by Cathy Ace
AS I DELIVERED MY LECTURE the next morning, and the class worked through interactive exercises, I felt a strange tension whenever I looked at Zsófia—not healthy or normal for a professor and student. Her request to look into her grandmother’s death, and my simple act of reading the files she’d prepared, had shifted the axis of our relationship. I knew I’d have to handle the matter with care.
My students scattered at the close of our session, but Zsófia and her “puppy”—a boy named Laszlo who followed her everywhere—hung back. Zsófia approached me, while wriggling her arms into her coat sleeves, and hissed beside my ear, “I must go home. My uncle is not well today. I must help my mother. Can we meet on Monday instead? Unless you would like to meet me at the Gellért Spa at 11:00 AM on Sunday. I teach water aerobics there until then.”
I hesitated. “Maybe Monday would be better,” I replied quietly. I didn’t want to sacrifice the little free time I had.
Glancing toward the hovering Laszlo, Zsófia asked, “Did you read the files I gave you?” I told her I had. Her face softened. “Thank you so much, Professor. Don’t say anything, to anyone. Promise?”
“I promise.”
As she left with her admirer in tow, I spotted her trying to swat him away with her tote bag, but he continued to shuffle behind her as she all but ran out the door. I wondered briefly what might be wrong with her uncle, but realized I had work to get on with, and moved to gather up my papers.
“Ah, Professor Morgan, I’m glad I caught you.”
At the sound of the reedy voice my head popped up. It was Patrik Matyas. He’d tracked me down. Rats!
“Hello, Professor Matyas. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a busy moment. I must get back to my office to sort out some grading.”
“But surely you’ll have to eat something for lunch?” He walked across the room toward me, grinning. His long neck and protruding teeth made me think of a llama, and I don’t care much for llamas; they kick and spit, even when they look like they’re smiling.
I checked my watch. “It’s a bit early for lunch, don’t you think.”
Matyas checked his own timepiece. “But no. The best time to eat lunch is before it is busy. I know an excellent place for a delicious, warming, and inexpensive meal. Allow me to show you. Be my guest.”
He was beside me—so close I could tell he lacked any sense of personal space and had possibly used half a bottle of sharply scented cologne five minutes earlier.
“I see Zsófia Takács is in your group. She’s an interesting girl. Dangerous, too,” he whispered.
I bit. “Dangerous? What do you mean?”
“I could tell you over lunch,” he said conspiratorially.
I gave in, grabbed my coat and bags, and allowed him to steer me out of the HUB toward what he promised would be a gastronomic delight. It had better be, I thought.
The streets were awash with rain. In the little park beside the HUB bare trees stood stark against the gray skies, and everyone seemed to be dressed in various hues of sludge. I felt as though I’d stepped into a black and white movie as we hurried along the narrow streets of Budapest toward what turned out to be a butcher shop.
“They serve food?” I was surprised.
“Oh yes,” replied Patrik, his rosebud-mouthed smirk and fluttering hands exuding excitement, “the best blood sausage in town, and pickles to die for.”
I suspected a lunch of blood sausage and pickles might, indeed, kill me, but I allowed him to open the door for me, and I was transported into an unexpected world where the welcoming smell of roasting meat and paprika was overwhelming. My saliva glands kicked in before I’d even reached the display cabinets at the rear of the shop. Patrik wriggled, giggling, into the tiny space beside me at the counter and explained the various cuts on offer, then suggested I try his favorites, which I agreed was a good idea, hoping it was.
It was clear many of the dishes on offer had taken hours to prepare, but the service was fast; within five minutes we were seated, and I was enjoying my first mouthful of Hungarian blood sausage.
“How is it?” asked Patrik too eagerly.
“It’s different,” I began, playing him along a little.
“How?” The glint in his eye gave him away.
“I’m used to blood pudding being made just from blood and a few spices, but this has meat in it, and cereal of some sort, as well as the blood. It’s good. The paprika isn’t overwhelming. Thanks for suggesting it.” He looked disappointed; I suspected he’d been hoping for a display of disgust, and I wondered how many other visiting professors before me he’d urged to eat at the butcher shop. His idea of sport? It struck me he might be the type to enjoy such a game.
