Prae Publishing •  • The Series ‘Crime Today’

The Renewal of East European Crime Literature

 Prae Publishing
www.prae.hu/book/
www.facebook.com/PraeKiado

Prae Publishing releases 10 to 14 titles per year by contemporary

Hungarian authors, including novels, poetry anthologies and
works of literary theory. For us, literary and popular fiction are not
mutually exclusive. Our series ‘Crime Today’ aims to revive the
Hungarian and Central European thriller, or crime novel, with one
or two yearly releases. Those published so far are set in Hungary,
Germany and 18th century Koper (now Slovenia). A trilogy by
Tamás P. Horváth, best characterized as a cultural-historical-
fiction, portrays the history of the Zsolnay family, whose ceramics
are their claim to fame. Prae’s authors delve bravely into society’s
questions: immigration, women’s rights, domestic abuse and gender
issues. We also give attention to world literature, with theoretical
works, for example on Bret Easton Ellis’s literary masterpiece, and
we have created a platform for current philosophical and aesthetic
trends: Hungary’s comprehensive introduction to post-humanism Photo by Máté B
was also released through Prae Publishing. Loosely connected to Eszter T. M (author)
the publishing house are the quarterly literary magazine entitled Dóra P (editor)
Prae, and the prae.hu online literary arts portal. Ágnes M (author)

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Prae Publishing presents its serie ‘Crime Today’ 
 Photo by Máté B
Eszter T. M
www.molnarteszter.hu

writer and biologist was born in 1976. She lived and

worked as a scientist in Freiburg, Germany and for a
year in Vienna. Since 2014, she publishes poetry, re-
ports, short stories and translations in various literary
journals. She writes for children (Hotel Vagabond),
young adults (Stand-up!; In earnest; The People’s
Land) and also literary fiction (The Numbered; Teréz,
or the Memory of the Body). Freefall is her take on
crime fiction novel. She is a member of the Belletrist
Association Society – a Hungarian Society of Writ-
ers, Critics, and Literary Translators.

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 

 abstract
Eszter T. M: Freefall
Genre: crime fiction

Peter Brenner, up-and-coming attorney and son-in-law of a pros-

perous Heidelberg manufacturer, becomes the unwilling defense
lawyer of an enigmatic woman. Magdalena admits to killing her
husband, a renowned scientist much older than her, yet she pleads
self-defense. However, there are contradictions in her statements,
and her history of prostitution and drug abuse corrode her cred-
ibility. At first, Brenner refuses to believe her, but after being
influenced by his sister, he starts to put more effort into the case. As
Peter gradually gains the woman’s confidence, he begins to realize
that he isn’t dealing with a simple murder case. Tormented by the
breakdown of his marriage, and his sudden, violent affection for
the defendant, Peter starts to follow clues that the police would
have preferred to leave unnoticed, putting everything at risk that
he has strived for so far.

 ×  mm ·  pages · cover photo by Martin K

· released: May  ·  ----

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 

 Ágnes M
www.meszolyagnes.hu

was born in 1971, grew up in Pestszentlőrinc,

near to the Airport, and her earliest excursions
led her to observe the landings and take offs.
She studied at the International Pető András
Institute, where she acquired qualification as a
conductor-teacher for the motor-disabled. Her
work as a conductor brought her to Norway,
Germany, France, China and Trinidad and To-
bago. She started writing around 2000, and later
she also studied Media Studies at the Pázmány
Péter University, and journalism at the National
Association of Hungarian Journalists. She lives

Photo by Máté B

in Budapest with her husband and her four
children, and works both as a conductor and
as a writer. She wrote several highly acclaimed
books for children and young adults, and two
novels for adults. Her latest book at Prae Pub-
lishing is a crime fiction: Fox Hollow: Dead End.

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Ágnes Mészöly: Fox Hollow: Dead End 
 abstract
Ágnes M: Fox Hollow: Dead End
Genre: general suspense thriller

On a dark and rainy afternoon in October, thirteen everyday people

arrive in a hidden valley in northeastern Hungary. These former
classmates, both friends and lovers, have spent a weekend together
every autumn since their graduation. They look forward to the night
of escape afforded by their luxurious cabin in the woods, though
somehow things aren’t as they used to be. The first night is ruined
by sarcastic quips and pent-up anger. As they become increasingly
drunk, more and more bottled-up stress comes to the surface. Zozó,
the rebel of the group, finally loses his temper and runs off into the
dark forest. The next morning they find him dead on the porch.
Judging by the little scar on his neck, he may have been murdered.
Ágota, chief prosecutor in Budapest and Zozó’s first, deepest love,
sets out to find the killer. Meanwhile, everyone else would rather be-
lieve his death was caused by a heart attack—until a second member
of the group is killed. The road has been washed out by the heavy
rain, and they are now stranded in the house. Ágota must find the
perpetrator before their next strike. The killer’s motive lies deep in
 ×  mm ·  pages · cover design by Eszter B
the past, so she must force her friends to travel back in time and get
· released: May  ·  ----
to the bottom of the very first tragedy they shared.

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Ágnes Mészöly: Fox Hollow: Dead End 
 Éva C
http://cserhatieva.com/en/home/

writer and literary translator was born in 1975. She

writes upmarket crime fiction. In her writing her aim
is to give voice to the silenced ‘herstory’ of women
during state socialism and to explore how they have
been affected by the transition. So far, she has pub-
lished two novels in Hungarian. The first, Message in
a Bottle, is a stand alone novel, published in 2016. In
2019 the first in a planned series of literary crime fic-
tion, The Mermaid’s Secret: The First Case of Team C,
was published to glowing reviews in Hungary. The
second in the series, Escape Room, will be out in 2020.
Working as a literary translator she has published
more than thirty books from and to Spanish and Hun-
garian. Since 2005 she has been promoting Hungarian
literature abroad in collaboration with the Translation
Office, and received a ministerial award for her work.
She is a member of the British Crime Writers’ As-
sociation and in 2019 won a prestigious grant from

Pho
the Arts Council England.

