pound, six foot–tall supermodel. Her mission is to increase teen awareness about the dangers and possibly life–threatening consequences of starving yourself. She commutes between Milan, Paris, and Tokyo, tries to eat a nutritious diet, but unfortunately, can’t always manage during the fast–paced life of castings and photo shoots. Another drawback is that she has no significant other in her life, for who could ever tolerate her lifestyle and a long–distance relationship? So Mom is her best friend. Her only loyal companion is her little dog, who unfortunately can’t be here today. Her long–term goals include an acting career, and is hoping someone will discover her talent; she’s willing to start from the lowest rung of the ladder. She’d even be a set extra, because she knows the meaning of professional humility. Her favorite designer is Lagerfeld, but she doesn’t wear brand names on a day–to–day basis. Sometimes she just throws on a colorful scarf bought for small change from a street vendor: it’s the best way to complement a summer outfit. She always donates the designer clothes she gets for free to fund–raising auctions.”

Niki rattled off her speech with a wooden expression and hoped she’d mentioned all the topics she usually heard at interviews with models.

“I don’t think I need a recording device,” she added quickly. “I think I can memorize the answers.”

“You seem a bit biased. Cynical, even. Maybe it’s your PR Manager past…”

“Boring marketing lines,” nodded Niki. “For added flair, we could add a father who left the mother when she was just a child,” Niki continued, thinking about her own father for a moment, but then she felt ashamed.

“Well, listen to her story anyway. And I suggest you get yourself a recording device. You can pick one up in the editorial office…”

“I do reporting much better than I do interviews,” Niki said, trying to weasel her way out of the assignment.

“You’ll do a great job. Just go with it.”

“What about the morning meeting?”

“You are excused from attendance. We’ll talk about what you’ll be writing in the next issue later.”

Damnit to hell, she thought. There wasn’t anything she wanted to do less than this interview. And that model chick would surely make her re–write the interview a thousand times, saying: “No, I didn’t actually mean that I don’t have a significant other. It wouldn’t be true, at least not in a certain sense, and make sure you delete the part about how I don’t have time to eat and how modeling is a cruel world. I know it’s what I said, sure, but we can skip the clichés everyone knows already. Instead, write down how I help people with diabetes and gout. I’m supporting them in a campaign. This is very important. It’s why I agreed to the interview in the first place. And don’t include the part about how I share an apartment with another girl in Tokyo, because people will think I’m a lesbian, and anyway, we don’t share it, we just live together, otherwise there’s not a single person on this planet I could talk to, but this is between us. I’m telling you as a friend, you understand. But don’t write that down because I know how people start speculating. And let’s not mention Lagerfeld on his own like that. I recently participated in a Vera Wang show, and she’s my favorite designer too, and if I get married someday, I want her to design my wedding dress, but don’t you dare write that down in the interview because people will think I can afford to pay millions for a dress. Just write Vera Wang, okay? And maybe Donna Karan, so they’ll see I support female designers, and oh, let’s not forget about Donatella either then!”

Niki could already hear the girl’s whiny voice. Jesus Christ. Of all people, why did she have to get this assignment? Maybe she just happened to run into Anna at the wrong time.

She pulled her iPhone from her pocket. She would use the voice recorder in the phone to get the interview down. Suddenly, she felt as if the memory of her trip had been blown far away. She was plunked back down in a different world, her old world, where people did not lie around with tropical cocktails under beach umbrellas in bikinis and straw hats, and their greatest dilemma was not deciding which dinner option to choose on the cruise ship. As this idea slid into her mind, another one followed in its wake. The memory came to her like a cool, gentle breeze. She saw the image of herself very clearly, on an unfamiliar island in a little bungalow. A voice began to sing and when she heard it, she felt shivers down her spine… It was the voice of Carol Santos, or her incarnation, but actually, Niki had no idea who that slightly hoarse, deep voice belonged to… Carol Santos could see memories: the memories of others. She could, supposedly, instinctively alleviate pain. On her own little island, she had the ability to make the painful memories of others disappear. Santos was born in the beginning of the 1900s and allegedly heals even today… unless it’s her mysterious “incarnation” who has taken over in the meantime. Many still make the pilgrimage to the Caribbean in an attempt to seek out Carol Santos and find her reportedly existing “island of happiness.” According to accounts circulating on the Internet, some succeed in locating her; while on her Caribbean cruise, Niki also managed to find her way to this enigmatic island where Carol, or the successor who might be carrying on her legacy, helped a few chosen ones let go of their distressing memories. Niki stood among them, and though it was an unbelievable story she merely wanted to investigate for an article on debunking a legend, the magic worked on her too.

Niki was jolted back to reality and realized that the memory must have become rooted deep inside her, because she was no longer angry with Luca Lengyel, or even Anna for giving her the assignment. The cool breeze of memory departed and a cluster of heat began to glow within her. She didn’t understand what was happening, and in order to overcome her bewilderment, she leaned against the railing in the stairwell. She browsed the news on her phone, scrolling absentmindedly, until something caught her eye: Two Hungarian men had been taken into custody in Italy while attempting to import several dozen dogs with fake papers. According to the article, some suspect that the dogs would have been skinned for their fur. Niki shuddered. Could such a thing be possible in this day and age, in a civilized European country? The thought gripped her and would not let go, even after she hurried down the steps to conduct the commissioned assignment.

The dog. Of course. Luca had a dog, just as Niki had predicted to Anna. The interview would run its course exactly as she’d described, and except for a few minor details, the girl would probably be the same as all the others.

Niki stepped into the studio, and a dog scuttled out to greet her. Then, she heard a female voice.

“Marzipan! Come back here!”

The dog had thick, golden–brown fur. It was adorable as it pranced back into the studio, shaking it’s little bootie. Niki followed the dog and couldn’t stop thinking about the article she’d read back in the stairwell. In the studio, two women were trying to choose between various colored backgrounds. Voices could be heard filtering out from somewhere deeper inside, and the dog headed straight for a back room.

Luca Lengyel was an average girl with blonde hair. At first, Niki thought she was one of the staff. Luca sat cross–legged on the floor in blue jeans, a gray sweater, and sneakers, deliberating between outfits the stylist was showing her. The dog hunkered down on the floor beside her and licked her hand gently. Luca smiled at the dog, then looked up at Niki.

“I’m here for the interview. Nikolett Ladányi,” Niki said, introducing herself.

Suddenly, she didn’t feel so repelled by the situation anymore. Meeting face to face had flipped a switch in her mind.

“You’re Nikolett Ladányi?” the girl’s eyes lit up, and Niki felt embarrassed, so she just nodded. “I’ve read your articles on the net about that bastard. The one who forced girls into prostitution.”

“Umm… yes.”

“I was happy when I read that they’d finally caught him. I’m glad they sent you for the interview, though I don’t much feel like talking about myself… but, well… whatever,” she mumbled, and pointed to a stunning, sky–blue blouse. She turned to the stylist and said, “that one looks nice.”

“This is for a March issue. The color is a bit out of season. It’s too wintry, but let’s try a series in it anyway. Maybe you could try on this warmer, peach color,” she said, showing Luca a body–hugging top. She turned towards the clothes rack and removed a skirt which – in Niki’s opinion – had a strange, bell–shaped cut. “This would go perfectly with the top.”

Niki watched as Luca got dressed and sat down in the make–up chair. Now would be the perfect time to conduct the interview, but she hated when the make–up artists and the hair–stylists eavesdropped. Sometimes they even offered their two cents or asked questions… So Niki just sat around and watched. She was surprised that Luca knew her name and that she’d read the series of articles published about Verbovszky on the news site where Niki was a regular contributor.

As she sat there watching the girl, she was trying to figure out what was so unique about her. It was so odd seeing popular models without make–up. They were usually ordinary–looking; some might have been described as “interesting” rather than beautiful. Luca had a pretty face, but it wasn’t anything special. Niki didn’t think the model was any prettier than she was, though she’d never really given her appearance much thought. While she sat there playing with the dog’s ears, she realized that the best way she could quickly learn about the girl was to read what others had written about her on the net. She pulled out her phone and typed Luca’s name into the search bar.

There weren’t too many hits, mostly images of catwalks and magazine covers. Niki was stunned by how gorgeous this ordinary–looking woman looked as a cover girl. She kept scrolling and found two snippets of news from 2010, two years ago.

Model Awakens from Coma

The twenty–eight year–old model, Luca Lengyel, spent six years in a “waking coma” following an accident. Recently, she miraculously regained consciousness and left the institute where she was treated. She was found residing in London, but her agency would not allow interviews, claiming that the model was still recovering from the psychological impacts of her experience, and would therefore be removing herself from public appearances for a while.

Niki looked at the photos of Luca from her prime. Niki never would have thought she was thirty. She looked much younger, her face hardly creased by age. She seemed more like a schoolgirl than a woman.

And in a coma for six years?!

She found a few more articles about Luca in English. Niki was surprised to see that the model worked for a foundation based in England offering legal advice and support to vulnerable girls. The short article presented Luca as a representative of the foundation, and she explained how Ukrainian girls were promised modeling jobs abroad. Upon arrival, their “agents” forced them to work as prostitutes in England. Niki looked up at Luca and thought maybe this interview would be interesting after all.

Niki kept up her guard in spite of her interest. As an ex–PR manager she had a hard time letting go of her prejudice against stars. But when she thought about this attitude, she felt ashamed. She was usually so open and combatant, so why did she hate glossed–up, vacuous interviews? There was no denying that a reporter was just as much a player in the interview–game as the subject. The end result depended on both of them.

“Did you remember everything after you woke up from the coma?”

“No. I thought I did, but… I needed time to regain my memory. And my feelings especially. A huge void opened where my emotions had once been, and I had to fill it with content again. I had to acknowledge that I’d worked as a model in the past, and it was a lifestyle much different than the one I deem acceptable now,” the girl explained.

Her make–up was now wiped away and the photo lights in the studio were turned off. She’d used up half a packet of face wipes before she succeeded in rubbing off all the foundation. She looked attentively at Niki, while the dog lounged at her feet and rested its head on her shoes.

“So you mean that your personality changed?”

“No. I don’t know… Things I used to think were important aren’t anymore.”

“Do you remember the accident?”

