by Cathy Ace
It turned out it was Laszlo—using his friend’s phone because his battery had died. As he blustered on about Zsófia, I contemplated the never-ending ability of young people to allow cars to run out of gas, phones to lose their charge, and printers to run out of ink halfway through printing out a class assignment. The gist of his heartfelt bleating, which I only half listened to, was that he was worried about the girl.
I wondered if I should tell him this was the beginning of a lifetime of worrying about some girl or other, but decided I shouldn’t be so cynical. I also decided I shouldn’t heighten his concerns by mentioning that a family member had just tried to strangle her, so used my closest approximation to my husband’s calming voice to try to get him to be a little less agitated. He seemed convinced Zsófia was about to disappear on a private jet to Moscow. I assumed he’d made a leap of vivid imagination to supply the record producer Stanislav with such a mode of transportation, but I only managed to put his mind at rest when I told him I’d just shared tea with Zsófia and her mother, and she’d told me she was going to talk to Alexa about her dreams of a singing career.
As I pressed the screen of my phone to disconnect, I noticed a man sitting in the corner wearing a dark coat with the collar turned up (despite the warmth of the bar), who touched the screen of his phone at the exact moment I did mine. He was holding the phone close to his face, a wire leading from it to a single earbud. His eyes met mine as we mirrored each other’s action, and he forced a smile, as did I. As I pushed my phone back into my purse I couldn’t help but think of the little room back at the House of Terror featuring the headsets and telephone-bugging machines the secret police had used. Why was that? Was I so discombobulated by the goings-on at Zsófia’s home that I was now allowing the soup of secrets and lies I’d come to know existed within that family to infect my own outlook?
I tried to push the connection I’d made to one side, and headed out to the metro. At the bottom of the steps that led from the street I walked along the platform and turned to peer into the tunnel—because that always makes a train arrive faster. A short, skinny-legged young man wearing a dark peacoat with a turned-up collar sauntered onto the platform. He didn’t look at me at all, which I judged to be odd, because there were only four of us in the whole place, and everyone else seemed to be looking about at their fellow travelers. It wasn’t long before a train arrived, and I got a seat with no problem. The peacoated young man sat in the next carriage along.
When I got off at my station I stood outside the doors of the train and watched to see if the man with the upturned collar got off too. He didn’t, which gave me a ridiculous sense of relief. As I continued my journey I told myself there was no reason on earth why anyone would want to either listen to my telephone conversations or follow me.
Unfortunately, any sense of security I had managed to build for myself was dashed when I arrived at the front door of my apartment. It wasn’t shut, and I knew it should have been.
Everybody’s sat in front of a screen and shouted—even if silently, or muffled by a pillow—“Don’t go into the attic, basement, or closet because that’s where the monster, serial killer, or vampire is hiding.” I also know that a door that should be locked but isn’t, is not the one you walk through calling, “Hello? Anybody there?” That’s just asking for trouble. I know this because I watch TV and movies.
The weird thing was, that was exactly my instinct—to walk right in and assume the best; and that’s quite normal. Human beings possess an extraordinary desire to protect ourselves—we’d die out as a species if we didn’t. However, we also have a level of confidence, often misplaced, that we are safe in familiar surroundings. The apartment wasn’t my home, but it had been a place where I’d spent a good deal of time, and I felt comfortable inside it. It was also surrounded, on an open balcony set around a courtyard, by other apartments full of individuals, couples, and families going about their normal early Saturday evening business. I didn’t feel as though my safety was threatened—I just hoped there might be some perfectly good explanation for my front door being unlocked and ajar.