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Z

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ 
 Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 abstract
Éva C: The Mermaid’s Secret
/ The First Case of Team C
Genre: police procedural and historical novel

In the hot summer of 2015 while the Greek economic crises fill
the tabloid press, a serial killer haunts the towns of Hungary. The
deaths of a well-known economist and a gallery owner point to-
wards the shady business of the government’s attempts to central-
ize the art market. Only after the third murder do the police realize
that what connects the deaths are not the victims but the settings
of the murders. In all three squares, there used to stand a memorial
made by a Greek artist who had lived as a refugee in Hungary
under state socialism. Each of the memorials was removed after
the change of regime because they depicted communist heroes.
The second narrative thread draws on the true story of Greek
refugee children who arrived in Hungary in 1948 during the Greek
Civil War, and who were not allowed to re-join their families for
more than three decades because of the Cold War. As the story of
these children unfolds from an interview that a Greek-Macedonian
 ×  mm ·  pages · cover design by Eszter B
gives to a Hungarian daily paper after the investigation, the mo-
· released: June  ·  ----
tive and the circumstances of the murders gradually become clear.

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 Tibor P
https://www.facebook.com/aharmoniatebolya

is a music historian teaching at the Eötvös Loránd Uni-

versity in Budapest. He primarily studies music of the
18th century. Tibor is the author of several noteworthy
articles on music and performing arts. He plays the
organ, harpsichord and piano. The Frenzy of Harmony is
his first novel.

abstract
Tibor P: The Frenzy of Harmony
Genre: crime fiction

The Frenzy of Harmony is told in two parts. The first is

set in the 18th century, following an Italian treble singer,
Matteo Borgo, the student of a Capodistria boarding
school (now in Koper, Slovenia). Maestro Domenico,
the school’s choirmaster, quickly takes note of his talent.
The Maestro is surprised by Matteo’s ability to perform,

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Tibor Pintér: The Frenzy of Harmony 
Pho
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y Má
té B

 as well as his musical fantasy. The choirmaster believes he must
castrate the boy once he has the consent of his father, the local
potter. Prince Giulio de Monfalcone, a local aristocrat and amateur
opera fan, runs a theater in his castle. There, the Maestro wants
Matteo to star in an opera that he has stolen from Venice.
The performance is a huge success, and afterward, Matteo is
given the title of a real artist, Falconelli, after an important mem-
ber of the audience. Meanwhile, the Maestro has been conducting
scientific research. He aims to discover the relationship between
sound and light, according to the scientific literature of his time.
The basic principle of Maestro Domenico’s treatise states that
divine voices originate from darkness. This will have a crucial
consequence over Matteo’s life.
The second part of The Frenzy of Harmony is set in modern
time, following an Italian historian who lives in Koper (Marco
Venturini). Marco finds a small silver object with a nearly illeg-
ible inscription, which he and his Slovenian friend (Luka) wish to
decipher. Marco must uncover the identity of the person whose
name is engraved on the silver piece. Marco researches assiduously,
and will eventually have an associate in his work, a descendant
of the Monfalcone family (Giulia Monfalcone). Inside the ruined
 ×  mm ·  pages · cover design by Miklós S
castle, the Monfalcone family archives reveal the truth of the 18th
· released: September  ·  ----
century’s mysterious events.