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

“I’d rather not talk about it. Everything changed after. I spent six years in a coma, and my parents were probably the only ones who believed in my recovery, though they didn’t have much to go on. And when I finally did regain consciousness, it never occurred to me to go back to my former life.”

“But now you’ll be appearing in Mademoiselle.”

“Yes. Someone talked me into it, convinced me to talk about the person I am now, and about my work. I’m especially pleased you were the one who came, because I know you are receptive to a topic very important to me right now,” said Luca slowly.

She began telling Niki about the girls she’d helped out while working at the foundation. She explained about deceived girls who were promised modeling work abroad and were then forced to work in strip bars or even as prostitutes instead. The foundation’s job is to help these women find their way back into normal life, where there are no modeling jobs. They are offered a chance to learn a new language or to take part in various other types of vocational training with the help of subsidized funding.

Well, this is turning out to be a PR–interview after all, probably financed by the foundation, Niki thought. No problem, just as long as Luca tells some stories.

And she did. She told her stories with such conviction that the alarm bell in Niki’s mind started clanging: This woman knows what she’s talking about because she lived through it… either that, or she experienced something very similar. She couldn’t let go of the thought that Luca might have been a victim too. She spoke in a neutral tone, but her lips drained of color as she related the stories of Hungarian, Romanian, Ukrainian, and Czech girls who had been tricked… She seemed outwardly calm, but defiance and pain cried out from her very being. I have to ask, thought Niki.

“Did… did something similar happen to you?” she interrupted. Luca stiffened, clearly unable to move or speak. The silence was nearly palpable. “It’s okay,” said Niki finally. You don’t have to say anything, you know that.”

The girl nodded and answered only yes or no to the questions that followed for the next few minutes. The right moment had passed. Niki knew that she should press on, ask questions, encourage Luca to say more… to tell her story… it’s what she would have done with anyone else, but with Luca, she would have felt ashamed. If the interview turned out boring, so be it. Niki wouldn’t compel anyone to talk about how they’d been raped or forced to work in a strip bar if they didn’t want to open up.

Perhaps out of gratitude for letting the topic slide, Luca told her that she lived in London with a Hungarian young man and that both of them were on the right path towards making their dreams come true.

A little while later, Niki was back in Anna’s office.

“How did it go?” asked the editor–in–chief before turning to the topic of Niki’s next assignment.

“It could have been better. But I’ve got enough for a one–page piece.”

“I really wanted to get her. If this turns out well, maybe her friend will agree to an interview too. It would be a huge deal if we could put her on a cover. She talked Luca into doing this interview, so maybe she’d let us talk to her too.”

“Who do you mean?”

“Helen Schmidt. She’s lives in London too. I’ll bet she could certainly tell us a thing or two. She’s the poster girl for Women Against Anorexia, but she hardly ever appears in public anymore.”

“Didn’t she just have twins? And she was the one who hired a surrogate mother to carry her first child, right?”

“Yes. And she’s got a history of E.D. from when she was still a model.”

“Well, I guess a glossy really can sometimes focus on important topics too.”

The words slipped carelessly from Niki’s mouth. She tried to smile apologetically. Why was she constantly flapping her tongue without thinking? But Anna was already focused on topics for the next issue. Niki tried to listen, but her mind kept wandering back to the article about the dogs. Where could they be now? Hungarian breeders were probably in on the affair too. But where could the Italian headquarters be? Had they really been smuggled out of the country because of their fur? Suddenly, nothing else interested her. She wished she knew more. All she wanted was to research this topic and write about it.

An hour later, all the data had been jotted down on her notepad. Fifty–six dogs, mixed–breed and purebreds alike, all with phony pedigrees, had been on their way to Italy, but had been detained near Naples. By that time, the dogs – forty–eight puppies and eight adults altogether – were in pretty bad shape. They had received neither food nor water during the journey. The driver, his partner, and their suspected Italian accomplices were being held for questioning. Their intended destination had been Naples. Investigations were still going on, but only the driver and his companion were in custody at the moment. Officials were still trying to figure out how the dogs ended up in the truck. Presumably, they had been abducted and need to be returned to their former owners as soon as possible. The dogs were presently at an Italian animal shelter, waiting for authorities to sort things out.

Niki quickly set out to organize her own investigation, making phone calls and writing emails to the editor–in–chief of the internet news site, posting a notice to her friends on Facebook to ask if anyone had any dogs that had recently gone missing. Thus occupied, she felt no hunger, no thirst.

In the meantime, she’d forgotten to call András, didn’t call Fanni, or ring her father back… or her mother. It was getting dark by the time she finished everything. A sudden thought hit her like a brick: was she only burying herself in work so she wouldn’t have to deal with her own life?

Tomorrow. She would start sweeping up the mess of her life tomorrow. Carol Santos would approve of waiting another day.

***

“I’d like you to come back into the business.”

His father certainly didn’t beat around the bush. He embraced Giacomo awkwardly, offered him coffee and fresh lemonade, had a warm croissant brought in from the corner café, and sat down across from his son. He wore green, fitted jeans, blue shoes, and a light blue shirt. His hair was thinning a little, but not too bad, and he was clearly in good health. After all, he was still only fifty–six years old, strong and handsome. Giacomo felt the blood drain from his face. While his father seemed strong and ready for anything, he felt all his power being sucked clear out of him.

“I…” he began, then cleared his voice and took a sip of his lemonade. His taste buds stood at attention from the tartness of the Sorrento lemon, a flavor unlike any other, tangy, yet a touch sweeter than other lemons. “I already have a new life elsewhere.”

“I don’t want to interfere, but you once had great talent, and yet you’ve taken another path. I know you have a knack for numbers, but you could put your abilities to good use here too. And… it would be a little change of pace.”

“I don’t need a change.”

“Living near Rome, then going up north… Naples is your home. You’re a Neapolitan boy.”

“I’ve made my choice.”

“You wanted to run away. I understand. You wanted to prove something to yourself. And to me.”

Giacomo remained silent. His father continued.

“You wouldn’t just be an employee here. You would be co–owner. My partner. The Grotti legacy would be yours.”

“Your offer surprises me, father,” Giacomo said, forcing the words out. “I understand that you’ve expanded your workshop and that the tailoring business is going great… but… this isn’t my world anymore.”

“No? That’s very interesting,” his father said, looking at him with a piercing gaze.

Silence. The seconds crept by. They heard a boy out on the street shout to his girlfriend to meet him at four at Piazza Garibaldi.

“I’m not interested anymore… not more than anyone else,” Giacomo answered.

His father sized him up, scrutinizing his appearance. Giacomo knew quite well what his father was looking at, so instead, he turned his head and stared out the window. The older man was checking every detail, he knew this for sure. And what did he see? A pair of Car Shoe brand beige moccasins combined with green leather laces. He never lowered his standards when it came to shoes, though he tried really hard, wearing Ash brand shoes for a while, but his father had taught him good taste which he couldn’t shake. What kind of shoes was his father wearing, he wondered. He could have sworn, without even looking, that he was in a pair of Berluti loafers, at the very least. He cast a sidelong glance down, but couldn’t tell. He felt very ashamed. He should have given up the habit of looking at people’s shoes long ago. What else could his father be looking at? A regular pair of jeans. He’d chosen this pair expressly, pulling it from the bottom of his closet. It was a simple item, DSquared², nothing fancy. He was also wearing a medium blue turtleneck and a coat, of course. The coat was conservative. Actually, he hadn’t worn it for years. It was a simple, quilted, loose–fitting dark–blue, short coat. He shouldn’t have worn the turtleneck. It was a Zegna knit sweater with a funky diamond pattern running along the chest. But his father had a good eye. The older man studied his face too, which wasn’t stubbly and hadn’t been for a long time. His black hair looked like it had been carefully styled with gel, though he never used any product besides shampoo. It had been tousled by the wind, yet this wind–blown look seemed neat all the same, or at least his father probably thought so. He thought that at least his watch, the Nautica with the black face, the watch band made of red rubber, was a good choice. Not too expensive, but still fashionable, youthful, and sporty. It wasn’t a watch a picky fashionista would wear.

“I suppose you only wore this coat, the jeans, and this watch for my sake,” his father said, and Giacomo could have sworn his father’s eyes were smiling. “But you can’t fool me. Clearly, you took off your Corum, so maybe I’d buy into what you wanted me to believe. But it didn’t work. I know what I know. It’s me you need… we need,” he added after slight hesitation.

Giacomo was silent.

“I know your firm is a success,” his father continued. “People always need reliable financial consultants. But you aren’t truly a man of numbers. You’re good at your job, but you’re forcing yourself. You could manage your firm from a distance if you left it in the hands of a few dependable people. Or you could start up a new business here and bring a few professionals with you. You’d just have to supervise.”

“Father, I’m satisfied with what I’m doing. We’re on the rise, our clientele is growing. We’ve got big companies among them.”

“My business could use its own financial advisor too. We need an expert who works exclusively for us.”

“I can recommend someone. Give me a little time.”

“I don’t think you understand.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“You don’t. I don’t want to have the Giacomo who lives in the world of numbers as my business partner. Not just him, anyway.”

“I know, Father, but your world is a different world. I understand that the business needs a financial professional, and I will recommend someone, but I’m not…”

“Don’t you want to see my workshop?”

“I’ve seen it already.”

“Let me show you anyway. We can talk again afterwards.”

Giacomo had always liked the smell of the tailor workshop and liked to see the designs taking form, the dreams becoming reality. He always got a funny feeling in his stomach, ever since he was a little kid. It felt like someone had punched him in the belly and whispered: this is your world.

But he didn’t want to come back to this world. He didn’t feel like fighting anymore, not with anyone, nor with himself. Fashion, fine fabric, patterns: all these were part of a romance from the past. He compensated for his loss by allowing himself the pleasure of purchases from high fashion boutiques. He knew that a man should not allow himself to be sucked into this world. His father was different. He was Neapolitan and nothing could change that. He would stick with tailoring, his clients, and the business he had inherited from his father and grandfather and so on into ancestry. His father had retained his passion and sensitivity, and here in the south, these qualities were virtues, not drawbacks. Nevertheless, Giacomo had to break with tradition; he had to move on. His dreams were different than those of his forefathers.

But he’d go and have a look at the workshop all the same, since his father was so set on it.

