Invisible Murder

HERE WAS A kind of Internet café on the ferry to Denmark. Or a computer, at any rate. It had been crammed into a minute glass enclosure that served as a business lounge, and Sándor sat down with the sense of being in forbidden territory. Lord knows there wasn’t much about him right now that was business class. It had taken them two days to hobble their way north through Germany—with a radiator that was being kept artificially alive by Wondarweld cylinder block sealant and frequently adding water—and that had been more than his scant travel wardrobe had been prepared for. He was wearing a pair of recycled underpants that he had been forced to wash in a gas station restroom outside of Teupitz. Under his shirt he was itching incessantly, possibly because of the hair that was growing back after the shaving binge caused by his exam nerves. At any rate, he hoped that was all it was.

He was so tired that at first he couldn’t remember the password for his webmail. Eventually he turned off his mind, hoping his fingers would remember better than his brain cells.

There was a long e-mail from Lujza. Even though he didn’t know how much time he would have before he got kicked out or the ferry docked, he couldn’t help but read it. Dearest Sándor, I don’t know what’s going on in your life, and you won’t tell me, it began. And then it continued with an in-depth description of her feelings, her confusion and powerlessness, her anger at being shut out. And worst of all: the feeling of betrayal she was left with because you haven’t let me get to know you. The conclusion was, of course, unavoidable. Lujza wasn’t the let’s-just-be-friends type, nor was she the kind who dabbled in restrained platitudes like “It’s not you, it’s me.” I don’t think I have the strength to love someone who hasn’t got the courage to be himself, she wrote. And I can’t be with you without loving you. I would have rather said this to your face, but you didn’t give me that chance. And then just: Goodbye. No affectionate greeting, no hopes for the future, no cracks in the wall of her rejection.

His whole body was trembling. He didn’t know why it came as such a shock, since he knew very well that he had done it to himself, that he was the one who had severed his ties to her and not the other way around. Suddenly he missed her scent, her hands, the heat of her body, missed her so much he felt hollow inside. Even missed the frightening feeling of being carried along when she latched onto some preposterous cause, sinking her teeth into it and shaking it half to death. But how could he go back? Even if he found Tamás now, got the money one way or another, if he made it back to Budapest again … he still wouldn’t be going back to the same life.

He scrolled down through the list of messages in his inbox until he got to one from tamas49 at a Hotmail address. The e-mail was longer than the text messages and just as desperate.

Phrala, I don’t know if you will help me. Maybe, maybe not. But you will help Mom and the girls, won’t you? It’s for them, all of this. I would do it myself if I could, but I’m sicker than a dog. I can’t stand. Having trouble seeing. Don’t respond, just come. I’ll try to hide my phone once I’m done writing this message, but if they find it and you have responded, then they might see what you write. I don’t trust them. I only trust you. Write this down and delete the message. You’ll find out the rest when you get here.

There was an address and some columns of numbers. One column was dates, he was pretty sure, but he didn’t know what to make of the second. Phone numbers, maybe? They looked a little short, only eight digits. But they must be phone numbers after all because Tamás had added underneath: Only texts, no calls. Hurry.

Someone had courteously provided a little notepad and a pen with the ferry company’s logo next to the computer. Sándor wrote down both the address and the series of numbers. He checked to make sure he had it right and then obediently deleted the e-mail. I can’t stand. Having trouble seeing. Tamás, what the hell is wrong with you? And who are “they”? Who don’t you trust?

He sat for a while staring at the pale gray computer screen. He had to find Tamás now, as quickly as possible.

“The ferry will be docking in a few moments. We kindly ask passengers to return to the car deck.…”

Sándor stuck the slip of paper in his jacket pocket and stood up.

DOWNSTAIRS IN THE car deck, the driver was standing with one foot on the bottom step of the bus, forcing Sándor to edge past him to get back on again. While he still had one foot on the briny and slippery oil-spattered deck, the man suddenly shifted forward, trapping Sándor against the door.

“Your card,” he said.

It took Sándor a second to understand what he meant. It felt like several weeks since he had stood on the highway ramp outside Schwartzheide and stolen his own Visa card from another man’s pocket. But now apparently the driver had discovered his “theft.”

“But it’s my card.”

“Did you go to the duty free shop on the ferry?”

“No.…” Sándor said, confused.

The driver stuck his hands into Sándor’s pockets, both his jacket and his trousers, frisking him like a nosy customs agent. “What are you doing?” Sándor protested.

“What do you think? If even one of us smuggles so much as a carton of cigarettes, they’ll detain the whole bus. And believe me, they’re going to check us. Thoroughly, if you catch my drift. People like us, we always get checked.”

It hadn’t occurred to Sándor that the reason the driver had confiscated their credit cards was that he had to maintain this kind of discipline. Sándor stood passively as the man patted him down, running his hands inside his waistband and then sliding them down his thighs. He just hoped they were far enough inside the bus that this humiliation wasn’t providing a moment of entertainment for all the other ferry passengers. Finally the driver loaded everything he had found—a handkerchief, wallet, comb, the slip of paper with Tamás’s numbers on it, the Morgan Kane book he was currently rereading—back into Sándor’s arms.

“OK,” he said. “But when it’s time to go back, I’m going to need your card again. Are you coming?”

Sándor nodded, stuffing his possessions back into his various pockets. Just at that moment, the bow doors began to slide open, and the driver hurried to take his seat and get his ailing bus started.

“When will we be in Copenhagen?” Sándor asked.

“In an hour and a half, if I can get this rust bucket going. If not it might be faster to walk.”

“Is Valby close to Copenhagen?” That was the name of the town in the address Tamás had given him.

“It’s in Copenhagen, dimwit. That’s where we’re going. Go get in your seat, and shut the fuck up.”