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Tibor Pintér: The Frenzy of Harmony 
 excerpt
Freefall
by Eszter T. M
translated by Anna B
ONE
One thing I’ve noticed is that when married couples murder each
other, they tend to do it at night. When my mobile rang that morn-
ing, I was shaving. I didn’t pick it up. It went quiet, then started
up again a few seconds later. The third time around I accepted the
call. It was Schwer. There’d been an arrest, he said, an old client
who wanted a lawyer right away. The address he gave me was in
a nearby village, twenty minutes’ drive away. I should set off as
soon as I could, sooner if possible. I wiped the foam off my phone
and finished shaving. Under my chin, where I had cut myself, the
aftershave was stinging.
Heading out of the room, I stopped at the corner of the landing
and listened to the stillness. My wife and daughters were still asleep.
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
I hesitated, wondering whether I should wake them up, then went
down to the kitchen and turned on the radio. I made myself a coffee.
The monotonous drone of the announcer’s voice worked through
the news, and then, right after the DAX index, I heard the name
of the village I had to go to. The victim was a famous university
professor, his wife the supposed perpetrator. The case sounded
simple enough, but I knew that, on the radio, that was how every
case sounded. There was no time to have breakfast.
It was a grey morning; the only thing shining was the road.
A long line of cars was coming the other way, the commuters’
faces glowing palely from behind their windscreens. By the time I
reached the village, my stomach was rumbling. Though I passed
three bakeries on the cobbled main street, I didn’t stop till I reached
the house. I was still late getting there; there was more traffic on
that hill than on a Saturday morning in the city centre. Behind the
police cordon, locals had gathered to stare, journalists were stand-
ing around, wet through, stabbing at their tablets, and photogra-
phers were smoking, the cameras around their necks armed and
ready to fire. In front of the high fence there were three police cars,
the duty doctor’s car and a mortuary van. As I got out and made
my way towards the front door, I felt a shiver of excitement pass
through the waiting people and heard my name spoken from all
directions. I dodged a puddle and stepped over the cordon. When
the harsh light of the camera flashes hit my eyes, I ducked my head.
Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 
 At the garden gate, a pretty, young policewoman checked my ID,
then ushered me in so cheerfully I might have been arriving at a
private function.
The house was built into the hillside, only a fence separating
it from the forest. It was a substantial villa, but too sombre to be
ostentatious. In the front garden, on the neatly mown grass, there
were rectangular planters full of geraniums, their clustered flowers
like great balls. A black Audi was parked on the gravel driveway.
Waiting for me at the door of the house was a tired-looking police
officer. We shook hands.
‘Brenner, from Schwer and Partners.’ I told him. ‘I was informed
that one of our clients would like to speak to me.’
‘Not before time. We’ve been here since the early hours and
we’ve got other work to be getting on with.’
‘What happened, may I ask?’
‘There was a scuffle in which the lady stabbed her husband
with a kitchen knife. Then she called an ambulance. She says she
did it in self-defence, but we have to take her in because there’s a
danger she’ll make off. Her past life, you know, doesn’t inspire
confidence.’
Her past life. I nodded gravely, as if I knew what he was talking
about.
— as if she were making a complaint in a restaurant.
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
In front of the open door to the dining room, there was a police-
woman standing guard. As I stepped in out of the dark corridor,
the light pouring in through the window of the room dazzled me
for a moment. Then I saw the woman sitting by the dining table.
I was surprised by how young she was; she didn’t look more than
thirty. She had a long graze on her forehead and the right half of
her face was covered by a makeshift bandage. I sat down opposite
her and observed her silently. She looked back at me, her face
unmoving. Eventually, I cleared my throat. I wanted to get this
over as quickly as possible. I wasn’t particularly keen on crimes
against life.
‘My name is Dr. Peter Brenner. I work for the law firm Schwer
and Partners,’ I said. ‘I will be your legal representative.’
‘Dr. Magdalena Becker,’ she replied. ‘Kurt Schwer hasn’t agreed
to defend me then?’ Her voice was dark and there was a foreign,
lax quality to her pronunciation.
‘That would have been awkward. If I understand correctly, he
was a close friend of your husband’s.’ She gave a quick nod. ‘Frau
Becker, I must first ask whether you wish to make any complaint
in relation to how the police have proceeded.’
‘I wish to complain about them taking me in.’
She’s making a good start, I thought. She sounded as determined
Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 
 ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about that. If the authorities
deem that the circumstances demand it, they have the right to take
you into custody.’
‘And, tell me, is taking a blood sample routine police procedure?’
‘A blood sample? From you, you mean?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course I mean from me,’ she answered, puzzled. ‘Who
else?’
My palms were beginning to sweat.
‘Look ma’am, I don’t know why they felt it necessary in your
case, but if the investigation requires it, then naturally a blood
sample must be taken from the suspect.’
‘But I’m completely sober!’
‘Quite possibly, but I am not yet in possession of the facts.
I need to acquaint myself with the details of the case, so that I can
work out a strategy for your defence. Please tell me what happened
between you and your husband in the early hours of this morning.’
‘It all started with an argument yesterday afternoon.’
‘What were you arguing about?’
‘Work. Walter is my boss, and it made him horribly angry
when I contradicted him. By the time we got home, he was yell-
ing at me. He even hit me. Then, he handcuffed me and went off
somewhere. I was alone in the cellar for hours. I shouted, but no-
one could hear me. When Walter came back, he had a knife in his
hand. I knew that he wanted to kill me. He came closer and lunged
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
at me, but I fended the knife off and only my face got cut.’ She ran
her hand gingerly over the bandage. ‘He was much stronger than
me. I don’t know how I managed to take the knife away from him.
Then I stabbed him with it.’
‘All this with your hands in handcuffs?’ I asked, sceptically.
‘Yes.’
‘And you stabbed him once only?’
‘Yes. I rather fear I stabbed him right in the heart.’
‘So you claim that you were acting in self-defence?’
‘Were you listening to anything I just said?’
‘You must have been aware of the possibility that the knife
could enter one of his vital organs.’
‘At that moment that’s not what I was thinking about. I was
beside myself with terror,’ she replied, her voice as calm as if we
were discussing the weather.
I looked at the woman for a minute without saying anything.
She seemed completely sober, wasn’t in shock and there was noth-
ing about her that betrayed even the shadow of a guilty conscience.
What was missing from her story were the feelings, like colour
from a black and white film. It was obvious she wasn’t telling
the truth.
‘I see,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘Had there been any other
instances of assault or battery in your relationship?’ She sat with
her head on one side and said nothing.
Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 
 ‘Did you understand the question?’ I asked, but I got no reply to
that either. ‘Did your husband always carry handcuffs with him?’
The corners of her mouth seemed to twitch in the beginnings of
an incautious smile.
‘I didn’t know he had any,’ she said at last. ‘Walter never hurt me.’
I sensed she was lying again. Her high forehead, her intelligent
gaze and her stiff bearing all pointed to her being a determined
sort of person. I didn’t understand why she was keeping quiet
about earlier abuse, but I suspected that if she had once decided
not to talk about it she would stick to it.
‘Alright. What happened afterwards?’
‘Walter was still alive at that point. I knew every second counted,
that’s why I tried to give him first aid, but I couldn’t really with my
hands tied together.’
‘The handcuffs didn’t stop you stabbing your husband, but they
did get in the way of you helping him?’
‘It’s much easier to stick a knife into someone than to save them
when they’re seriously injured. There wasn’t much I could have
done for him in any case. His telephone was in his pocket. I used it
to call the emergency services, but by the time the ambulance got
here, Walter was dead. I was covered in blood. When they asked
me what had happened. I told them what I have just told you.’
‘You’d have done better ma’am, not to say anything. You could
have asked for a lawyer straight away. In cases like these, every
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
little thing counts, and I am concerned that your revelations may
make your defence more difficult.’
‘I told them what had happened. I wouldn’t have told them
anything different if you’d been here.’
‘But you might possibly have told them the same thing in a
different way. The order in which the events took place and the
absence of previous similar acts may undermine your claims.’
She looked at me, baffled. Then she frowned and the pain made
her bend over suddenly. That was when I realised that it was the
wound on her head that was making her face so rigid. Sighing,
I leaned back in my chair and started to explain.
‘Justifiable self-defence may sound good, but there is, so far,
insufficient evidence to support it. If you can’t produce a couple
of witnesses who can testify that your husband treated you badly,
then that version of events won’t stand up in court. It would have
been better to say you acted in the heat of the moment.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘Look, Frau Becker, you could have placed the handcuffs on
your own wrists after you stabbed your husband. Your wounds
weren’t necessarily sustained in a scuffle; you could have inflicted
them on yourself with the intention to mislead. These possibilities
will, in all certainty, be considered in the course of the investiga-
