by Mario Bolduc
Señora Zarzuela was already leading the way up the grand staircase, her earrings and bracelets echoing in the cavernous room like a handful of nails dropped on a marble floor. Her face red, breathing heavily, she showed Max to the mezzanine level. It was a living room, in fact. To the right, he could see a kitchen, the first one. There was a second one in the back of the house, and a third somewhere over there, she told him. The agent offered to show the bedrooms immediately.
Back on the first floor, they walked through another large area, which the Landermanns had used as a parlour, then various rooms that could be used as offices or children’s bedrooms.
“If you have children, of course.”
Her eyes twinkled. Perhaps she could get, as well as the commission, a friend for a cold winter night … an American perhaps?
Raquel pulled the drapes open to reveal two ceiling-to-floor windows giving onto the backyard. The reception had surely taken place in that garden. Outdoor lighting snaked around trees and paths. Finally, a stone wall behind which you could see Iglesia de San Cecilio and Hospital Militar. Max imagined Kevin slipping in among the guests, a glass of champagne in hand, trying to hide the stain on his shirt. A camera in the pocket of his dinner jacket. Circling small boys like a pervert. Looking for a red mark on the back of a child’s neck. How had he managed to get in? Perhaps thanks to Laura Costinar. And why were they having a party here in the first place? What was the occasion?
With Laura Costinar and Peter Kalanyos there, it seemed to point to some sort of reception for Roma. A Kris romani? There was a time when the Roma came to find refuge near Granada in Sacromonte and its caverns.
The garden was definitely the highlight of the visit. Raquel had kept it for the end. Standing next to Max like a concert pianist after a stellar performance, she waited for the applause and the bouquets of roses.
He smiled, then threw out a line. “What a wonderful place for a party, isn’t it?”
She took the bait. “You’re right. Last summer we had, oh, two hundred people here for an event. The owners had the property cleaned and opened especially for the occasion.”
“I thought the owners had died.”
“The Landermann couple, yes, they both passed away. But the house was purchased by a company. Aspekt-Ziegler. Do you know them? They make furniture.”
Max hid his surprise. Aspekt-Ziegler, who’d been behind both Nordopak’s fortune and its ruin. Aspekt-Ziegler, Raymond Dandurand’s goose that laid golden eggs. The lives of father and son intertwined again. What role had Raymond played in this whole affair?
Max felt like the answer was there right under his nose. Soon he would be able to see the whole picture. The notary’s mysterious envelope, as per Lefebvre’s posthumous demands. A document that had pushed Kevin, in utmost secrecy, to jump on a plane for Spain to attend a garden party in a home linked to his father, Raymond. At the garden party, a gangster usurping Kevin’s fatherhood, pretending Sacha was his own. A gangster named Peter Kalanyos who had breakfast with Kevin a few months later in Bucharest. The same Peter Kalanyos Caroline had seen in Grande-Vallée the day before Raymond died. Everything tied together with a thread that remained invisible to Max. There had to be a relationship connecting Nordopak’s bankruptcy, Kevin’s con against his father’s company, and the latter’s links to Ioan Costinar, the Romani leader.
Roma, Romania, death. And Sacha-the-Red, of course, at the heart of the mystery.
“How do you like it?” Señora Zarzuela asked, her voice breathy.
“Very interesting. But first I need to speak with my wife.”
33
When preparing for the scam, Max had done his research on Nordopak, discovering fascinating information about how the company had been founded. Gérard Lefebvre and Raymond Dandurand had spent years building their reputation, trying to convince potential customers to trust them.
Younger than his partner, and in better physical shape, Raymond became the travelling salesman. He journeyed across America and Europe, meeting important players, looking for contracts, softening up potential customers. There was some interest, surely, but most prospects were worried about Canada’s production costs. In the early 1970s, the Canadian dollar was worth as much as the American dollar. Why pay for transportation if you weren’t going to save on labour?