In the two seconds it took me to assimilate all these thoughts, I didn’t move, didn’t touch the door at all, and didn’t make a sound. I’m not sure I even breathed. Then my self-preservation instinct took over, and I looked around at the other apartments on my landing to see which ones were obviously occupied. I scampered around the balcony to the third apartment along, where the loud zither and violin music I’d heard so often late at night was playing. Lights shone through the long casement windows into our shared space. I knocked and waited. When a raven-haired woman in her thirties answered, a dishcloth in one hand, half an onion in the other, and a cigarette in her mouth, I introduced myself and explained hurriedly, in my Welsh-accented Hungarian, that I thought someone had broken into my apartment. She threw the grubby cloth over her shoulder, took the cigarette from her mouth, peered around the balconies with wild, dark eyes, and hauled me through her door. I felt completely safe, and even more convinced I was in no danger, when I saw the size of her husband, who dwarfed me in every dimension.
A hurried conversation followed wherein the pros and cons of calling the police were discussed. I gathered the couple—Abigél and Andras—preferred to not do so, though they agreed it was my decision because it was my apartment. Eventually I agreed that, much against my better judgment, Andras could go into my place and check if it was safe. He retrieved a long, heavy wrench, which worried and comforted me in equal measure. I stayed with Abigél, hovering in the couple’s doorway, as her husband lumbered to my apartment and disappeared inside. We held each other’s hands, which was comforting. Ludicrously, it made me worry I might smell of onions for the whole evening. Several anxious moments later, Andras poked his head out, smiled, and called us over. Slamming her door, and locking it behind us, Abigél and I joined her husband, as he showed us into every room of my little place—I was glad I’d spent a bit of time clearing up before I’d gone out earlier in the day—and he was right, there was no one there. I also couldn’t see that anything had been moved or was missing.
The couple invited me to join them for dinner, but I declined. Whatever Abigél had been preparing when I arrived had smelled wonderful, and certainly involved the liberal use of paprika and onions, but I wasn’t feeling hungry. I was anxious to lock myself in and talk to Bud. I explained all of this, and also agreed we should meet for tea at some point. They left, first making sure I had their phone number, and that I understood I could phone them at any time of the day or night if I had a problem.
I allowed myself some time to walk slowly around the apartment using my eidetic memory to assure myself nothing had been moved or taken. By the time I was entirely satisfied nothing had been so much as disturbed, it was almost time for my 8:00 PM get-together with my husband. I acknowledged I was beginning to feel the strain of what was supposed to have been a “quiet day off.” I tried to sound calm as I recounted the day’s events to my spouse. He wasn’t impressed.
“So let me get this straight,” said Bud testily when I let him get a word in edgeways. “You’ve rescued a girl from the murderous clutches of her uncle, you think someone is listening to your cellphone conversations, you believe you’ve been tailed across Budapest, and your apartment has apparently been broken into. Have I captured all the highlights of your day in there?”
“None of it was my fault, Bud. All I did was go to a museum.”
Bud scratched his head. Hard. “I don’t know what to say, Cait, really I don’t. No sooner have we both agreed to walk away from a problematic investigation than you’re on the radar of who knows what sort of person thousands of miles away from me, so I can’t do anything to comfort, help, or protect you. I’m not happy, Cait, not happy at all. I feel so useless.” Bud cursed quietly. “Why am I not there with you? Can’t you just stay in the apartment until I get there on Saturday? Can’t someone cover for you at the university?”
“Please don’t worry so.
Poor Zsófia was in the wrong place at the wrong time when her uncle suffered an episode, and I’m probably seeing suspicious characters where only other tourists exist. Nothing was so much as disturbed here at my apartment, trust me on that; my special memory at least allows me to be able to tell you that with complete conviction. Maybe I just didn’t lock the door properly, and it blew open,” I said—almost convincingly, I thought.
“You’re hopeless, you know,” said Bud, sighing. “Thank goodness. I’d hate to have a wife who was a good liar.”
“Thanks?”
We stared at each other silently for a moment. Dark circles beneath Bud’s eyes told me he wasn’t sleeping well, the mess he’d made of his hair informed me he was deeply stressed, and the look of resignation on his face spoke volumes. He wiped his dry-skinned, pink nose with a tissue. He was still far from well.