tion. Your husband’s character and his standing in the eyes of the
community will also count as indirect evidence.’
Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 
 ‘What has his standing in the eyes of the community got to do
with what he does to his wife behind closed doors?’
‘In the majority of cases these things are connected, ma’am.
I presume that you stand to gain financially from your husband’s
death and considerably at that.’
‘You think I murdered Walter for his money?’
I couldn’t decide whether she was genuinely surprised by my sug-
gestion or was just a very good actress. I was impatient. It bothered
me that I knew nothing about the case or the client, and the woman’s
calmness after a night of alleged terror and abuse was winding me up.
My skin was tightening up too: I hadn’t washed the shaving foam off
properly and I could feel that by the afternoon, I’d have a rash.
‘It doesn’t make a lot of difference what I think,’ I said. ‘The
police have judged the evidence against you to be sufficient to war-
rant your arrest. I happen to know that your past life has given them
cause to be concerned that you might escape or falsify the evidence.’
That was a mistake. I had no idea what I was talking about and
I hadn’t yet looked into what it was this woman had done earlier.
‘What do you mean by that? What’s it got to do with my hus-
bands’ death, what happened to me years ago?’ As she raised her
voice, a door behind her opened a crack and I could see the face of
the policewoman peeking through. I gestured to her that I wasn’t
in need of help. I wanted to get this conversation over as soon as
possible.
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
‘Well, that’s for the detectives to find out. They’re going to take
you into custody now in any case and transport you to the central
police station. You will be alone when the police are questioning
you, but later, at the court hearings your lawyer may be present.’
The woman shifted on her chair. I wasn’t looking at her, instead
I was studying the cracks running across the wall.
‘Your rights will be read to you, but I’ll run through them
quickly for you anyway. You have the right to express your opinion
of the charge and you have the right to remain silent. You may
consult your lawyer at any time, and you are entitled to ask a doc-
tor of your choice to examine you. You may also inform one fam-
ily member or acquaintance in so far as doing so does not endanger
the investigation. It’s important to keep in mind that anything you
say may be used against you.’
‘Not forgetting that preconceptions may be used against me.’
Preconceptions. Her past. I’d been an idiot to bring that up.
‘No, your past will naturally have no direct impact on the pre-
sent case, but your behaviour in the past could cast doubt on your
trustworthiness. Precisely for that reason, it would be advisable to
agree any statement with me before you make it.’
‘I see. So, according to you, I’m lying, and pretty badly at that,
but if we combine forces we might be able to put together a believ-
able story. Herr Brenner, I find this view of the legal process a
rather extraordinary one.’
Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 
 ‘I have to say, ma’am, that your comments are not helping us
to move forward with the case. If I am to represent your interests
in a satisfactory manner, it is essential that there be mutual respect
and trust between us. And in the future, I would prefer it if you
addressed me as Dr. Brenner.’
‘So I will, as soon as you address me as “Doctor” in a spirit of
mutual respect,’ she returned levelly.
The veins in my temples were beginning to throb.
‘I have turned to you for legal advice, in return for which you
are casting doubt on my trustworthiness. The way I see it, that’s
the prosecution’s job.’
‘I was merely trying to establish the facts, but I’m getting the feel-
ing we can regard this discussion as closed. Goodbye and good luck.’
When I stood up, the chair tipped over. With my bag pressed
under my arm, I walked out of the door, and nodded to the police
standing outside it. Then I watched as the uniformed officers
poured into the bright room. There was a click of handcuffs and
the official phrases began to fly around, bouncing off the walls of
the narrow corridor. I was watching the woman. She was staring
straight ahead with an empty expression, but when one of the
police officers yanked on the handcuffs to bring her to her feet, her
face crumpled with pain.
—
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
I waited until the police car carrying Frau Becker had driven away.
While the journalists were busy sending fresh pictures to their
editors, I mingled with the investigators and, in this way, got out
from behind the cordon unnoticed. Relieved, I got into my car and
turned up the volume to maximum.
The raindrops had got bigger by this time, and the surface of the
Neckar was foamy white. The Porsche accelerated beautifully, but
on the bends, it took all my attention to keep it on the wet asphalt.
This need to focus was calming. By the time I got into town, the
morning traffic had gone. I drove along the empty streets much
faster than the permitted limit, and it was only at the last minute
that I noticed the little boy on a bike who had wound out of a side
street in front of me. I braked and yanked the steering wheel to
the left so suddenly that only the electronic aids saved the car from
rolling over. The car span, then stopped with a mighty jolt. In the
rear-view mirror I saw that the child, with a helmet on his head that
reminded me of a police motorcyclist’s, was pedalling contentedly
on. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed anything at all. With shaking hands,
I turned down the music before I got out to look at the Porsche’s
rear end. The curb had been high enough to bring the spinning car
to a halt, but the rear bumper had a nasty dent in it. I ran my hand
over the damaged metallic silver surface. When I noticed a curious
woman’s face at the window of one of the houses, I got back into
Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 
 the car and drove on, but in the car park in front of the office, I sat
for some minutes waiting for my pulse to return to normal.
—
I asked for a coffee and a pack of cigarettes to be brought to my office.
Mia raised her eyebrows, but by the time I had taken off my coat,
she had brought both without further comment. She put the cup
down and pushed aside a couple of files before leaning against my
desk. She was a good secretary. She never sat on important papers.
‘Are you smoking again?’ she asked. She watched me as I lit up,
with her head on one side.
‘Just this one,’ I said and wafted the smoke away from my face.
‘It’s a complete madhouse here today.’
‘The usual?’
‘Worse. Journalists keep calling and it’s you they’re after.
About the new case, I think. How on earth did they find out that
we’re doing the defence?’
‘I went to the house. They saw me there. We’re not speaking
to anyone.’
‘The boss called to say there’ll be a working lunch at the Blue
Bear. You, him and Jochen.’
I nodded. The smoke was burning my throat mercilessly.
‘What’s she like, by the way?’ asked Mia. ‘Is she very common?’
‘Why would she be?’
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‘Haven’t you read the news?’
‘When would I have had time to do that?’ I  said, shaking
my head.
‘It’s all over the internet. Supposedly the woman was a drug-
addicted prostitute before she moved up to being Frau Professor.
Oh yes, and an immigrant.’
Past life sorted, I thought.
‘They said she’s quite flamboyant and clever too, in theory, but
that she’s a common little tart and hasn’t got anything to say in
company.’
‘She didn’t seem common to me and I wouldn’t say she was
flamboyant either,’ I replied. ‘She doesn’t wear make-up, doesn’t
dress to draw attention, but she can speak confidently enough if
she wants to. She was telling me what to do. That said, Schwer did
pack me off to the scene of the arrest straight out of the bathroom,
so I hardly knew anything about the case.’
‘Poor you, did you have to dash over there? You can’t have had
any breakfast. Never mind, I’ll bring you something tasty,’ said
Mia and ran the tip of her finger gently down my neck. ‘She didn’t
look much like a whore from the pictures, but they also wrote that
she isn’t the brightest spark and that she only got through medical
school because of her husband.’
‘Most women aren’t the brightest sparks, but that’s not exactly
news to anyone. Especially to readers of Bild.’
Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 
 ‘Peter!’ Her breasts shook under her thin blouse as she laughed. but even so they had deemed it worth it to them to print it. In
‘Anyway, I  haven’t decided yet whether I’m taking on her my head, I calculated the compensation that would be due and
defence.’ made a note of the page and the name of the reporter, then I took a
‘Oh, come on! It’s a routine defence case; ten years in prison. It good look at the picture. Mrs. Becker looked very young. She was
won’t bring in a lot of money, but it won’t be complicated either.’ smiling awkwardly at the camera. A big middle-aged man with
‘Promise me no professor will ever take you under his wing and a strict expression had his arm around her shoulder. I zoomed in
that you won’t ever go to law school!’ and pored over the two mask-like faces on the screen for a long
‘Get lost!’ said Mia, shrugging her shoulders and she left the time. I scrutinised that frozen moment of their body-language, the
room, smoothing down her short skirt. She knew I was watching woman’s tipped head and her tightly crossed arms.
and turned her retreat into a proper little performance. She threw
back her long, pale-blonde ponytail, swung her full hips casually,
and coquettishly slid her hand along the edge of the door. I smiled
to myself. If she wasn’t already my lover, I’d want to make sure
she was.
I gulped my coffee and opened a few news sites at random. Mia
was right, the case was on every home page, and in the reporters’
hands it had become either the mystery of the century or a simple
crime cliché. I tried to sift the facts from the gossip, but could
hardly find any information that was usable. The descriptions of
the woman were dominated by references to parts of her body,
while those of the man were dominated by the academic positions
he’d held. I managed to spot an old photograph in the pages of
one tabloid where the faces had not been pixelated. The tabloid’s
editors were in the midst of a drawn-out legal battle over privacy,