According to Kevin, his father spent interminable weeks criss-crossing the Old World and the New, with only middling results to show for it. Nordopak was barely treading water. It hadn’t hired anyone in recent memory. Meanwhile, the whole continent was experiencing a period of spectacular economic growth Something was off, a hidden knot, a problem the mentor and his protégé weren’t able to solve.
And then, all of a sudden, everything changed. A huge contract from the Netherlands.
Aspekt-Ziegler, an important producer of flat-packed furniture, one of the few companies able to actually compete with IKEA. Both businesses wanted to achieve a presence in North America. A race for market shares between two giants, and Nordopak set to profit from it. In order to avoid exorbitant transport costs, the Dutch company decided to deliver its furniture in bulk to a North American subcontractor — Nordopak — with its Canadian partner assuring packing and distribution throughout Canada and the eastern United States.
Raymond Dandurand’s company was suddenly a money-making operation. Soon eighty percent of its profits came from this providential customer, finally assuring a certain stability for Nordopak, a stability that had been sorely lacking.
Aspekt-Ziegler gave carte blanche to its Montreal-based partner. The Dutch company was betting on a discreet infiltration, the complete opposite of IKEA’s strategy of opening big-box stores in North American suburbs. Instead, throughout North America, you’d walk into any furniture store and find examples of Aspekt-Ziegler products — this meant lower risk for the Dutch enterprise as it saved on infrastructure costs. It would have been foolish, anyway, to try to compete with IKEA at that company’s own game; the Swedish firm’s retail model was already well established in North America. Aspekt-Ziegler’s infiltration strategy was entirely consistent with Nordopak’s interests; in short, it meant more packing and more shipping.
After the contract was signed, gone were the days of constant travel for Raymond. Now customers came knocking at his door, wanting Aspekt-Ziegler’s partner for themselves. Nordopak grew at an astonishing pace. The fleet of trucks doubled, tripled, and quadrupled. Dandurand’s small operation — he’d become the only captain after Lefebvre’s retirement — had become a prosperous, dynamic business, its potential for continued growth seemingly unlimited.
But in 1998, after years of profits, an unforeseen turn of events: Aspekt-Ziegler abandoned retailing and decided to reorient toward industrial furniture, prioritizing the Asian market. And so it dropped Nordopak. Kevin could remember his father’s repeated trips to Amsterdam, trying to convince the Dutch firm to modify its decision.
In vain.
Aspekt-Ziegler’s new management — there had been a generational change within the enterprise — wanted to geographically realign the company’s activities, all the while renewing its clientele. Few buyers, but a lot of volume centred on emerging markets. Aspekt-Ziegler, in short, was admitting defeat at the hands of IKEA in America. They’d turn to China and India.
It was the beginning of the end for Nordopak, despite Raymond’s creative accounting: fake orders, fake American customers.
Aspekt-Ziegler and Raymond Dandurand.
Max wondered what lay behind that relationship.
In the last few weeks of winter, the businessman had been desperately seeking a solution. Perhaps he’d gone to Manitoba not to meet with Ioan Costinar, but with Peter Kalanyos, whom he’d bring back with him to Grande-Vallée, and whom Kevin would later find in Granada.
But there was no evidence of the Hungarian’s presence in Woodlands. Both Garrison and Jennifer had been unable to
identify him.
Was Aspekt-Ziegler the link between Raymond, Laura Costinar, and Peter Kalanyos?
Was Aspekt-Ziegler linked to the Roma?
Was the Woodlands trip a failure? Perhaps not, since Raymond had come back and put his plan into execution.
Sacha’s kidnapping.
In exchange for the child, money. A lot of money. Enough to fill Nordopak’s coffers.
Money paid by Aspekt-Ziegler?
A deal with the devil then. Where the men on both sides of the handshake turned out to be Satan.
The drunken emperor, his deal done. He’d climbed into his car, his grandson already in the hands of Peter Kalanyos or accomplices. The accident on the bridge was supposed to take only one life, and a fraudulent one at that. Perhaps according to the initial plan, Raymond was supposed to survive, call the police, ask for help, guide the dredging teams. Raymond, the only witness, saving his company by … selling his grandson.