A few hours later, he plopped down next to his father at a corner table in the restaurant behind the Opera. He felt like someone who had just completed their first marathon run. Disbelief, exhaustion, and enthusiasm all swirled inside of him, surging into a kind of inexplicable catharsis.

“You don’t have to make a decision now,” his father said, after he’d ordered them some water and prosecco.

Giacomo only nodded. He still had to process what he had seen that morning.

***

Bagger Book

May 24–26, 1976

They appeared totally unexpectedly on the sports field after practice. We were having coke and my favorite: bread generously spread with lard. We sprinkled lots of salt and pepper on it too. It tasted great. It was our well–deserved snack after practice. After showering, we were tired, but euphoric. We’d run our circles, shot our goals, done our push–ups… Our faces were still red from the exertion as we sat on the window sill across from the temporary snack bar, formerly the sports field’s supplies room. It had been converted especially for us, handball players, and for the soccer boys. We sat around eating, drinking, and blabbing before heading home.

That’s when the photographer and the reporter arrived. They asked all of us what we thought about the big news (it certainly was news to me), to see what our reactions would be. I think it was the first time any of us girls heard about it. Whatever. So anyway, I was sitting there on the sill and trying to eat my bread, saving the crust for last, because that’s like, the best part, when suddenly, these people stepped right over to me and asked me what I thought about the big news.

‘It must be a mistake.’

That’s what I said, and tried as hard as I could not to burst into tears right then and there. I think I might have also said that this news was the biggest lie I ever heard. I think I blurted out some other stuff too, but I swear I don’t remember.

Later that day, I’m afraid I started making crank calls, though my memories are vague. I faintly recall standing at the sports field’s pay phone and dialing Csaba’s number, which I’d got earlier from the supplies manager. But I didn’t dare say anything into the receiver and just listened to him saying hello until he hung up. Once Csaba’s father answered the phone, and I might have started ranting to him about how this was a terrible misunderstanding, and that I just needed a chance. Just one single chance! (Allegedly, I had shouted this.) Finally, I managed to talk to Csaba himself, and I acted like a complete maniac, at least according to Mari, who is our pivot and also kind of a mother hen, at least with me. Csaba said something to calm me down, but all I could hear was that he apparently loved me too and that I hadn’t just imagined it. Then I don’t know what happened. Maybe Mari dragged me away from the phone, or perhaps it was Edith, I don’t remember. I don’t even know where I got all the two forint coins to make such a long call. Supposedly, after Mari and Edith twisted the receiver from my hand, I tried to call an ambulance, but I was so confused, that instead of dialing 04, I had called the fire department. They certainly would have had a big fire to put out.

I don’t know how I would have gotten home if Mari hadn’t walked me. She bumped along with me in the joint of the accordion bus, enduring the pitying and curious stares of the other passengers, while I bawled the whole way home.

I never knew Váradi was such a bastard.

And that reporter! How dare he ask me, of all people, what I thought?!

‘What’s your opinion about the news concerning Csaba Váradi’s upcoming wedding?’

I think I just stared blankly at him for the first couple of seconds, so he elaborated.

‘You know, Csaba Váradi, the club’s number one striker, twenty–four years old, three–time all–star soccer player and…’

As if I didn’t know! I’d been out to see all three of his all–star games at the stadium.

‘…he’s marrying Marianna Tarcza.’

Good God, those were the words that twisted the knife into my heart. I struggled to hold my tears back. This situation is especially horrible because, in my opinion, Marianna Tarcza is the best left back player in the world, and my supreme role model. She’s twenty–three, so there’s slightly more than five years between us. She’s fast, tall, accurate. She’s got such amazing, powerful bow–legs. I wanted my legs to look just like hers so badly that two years ago, I used to stand for hours with a basketball between my knees, hoping that my straight legs would become bent like hers, but it didn’t work, so I gave up. I’m just mentioning this on a side note. Marianna Tarcza is just magnificent. And Csaba Váradi is also magnificent. The only terrible thing about this is that Csaba Váradi is the love of my life.

So this is the end of the world. And the news came right when I was shooting goals like a machine gun and didn’t even try to get out of the V–sit exercise at the end of practice. By the time I got my body into top shape, my life fell apart.

‘Listen up, Bagger,’ said Mari at the Miklós Street bus stop. People have called me Bagger ever since I joined the team. Braun is my last name, and I bring my lunch in a brown bag so Braun Bagger was the nickname I got. ‘Don’t lose your marbles on account of him. There was nothing between the two of you. He doesn’t even know you’re in love with him.’

‘He knew,’ I answered. ‘He had to.’

‘How could he have had, had he not have heard it from you?’

Those are the exact words she used.

‘He could have known. People just know things like that. Some things are written in the stars and you can read from them,’ I answered. I’m sure that sounded slightly dumb, but in situations of stress, I’m liable to talk a load of nonsense. (Like I did to the reporter and later on the phone. I don’t even want to try and remember the things I said to Csaba over the phone, and to his father, oh, and maybe even the fire department.)

At home in bed, I listened to Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, and S.O.S. by ABBA. ‘I wish I understood what happened to our love.’ I couldn’t sing along with them, and I didn’t want to. My heart was bleeding from the knife twisted into it.

And this was only the beginning.

The article appeared the next day. In a sports paper. A NATIONAL sports paper!

I’m not going to quote the article, after all we already know who’s getting married. They were both praised for being outstanding athletes, bla bla bla, and at the end, there was a short column about how ‘not everyone shared the young couple’s joy.’ More precisely it read: ‘We asked the junior team’s handballers what they had to say about the engagement between their role model and a club–mate. One member of the team, a slender girl, herself a left back player like Tarcza, said this was probably a misunderstanding, then burst into tears. Another girl said that the team is pleased that Tarcza has found the right man.’ Bla bla. The rest is not important. But was is important, is that they included a photo of us. Actually, the five of us. I’m sitting in the middle on the windowsill. If Mari and I hadn’t made plans to meet after school and before practice, I wouldn’t have appeared at practice today. I was so ashamed. Naturally, I was out of my mind with rage.

‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss,’ she said with a shrug. ‘The reporter was nice enough not to include the things you said.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like, that Csaba had been waiting his whole life for you, for you to turn eighteen, and that this whole thing was just some crafty scheming and that it was a total lie. He also didn’t mention that you repeated about twenty times that you’ve already been practicing signing your married name. Stuff like that.’

‘Who me? I said that? You must be dreaming,’ I answered, but then thought: could I really have been so stupid to tell the reporter that I’d tried signing my name as Mrs. Csaba Váradi?

‘So how many times did you call him again that night? Did you creep out to the phone booth to…?’

‘Not once,’ I sighed, but I was filled with new hope.

What a good idea!

I called him on the way home, but nobody answered. It just rang and rang. Then I called Marianna Tarcza too (I’d gotten hold of her number from our coach a while ago, but I’d only called her once so far, after the European Cup Finals. I had screamed through the whole game, rooting for the team with all my might, but as soon as I heard her voice, I slammed down the receiver.) but no one answered there either.

That night, I fell asleep daydreaming that Csaba would cancel the wedding because of me. I imagined it in exact detail. I didn’t want to hurt Marianna, I liked her a lot, but she’s so awesome, she’d be sure to find someone new in a jiffy. Maybe a high–jumper or a pentathlon athlete. It would be a win–win: she’d be happy and so would we.

The next day, I called Csaba twenty–three times, but he only answered three times, and because I’d said nothing each time (my throat tight with restrained sobs), he didn’t say hello anymore. It was incredibly annoying to have my beloved just a voice away from me, while I was mute. I didn’t even end up calling Marianna.

‘This is crank calling,’ Mari informed me when I told her, on the way to the gym before practice, what had happened. ‘You’re harassing him, even though you never had any relationship whatsoever.’

‘And what about all the times I spent dreaming about him? And the time he invited us to join him for cake in the supplies room on his birthday?’

‘That’s your problem. It’s fantasizing. It has nothing to do with him.’

After practice, Györgyi, our coach, sat down with us on the floor. We were stretching.

‘I’m announcing the members of the new team. If you hear your name, be happy.’

I was the third name she called, but I wasn’t happy at all. What the hell for?

‘The people whose names I read out are on the new team. We’ll be starting a three–week training camp at the end of June, and the week–long international championships will start right after. And we’re not just going any old place!’ she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. ‘We’re going to Italy! To Naples! The club will arrange for passports. We’re traveling with sports passports, upon invitation by the Italian team.’

The end of June? My eyes welled up with tears again. Now everything really was over. They’d be destroying my life. It’s the end of May, the wedding will be sometime in August (the supplies manager told me). So I’d only have a few weeks left of this month and part of June to win him back, or rather, to call attention to myself. But after that, I’d be in Italy, and he’ll just go and marry Tarcza. I felt like bawling. I’d only been abroad once before, at a tournament in Czechoslovakia (where I sprained my ankle on the second day, was fitted with a marvelous brace, and was stuck in my room for the rest of the trip), but even the thought of an opportunity to travel didn’t excite me. Otherwise, under different circumstances, a trip like this would have been the height of my career in sports thus far, but right now, it was the tragedy of my life.

I had to do something to captivate him before I left.

On the way home, I tried to call him six times from the phone booth on Vera Square, but it was busy each time. I was crazed by the thought that he was lying in bed, talking to Marianna, who was also in bed, except in her own. I ended up calling her too, but she didn’t answer. I was left in the dark.

When I stepped through the gate at home, I thought that maybe if I ran headlong into the wall of our house with my arm outstretched (my left arm, so it wouldn’t be my shooting arm), maybe one of my bones would fracture, I could get a cast, and be able to stay home. That way, I could gain a whole month, during which Csaba would understand that it was me he wanted to marry.

Yeah, but then when would I ever get a chance to go to Italy again?

Never again in my life, for sure.

***

Days passed before he had enough faith to realize he could do it. Directly after the operation, he felt like he would never ever be able to get out of bed again. He still had tubes hanging from him and could barely move. At times, he regained consciousness for a few moments, but then plummeted back into a hazy dream that slightly eased his pain. He vaguely remembered seeing the policeman at the door, and the doctor and nurse, always together, talking about how he’d had surgery for ileus, an intestinal obstruction. He smiled to himself. His plan had worked. The medicine he requested from his old, trusted friend – who was always compliant, no matter what he asked – had done the trick. The woman sent him the medication in the exact packaging he specified. The lawyer who’d delivered it to him had no idea what was in the parcel. He had once been told that he must never take this type of medication for his heart condition because it could cause ileus. He’d always thought that the doctor who’d treated him back then had only warned him out of routine precaution, but luckily it really had worked.