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Eszter T. Molnár: Freefall 

 excerpt
Fox Hollow: Dead End
by Ágnes M
translated by Kristen H
|
ZOZÓ
Friday, 19:15 —
Saturday, 00:01
As time passes, the things you can count on become more and more
of a relief. Here, a ramshackle pub on the far edge of the earth,
with torn-up fake leather seats, but somewhow there’s a sort of
order to it: Toni and I sit and drink Unicum, and wait for the girls,
as if we were still in high school. Around us, Friday night goes
on its usual course, some dozen and a half locals drink beer and
spritzers, a few watch the Italian Premier League’s matchweek live
on the flat screen TV hung between two deer antlers, the rest of the
guests are focused on the action at the billiard table.
At first we sit ourselves down, out of the way, in one of the
corners, fussing around for at least an hour with a pint of beer and
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two shots each, and we try to figure out how many godforsaken
pubs we’ve gotten drunk in throughout the last thirty years. The
beginnings all run together, but a few have stayed with both of us.
The one in Pápa, where we were IDed three times by the same
policeman, and in the end he wanted to take us in, because he was
sure our IDs were fakes, we looked so much like each other in
the picture that he couldn’t figure out whose was whose. Or the
grunge bar in Budapest, walls pasted up with Lenin pictures, and
Toni’s theater pals performing Night Escape half-drunk. Dorothy’s
Café in good old Kaposvár, where Gota introduced her fiancé to
us, because it was so important to her that we all get to know each
other, or whatever.
Toni is sitting with his back to the entrance, and if I look over
his shoulder, I can see exactly who’s coming through the door. Of
course it’s at least a half hour until the guys from Pest get here.
Zsofi wrote not too long ago that there’s a jam on the highway,
yet I can’t help but look up every time the door opens. I haven’t
seen Gota in a year, in fact, apart from the locals, I haven’t seen
anyone from the group. I don’t miss everyone, in fact, if I want to
be honest, nobody, besides the respected Ms. lawyer. And only her,
if I think about my washed-up life, with a little exaggeration, five
hundred times daily. If I were as sharp as Isti, I could list off, after
a couple sips of beer, how much time Gota had sacrificed for me in
the past year, since our relationship has been reduced to a couple
Ágnes Mészöly: Fox Hollow: Dead End 
 of likes on Facebook, and a few rushed phone calls, at the end of
which she always promises that we’ll talk at the Vysotsky reunion.
Yes, the reunion. I don’t know why we named ourselves after
Vladimir Vsyotsky, from the Young Communist League, and not
“Friendship” or “Endre Ságvári,” like the rest of the ideologically
versed but spineless company. We had no idea who this russki guy
was, only Toni and Gota knew he was the Russian Tamás Cseh.
They showed us some of his songs, and really, they crackled just
like White dolls or Budapest, after everyone played their cassettes
to death, but nobody understood the words, eight years of manda-
tory Russian—down the drain. Even the prof didn’t have a clue
who this Vysotsky was, he thought, Russian, couldn’t be wrong
with that. And there wasn’t really anything wrong with it, only a
couple of theater folks in Kaposvár listened to his stuff, that might
have been how Toni discovered him. So nobody who would have
picked an argument knew who this guy was.
Not that I want to cry back the good old eighties, the YCL camps
and all the stupid celebrations with local party leaders. Sometimes
Dad brought me with him, whenever some big wig came down to
Kaposvár, from which point I’ve hated biscuits and chocolate
linzer cookies. Every once and a while, at least two dozen sweaty,
fat-necked guys slapped me on the back, then: how’s school going?,
and how was the Zánka Trailblazers camp? but nobody gave a damn
about the answer. Then my old man would sit me down at the table
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next to him, and I’d have no choice but to devour all the little pas-
tries laid out in front of me, because sitting and stuffing my face
always made it a little more bearable than if I just stared into nothing.
Dad could have realized that was a little early to start the network-
ing and indoctrination, but he wanted to secure my future in the
party, anyways, not much came out of it, only that seeing a plate of
chocolate linzer cookies still makes my stomach turn, like when I
recognize one of his buddies on the news. He was the Young Com-
munist League secretary for thirty years, now he’s stuck his ass in
Parliament, meanwhile good Hungarian people starve to death, or
can hardly provide for their families, unless they have some eight
or ten offspring they can live off of. Like these guys in the pub,
I bet they’re skin isn’t brown from working out in the fields, they
throw one beer back after another, and I’m sure they aren’t gather-
ing together on a nice Friday night to give us their respect, instead
they’re just sitting around, as long as the welfare lasts.
Anyone could say, as Gota already has a few times, that I’ve
gone far-right, but I just like to think independently. It never both-
ered me if the people actually in power say when something isn’t
right, so in other words, if according to sensitive city liberals I’m
politically incorrect, I don’t give a damn. Anyways, they talk, then
if someone happens to tie a red-and-white striped scarf around
their neck, they point fingers at him. Yes, people are incapable
of getting over themselves, for example, here at the counter we
Ágnes Mészöly: Fox Hollow: Dead End 
 have the gypsies, who also gave us a strange look when we came
in, probably prejudice because my shirt has the nation’s eagle on it.
In the meantime our beers have vanished, we lurch out of our
seats, we go over to the bar, and Toni asks for another round.
I shouldn’t get drunk before we get to the place, but there’s already
a shot glass in my hand, and we’ve got a lot of time, anyways, Doc
won’t get here before nine. He wasn’t happy to be chauffeuring us
around all night, but he was the one to get a house in the middle
of nowhere, which you can’t even get to without a special permit.
In fact, there isn’t even a real road, you can only go by jeep, those
kind only come from Doc’s work, and of course Tibor also has
one, so most of them went in the first round, while we stayed to
wait for the city folks. It wasn’t necessary, we could have easily
fit as well, Dia pulled herself in tight like she always does, she
said it was stupid for me to wait because of Gota. Dia was right,
and I know she means well, but I think it’s pointless we chat so
much these days—and not just because of the work her husband
sometimes has for me, like age old friends—some things, she just
doesn’t understand. Like, for example, what me and Gota really
mean to each other, and how Toni keeps barging into the picture.
In two minutes or less, Toni starts chatting up the locals, now
he’s explaining how our friends have come together every year for
the last twenty-eight, around October 23rd, and how great it is to
have the long weekend, you can really get away far. Why, where
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are you guys from? the one gypsy asks, From Kaposvár, Huh, now
that really is the other end of the country. And what brings you
here? somebody asks, well, Toni smirks, our friend’s a big envi-
ronmental guy, he always finds these shithole places, sorry. He
hugs the guy, I just grin, out of obligation, if I said this is a shithole
place, I’m sure they’d lynch me, but they chuckle with Toni, it was
like this before too, the things they hated me for came out natural
from him, and while these days I prefer the familiar stuff more and
more, this I’m getting rather tired of.
The girls always go into hysterics if there’s no warm water, or
a real toilet, Toni continues. There are girls too? Their curios-
ity is instantly perked, what kind? and Toni puffs himself up, as
if he could have anything to do with them. In fact, he just wants
something to do with, say, Gota, but it’s hopeless, what does it
matter that he’s a big shot theater guy, and that I’m a truck driver,
who lost his license. Gota was my love, and will continue to be,
even if she dumped me for him junior year, even if she got married
after. There are things that don’t change, and there are people that
belong to each other, and that’s how Gota and I are.
The pub’s door opens, and in bursts our folks from afar. Zsófi,