Kevin was right: his father was a monster.
Unfortunately for Raymond, events hadn’t turned out as he’d expected. The deal hadn’t been respected. Raymond was dead, the funds hadn’t been paid out, and Sacha had disappeared.
One thing Max still didn’t understand: what could the child actually be worth? Raymond had gone to Manitoba convinced he could get millions in exchange for Sacha, knowing how important he was to certain people. Anti-Romani activists, according to Marilyn Burgess. Who knew for sure? In any case, people who were ready to pay a tremendous sum for a toddler. The sheer level of violence exercised to recover him demonstrated that he was crucial to someone’s plans.
Max was following his friend’s footsteps, and he was now facing the same dangers. From now on the road would be even more fraught. The Romani man at the car wash had been right to wish him latcho drom …
Raquel Zarzuela hadn’t wanted to reveal the name of her contact, the person with whom the real-estate agent communicated for questions related to the Granada property. She feared Max might make a deal directly with Amsterdam, making her lose her commission. But Max was persuasive — over the course of a passionate night in an apartment on Calle Pedro Mártir.
Dawn came, and Raquel poked her head from under the covers, her body still tangled in her satin sheets, a sleepy Madonna. “Do you still want that phone number?”
Max played the game. He kissed her passionately, and they made love again.
After, she coiled herself around him, simpering. “Frank Woensdag. You can reach him at his office every day except Wednesday. Funny, isn’t it?”
Max didn’t understand.
“Woensdag means Wednesday in Dutch.”
Max thought back to his last conversation with Kevin in Bucharest: I’ll tell you on Wednesday.
Frank Woensdag.
Max returned to the Albergue San Miguel in the early hours, his body beat, lost in thought. He noticed a shadow rushing to his right, emerging out of the half-light on Avenida de los Alixares. Footsteps. Before he could turn around, his arms were grabbed from behind and lifted over his head. Max struggled to free himself, attempting to elbow his assailants, trying to stomp their feet. He bent over at the waist suddenly, trying to free his arms, but all he got for his troubles were a few kicks to the back of the head. Struggling to remain conscious, he felt himself being dragged toward a car parked at the far end of the street. He was thrown onto the floor of the back seat like an old rug. Within seconds he heard the rumble of the car driving off into the night, then unconsciousness.
Max opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure whether he was dreaming or the blow to his head had been harder than he’d thought. Around him, to his left and right, a hundred or so beds. He was lying on his back, long legs poking out between the metal bars at the foot of the bed, a thin cotton sheet thrown over him. Max scanned the room. Tall windows, some of them covered, took up an entire wall. Over his head, very high, ancient metal lampshades green from patina covering burnt-out light bulbs. Before him, between the two rows of beds, a long line of tiny sinks over which mirrors had been installed. Most of them were shattered or simply missing. The size of the bed, the size of the sinks. Max understood immediately. He was in a dormitory, likely in a boarding school, one that hadn’t been used for years, if not decades, considering the state of the place.
Max sat up on the bed. His head still hurt, but little by little he was beginning to see a bit clearer. Whoever had intercepted him and taken him weren’t cops — that much was clear — or he’d be in prison somewhere. This place was no prison.
He looked at himself in a scarred mirror. Bruises over his right eye, dried blood on his left cheek. The bastards hadn’t gone easy on him. To the right of the mirror, a child’s scribbling, drawn in chalk, which had somehow survived the years this place was left abandoned: a moon over a leafless tree.
“Granada isn’t a safe city even for a professional crook like you, Max O’Brien.”
Max had no trouble recognizing that voice. The same one that had asked him to meet on Alexandriei Boulevard in Bucharest … with Laura Costinar’s passport.
Max turned around.
The speaker stood on the other side of the door frame, a heavy leather vest on his back and two henchmen flanking him, as if protecting a piece of millennial porcelain.
Peter Kalanyos.
Max recognized the two men as his attackers: they didn’t seem any friendlier in the light of day.
Kalanyos walked toward him. He bore a long scar on his face, an old injury, probably won in his days as a petty criminal in the streets of Budapest.