A few days after the operation he started feeling a little better. For security reasons, he had been put in a double room alone. There were bars on the windows and a guard posted outside his door, but even so, he was one step closer to freedom. After he stopped plunging into that deep sleep all the time, he began taking note of how often people came to see him, when his medication was administered, if any unexpected visitors, like detectives, popped in, at what intervals the guard checked in on him, and so on. Finally, he chose two time periods when it seemed safe for him to do his strengthening exercises. One was between midnight and one a.m. when everything was silent, and the other was between three and four a.m. During the day it was too risky, because he could never know when someone would appear, and Verbovszky didn’t want to take the chance of anyone discovering that he was getting better. He set the clock in his mind to wake him at three–fifteen. He quietly got up, cautiously, so his stitches would not tear. He sat up, then climbed out of bed. He strengthened his upper body by doing a few vertical “push–ups” against the wall. Then he continued with squats and walking in place. The first night, he couldn’t do more than ten minutes, but the second night he did fifteen, sweating profusely, and the nurses noted when they came around to bathe him at dawn, that he was running a fever. He didn’t mind. The later they wanted to send him back to his cell, the better.

After about the fifth night of exercise, he was starting to feel that the time would come soon. He even managed to swipe a pair of small scissors from the counter while the nurse was changing his bandages and the doctor was occupied with writing something on his fever chart; they weren’t particularly pointy or very sharp, but he hid them under his pillow anyway. The nurse mumbled something about always misplacing things, and he pretended to be in pain. Inside he felt triumphant. Things were going his way, but he couldn’t show his joy outwardly.

He might be ready any time now. If the conditions were right, he could start down the road that led to his freedom. He’d gotten out of tougher situations in the past, and he believed in himself. Because he definitely didn’t feel like sitting behind bars for years.

***

“For the love of God, can’t you keep still for just a minute?

“No.”

“Is this why you want to see me?”

“No, that’s not the only reason,” sighed Niki.

Of course she couldn’t admit to András that she wanted to see him. She wasn’t even able to acknowledge this fact to herself. The things she’d done to him, even from the Caribbean, hadn’t been fair, especially after all the things András had done for her, from here at home. But even this could not heal the terrible injury András had inflicted on their relationship. Niki trusted him as a detective and as a person, but as a man… she’d hadn’t been able to trust him for a good while now. That’s why she had decided that it was over: they needed to end this. The worst part, of course, was that she’d never found any real proof that András had been unfaithful, or that there was another woman in his life, but Niki chose to believe the anonymous letter and her gut feelings after she’d seen András in the office with that woman. He’d looked at her so tenderly, it was clear. Breaking up felt awful, but lingering on in a relationship constantly beleaguered with suspicion would have been worse… Getting dumped was no better.

“Sure, I’m glad I’m not forced to think up a ruse to get you to see me,” said András.

“What did you have in mind? Holding me at gunpoint?” said Niki with a smile.

“Maybe.”

“Whoa, that’s harsh. I could write an article about the incident.”

“You could, Nikolett Ladányi, but you won’t,” András declared firmly.

Niki was indeed quite surprised at his tone. András was quite self–confident when it came to his work, and at one time had behaved the same with her too. No matter how much she hated this tone, she still found it attractive. A man should be manly.

“Alright. Where do you want to meet? And when? I’d like to visit Roland and promised Fanni I’d come see her too.”

“You can’t bring Fanni.”

“How come?”

“She’s sweet and I like her. But you’d be using her as a shield. So we wouldn’t have to talk about us.”

“Us? Such a thing exists?” she asked softly.

“Without Fanni. Tonight. Dinner…? Shall I pick you up?”

“Oh, pizza? Don’t bother picking me up. I told you I would drop in to see Fanni, for at least a hug. I’ll be coming from their place.”

“Okay. The usual place then. I’ll be there at eight on the corner of the Ring and Hegedűs Street. If you’ll arrive really late, you’d better tell me now so I can wait inside.”

“I won’t be late.”

“I’m glad I can see you soon,” András said, and hung up.

Niki stared at her phone. What a determined guy… she’d become familiar with this quality of his at the beginning of their relationship. But what had happened? She’d rather not think about it.

An eternity later, she finally stepped into the boxy building and pulled down the zipper of her jacket. She felt like her hands and feet had frozen solid by the time she’d walked up from the bus stop to the institution. Next time, she would come on her scooter no matter what. She’d freeze then too, but at least she’d get here faster. The doorman greeted her and a woman in a housedress waved. Lots of people welcomed her when they saw her, emerging from rooms, idling in the corridor.

“Did you bring us any cake, sweetie–pie?”

“It’s been so long since we’ve seen you…”

“Oh, it’s my granddaughter…”

More, similar sentences were spoken, and she smiled. She had not brought any cake. She’d been so distracted, she’d forgotten. And she wasn’t anyone’s granddaughter, at least not anyone’s who lived here. Still, it felt nice to be greeted with kind words that weren’t spoken out of interest. She decided that expecting cake was not in the “out of interest” category. She felt her heart fill with joy. For the first time, it was good to be here. Up till now, she always arrived with a knot in her stomach, with the shadow of the past hanging over her, but now, she didn’t have to force a smile. She promised to bring cake next time, gave a big hello to everyone, kissed the cheeks of the old lady who thought Niki was her granddaughter, and headed up the stairs. She was anticipating the moment when she would tense up. She approached Roland’s room, but still she didn’t feel the onslaught of the usual physical symptoms. Suddenly, she saw the little Caribbean island and the woman, who maybe was Carol Santos, maybe her granddaughter, or perhaps the person in whom she now lived incarnate… She saw the island of bliss before her. Could it be that the visit had truly changed her and altered her memories? Could the “memory healer” really have healed her painful memories? Was it possible? Or was she just calmer than usual? Or…?

Perhaps she had forgiven herself.

She felt relieved as she headed towards the door, though she had always tried to make herself believe that it had been her fault those thugs beat him up so badly. It happened fifteen years ago, and since then, he was nearly a vegetable, spending his days in this home, without feelings or thoughts. He had been attacked because of her. They’d tried to flirt with her, bully her, and Roland had wanted to protect her. Roland, the first, and probably last, love of her life, had only tried to protect her.

Up till now, she had felt responsible, and Roland’s parents, especially his mother, fueled the feeling of guilt in her.

But now she felt nothing. She didn’t feel choked up with tears. She just wanted to see him and give him her gift.

Pressing down on the door handle felt easy. Much easier than ever before.

Roland stared at her. At least they could make eye contact. Niki walked over and hugged him. She felt only warmth, no tension. His gaze remained expressionless while Niki took the model ship and the coloring book that she had brought for him out of her backpack.

Then, she took his hand and pulled him along with her. They’d never gone out together before. When she visited, he was either in his room, in the gym, or being “exercised” in the garden. The orderlies made sure that his physical condition didn’t deteriorate. Roland didn’t mind walking or moving, despite the fact that he was unable to take part in games. But he liked going places, chasing a big stuffed animal, and enjoyed playing around on the horizontal bars, though no emotions were ever visible on his face.

Niki pulled him along. He gripped her hand and went. This was the first time she thought that maybe Roland felt something after all. Perhaps a bit of apprehension due to this new situation? Maybe…

The sound of a piano was heard from the common room on the ground floor. The Pianist – as Niki liked to think of the old man, who was supposedly once a bar pianist – sat in sunglasses behind the upright piano, though shades were completely pointless in the artificial light of the room. He played an old, probably Italian song. He hummed along, slightly out of tune. This was the afternoon show at the rest home. Several people sat at the table: a group was playing cards; an elderly lady leafed through a book; another just stared into space beside a woman who was singing, probably an entirely different tune than what the man was playing. Niki led Roland over to the couch and sat down. Roland just stood there looking lost, still clutching Niki’s hand. She gently pulled him downwards. Finally, he sat.

They sat there for about half an hour, Roland obedient rather than interested. Soon, a group had gathered around Niki, and suddenly she was the center of attention, telling them a story about a cruise ship, about sunsets and islands that her listeners would never see for themselves. One of the ladies kept interrupting with questions, thinking Niki had been on a boat excursion on Lake Balaton, but the others answered for Niki, saying she’d been abroad, not at Balaton. This interlude took place about every two minutes, but Niki didn’t mind.

“And then I arrived to the top of the world,” she said suddenly. “There’s a climbing course on one of the islands strung up above the rainforest. You can make your way along it, gripping the ropes, as if you were walking along a pair of train tracks suspended in the air. We were fastened to the course with ropes so we wouldn’t fall, but we also had railings to hang onto. And when I started off, I felt like I was walking above the world,” explained Niki.

Attentive eyes were fixed on her. Not all of them were filled with the light of comprehension, but most were.

“The leaves were wet,” she continued, “from the humidity, but the sun shone above the clouds and the silence was incredible. The only sound was the birds twittering. And I saw them too… all those colorful birds. I was walking in their world.”

“You were flying, dear,” the elderly lady sitting beside her suddenly said.

Niki had been told, before she’d gone on her trip, that this refined, elegant, petite little lady of no less than eighty years, had a beau. She usually never left her room. Niki was struck by this information. Who could her “beau” be? But now, she was even more surprised to see the little old lady out of her room. She smiled at Niki.

“I came out,” she said, “because someone told me we were having a big day today. A story day,” she explained enthusiastically.

“Yes, I was flying,” answered Niki, and thought she was flying even now. Here are all these people who find pleasure in her presence, in her “story day.” This birdlike old lady had emerged from her room because of her. And Roland was sitting there next to her too, even if he couldn’t understand what was going on.

Carol Santos, you’re a sorceress, she thought, thinking back upon the little island in the Caribbean. You’ve worked wonders, whether you actually exist or not.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other…”

“And even then, only on official business.”

“Yes. I have a private practice now.”

“I know. Here I am.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you. And how may I help you?”