“Bud, I know we both feel completely helpless—but we’re not. Like I said, I’m probably imagining things, and you know I can be a bit forgetful of routines, like remembering where I’ve put my keys or Marty’s treats, for example.” I noticed at least a faint smile play around my husband’s lips at this. “I might have a photographic memory, but if I’m not paying attention to what I’m doing—and that’s often the case when I’m doing something repetitive—I don’t recall things too well. I promise to keep an eye open for anything odd—anything at all, and report to you. Or the local police, if need be. There are good locks on the front door and casement windows of this place and I’ve checked them all; they’re in perfect working order, not a scratch on them, and they are all currently in use. They will be at all times. I will pay attention to that. I really have stepped away from the Seszták case, as have you. Besides, I don’t believe there can be any link between the folks in Canada telling you to back off, and my front door being open in Hungary.”
Bud’s jaw clenched. All he managed was a grunt. Not a good sign. “I’m taking Mom to the surgeon’s office on Wednesday, and we’re hoping she’ll get the all-clear. Then I can allow Dad to look after her himself. I’ll be there with you on Saturday. Please keep yourself safe until then?”
It was late; we’d been talking for a long time, and I knew I needed to get to bed, which I did after one final check that the front door and all of the windows were locked.
I was surprised that the next thing I knew it was gone nine in the morning; it’s unusual for me to sleep right through the night. I suspected I was exhausted, and my body was grabbing the rest it needed while it could. Of course, once I was up, I was wide awake—though sore all over.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror I looked myself up and down—not something I do often because it’s just too depressing—and told myself my aches and pains were all connected to stress, and nothing to do with the fact that I was staring fifty in the face, or that I’d been smoking my brains out for a few weeks after having given it up, cold turkey, just over seventeen months earlier. I conceded to my pitiful reflection that maybe my getting through a bottle of gin a week by way of “rewarding” myself for a job well done at the end of each day might also be taking its toll. Apparently my body didn’t like me living the life I’d been quite comfortable with before Bud and I started dating. I told myself it had to stop. And I meant it.
I’d brushed my teeth, then allowed the water to run hot so I could wash my face. It took a while. As the steam finally rose up and enveloped the mirror, I felt suddenly cold. Something was written on the glass in such a way that it could only be read in a steamy room.
DO NOT MEDDLE appeared across the bottom of the mirror. I could see my reflected mouth hanging open, my eyes wide—then the steam rose farther, and I felt my whole body begin to sway. LISTEN TO YOUR HUSBAND was written higher up.
There was nowhere to run, and no one to battle, so the adrenaline just shot around my body until my entire being began to tremble. As I stood there staring, the words dripped into nothingness. It didn’t matter that they were gone; they were seared onto my mind’s eye. As was their meaning.
Someone had been inside my apartment, and they’d chosen to leave a message in such a way only I would see it, and fleetingly at that.
Do not meddle? Many people might be in the know that I was looking into Ilona Seszták’s death.
Listen to your husband? Chillingly, only someone who’d heard Bud telling me to back off the case would write that.
That could only mean one thing—someone had been listening to our Skype conversations. Listening to us when I believed I was alone in the apartment.
As the realization dawned upon me I felt utterly exposed, and it wasn’t because I was naked. I grabbed a towel, pulled on my robe, and went to sit on my bed. It didn’t take long before the adrenaline coursing through my veins won out, and I was sobbing like a child. I hugged my knees. It was around one in the morning in Vancouver, so phoning Bud would rouse the entire household.
I desperately wanted to hear my husband’s voice—to listen to him explain away the message on the mirror. But how could he? How would knowing about it make him feel? It wasn’t as though he could do anything to help me.
I rocked myself back and forth as my mind darted about. Should I phone the police? What would I tell them? The message had disappeared completely. I knew my neighbors had invited me over, but I didn’t want to bother them. Finally, I stopped crying and decided I was a big girl and I could cope on my own. I left the bedroom and sat at my desk looking out over the city beneath me. I glared at the cigarettes beside my computer. “Not even you can help me,” I told them.