The tables in the shop were close together, and I quickly became convinced most Hungarians were incapable of speaking quietly. I couldn’t help but overhear several loud conversations at once, all seemingly good-humored and covering a range of topics befitting an eatery within easy walking distance of two universities, and not far from several government buildings.
Upon my arrival at the HUB, Patrik had shown me around the building where my lectures would be held, then helped me navigate the necessary journey to find the photocopiers and office supplies, and obtain my security clearances. He’d done it all with a prissy smile I found unsettling. He hadn’t been assigned to me, as such, but he’d made it clear he should be my first point of contact as he was the informal liaison between the dean’s office and visiting lecturers.
He’d immediately struck me as the gossipy type; not something I care for. Over our lunch he merrily chattered on, asking how I was settling in, if I was enjoying the city, and if I wanted any guidance about what to see and where to go. I did my best to make noncommittal replies; all I really wanted to do was get through the month until Bud could join me, and get my research paper finished. As soon as I mentioned the dinner at the New York Café the night before, he did a creditable impersonation of a clam, and I suspected he was hurt he hadn’t been invited.
I decided it was high time I grasped the subject he’d raised back in the lecture room, so I asked, “Why did you say Zsófia Takács is dangerous? What did you mean?” I wanted to add that it was quite an inappropriate thing to say about a student, but managed to stop myself.
Patrik elaborately scanned the place before replying, “I think she’s just managed to get a good junior professor kicked out.”
“How on earth did she do that?” I kept my voice low, because I reckoned whatever was about to be said wasn’t something that should be overheard.
“Someone accused him of suggesting a better grade was available if certain . . . favors were granted. You know what I mean?” His little black eyes glittered with scandal behind his heavily framed rectangular spectacles.
“I assume you mean of a sexual nature?”
He nodded excitedly, with his mouth pursed prudishly.
“And Zsófia Takács made that allegation? And he’s been fired because of it?”
Patrik shrugged slightly. “No one has confirmed the name of the female student, but I believe it was her. Many people do.”
I weighed what he’d said. Did Zsófia strike me as the sort of girl who’d report wrongdoings to the proper authorities? Yes, she did. And she’d be right to do so. But had she? Who could tell?
“It’s unfortunate the professor in question acted inappropriately,” was my measured response.
Patrik looked shocked. “His career could be ruined. He has a good brain.”
“Then he should have used it to think before he acted,” I replied, hoping my voice didn’t sound as angry as I felt. “Did he fight the allegations? Say the claims were false?”
Again Patrik shrugged. “I think not. Maybe he didn’t want to make a fuss.”
“Maybe he knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Excuse me?” Patrik seemed confused.
“Sorry, too idiomatic. Maybe he knew the allegations were true,” I whispered.
Patrik looked
as though I’d lobbed an insult directly at him. He took a moment to finish his coffee. “She’s overconfident, that one,” he added vehemently, not wanting me to have the last word. “Back in the day she’d have been investigated.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “‘Back in the day?’ What a very Canadian expression, Patrik. Have you been researching Canadian sayings you could pop into your conversation to help me feel more at home?” I hoped he’d understand I was joking. He didn’t.
Looking shocked he replied, “Don’t you know I studied at the university where you work in Canada? I did my postgraduate work at UVan.”
I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was; the links between the universities in Vancouver and Budapest are close and have extended for over half a century. “No, Patrik, I didn’t know. Under whom did you work?”
“Professor Hollingsworth,” he replied, puffing out his chest a little. To be fair, if he’d done his postgrad work under Hollingsworth he had cause to be proud; the man was world-renowned for his breakthrough theories concerning the psychology of group dynamics. In his field he was on a par with Kurt Lewin at MIT. Maybe Patrik had depths I hadn’t suspected.
“So you did your master’s with him? In group dynamics, or something related?”
