XII. Béla spills the beans
Since coming from America to Budapest about a month ago, Dave "the Dude" Devoran, ambassador of the free market, has taken a do‑nothing job, been physically ejected from a nightclub, been completely rejected on a date and gotten fired for losing a box of paper clips. He has also been asked to help sneak weapons into Yugoslavia and, while he was out one night, someone stabbed a man in Dave's apartment. In the last episode, Dave found out that the people who raised him as a son were not his real parents. What follows is Episode XII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
Béla attacked a tram last night. Witnesses said he was standing in the middle of the tracks near Dohány utca on the Nagykörút and yelling incoherently at passersby when the No. 6 came along. Béla started hitting and kicking the front of the tram, screaming that it should go away and leave him alone. It took ten minutes, and three police officers, to drag him out of the way and let the tram pass. This was not his first arrest. Over the past two‑and‑a‑half years, he has been picked up several times for public drunkenness, fighting, begging and vagrancy. As near as we can tell, Béla's life consists of sleeping in the Keleti train station during the day and roaming the street looking for something to drink at night. Officers who have spoken with him say that alcohol—or whatever it was that drove him to it—has poisoned his mind and made him incapable of thinking rationally for long periods.
Béla probably belongs in an institution. Instead he is at the police station again, claiming to have information on the most important case that I am working on. I am Police Inspector János Homok, and my job right now is to question Béla about the vicious assault of a member of Parliament, whom I shall call Kovács.
Kovács is recovering after being stabbed, beaten and left for dead in the streets of downtown Budapest. Unfortunately, he does not remember very much about the night he was attacked, so it is my job to find out exactly what happened. We have learned that Kovács is a heavy drinker—he probably can't recall his assault because he was drunk that night—and that, on more than one occasion, he has been seen "partying" with Béla. When Béla was arrested, he told officers that he saw Kovács go off with a stranger on the night of the attack. Now that he's had a chance to sober up a bit in a cell, I have him brought into the interrogation room, hoping to find out more.
I can smell Béla as soon as he hobbles in. God, why couldn't they get him to a shower last night? And his clothes; they're just a bunch of faded, brownish layers, barely covering his bloated body. He drops into a chair and begins massaging his swollen, unhealthy looking shins. I am repulsed that any human being could be in this condition, but I try not to show it. I look into his blood‑shot, half closed eyes and speak to him in a friendly, conversational tone:
"So Béla, what can you tell me about Mr. Kovács?"
"Who? Poci? He's a bum. Him and all his colleagues in the Parliament are a bunch of windbags. They say they are giving us democracy, they are giving us a chance to do business with the West. Why don't they just give me a job? At least under Kádár I had regular work. These new leaders don't seem to be able to do anything for me. I tell this to Poci and he just apologizes. He doesn't even try to argue."
"I'm very sorry you don't have a job," I say calmly. "But I didn't really want to talk about Poci's—I mean Mr. Kovács's—politics. I need to find out more about what happened the night that Mr. Kovács was stabbed."
"Oh I see. You want a statement from me. Well if that's why I'm here, I'll want to take notes of what goes on." He reaches over to the desk, grabs my pen and pad and begins scribbling. "So you want to know who stabbed Poci eh?" Béla chuckles and mumbles to himself, still scratching on the pad.
"Yes. I very much need to know who stabbed Mr. Kovács," I say, pretending not to notice his disrespectful attitude toward my property. In truth, I'm very angry with him for having taken something of mine from the desk. And the way Béla just keeps laughing to himself, as if he hasn't heard me, makes me even angrier. I decide it's time to become aggressive, but I try to suppress my emotions as I speak. I must let him know I control the situation.
"Béla. I'm simply asking you to tell me what happened the last time you saw Mr. Kovács. If you can't cooperate, I will have to assume you have something to hide."
"Oh, so now its accusations. Now he's acting like I attacked Poci," says Béla, as if addressing a non-existent third party in the small interrogation room. "This very important policeman doesn't care how badly he insults me." Béla keeps looking at the pad in his lap while he speaks and continues to write something. Then he stops, lifts his head to look at me, opens his eyes wide and says: "Three years ago you wouldn't have dared to talk me this way. Three years ago, I was working as an electrical engineer. I had a beautiful house on the Rozsadomb, where I stayed with my wife and three children. Poci was a nobody then. You were a nobody then. And you still are."
"You must stop! ..." I catch myself raising my voice and take a deep breath. I try to remember that this man has the mind of a child and I that have to coax him into speaking with me. With great effort, I calm myself and begin again: "You must stop changing the subject. A very serious crime has been committed and the implications are much more important than you or I or Mr. Kovács. Your friend's supporters have accused everyone—from the opposition to unfriendly parties in Serbia—with committing this assault. Until we find the person responsible, the very stability of our nation is at risk. I must, and will, get all the information you have about this case. So, tell me what you remember about the night that Mr. Kovács was stabbed."
Béla begins shaking his head and muttering. His hand flies and he scribbles fiercely on the pad. "No. No. It's not right," he mumbles. Then he is silent again. Have I lost him? Have I frightened him so badly he won’t speak? If this scatter‑brained man actually did see something, is he capable of remembering it? I can feel my chest move up and down as I breathe heavily and watch him, waiting for him to make some kind of response. After almost a minute, I gently whisper, "Béla?"
"This is torture!" he shouts. His head shakes violently from side to side. "This is unfair! Why are you bothering me when you should be bothering this man?!" Béla slaps the pad down on the table. I look at it and see an extremely detailed and realistic drawing of a young man's face. The subject of the portrait has longish, dark hair, square features and stubbly growth on his face. Next to the face he has jotted: “Age 20‑27, 195 cm, 85 kilos.”
"That's the man," Béla hisses in a half whisper. He drops his head and puts a hand over his eyes. "That's the one who attacked Poci. ... I need a drink."