The woman smiled encouragingly. András sat down and felt very stupid. Why did he even come here?

“I… had some problems in my life.”

Silence.

“And I still do. Not many, but some.”

“I see.”

“And… I’m having a hard time deciding what to do.”

“I’m here to listen.”

And he began to talk. Softly, objectively, with the least amount of emotion possible. He tried to summarize what had happened, but had to begin from much further back. Interestingly enough, this was the first time he had summed things up, even for himself. He seemed to have a better overview now, not just of things he talked about, but about how he really felt. It felt good to talk to someone.

“So it’s a question of ethics. You don’t know what decision to make. Did I understand correctly? You’d make a different choice if you listened to your conscience than if you let your emotions guide you?” the woman asked finally.

“That’s pretty much the situation, though not quite. If I listened to my feelings, then I’d listen to my conscience too. Instead, I’d say, I wish I could listen to my heart, because then I’d pull her free of this whole thing. And as for that man… I’d hound him until he made a mistake so big it would be impossible to cover up. But unfortunately, she won’t let me listen to my emotions. She’s loyal to that man and won’t truly let me into her life. I think that no matter what secret I know, she would want me to keep it to myself, to not burden her with it, and not report it either. She’s probably hoping for a miracle.

“What would you like me to tell you? You realize that this is not a part of my task. A psychologist cannot tell their, er… patient, what to do, even in such emotional situations. I can only give you my personal opinion, but I’d rather not. Instead, I’d be interested in hearing what you’d like me to tell you. What would make you happy? Which answer would bring you liberation and relief? What if I told you to let everything run its own course? Or if I suggested that you report this to your superiors and stay away?”

“Hmm. I’m afraid I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

“And is there a middle road? A path you could take that wouldn’t tax your conscience but would also allow you to act ethically? What do you think?”

“The reason I’m here is because I’ve been struggling with this for a while.”

“Are you angry with her? Are you angry because she has chosen this life?”

András was silent.

“So you’re angry.”

“I think, yes. But I love her. I don’t want to hurt her in any way.”

“What if you talked to her? If you told her what that man is doing and that your job would be to act on it?”

“I’m afraid for her. I know it will end badly if I don’t take care of her. But my conscience won’t let me do that either. I really love her.”

The psychologist was silent.

“I’ve come here for advice. I’m starting to feel there are two different people living inside of me. It’s not easy living with this secret.”

“Have you ever thought of changing jobs?” the woman asked suddenly. “This would also be a kind of… solution… hmm? Or?”

“Or escape?”

“That’s right. You can’t escape yourself. But then you wouldn’t be held accountable, ethically.”

“I work superbly on other cases. And the girl I love… I’d need to make a decision because of her too.”

“Does she think there’s a future with you?”

“I don’t know. At the moment… I don’t think so. She left me.”

“Why?”

“Because… she left me.”

“What was the reason?”

He was silent.

“She didn’t trust you?”

“Maybe. But there might still be hope. I don’t know.”

“This is just a thought, but… What if you left the Internal Affairs Bureau and went back to being a ‘simple’ detective?”

“Do you think it would alter… ethical judgment of my actions? What crime would not be considered a crime in another department? I couldn’t keep quiet about it anywhere…”

“So actually, the problem is that you can’t settle things in your own mind, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“What are you expecting?” the psychologist asked.

After a short pause to think, he made a sad little grimace.

“I’m expecting him to fail. Or to get locked up for some other petty offense, or hoping that his cronies will reject him and seize his throne, and then… or maybe he’ll leave the country. He’ll live off the money in his foreign accounts and just disappear.”

“This is what you hope. But what do you expect? What will come of this? How will this end?”

“With complete annihilation,” the words slipped from his mouth.

The psychologist was silent.

“Or maybe… I don’t know. I was never one to back out.”

“Five sessions,” she said strictly. András looked at her in surprise. “That’s the contract we signed.”

“And what happens after?”

“You make your decision.”

They were silent. Then András spoke.

“Don’t people usually do more? Ten? Or twelve?”

“You’re trying to back out of working on yourself.”

“You’re being harsh.”

“You came here and asked for my help. This is the only way I can help you.”

“If I tell you my feelings over the course of five sessions, then what’ll happen… at the end?”

“I’ve already told you. You’ll have to make your decision.”

“Do you think so?”

“Look, András, I feel like you’ve already made up your mind, deep inside.”

“May I ask what you think my decision already is? What my subconscious thinks about this whole thing?”

“Our time is up.”

“Don’t you want to help me?”

“Five sessions. One session a week.”

“It’s urgent…”

“Let me look at my calendar, but I think it would be a good idea if you had a week after each session: time to think over what we talked about here.”

András blinked at her.

“Fine. I’ll look at my calendar… I still have one free slot this week. Perhaps we can manage to meet one more time this week. I might be able to give you two appointments next week, but first I need to see if you can keep up with the pace…”

“I see.”

“I’ll be expecting you on Friday then. At seven p.m.”

***

“You have to tell me everything! Everything!”

“Okay, I will. And I’ll show you photos too, later,” said Niki, hugging the girl.

During the nearly three weeks that Niki hadn’t seen her, Fanni seemed to have already become more mature and feminine. She was almost eleven, yet her face and body seemed to by changing by the minute. Her gaze had altered the most, revealing that she was outgrowing the little girl role. A kind of deep, dark light had appeared in her eyes, and Niki suddenly felt sorry for the boys who would fall for Fanni in the future.

“I don’t care about the photos,” the girl growled, while she led Niki into her room.

This was a ritual between them. They didn’t talk in front of Fanni’s parents too much because Fanni liked having “shared secrets” with Niki. Unfortunately, right now, their topic of conversation was more than just an innocent little secret, and Niki knew she had to do something. She was torn between keeping quiet and revealing to Fanni what her parents had hidden from her all this time: that Roland is her real father. They hadn’t even told her that he was alive, and had been telling her that Roland, her “brother,” had died in a skiing accident. But Fanni had a sixth sense about things like this, and she was always good at detecting a lie. Niki knew that one day they would have to pay the price for this lie. Fanni had figured out that Roland was alive and she’d even visited him, though she was unable to communicate with him. Now she was expecting answers from Niki, and Niki knew that whatever she chose to do, it was the bad decision.

“So, tell me! Tell me everything about my brother… about Roland,” the girl said, looking deep into her eyes.

“Roland is alive,” she answered slowly and guardedly.

“I already know that. I’ve been to see him. But I wanna know everything.”

Niki was silent.

“C’mon, don’t do this. You said that if I didn’t say anything to my parents, you’d tell me the truth.”

“I said, if you didn’t go and see him by yourself anymore, then I’d help.”

“I have to know.”

“Fanni, look. If I tell you the truth, if you find out ‘officially’ from me, then the two of us can never meet again,” Niki said, bowing her head. “I promised… your mother… when you were born. This is the condition under which she allows me to keep seeing you, to come here, and maybe even take you places sometimes.”

“What?” Fanni’s eyes filled with tears of rage. She threw her head back angrily, her long, brown locks flying. She straightened up. The striped sweater tightened across her thin little torso, her whole posture belligerent. “What do you mean we can’t meet anymore?”

“I don’t mean to put you in this position.”

“You have to explain.”

“It’s very simple. Your mother said if I told you anything at all about Roland, the two of us could never meet again. Till now, I have kept my side of the bargain, but believe me, it was only so they wouldn’t keep us from each other.”

“They asked you to lie to me and say that my brother had died, but really he’s just a retard?”

“Don’t say retard. I explained what happened to him in the email I sent you from the cruise.”

“I didn’t mean it that way… you know I wasn’t trying to be mean or anything.”

“Yes, this was part of the agreement I made with your parents. I would have to back up their lie,” said Niki, trying to keep as calm as possible, after all, she was the adult. But she knew that by using the word “lie,” she had already undermined her plan. Interestingly enough, she didn’t care.

“And you agreed to this?”

Niki sensed a storm about to break. Tears were already bursting from Fanni’s eyes and her face was red with helpless rage.

“I wanted to keep contact with you,” Niki whispered.

“But why was it so important to keep visiting me? Sure, Roland was your first love, plus everything that happened to him was sad, but why did you want to see me, his sister, when Roland was already like he was when I was born?”

“Because…” Niki began, but stopped herself from continuing.

She knew that Fanni was a clever, intelligent girl who could not be deceived. How had her parents – especially her mother, the ringleader – ever think that they could lie to her for the rest of her life? Even now, she was right on the button. Indeed, why would Niki be so set on seeing her unless there was some other reason? If Fanni really was Roland’s sister, she probably wouldn’t come see her, and wouldn’t want to keep contact. But everything was different, because Fanni was Roland’s daughter. To Niki, Fanni was a like the child she and Roland never had. This is what their child could have been like, and it’s who she saw in the girl. Fanni was the memory of their romance, even if it wasn’t so.

“I think… you need to talk to your parents,” Niki said.

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“Fine, Fanni. I can tell you the truth, the whole truth, and you may refer to me when you talk to your parents,” she said hoarsely, looking out the window. “But if I do, you and I won’t be able to see each other for a very, very long time. I will be forbidden to see you, and I don’t want to sneak around and meet in secret. The next time we can see each other will be after you turn eighteen… or if you become a bigmouthed, self–assured teenager they can’t treat like a little kid anymore.”

“Oh, no! That would be awful,” said Fanni, immediately reverting back into a ten year–old, frightened little girl. “What should I do? How can I get them to tell me what happened so they’ll keep letting me see you?”

“Tell them that you have been trying to find out as much as you can about your brother, on the net and everywhere. Tell them that you discovered that he was living in the nursing home and that you visited him. Explain that you asked me, but that I suggested that you talk to them about it.”

“Why would my parents lie to me?” Fanni burst into tears.

The little girl’s whole world had fallen apart. And perhaps it would shatter even more when she found out who she really was, where she came from, who here parents were… Niki didn’t know if it would do her any good if Fanni found out the whole truth from her parents right now. Wouldn’t it rip her soul to shreds? She should have been told the truth a long time ago. How could anyone grow up under the shadow of a lie? But Niki knew one thing for sure. It wasn’t her job to tell Fanni that Roland wasn’t her brother. She understood only now, as she saw the girl’s anguished, bewildered gaze: the absolute truth might hurt her even more.