Patrik glanced around, vibrating with enthusiasm. “I was there when he was working on his paper. You know, the paper—the one that got MIT worried. It was thrilling. Indeed, at the end of the paper he thanked me personally for my contributions to his experimental work. Have you ever been involved with that sort of project? Something that changes all the texts thereafter.”
I sighed. My head of department’s words—“publish or perish”—rang in my ears. Reminded of my academic responsibilities, I realized I had a long afternoon of work ahead of me. “I really should be going, Patrik. It’s been kind of you to bring me here, but I have a good deal of work to do back at the flat.”
“Your flat? This is an interesting term, and it relates to your own past, I believe. You are not originally Canadian; you are from Wales. I am correct?”
“My accent is Welsh, and that’s where I was born and raised—so I will always be Welsh, and now that I’m a Canadian citizen I’m becoming Canadian. It is the way life goes for those who migrate from one country and culture to another. We never lose our ‘old’ cultural roots, and no matter how hard we try, the new ones we put down will never have a chance to bury themselves as deep. So, my new growth will be in Canada, but my life-roots will always be in Wales. I believe I share my Celtic background with parts of Hungary.”
“Indeed, there is a great deal of activity on the island of Csepel in the Danube because of the discovery of Celtic coins and burials from the time before the Romans crossed our watery border and arrived in this area.”
“I understand the Celts were here in prehistory, in the area of the Gellért Hill?”
“This is also true, I believe. You think you Welsh are the true Hungarians?” There was a slight twinkle in his eye.
I smiled. “Not at all, but I never cease to be amazed at the reach and influence of the Celts during prehistoric times. I suppose it allows me to feel connected to a great depth of history in many parts of the world.”
“I am still surprised you would prefer to leave the HUB to work at the flat, or apartment. Wouldn’t you be happier working at the university? The HUB has such good facilities.”
I pictured my ten-by-ten, blank-walled office at the HUB, and my apartment with a large window overlooking the Danube. “The flat’s comfier, and I like to wander about while I think,” I replied honestly.
“And you can smoke at your apartment too,” replied Patrik with a knowing smirk.
I was puzzled. “What makes you think I smoke?” I’d stopped sixteen and a half months earlier.
Patrik leaned in. “You look the type.”
“I gave it up.”
Patrik shrugged. “Ah. What a pity. The apartment you have is a smoker. A lot of them still are, especially the older ones. I have been there, you know. The HUB keeps it for visiting professors, and some previous tenants have had parties there—inviting colleagues around for a few drinks at the weekend. We’ve had some good times in it.”
I felt irritated. Knowing I could get away with smoking in my temporary home immediately gave me some terribly naughty thoughts about puffing away for a few weeks. Bud would never be any the wiser, I told myself. I was angry at my own weakness, which this prissy little man was all but throwing in my face. I stood up and gathered my multipurpose hooded raincoat about me. “Thanks for bringing me to such a super lunch place,” I squeaked out.
“You’re welcome.”
“I owe you one,” was my flippant departing remark.
“I’ll take you up on that,” was all I heard as I headed out into the rain, cross with myself, seething at Patrik, and suddenly desperate for a cigarette.
A Personal Conversation
I PUT IN A GOOD day at my desk on Saturday. My head was full of facts and figures connected with the research I was working through; I love the thrill of the chase when you’re pulling together the myriad pieces of a puzzle to prove a hypothesis. When it was almost 7:00 PM, which was when Bud and I had agreed to Skype, I guiltily cleared away the ashtray sitting beside my computer, and stuffed the offending pack of Sopiane cigarettes into my pocket. I rationalized it was all Patrik’s fault I’d caved into my addiction. I’d bought a couple of packs of the local brand on my way back to the apartment the day before—they weren’t too awful, and I’d enjoyed the huge rush the first one had given me when I’d smoked it. Addiction’s a dreadful thing.
When I saw Bud’s face on my laptop screen it was almost too much to bear—the next weeks were going to feel terribly long. After bringing me up to speed on his mother’s progress, Bud changed the topic, eager to tell me what else he’d been up to.