Ricse, Isti, the average IQ in the place increases by a hundred, now
not because of Ricse, the dunces in Pest didn’t do anything for him,
but at least he’s got work. Surprisingly he’s still looking alright,
even though he did everything possible to fuck himself up, and
Ágnes Mészöly: Fox Hollow: Dead End 
 somehow didn’t succeed with it. Despite the fact that he didn’t
just stop at alcohol, like Géza and I, and not at weed either, he
still looks like some hot celebrity. The main reason for the sud-
den increase in IQ is Isti, according to Gota he’s one of the best
programmers in the country, which spooks you a little. Usually
he doesn’t talk to anyone, doesn’t drink anything except his girly
sodas, you might think he doesn’t even have emotions, then he just
loses it, like when he beat Attis into three pieces, because as a joke,
he secretly traded the yellow napkin, the one Isti’s mom used to
pack his lunch for years, with a red. Back then Attis wasn’t such a
weak kid anymore, either.
Shrieking, Zsófi flings herself onto Toni, and the whole pub
watches them with round eyes, and really, a group of pink fla-
mingos would have a better time fitting in here than the doctor.
At first glance, she’s like a fairy, not even fifteen kilos, and her
hair’s just as black as it was in during sophomore year, she’s got
on this alternative striped romper, nobody would believe that this
woman’s given birth to three children, and that she puts people
back together every day in a trauma surgery.
Gota? I ask, glancing over my shoulder, she’s packing up some-
thing in the car, Ricse says as we shake hands, I don’t try with
Isti, he was never the type. I’ll go out and see if she needs any
help, I say, and I head for the door, but Toni instantly takes notice.
There’s no point, he shouts after me, the Bet hasn’t even started,
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that’s completely unfair. I’m a good guy, I don’t point out that he,
out of anyone, shouldn’t be talking about fair play, if I remember
correctly, he was one who le anno knocked the woman out of my
hands, even though we were friends, or whatever. They dated senior
year, then after graduation Gota came back to me, and we had a
good year in Pest. She crammed the stupid law school whatever, and
I tried to scrape together rent with of all sorts of temporary gigs,
and I might have also partied, for example, with Toni and his zany
artist friends. Then somehow the whole thing came to an end, Gota
was constantly nagging about how there was no point in paying
for an apartment, she’d rather live in the dorm, I should go back
to Kaposvár, and just take my exams already. She kept saying she
didn’t want to break up, but I simply couldn’t believe her, and then
one night she went on and on about living in some kickass dormi-
tory the next semester, so without a word, I packed up my stuff,
and left. Then the next year, in September, Géza organized the first
reunion, I don’t remember anymore who came up with this bet,
any case, we’ve been fighting heroically for Gota every year since.
And every year, I win.
It was already drizzling when Toni and I arrived, but now it’s
pouring, I should go back for my jacket, but I notice Gota’s car on
the other side of the village’s so-called main square, behind the bus
station. And then I don’t care a bit that I’m cold, or that my nice
kicks are as soaked as stewed beef, I run across the street, and ten
Ágnes Mészöly: Fox Hollow: Dead End 
 seconds later I’m sloshing around beside the car. Nobody. I feel
like an idiot, I look right and left, then I head back towards the pub.
From underneath the bus station shelter, Gota suddenly appears
in front of me. She grabs my arm, and pulls me under the tin roof,
continuing to explain something into the telephone, without a
pause, probably some kind of official matter, because she’s laying
it pretty hard into the poor soul, who I bet can only nod on the
other end of the line. When she finishes, she buries the phone in
her pocket, hey, Zozó, and she hugs me, gives a smacking kiss
against my ear, she knows how much I hate smacking kisses, and
she also knows she can get away with it. Hello, police lady, I say to
her, and I ruffle her cute, short hair, of course gently, because she
hates when anyone touches it.
We embrace, I take her backpack off the bench, and I would head
back to the pub, but she stops me, she really doesn’t feel like going
in yet, let’s have a cigarette instead. I remind her I quit, but she just
nods, and lights me one as well. I know if I take it, it’ll be a month of
suffering before I can quit again, but I don’t particularly care, doing
anything with Gota is a thousand times better than with anyone else.
Then her telephone rings again, now her voice is kinder, so it’s
probably her daughter, they talk out a couple little things, then
sighing, Gota stares down at the screen, she didn’t want to go to
her grandmother’s, she explained, she said she’s not in kindergar-
ten anymore.
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She really isn’t, I say with a nod, just chill, this is the Vysotsky
reunion, you know, when everyone gets to escape from their lives.
I know, she nods, and already her eyes light up. And there’s going
to be another bet this year, isn’t there? she asks. You’re still up for
another one of those stupid bets? I ask her, seriously, you haven’t
gotten tired of it yet? Why would I be tired of it? she shakes her
head, it’s an exceptional feeling that my Number One and Two
High School Sweethearts, she says it like that, with capital letters,
she has this exceptional way of saying something with capital let-
ters, to make it sound completely ridiculous, Thirty Years Later
Are Still Trying to Get in My Pants.
I don’t know, I answer, maybe we should drop it, maybe it
really is keeping us from moving on, you know, cut it off, that’s
a such Dia Kemenési kind of speech, I’m just messing with you,
Zozó, it’ll be like this all night, and then I tell her, you got me, at
least we have a night when we can just talk. Of course, I reply, but
everyone else thinks… Since when did you care what other people
think, she says, vague, then suddenly her brow creases, you don’t
think that Toni’s going to win? Okay, last time we all jumped on
your stupid post, but you know that despite your belly and your
conspiracy theories, I still love you.
She might have been right, not about my stomach, that’s slan-
dering, but ever since we established the Bet with Toni, so that
we could replay the defining trauma of our shared lives, I always
Ágnes Mészöly: Fox Hollow: Dead End 
 brought Gota back to the room, that meaning, Gota brought me to
the room. Even then, when my now ex-wife was waiting at home,
even then, when her daughter was hardly six months old. The first
two or three years we had sex too, but then she got together with
the guy who later became her husband, and somehow it wasn’t
about that anymore. Instead it was about how we could get away,
just the two of us, talk about world’s issues, how she could try to
help me get my more-or-less bankrupt life back together. There
was only one single night about her, and she sobbed on my shoul-
der til the end of it, her husband had died two months before, but
even then, the Bet was on. The game was about how much we
could feed each other’s fantasies. The ladies, mostly Dia, all had
their opinions about it, even though in the Vladimir Vysotsky
Society we do a pretty good job of tolerating each other’s bullshit.
But anyways, a few years ago they called her out on it, she should
mourn a little, or that kind of thing.
Alright then, I say, let’s start playing, you look stunning tonight,
your honor. I’m a lawyer, stupid, she replied, and I look terrible,
these past few weeks have been fucking unbelievable, look at the
rings under my eyes. She stands out in the rain, that’s why she pulls
up her hood, of course her boots don’t soak through, last year she
went on and on about how when she bought them, she put them
in the bathtub for forty minutes, just to see what they could do,
if they were worth several hundred euros. Do you remember, she
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starts singing, let’s pretend that we’re afraid, let’s pretend that we’re
pretending, that everything fades in time, that tango’s still in style.
She stands up tall, tense, in a dancer’s pose, and slow, slow, fast
dances toward the pub. And if somebody from the Prosecutor
General of Pest County could see this: Dr. Ágota Szabó doing the
tango alone in the rain. I sling her backpack over my shoulder,
follow her, and by the time I step through the door, she’s already
