XXI. The Police Inspector Meets his Match
After finding no employment in the United States, Dave “the Dude” Devoran came to Budapest to spread the gospel of the free market and make his fortune. Things haven’t worked out exactly the way he expected. What follows is Episode XXI.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
A man remembers his first woman with fondness and his best woman with passion, yet it is only in exceptional cases that the first and the best are the same. I’m not sure if I was fortunate, but I know I was one of the exceptions. That is probably why she occupied such an unreal place in my mind. I learned about life and experienced the best it had to offer at the same time. My encounter with her was like a miracle that I was certain would never be repeated. So often I have dreamed about her. So often I have fantasized about the things she did for me. She was the yardstick by which I measured other women, though I knew they would always fall short. No wonder she took on legendary proportions. No wonder I thought of her as a phantom, that might have only existed in my imagination. But now, after all these years, she breezes into my office, sticks her nose into my business and walks back into my life. Yes, Kinga Katona lives.
“I thought you died years ago,” I tell her. “Why did you wait so long to come back? And why are you so concerned about the case of this stupid American, David Devoran?”
“Oh, I would like to explain everything, but I must admit it is rather confusing, Inspector Homok.”
“Please. Call me János.” I start out speaking indignantly, but then soften my tone. “I mean, after all, you used to call me János. Listen, I feel it is my duty to warn you that this is a sticky case you are interested in. We believe an associate of this David Devoran is responsible for stabbing a member of Parliament. Anyone who is mixed up in this mess in the wrong way is in serious trouble.”
“Yes, I understand, János. And thank you for the warning.” She smiles as she says this, and I can feel myself growing weak. Her beauty seems unaffected by time. It always excited me that she is 10 years my senior and it still does. I have a strong urge to drop to the floor, grab her by the knees and beg her stay with me. But I also want some answers.
“Why are you here now?” I ask calmly.
“For the boy; my son.”
“David Devoran is your son?”
“Do you remember when we met?” she asks, as if I hadn’t been thinking about that time for more than a quarter of a century. I nod my head and she continues: “I had snuck back into Budapest with a fake German passport, because I wanted to see my mother. You heard about this from my cousin Józsi, and you threatened to tell the authorities. You were just a boy then, but you already had the makings of a policeman. Then I convinced you to keep quiet about everything. Do you remember how I convinced you?”
Remember? Those two weeks have haunted my entire existence, and she asks if I remember? “I will never forget,” I say in a voice just above a whisper. “Oh Kinga, how I have thought of those times and wished for you to return. If you only knew how much ...”
She holds up a hand to stop me. She is wearing a smug, self‑satisfied smile as she begins to speak again: “Well, less than a year after that, I had David. So you see, he could very well be your son too.”
A lie! This cannot be! “... That’s ... impossible ...”
“You know his date of birth. You figure it out.”
My mind whirls. Of course it’s mathematically possible. Many things can happen. I have to admit I feel a certain amount of pride. I never told my wife — or my child — how disappointed I was that we only had one daughter. I always wanted a son. But not this way — and certainly not a son like this. The shock of seeing Kinga set off an explosion of emotions inside, leaving me with little control over myself. Then she hits me with this. Should I be happy? Should I be angry? Shouldn’t a person receive some kind of warning when he gets out of bed that his day will turn out like this?
Kinga waits patiently as these thoughts pass through my head.
“Yes well um, mathematically ...” I start to speak but my tongue sticks. Then I try again: “It is interesting how um ... I suppose ... The boy is free now. I guess you can take him out of here.”