“Where’s Kevin?” Max demanded. “Where’s Sacha?”
Kalanyos smiled.
Max noticed that the Hungarian’s two bodyguards were armed, guns slipped in holsters visible whenever they raised their arms or moved rapidly. Fleeing wasn’t an option. The two men would shoot him dead before he could get to the door.
“Where’s Kevin?” Max repeated. “What have you done to him?”
“According to Romani traditions, children are raised like little princes in a climate of total freedom. We never reprimand them. Discipline isn’t a popular value among the Roma.”
What was he trying to get at?
“Which is a mistake,” Kalanyos continued. “And so I chose a nanny who was fair but knew how to properly discipline a child. She was always with him, making sure he grew up right. Unfortunately, while I was off meeting someone who claimed to have access to European drug markets …”
The character Kevin had invented.
“… Laura Costinar disappeared with the child.” Kalanyos shrugged before continuing. “You’re right to look at me like that. I got taken like an amateur.” His face darkened. “The nanny paid with her life. I don’t tolerate traitorous behaviour, as you well know.”
Before dying, the nanny had incriminated Laura. Her information, and Sacha’s, were sent to every kumpaníya in the country, which had led Kalanyos to Kevin.
“We caught both of them. They were interrogated without success. Laura wasn’t able to survive our questions, unfortunately.”
Anger rose in Max, masked by worry. He could well imagine what Kalanyos had done to his two victims.
“Leave Kevin alone. He’s got nothing to do with your damn agreement.”
“An agreement?”
“In Grande-Vallée with Raymond Dandurand. You had a deal with him but double-crossed him.”
Kalanyos burst out laughing. “You’ve got quite the imagination!”
“What, you didn’t kill him?”
“You ask too many questions, O’Brien.”
“Why Sacha?”
Kalanyos sighed. He was getting bored — that much was clear. “My secrets are my own. I’m only here to tell you to go now and find the child.”
“Sacha isn’t your son.”
“His name is Féro.”
“You have no right!”
“I don’t give a damn about your gadjo laws.” Kalanyos walked closer to Max, sneering. “I’m still holding Kevin Dandurand somewhere in Romania. He’s in good health, don’t you worry. But I’m not sure how long that’ll last.” He sniffed at Max and stared him down. “I care about Féro as if he were my own son. I’ll do anything to get him back.”
Including killing Kevin.
Max took a step back. “Just like you killed twenty-three Roma on Zăbrăuţi Street!”
“Collateral damage, as the gadje are so fond of saying.” Kalanyos walked back to his bodyguards. “As soon as you give me Sacha, I’ll give you Kevin. Alive and well.”
The Hungarian was about to leave the room when he turned around for a last thought. “Oh, and by the way, don’t count on your friend, Toma Boerescu, to play behind my back. He’s slippery, the old man. It wasn’t easy to get my hands on him. But it’s done now. He won’t be much help to you, believe me.”
Boerescu …
Max’s eyes were filled with hate.
There was no way to know whether Kevin was still alive. The son of a bitch could be lying to him. But Max had no choice. He was at the mercy of this madman.
“Do we have a deal?” Kalanyos asked.
He knew the answer already.
34
Bucharest, July 19, 1971
Emil Rosca had only seen his wife, Eugenia, a few times since he’d learned she was pregnant again. Though they already had three children, Emil was overjoyed when he found out that a fourth was on the way. He was hoping for another boy, though he’d be just as happy with a girl. According to Romani tradition, a pregnant woman became marime, or “unclean,” which meant Eugenia had to leave the kumpaníya. In any case, due to uncleanliness again, it wasn’t as if the birth could take place in the family home. Elias Hospital, Mărăsţi Boulevard, was used to admit pregnant Roma, who in exchange accepted to be touched by gadjo doctors, thus preserving tradition. Just before the expectant mother gave birth, Eugenia’s friends would come and untie every knot in her clothes and hair to make sure the umbilical cord would also be free of knots. Nurses knew about these practices and worked around the rituals.