taken off her wet coat, gotten herself a beer, and she starts intro-
ducing herself to the local drips with all of her enthusiasm.
So, are you in? I ask Toni, of course I am, he answers, grinning,
and then he goes into some speech, so that the rest of the pub can
hear it, how this year, like every other year, we bet on who gets
to spend the night with this outstanding lady. Gota smirks, the
gypsies laugh, Isti moodily stirs his soda with a yellow straw. Zsófi
and Ricse give an indifferent shrug, we’ve already done this for
twenty-eight years, why would 2017 be the exception.
It’s well past nine when Doc arrives in his UAZ, orders a coffee,
and he hasn’t even gotten it yet, but he’s already rushing us, the
roads are shit, and he’s had enough of driving everyone around.
Then why are we going on the Annapurna Trek, Gota put in,
drop it already, Zsófi chides her, you even said in the email that it
seemed like a good idea. It did, Gota replies, just a tad gentler, but
in the pictures the sun was shining, and we didn’t having to listen
to Doc’s whining. Doc takes offense to that, cancels his order, and
Ágnes Mészöly: Fox Hollow: Dead End 
 then he goes back out to sit in his rattrap offroader. Zsófi climbs
in beside him and starts to cheer him up, seriously, that woman
simply cannot give up on trying to heal people.
Before leaving, Isti asks the woman behind the bar for five
yellow straws, please, madame, he says in a wooden voice, add
in five yellow straws with the soda. The woman huffily stabs one
straw into the cup sitting on the counter, thank you, just I would
like five yellow ones, Isti repeats. Toni and I gather ourselves
together, while Gota bargains something with the pub owner, we
go to the men’s room, then we throw our stuff in the car. Doc’s
still unloading to Zsófi, how much he hates driving in the dark and
the rain, stupid Ricse realizes that the beer’s caught up with him,
and he pisses against the side of the pub, before he gets in the front,
beside Zsófi. The rain will wash it off, but still, it’s impossible to
understand how he can be such a lowlife.
Doc’s car could have been a military vehicle, he got it from
the new job not too long ago, in forestry. He left Munkácsy rather
unexpectedly, where he’d taught since he finished his degree. The
official story, according to Géza, was that he had a panic disorder.
We’d known that Doc was homo for the last thousand years, I put
up with him despite it, and now, ever since I learned a little more
about it from Géza, I see him as an unfortunate sick person, who at
least has enough self-criticism to disappear from society.
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excerpt
The Mermaid’s Secret
by Éva C
translated by the author
December 
He looked down on the square. He could see the place where the
hole used to be in the ground. His mind’s eye travelled through
the square, through the asphalt, deep into the ground where the
corpse lay. He could no longer remember the face of the victim,
not this one or the others. He was old but not demented, though
the outlines of bygone events were getting sharper and sharper,
while his morning routine was already blurred in his memory.
He had seen the man only once, at early dawn on the day of the
murder, and his features had been wiped off from his retina so fast
it was frightening. He could only remember his jacket, his hands
in his pockets and him yelling. His voice reminded him of the war,
of the briefing orders before sunrise. Of that dawn, he only really
remembered the anger. The feeling that he had been deceived, and
that everything that mattered had been taken from him. Only when
Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 he got home did he realize that it was he himself who had become
a traitor, and that from that day on his whole life would be a lie.
He looked down onto the square where the Christmas market
was living its last days. Late shoppers were browsing among col-
ourful candles piled up in the stalls. He suddenly remembered his
neighbour who made an Advent crown for them every year, and
he didn’t feel like telling her once again that they didn’t believe
in such things. ‘You don’t have to believe in the crown,’ she had
replied last year, ‘you just have to trust that better times will come,
that it is worth waiting.’ But now he knew that his days were num-
bered and there was nothing good to wait for.
He clutched the railing. The touch of the icy metal was both
familiar and upsetting. It reminded him of the war: the burning
coldness in his palm knew no compassion or forgiveness. These
things, just like repentance, were the privileges of church-goers,
he had thought then in the deafening sound of the machine-guns.
Yet what brought him here today was repentance mixed with fear.
This was his last chance to see, once again, the patchy asphalt pave-
ment of the square while it was intact, and the hands reaching out
for the china angels above the square. He wanted to reach out too,
but he could barely lift his hand to his face. He ran his cold fingers
across his forehead.
Soon it will be a holiday, and in January the wrinkled asphalt
skin of the square will be ripped open. There may be others who,
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like himself, have secrets hidden underneath. ‘It is inoperable,’ the
oncologist had said this morning. No use cutting out the rotting
parts. No cleansing for him, unlike for the square. Unlike him, the
square will be cleaned thoroughly, the design team promised, all
traces of the past will be scraped away.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see the square swarming
with people who had left it late to take care of their beloved’s pre-
sents, and who were now walking away, treading on the corpses
hidden under the tarmac. He didn’t want to see these people who
think that grandma will surely be happy with the gypsum figurine
of the Saviour and a box of chocolates to suck at while watching
the news, or to take as a present to her friends, if they are still
alive. With paper bag in hand they walk away, self-satisfied, over
the tarmac coated with the sediments of the past. And it wouldn’t
occur to them to ask grandma if she had ever pointed a weapon at
a fellow-being. How did it feel, pulling the trigger, and can she still
recall the hatred she had felt then?
He walked back to the bus stop under the twinkling Christmas
lights. The wind brought him the smell of cheap mulled wine. One
more Christmas with the family, he thought, perhaps the last one.
A bitter smile passed over his face. God punishes the sinners but
only moderately so.
Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 Mitre Todorovszki
Interview, Part 
Digital sound archive of the Hungarian daily
Népszabadság, September 
(Transcription of the covert recording made
at the police station)
‘You insisted on making a statement again. I told you it was not
necessary. Would you like to have a lawyer to be present?’
‘Why? Am I accused of something?’
‘At this stage, we don’t yet know.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘No, I’m not. I’m only warning you. This is a long and compli-
cated case.’
‘You’ve just said everything was crystal clear. The guy didn’t
like our looks and…’
‘No, I didn’t say that. First of all, your people killed his brother.’
‘My people? We are not murderers. How dare you?’
‘Look, his anger is understandable. He lost his brother and…’
‘I lost my brother too, my mother, and then all my family, my
home. Is that nothing? But I didn’t murder innocent people. But
the way this country is going, anything can happen here!’
‘Let’s skip the politics. We have all the evidence to press
charges, and we have identified the perpetrator. The motive of the
killings is clear.’
‘Which perpetrator? Which murder?’
‘Don’t act as if you didn’t know. We are talking about the same
case.’
‘You want to hush it up.’
‘I have just given you permission to make another statement.
Where do you want to start from? From when the person was
reported missing?’
‘No, I want to start before that.’
‘I have to warn you that the courts are extremely busy, and the
files on this case have been piling up.’
‘I don’t care. Those who want to know the truth can listen to
me in court.’
‘The trial is going to be held in camera, as some of the informa-
tion is highly classified.’
‘Classified? But…’
‘For reasons of public order.’
‘I see… I am too old for this, but I know the kind of people
you are. We fought against you and your lot in the war. You
demonized and discredited communism! And now you just want
us to shut up!’
(Noise of furniture being moved.)

