LeBor - Kossuth Square

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First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright Adam LeBor, 2019

The moral right of Adam LeBor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (HB): 9781786692733

ISBN (XTPB): 9781786693280

ISBN (E): 9781786692726

Typeset by Divaddict Publishing Solutions Ltd.

Cover design: Daniel Benneworth-Gray

Cover images: frankies / Shutterstock.com / Andrew Shiva / Wikipedia

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

Head of Zeus Ltd

First Floor East

58 Hardwick Street

London EC1R 4RG

WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

For Kati, Daniel and Hannah

There are such things as false truths and honest lies

Gypsy proverb

She stood at the side entrance to the villa, watching her fathers car head down the hill towards the Margaret Bridge, grey smoke trailing from the exhaust of the rusty blue BMW saloon. There were no other vehicles on the road. The house was painted a dark yellow and the walls glowed golden in the soft light of dusk. The party sounded inside: muffled voices, distant laughter, snatches of music. The air was fresh and cool, notably fresher than at home, even in the local park. She was sixteen years old and for the first time in her life, or at least as long as she could remember, she was alone. She looked around. A dog barked in the far distance but the pavements were empty. Where was everybody? Did people actually live in these houses? Her home in Jozsef Street, in District VIII, was barely twenty minutes drive away, but she felt like she was in another world. It was a strange sensation, but not unpleasant. No little or big brothers or sisters jumping on her, demanding that she read to them or play games. No parents giving her chores. No meals to cook or clear, no plates to wash, no ashtrays to empty, no little ones to be washed and put to bed. No shouting, crying, laughing. No favourite cousin, either well, favourite distant cousin, distant enough for everything to be proper giving her secret smiles or those smouldering looks.

The BMW vanished from sight and she patted her long black hair again, needlessly. Freshly washed, it felt soft and silky under her fingers. A hair wash was a rare treat. There was no running hot water at home. Instead Anyu, Mother , and Marta neni , Auntie Marta, had filled the biggest pan in the kitchen and boiled the water on the cooker, washing her long tresses as she had stood over the sink, the suds running down her back. She turned to face the door. It was dark brown, thick and glossy with varnish. There was a heavy brass door knocker, polished and gleaming. She had never seen a house like this from the outside, let alone stepped inside one. There were two gardens and she could see them both: one in the front where a narrow path led between two manicured lawns. French windows opened on to a much bigger garden in the back, which had more lawns and flowerbeds. There was even a swimming pool. She couldnt swim; even shallow water made her nervous.

She was nervous now, of course she was. When she left, Anyu had walked downstairs with her, down all five floors their building had no lift. That was something because Anyu was quite overweight, had to go back upstairs on foot, and didnt like to leave their flat. Anyu had cried a bit when she got into the car with her father, and she asked why but Anyu said it was only because she was so proud of her daughter and she was going to have a big adventure. The two of them had been to Buda before, window shopping at the new shopping centre where the security guards had followed them at every step, but they were used to that, of course. She had sung at a couple of bars around Moszkva Square with Roma Drom, her uncle Melchiors band, but she had never been this far up the hills. This was her first solo performance. No wonder her mother was proud. It was unusual, to be sure, for her to be allowed out on her own, to sing for strangers without Melchior, or any other male relative there to chaperone her. But her parents had arranged it, so she was sure it would be all right. And she would not be completely alone: apu , Father, had promised her that a couple of Melchiors musicians would be there to accompany her.

She looked herself up and down, pleased at what she saw. She was wearing her best outfit: a long black-and-silver skirt with a flower pattern, a plain black blouse, and a blackand-silver shawl over her shoulders, silver earrings with black gemstones. She glanced at her skirt, patted it smooth. The photographer that morning had said she looked beautiful. She had never been in a photographers studio before and could not wait to see the pictures. If any man bothered her, she would swing her skirt over him, make him mahrime , unclean. That was one of the greatest shames in Gypsy culture. She frowned for a moment. Did mahrime work with gadjes , non-Gypsies? She was not sure, but even if it didnt, her brothers and cousins would deal with anyone who caused trouble. And she had big plans for the future, beyond singing. Hungary was a free country now. The old ways were changing, and not just for the gadjes . So far, only two people knew of her dream to be a teacher: her mother and her favourite cousin. The problem would be her father, she knew. But even he, she was sure, could be persuaded.

She savoured the moment, the air and the quiet and quickly looked herself up and down before she went inside. A touch of mascara highlighted her eyes, the colour of emeralds, he had once told her. She blushed at the memory, pulled the shawl tighter, for comfort, wishing he was there. But he had promised to take her for ice cream again, to celebrate once she was back. There would be so much to talk about. A bird trilled somewhere nearby, as if to approve.

She shivered for a moment, from excitement perhaps and also because the breeze was picking up and the air was starting to cool. The party, she could see through the windows, was in full swing. It looked very fancy: there were waiters and waitresses moving back and forth in black trousers and grey blouses, holding trays of drinks and snacks, and all the guests looked so elegant. One of the windows opened and a young couple stepped out. The sound of jazz drifted out into the summer evening. He was handsome, in his early twenties, looked almost familiar. She had seen him on television a couple of times, she remembered, talking about something or other. Her father had switched the TV off when hed found her watching it, muttering about lying gadje politicians. The woman, his girlfriend she guessed, as they were holding hands, was younger, a very pretty blonde wearing a black dress that would get the wrong kind of attention on Jozsef Street. The music ended and there was scattered applause, which meant it must be a live band. For a moment she frowned. Melchiors musicians did not play jazz.