“They wanted to spare you,” she whispered into the girl’s ear.

And Niki thought that this really had been the reason for it all. The fact that they’d caused more trouble with secrets and lies, rather than giving out slow doses of the truth, was a different question.

***

Bagger Book

June 20, 1976

I passed my high school graduation exams in a daze. I couldn’t care less about my results, but I got a B in mostly everything. My homeroom teacher said this was an admirable result, because I was ‘just an athlete after all.’ She asked me not to neglect what I had learned in school, and told me to apply to some sort of college next year, at least to study Phys.ed. But I wasn’t paying attention. I simply could not pay attention, because all I could think about was that I would never be Mrs. Csaba Váradi. If I could have gotten him in return for failing my exams, I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment. I would have failed instantly and without the least bit of sorrow. But nobody asked if I wanted to make a compromise in order to have Csaba Váradi enter my life.

I spent two entire jogging practices throwing up. (Not on purpose. I just felt sick all the time from the stress and sadness.)

I missed four seven–meter throws at practice matches. And that, I would say, is a national record. My other national record was when I guided the ball precisely, jumped high up in the air at the six–meter line, and executed a colossal shot. Unfortunately, it was into my own team’s goal.

I ran straight into the wall of our house two times, but I achieved nothing, unless you count scraping the skin off my hand. I went to the Sports Clinic where they did an X–ray, and then happily informed me that my bones were intact and fine. They congratulated me on my chance to travel to Italy. So that plan failed too.

On average, I called both Csaba and Marianna ten times each day. I’d gotten myself down to only ten calls a day. I just listened to them say hello, and then I hung up. There were difficult days at the beginning, when I stood in the phone booth for hours, wanting to hear Csaba’s voice for the fiftieth time.

Once, when I saw Csaba in the locker room corridor, I felt all the blood rush to my head. My face was incredibly red, I couldn’t utter a sound, and ended up fleeing into the girls’ locker room. I stood there, breathing heavily for about a quarter of an hour before I finally collected myself. I was afraid I was having a heart attack. But I realized it was only the blade of the dagger, twisting in my heart.

By the time I stepped back into the corridor, Csaba was gone (Thank God!). Of course, I called him on the way home, but nobody answered. I was relieved, but also a bit annoyed.

The following day, Mari whispered to me after practice:

“Did you hear the news? Váradi moved out from his parents’ place. The government issued him an apartment. I heard this news when I arrived at the end of the adult team’s practice. Kovacs and Radics were talking about it, and I acted like I wasn’t eavesdropping, pretending to only be interested in their cool down exercises.”

“What do you mean he moved out?”

“Well, I suppose he was issued the apartment because of the wedding, and ‘cause he’s a superb soccer player,” said Mari, shrugging. “I hope you won’t freak out about it,” she added. I shook my head. “Alright then. Your platonic affair is over. Time for a real one.”

I couldn’t argue with her, I was so shocked by her announcement. The very last thread had snapped that connected him to me: the phone. Now I couldn’t even listen to him say hello anymore.

The day of our departure arrived. My parents gave me a bit of money in lire – which is what they use in Italy – but made me promise I wouldn’t spend it all on the first day, because they couldn’t give me any more foreign currency. I wasn’t interested in shopping or spending much, and I told them so. Rest assured, I’d bring it all back. They told me to buy something nice for myself instead, but to buy it near the end of my trip, if I had money left over. Oh, alright, I said, though I didn’t feel like I needed anything at all. Not even new shoes for handball, because I’d gotten a pair for my birthday this year and they were still in pretty good shape. And what I really needed, I couldn’t have, so that’s that.

My eyes glazed over a little when the bus pulled out of the sports complex parking lot, but I was strong and held back my tears. I didn’t want the others to notice my bad mood and have them misunderstand… I wasn’t sad because I was leaving for a month, but because I knew that by the time I returned, Csaba will be lost to me forever.

We had a long trip ahead of us. At first, I sat quietly beside Mari, but Edith and Juli started singing as soon as we left Budapest. It was Sail Up On High! by the band Piramis, and pretty soon all of us joined in. Later on, we sang all sorts of other things. Mari and I decided, if Piramis ever came out with an album, we would buy it. Of course, neither of us were too interested in music. I was only into it because of Csaba. It’s nice to listen to a singer who can put your personal feelings into his own words. It’s a way to see myself and all the things going on inside of me more clearly. Mari thinks I need to grow up. She’s already preparing a Plan B if she doesn’t get recruited to the adult handball team. Being in the junior team is fun and all, but sooner or later we’ll need to play in the adult team, and if we considered ourselves real athletes, it would be best to be a member of one of the premier clubs. We’d also have to look for jobs, but if we played for one of the premier clubs, the managers would find us sports–related jobs, and we wouldn’t have to work as much, so we’d have time for the twice–daily practices. I certainly wouldn’t miss the two practices, but I too had been thinking a lot recently about what to do with my life later on. Something had to happen eventually. My parents said that I could have this summer off to do whatever I wanted, but I’d have to get a job starting September. Jeez, this ultimatum was only starting to really sink in my mind here, on the bus.

I had never had a real job before, but I guess I had to start sometime. I’d be happier if I could keep playing handball and make that my ‘main profession,’ otherwise how else could I make it onto the all–star team?

The bus stood at the border for a long time. When they finally let us pass and we arrived in Austria, somehow everything that had filled my mind till then seemed to blur. All I could feel was liberation. I finally felt like an adult. I was free and Váradi could do as he pleased. I’d be just fine without him after a while.

“Good afternoon,” said Giacomo as he stood and nodded to the man. They sat down in the meeting room and Giacomo picked up the papers the other man placed in front of him. He was wearing a suit this time, a Zegna, but had turned up the collar of his shirt slightly and was not wearing a tie. His father would be proud to see him now, though Giacomo was starting to dislike such formal behavior more and more. While his assistant brought in some water and coffee, he studied the papers silently. The strange thing was that he hated numbers, yet he felt a twinge of exhilaration as he examined these financial statements. He felt victorious when numbers leaped out at him; he circled them. But otherwise, he had just forced himself to choose this profession after he’d decided to turn his back on fashion. To hell with his father and the business. He had to know if he possessed aptitude for doing anything else. Actually, he was beginning to doubt if he’d even had a feel for fashion to begin with. He’d just desperately needed to move on, to get out of Naples, out from under his father’s jurisdiction. And then there was that awful incident from the past hanging over them too…

He got his university degree, perhaps to prove to his family, to his father, that he could succeed in the field of finance as well. It was boring and dry, with no room for imagination. Then one day, something happened. Anastasia, his girlfriend at the time, had asked him to look over the accounts of her brother’s small business, because he’d received a statement from the tax bureau, and needed Giacomo to fix something that wasn’t right on their income tax form. He didn’t feel the least bit inclined to do it, but he couldn’t say no to the girl, so they all sat down to look things over. Giacomo studied the documents for a long time, then suddenly, as if zooming straight in, two numbers popped out at him, followed by a third. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he automatically picked up a pencil and circled these numbers. He’d immediately pinpointed the mistake. Anastasia’s brother asked him to take over his accounting. This was the last thing he felt like doing and didn’t want to tinker with numbers at all. Somehow, he’d always been more concerned with fabrics and designs. Of course, he knew it was no accident that he’d distanced himself from all that, so in the end, he and Anastasia’s brother made a deal. He wouldn’t take over the accounting per se, but he would check it when it was done. He’d started earning money while at university by doing this job. Later, the girl’s brother recommended Giacomo to one of his friends, and his name got passed along to more and more people…

By the time he got his diploma, he had scores of clients. Except by that time, he already had a new dream. He and Antonio, his best friend from university, would found an accounting firm, keeping the clients who already came to him. Moreover, they would leave the area of Rome and go north, to the region Antonio called home. Giacomo didn’t mind moving even further from Naples and the boutiques of Rome. That’s how their firm was founded in Venice. Antonio supervised the daily work and the accountants, while Giacomo continued the work he’d started. He was the only one who had an eye for immediately identifying mistakes.

Now, a unique and very delicate job awaited him. In hindsight, he wasn’t sure he should have agreed to the task, but he was fascinated by it. An Italian “niche” perfume company had sought him out. They were a small and special business that wanted his opinion on the yield of a certain daffodil field and the expenses related to it. To buy or not to buy, that was the question. It would be more lucrative if they had absolute control over the field, not to mention that in order to keep a high quality standard, the earth needed rest every so often. It was this special type of daffodil that was the dominant scent in one of their most popular perfumes. However, upon inspecting the financial statements of the present owner of the field, they had become uncertain. They could plant their own daffodils on a Mediterranean field which they could buy more cheaply, but who knows how much crop it would yield, what the quality of the final product would be, and how much essence they could extract.

“Did you bring the scent along?” asked Giacomo in the most neutral tone possible.

The man nodded and removed a small black box from his bag. Giacomo was seized with excitement as he received it and gently unwrapped the foil. The box inside was white, with small, tasteful red letters that bore the name of the perfume: Io2. It was an odd little play on words: Io in Italian means me. While 2, pronounced in English, was two. The Italian homonym was tu, which in Italian was also a pronoun, meaning you. Me You. What an odd name for a perfume, he thought. And yet it was perfect.

“The flowers are hand–picked and you need mounds of them in order to extract a single milliliter of pure daffodil essence,” the client explained, while Giacomo opened the box.

A finely etched, milk glass bottle appeared, topped with a silver cap. Giacomo removed the cap, sprayed a bit of the bottle’s contents into it, waved the cap around, and then took a whiff. He breathed in a sweetish, light, and slightly smoky scent. The first thing he thought was that it smelled like sunlight; an image flashed before him of his own childhood in the garden of the house in Positano, spreading jam on his bread and dribbling honey into his tea, while clothes dried in the sun. He had a view of the sea from the terrace and all the plants around him were verdant.

“The quality of the daffodils that grow on this land is outstanding. But the earth cannot be exploited, because the flowers may not grow in it again and we won’t be able to create this same scent.”

Giacomo spread the printed pages in front of him. He didn’t like doing similar tasks on the computer because he didn’t have the same large overview as he did when he laid out the papers on the meeting table. He inspected the balances, the field owner’s offer, as well as the perfume company’s business proposals. He stood silently for a long time over the papers. He attempted to see all the information, all the numbers as one block and arrive at the sum in his head. Then, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his pen.