Whispers in a Church
I HONESTLY BELIEVE I’M AN optimist, but I had a hard time seeing anything good about my situation. I checked all of the locks in the place again, then finally ventured back into the bathroom. I discussed with myself the alternatives of staying where I was and stewing until I could talk to Bud again, or leaving and seeking out crowds into which I could disappear. Neither prospect was appealing.
After an hour of attempting the sitting and stewing option, I knew it wouldn’t work. I couldn’t settle, and I’d drive myself nuts if all I did was prowl around the apartment for hours; it wasn’t that big. Eventually, I gave myself a good talking to, made myself look presentable, and headed out hoping activity would help with my jitters.
I decided to take the bus to the Fisherman’s Bastion; I wanted to be with as many people as possible, and reckoned it was just the place to go. I tried not to look over my shoulder as I walked down Gellért Hill, nor to stare at the people on the bus, but once I alighted at my destination I felt a little more comfortable; as I’d expected, even on a chilly November Sunday morning, the Bastion was buzzing with tourists.
Once I was a part of the throng I felt able to take out my phone and hold it up, pointing it in every direction as though I was taking photographs—so I could study the people around me. Everyone looked innocent enough—cold, but not paying more attention to me than they should be. After about an hour of wandering the seven-turreted neo-Gothic walls, on both the upper and lower levels, I was chilled to the bone. I found the arch-covered walkways lined with statues in niches were slightly less frigid than the open spaces, and there was a pretty constant stream of people coming and going, so I lingered, seemingly entranced by the detail of the sculpting. I pretended to be taking photos and offered to do so for several couples who were delighted I could help capture them together in front of the imposing carved figures.
I knew the Matthias Church opened its doors to the public at one in the afternoon, after services, and I was counting on it being a good deal warmer in there, with the result being that I was about the fourth person in the line to buy an entry ticket. I was delighted to get inside and feel my extremities begin to thaw. I took the chance to sit on one of the wooden pews that lined each side of the aisle. It was impossible to keep track of everyone around me, so I decided to push my paranoia aside, as far as I could, and take in my surroundings.
It was a magnificent sight: every surface, includ
ing the pillars, the vaulted roof, and every inch of the walls, was painted in rich hues, and the gold detailing shimmered in the pale winter sun streaming through the stained-glass windows. Groups of tourists whispered in hushed tones so the entire building seemed to hiss with secrets. The devout crossed themselves as they approached the chancel steps. I couldn’t imagine how many years you’d have to sit there just to be able to take it all in. It was somewhat overwhelming, and yet, to my frazzled senses, it didn’t feel sacred—or safe.
My rear end is quite well padded, but the unyielding wooden pew was too much to bear after about half an hour, so I joined the shuffling masses, and peered around as I moved through the imposing, historic structure. Beyond the main body of the church are side chapels, separated in some cases by pointed Gothic arches. I peeped inside, with my fellow visitors, and all were empty, save one. A short, portly man wearing a coat with a turned-up collar was wandering aimlessly. Our eyes locked for a moment, and he turned away—too quickly.
It wasn’t the man I’d seen at the metro station the day before, of that I was sure, nor the one I’d seen in the café. Was he just another tourist trying to keep himself warm? Or had he followed me into the church? I suspected the latter wasn’t true, because a second or two after he’d looked into my eyes, he turned on his heel and walked out into the main body of the church. I moved to sit on a pew where I could keep an eye on him. I had to bob my head about a bit to not lose sight of him, so I saw him go directly to a much taller, slimmer man and speak to him—quietly enough that the other man had to bend his head to listen. They both turned their heads in my direction, and I instinctively ducked out of sight.
Sitting there, hunched on a pew, surrounded by the whispers of people oohing and aahing at the décor, I checked my watch. 2:18 PM. It wouldn’t be long before I could phone Bud. I looked up and swept the church with an unblinking gaze. No sight of either of the men. I pulled on my gloves, and left the warmth the church had offered, venturing out again into the throngs.