“I visited Marty yesterday after all. He sends licks, woofs, and wags,” he began, his face creased with a broad smile. “He loves it out there with his dog buddies. And Sheila says hi, as does Jack. I managed to get an hour or so with just Jack, and we wandered the property with the dogs, in the rain. It was good to be out and about, having been cooped up here for so long. Interesting, too. Turns out he remembers a fair bit about the Seszták case. Even so, we’re not much further forward.”
I was delighted I’d been right to think Zsófia’s query would be a useful distraction for Bud, and returned his excited smile. I sat back in my chair. “Explain, Husband.”
Bud leaned forward. “Jack was young, still in his twenties, and just a junior officer at the time. He moved from Burnaby RCMP to the Vancouver Police Department not long after it happened, so he left the case behind, but he never forgot it.”
“You cops never do, do you? Forget the unsolved ones. It’s the lack of resolution—the injustice of it all. I bet there are a few cases haunting you still, but we’d better not get into that. Tell me what Jack remembered.”
Bud relaxed into his seat and said, “Odd thing, for Jack—he mainly remembered the kids, he said. He and Sheila never had any of their own, as you know. Yeah, he’s a happy uncle and so forth, but not the most kid-oriented guy I know. In this case, however? Different kettle of fish. Like you said, the dead woman was the mother of a boy and a girl. Not that they were really kids. The girl was about twelve or thirteen and took it in her stride—a real resilient type, he said—but the boy, who was nineteen and studying at the university, didn’t talk. At all. To anyone. About anything. Clammed up completely for weeks before he would say a word. Initially, some of the higher-ups thought it was because he was hiding something, but it turned out he was a pretty frail type, and he ended up suffering a complete breakdown. He got some treatment, and they finally interviewed him a couple of months after the event. Jack reckoned the shock of losing his mother affected him deeply. The husband . . .”
Bud looked away from the camera and I could tell he was consulting his notes—some habits never die.
; “Yes, Husband?” I couldn’t resist.
Bud tutted at me. “Jack said he was devastated. They checked him out, of course—always check out the partner or spouse first—but it seems he was clean. Hadn’t reported his wife missing because he didn’t know she was; she wasn’t expected home that night. He was at home all night in charge of the daughter, while the wife was due to stay with a female friend who lived farther down on Burnaby Mountain. She did that sort of thing quite frequently, it seems. They’d get together for an evening and she’d stay over rather than disturb the family by coming home late. Oddly enough, the friend in question lived just a couple of blocks away from where you used to live. Anyway, the friend claimed she wasn’t certain Ilona was definitely coming over to stay with her because they had an informal standing arrangement, so she didn’t worry when Ilona didn’t show. The son? He was old enough to look after himself, though the father confirmed he never left the house that evening or night either. A couple of people saw Ilona near her house, which itself was on campus, around five, then her body was found the next morning. No sexual interference, no apparent theft of valuables from the remains. Purse was found some distance from the body, but the contents were all accounted for.”
I gave it all some thought. “Cause of death? Did Jack know any more than was in the newspapers?”
“Nope. Plain old bashed on the head. Bit of a mess, apparently, but face still identifiable. No attempt made to disfigure her after death, or anything of that sort.”
“Any idea about the murder weapon?”
Bud perked up. “Now that he did know about, and it’s not something they gave to the reporters. Jack recalls the forensic guys were pretty sure she was hit by a rock. Is it rocky on the bike path area? Do you know it, Cait?”
I snorted. “It’s a bike path, what do you think? You know very well I can’t even ride a bicycle, so, no, I’m not overly familiar with any of the cycling trails at UVan. That said, I know where this one is—and where it runs from and to—because it’s signposted on the campus roads. I’d say it’s a trail that would be used by energetic riders heading up to the university; it’s a shorter route than the road, but much more steep. The other thing I happen to know is that it was officially opened in 1975—there’s a plaque that says so on the roadside. These days it’s densely wooded on both sides of the path, or at least along the part you can see from the road as you drive past it, so maybe logs or branches would be easier weapons of opportunity rather than a rock. But back then? If it had just been opened, freshly dug into the mountainside, or however they prepared it, then maybe it would have been rockier. Why did they reckon it was that type of object?”