In the quiet room, his pen was clearly heard scratching the paper.

Giacomo circled two numbers.

“If the profit–margin is as much as you claim, then the expense statements are not right,” he said, pointing to one of the numbers. “But if the expense statement is correct, then the profit–margin is much lower. There’s something else I noticed here, but this could be a simple error,” he said, continuing. “If the owner of the land guarantees this much in annual returns,” he explained, pointing to a different number, “then he is either promising too much, or he’s selling part of the daffodils sub rosa, so to say” he said, pulling his finger towards another number. “After all, the net income on the tax forms is, at most, three–quarters of what your business can expect in income, according to the seller’s own statement and offer, that is, if you managed to increase the crop yield somehow, or use some kind of product to make the flowers grow faster or the earth to become more fertile…”

“That’s exactly why we need this land: the production is organic and chemical–free.”

“Well then… all I can say is this: either they denied a portion of their income, or their offer is an overestimation. You’d need to check if there was any circumstance that might have damaged last year’s crop, and you should ask for the tax forms from previous years, along with the production logs. I think that they are offering more than this land can produce. Not to mention that the number of employees for such a vast tract of land is rather meager.”

“So we’d need an accounts inspection?” the client asked, looking at Giacomo searchingly.

“A study.”

“And what is your personal opinion?” the man asked, leaning closer.

Giacomo did not smile, but he felt honored that he had been asked. He looked out the window, directly onto one of the little canals. Antonio was determined to set up their office here. Giacomo would have settled for Treviso or Mestre, but Antonio had a childhood dream of one day having a window that overlooked a Venitian canal. The place wasn’t cheap, but Giacomo was starting to admit that it was worth the price they paid.

“My personal opinion,” he said, taking a deep breath, “is that if it were up to me, I would buy it.”

The man stared at him. Giacomo knew that this statement did not correspond with what he had said earlier, but he stuck to his opinion. This was a gut feeling he had. And he’d learned over the years that these hunches were usually right.

“I’m not suggesting that you buy it,” he continued, while looking at the client’s bewildered face. “I’m only saying that if we were talking about my business and this type of daffodil that really is so unique, and I wanted to maintain quality in order to remain in the niche perfume industry, then… yes, I’d buy it. Even knowing that a few bits of data needed to be checked.”

He felt a sudden desire to sniff the inside of the cap again, but he had to restrain himself from acting so… feminine. He thought that maybe his father was right. He should simply accept who he was. His sensitivity and interest in fashion didn’t make him less of a man. Perhaps his father knew him better than he thought, even from a distance. Though they only met a couple of times a year, he knew his real desires and what his true interests were: fitting people with the right clothes, knowing what women will want two years from now. And what men will want. Instilling a desire in them for things that mean more to him than mere outward appearances.

He picked up the perfume, pulled the cap off, and whipped it past his nose again. He didn’t have to spray into the cap again, the scent was still there. The same vision came to him as before. And there was something else. As soon as he saw the Positano garden and the terrace in his mind’s eye, he also saw himself arrange a shawl around a girl’s neck. He only saw the girl’s silhouette… Patrizia. Oh, damn. Dreaming about her had almost destroyed his life, and he had numbers to thank for helping him return to reality. But now his father had made him an offer that he had instantly refused, though both of them knew he actually had to think about it. And both of them also knew that he couldn’t say no if he wanted to follow his desires and dreams. But he had to stay rational. He’d worked hard to keep his feet on the ground.

“I’d buy that field. I imagine it stretching somewhere very near the sea and that it has a smoky, hot, sun–dried scent,” said Giacomo, and then fell silent.

He’d already said too much and had overstepped the boundaries of a financial advisor. He must not reveal his feelings so openly.

“Mr. Grotti, would you be so kind as to come and see the field in spring, when the flowers are in bloom?” the man asked, clearly stunned. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“Why not?” nodded Giacomo, and smiled cheerfully. “If we can find a suitable time.”

When the man left the office, Giacomo thought things over. He wasn’t sure it was ethical to accept money for his “hunches,” but things had been going on like this for quite a while now. He produced nearly as much money for the firm with his “flash advice” as the amount they charged clients for a complete accounts inspection. But he’d never revealed himself to such an extent before, made such a demonstration of his “feminine” side. He’d been afraid to show it ever since a girl, Gina, had left him years ago. His sensitivity and intuition had probably played a part in that too. Of course, he didn’t wanted to commit, not yet, and well, maybe he wouldn’t ever want to either. Patrizia was different… but she wasn’t ever coming back.

And his father’s offer… it was something he had always dreamed of. If he said yes, his own desires would swallow him up and he wouldn’t be able to live according to a traditional male role. And like Gina had once said: “You’ll never be a normal man who protects his mate. You’ll always be more concerned with your clothes and shoes than your role as a man. I will not be your mother, and I don’t need fashion advice. I don’t want you to caress the trendy clothes off me in the evening, make love to me, and then dress me up the next morning. I don’t want dreams. I want reality.”

And ever since, he had been unable to give women just that: reality. All he could give them was dreams. He’d probably never be able to offer what was expected of a man. That’s how he became the most desirable bachelor in Venice. He was mysterious, and women wanted to “reel him in.” At least that was what Antonio had told him, grinning. This was one part of the gossip around town; the other part was speculation that he was gay, and some women automatically gave up on him.

The latter wasn’t true, and neither was the former… not entirely. He had relationships, both short and longer. But he always had to spend a lot of time pretending, so things wouldn’t end up like they once had with Gina. Patrizia was the only one who understood him. She let him, even loved it, when he dressed her up, if he told her what to wear, or when he dreamed up some new outfit for her… but Patrizia hadn’t been a part of his life for a long time.

***

“Hi. I’m not so late.”

“You’re not late at all.”

“No? My watch says… I’m three minutes late…”

“It’s probably fast.”

“Are you angry?”

“Why would I be?”

“Before… you were always mad if I was late.”

“I’ve been here for a while. I came right inside. It’s warm.”

“What are you looking at?”

“What do you mean what am I looking at? I’m just looking. You’re so tan.”

“Yeah. Hm. Yes… the Caribbean, you know.”

“And did you have a good time?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind elaborating?”

“Thanks for everything you did. Thanks for the new bed. I don’t need a new couch after all. I’m fine with the old one,” said Niki a bit stubbornly.

“There’s nothing to thank. Here are your keys,” said András, and pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket.

Will she take it? András wondered.

Should I take it? pondered Niki.

The key ring landed on the table right in between them. Pretty soon, two pizza pies were placed on either side of it. But the conversation just couldn’t take off somehow. It kept stalling, as if both of them were afraid that whatever they might say might hurt the other person.

“Are you upset about something?”

“Dad moved out.”

“Pardon me?”

“It’s like I said. He packed up his things and moved in with his girlfriend.”

“He has a girlfriend?”

“Seems so.”

“When? What about your mother? How is she taking it?”

“It happened last week. Mom is a wreck, you can imagine. We spent the whole weekend getting rid of Dad’s stuff, from the basement to the attic. My muscles are sore and I don’t understand anything.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“He called me, but we didn’t get very far. It’s none of my business, right?”

“That’s why you weren’t home on the weekend. I’d been looking for you. I was worried. I didn’t know how you would cope with arriving home in the knowledge that a kidnapper had been living in your apartment while you were away. I was concerned that you would… be upset.”

“I was in the attic. And in the basement. We even had to buy the dog a new bowl because the old one reminded Mom of my father. He has a blue bowl now instead of a green one.”

“Hmm. Big changes start with small steps.”

“By the way, Fanni’s parents didn’t tell her anything. Here I am, up a creek: Fanni wants to know everything and her parents haven’t told her squat. She’s going to confront them tonight. I don’t know how involved I am in this, but I hope not too much. It would be hard for me to tear myself away from her.”

“I thought you were good at leaving people.”

Damn you, damn you, damn you for guilt–tripping me like this. You should have thought of me leaving when you were undressing that woman in your office with your eyes. Niki glared darkly at András. He was good–looking, and he radiated an air of overwhelming manliness. But it no longer had an effect on her. She must not let it affect her, no matter what had happened on that island where she had seen their future for a moment… together. But it wasn’t so easy. She could only learn trust if her partner gave her reason for it. She suddenly had to avert her eyes because she realized in shock that she wanted him. She desired his touch, his embrace, and wished she could give herself to him.

“What did he plead? Why did he do it? And why did he come expressly to my apartment? What does he want from me?” asked Niki, while she wrestled with the pizza. “Was he really so furious that I’d written about him?”

“Verbovszky?”

“Who else?”

“He wanted revenge,” András said softly.

“I figured as much, but why did he stash his hostage there? The girl… why did he kidnap her? And anyway, how much does he know about all this? And most importantly: where did he get the information?”

“He testified that he’d read your diary.”

“My diary?”

“Yes.”

“What diary?”

“A hand–written diary that you kept for a while after Fanni was born. Some sort of notebook.”

“Notebook,” repeated Niki in puzzlement.

“Yes.”

“And where did he get a hold of it?”

“The editorial office. He sneaked into the web–news office one night. That’s where he found it.”

“And you believed that load of nonsense? You think I’d take a secret diary I’d written more than ten years ago into a news office? They’d sell their mother to rake in the clicks. Plus I’ve only been working there a few years, as a freelance reporter. We’re talking about a hand–written, confidential diary. Jeez.”

“I must admit, it did sound strange,” nodded András.

“It’s more than strange.”

“So does such a diary exist?”

Niki was silent.

“So it does…”

“I don’t know. I always wrote obsessively, but I’d never actually kept a diary about Fanni’s birth. I never wrote about it to anyone, either in email or hand–written correspondence. I might have written it down somewhere to vent, but I never kept a diary about it. And I definitely never wrote in a notebook. I think this is a faulty lead. I don’t think he got his info from me.”

“It’s pretty important for us to know whether you’ve written about what happened, anywhere, even in a short story.”

“It happened a long time ago.”

“Yes, but you’d remember if you’d written something about an event that touched you deeply.”

“I always wrote tons.”

“That’s not an answer, Nikolett.”

Oh. She stared at him in amazement. She suddenly saw the headstrong man whose eyes flashed with fury. Nikolett? Oh, come on. He only called her that when he was angry.

“I don’t know why you’re getting all worked up about this. I don’t remember.”

“I’m not getting worked up, for the love of God, but you’re always in these predicaments, you provoke criminals, and then you’re surprised when you end up in a fix.”

“Yet I suspect that you all have me to thank for finally apprehending Verbovszky. He could have laid low for years if I hadn’t provoked him,” she noted in a chilly tone.

“But you have no concept of the cases you go stomping into,” András answered softly, clearly making an effort to curb his temper. “You go nit–picking through the affairs of Verbovszky and whoring politicians… Then you wash your hands of it and expect us to save you, if needed. You’re not a detective. Try and get that through your head.”

“I refuse to take part in this argument any longer. I’m an investigative reporter. My job is to write about what I see and hear. Or about criminals running around on the streets. Writing is the only thing you can accuse me of.”

“Why can’t you write beauty tips? Or fashion features? Or about 10 steps to a better sex life?” András said, smiling unexpectedly. “Or about how to forgive someone you love? Especially if that person doesn’t know what they’re guilty of.”

Niki stared at him with wide eyes. Then she grinned too. Here he was: the protective, strong man she needed.

“I made an interview with a model today,” she said with a smile.

“You see, you can do it! And?”

“I’m more interested in the dog smugglers.”

“Right.”

“Indeed.”

“Okay. I’ll fill you in on some facts, but right now, I want you to recall whether or not you kept a diary or anything else about how Roland impregnated that girl and about what happened after Fanni was born.”

“What difference does it make now?”

“I think it still makes a difference. This man already disappeared once before the verdict was pronounced in court. After that, he was in hiding, and it really looked like he wanted to get revenge on you. You want me to tell you what he was planning to do to you? He said that he was waiting till you got home, and then he’d… have a little talk with you.”

“I promise to think about the diary. If anything comes to me, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay.”

“Was it good?”

“The pizza?”

“Niki, I swear, sometimes you answer like a complete flake. Yes, the pizza.”

“Uh–huh. It was good. Yummy.”

“But you didn’t eat all of it.”

“I can’t eat so much.”

“You’ve lost weight.”

They were silent. Niki couldn’t bear to hold András’s gaze. Damnit that she always ended up at square one again. She wanted him to hold her, to protect her, to… Suddenly it occurred to her that maybe she was focusing on all these crazy topics as a journalist in order to provoke András, hoping he’d watch her press the limits, be daring, and try to solve cases by herself. Maybe subconsciously she was doing all this to provoke him into protecting her. She wanted to be shaken up, embraced, and rescued, as a knight would a damsel in distress.

Oh, damn. What a stupid idea.

“So, what about those dogs?”

“One of my colleagues in Italy acquired a blurb of the testimony given by one of the dog smugglers.”

“What do you mean by blurb?”

“It’s a summary of the essence. I cannot present you with the written statement, but to be frank, I wouldn’t give it to you anyway. Nothing’s official yet, and sometimes you go way too far in your articles.”

“I won’t get you mixed up in anything.”

“They apprehended two Hungarian men, from the environs of Szeged. Authorities had info about them, since the police recently took a pet store owner into custody who was selling dogs with fake pedigree papers. As it turned out, the dogs in question all originated from Hungary. He obtained the dogs for less than a hundred euros, and then he sold them for a sum vastly greater than the original purchase price. We’re talking about unvaccinated, often ill dogs,” András explained. “So the truck was already under surveillance. The smugglers were caught, and contrary to primary reports, the delivery was not meant for a regular client. Unlike previous deliveries, there were adult dogs too in the truck this time. The question still is: what were they planning on doing with these dogs? Were they to be sold or perhaps used for breeding? There were a lot of guesses floating around, and local media even speculated that the dogs were being sold for their fur. They might have been in contact with several pet store owners. Perhaps the cargo was headed even further south.”

“I already know all this. This isn’t exclusive information,” Niki noted. “I heard that the shipment was headed to Naples.”

“Then how else may I be of service, milady?” he grinned.

“You must have some confidential information too, right?”

“One of the Hungarians claimed that the dogs had been ordered by a family called Dotti or Gotti, but so far, no one’s found any pet supplier by either name in or around Naples. There’s a local furrier family with a similar name. That’s how gossip sparked about the dogs being used for their fur, but police are skeptical. Now the question is, why did they need to go all the way to Naples, when similar deliveries in the past were dropped in northern Italy?”

“What does the furrier say?”

“The police are investigating. What are you planning on doing?”

“This sounds like a Cruella de Vil story. I looked into some past details, and the last time they shipped dogs from Hungary to Italy to make use of their fur was in the years after 2000. There actually was a business that used dog pelt to decorate coat sleeves and hoods,” Niki said, making a face. “Where did the dogs come from?”

“The puppies were bought from an illegitimate Hungarian breeder. The adult dogs were most likely stolen. According to the truck driver’s testimony, they were strays picked up from the street, but the dogs looked too well–groomed, so his story is probably implausible.”

“The only problem is that tomorrow’s tabloids will be full of statements from weepy dog owners. Looks like I missed the boat.”

“I can’t stop the tabloid presses from running,” András answered indifferently.

“Unfortunately not. Do you know their names? Can I talk to the dog owners?”

“No.”

“You don’t know their names, or I can’t talk to them?”

“You can’t talk to them.”

“Could the family’s name be Grotti maybe?”

“What?”

“They’re a Neapolitan family. Could it be that Dotti is actually Grotti?”

“Do you know all the people in Naples? Or just the furriers?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But no, seriously. Try to think. Could the name really be Grotti?”

“I don’t know. I wrote down what the guy said, and it was Dotti or Gotti. But his info was based on the Hungarians’ testimony. So what if the name is Grotti? You know them?”

“No.”

“Fine, then. I can’t remember the last time I had such a pleasurable conversation, unless it was...”

Niki looked at him.

“…the conversation preceding the moment you kicked me out of your life.”

Was that a smile? Niki couldn’t decide, because the moment it appeared, it was already gone.

“So what’s up with you?”

“I miss you.”

Niki said nothing.

“What exactly did you want to know?”

“You said something on the phone about how I screw up your work… with my articles about the whoring politicians.”

“I don’t want to talk about that now.”

“Why? Are you wearing a wire?”

“I see you’re excited by this prospect. Could you please relax for two minutes? There are lots of magazines for women out there. You could write about your cruise, or about eyelash–shadow.”

“You mean eye shadow? Mascara is for your lashes and eye shadow is for your lids.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You said it wrong. There’s no such thing as eyelash–shadow.”

“Uh–huh, fascinating. Then write about nail polish. There is such a thing as nail polish, right?”

“Indeed there is. So, is our conversation being recorded? Are we being followed?”

“It seems you’ve read one too many crime novels. Or written too many. No, we are not under surveillance, but I can’t talk about this right now.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“The trains are still running.”

“That’s good news, in light of the transportation company’s difficulties, but I’d like to take you home all the same.”

“Okay. I’d freeze in the station anyway.”

“C’mon then.”

They trudged alongside each other towards the car. Niki thought about how this night could have turned out different. Much, much different. Was there a way back at all? It seemed that there wasn’t a way for her parents. But what about the two of them? Maybe if she’d be able to talk about certain things… perhaps then? But why say things the other person would surely deny anyway? What was going on when András had been sitting there with that woman and Niki saw them? Was she just making assumptions? Or was it a hunch? Women’s hunches were always right. And then there was that email she got from an anonymous source that claimed that András had another girlfriend. And she thought they loved only each other.

She got into the car and when they got going, she turned the heat up to maximum, but she was still cold. Maybe it was just a lack of sleep, or maybe it was sorrow. Their relationship was over. There was nothing to mull over anymore.

***

He’d been on the watch since four in the morning. The wait was maddening, and the cut on his belly was starting to pull. The stitches hadn’t been removed yet, and this would cause some complications, but he’d figure it out. He’d solved much more difficult problems before. He’d had to work with whatever he had, ever since he was a kid. Of course, he didn’t think he would end up like this, sentenced to jail, but he’d always known there might be months which he’d have to spend locked up.

He had to position himself so he could surprise the guard who checked in on him from time to time, to see if everything was in order. He had to act immediately because he’d heard the guard ask one of the nurses when they’d finally be able to handcuff him. Luckily, the nurse had said that he wasn’t in such a condition yet, and that there “would be no point.” But it was only a day or two now…

He’d arranged his pillow and blanket so it wouldn’t be obvious at first glance that there was no one in the bed. He’d removed the IV cannula already. There was no need for it any longer.

The door opened softly. He saw the shaft of light before he heard the sound.

The guard stepped in and had not yet seen anything suspicious, when Verbovszky stepped out from behind the door, grabbed the man, and pressed the scissors against his neck, closing the door with his free hand.

“Don’t move. I’ve got a scalpel,” he whispered. “Put your hands up and keep quiet, or I’ll cut your throat.”

The guard hesitated. Verbovszky pressed the scissors harder against his neck. The man raised his hands slowly. Verbovszky quickly patted him down with one hand, and unclasped the gun from his waist. He had to act fast, no matter how much the stitches pulled and how much his wound hurt. He put the gun aside and picked up a strip of tape he’d prepared – he’d stolen the roll when they’d come around to change his bandage – and taped up the guard’s mouth.

“Put your hands behind your head,” he ordered, and wound the tape around the guard’s wrist, first with one hand, then using both to tighten it. Then, he grabbed the gun, pushed the guard onto the bed and tied up his legs too, so he wouldn’t be able to get up immediately and make noise. And then he was gone. He locked the door from the outside, pocketed the keys, and headed towards the stairwell, nearly jogging in his pajamas. Luckily, he had been wheeled into the bandaging station a few times before, and he’d also been able to survey his surroundings to some extent when he’d been admitted to the hospital. He had to hurry; though the guard wouldn’t be able to use his phone for the time being, after a while, he’d probably wriggle over to the door and start kicking it. From then on, it would only be moments till police cars would fill the streets looking for him, and he’d be very conspicuous, barefoot in pajamas in January.

He had only one idea and it would either work or it wouldn’t. But it had to work. Arriving to the ground floor, he headed towards the ambulance entrance.