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’ Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 ‘Sit down, and stop shouting! If you don’t stop acting up, I won’t
take your statement.’
‘I don’t want this anymore. I will make no statement. I will not
share a table with fascists!’
‘Let me warn you that you can be fined for defamation of an
officer of the state. With your past that will not be a problem. It
is going to be an excellent front page for the tabloid press: “The
Greek Commie Strikes Again”.’
 July , Friday,
from midnight to dawn
‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to catch murderers.’
She kept repeating that casual remark to herself over and over.
It was past midnight but she still couldn’t get to sleep. Perhaps it
was not because of that remark but because she had gone to bed
too early to make sure not to be late the next day, the first one in
her new job.
This was what the personnel woman had to say at the end of
their conversation. Data put the patronizing tone down to two
factors: her own age and weight. The personnel woman was in her
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late twenties and gathered her dyed hair into a coil that radiated
meticulousness. She was slim and honey blonde: efficiency per-
sonified. Her title wasn’t, of course, personnel woman as in the old
socialist times but HR assistant. That is to say, she wasn’t in charge
of granting package holidays on behalf of the national council of
trade unions, arm in arm with the shop steward under strict state
control – rather, she was responsible for “human capital manage-
ment at the Hungarian National Police Headquarters”. If human
capital was to be measured by weight, Data thought when she saw
the label on her door, she will surely get the job.
‘So, what will be my job exactly?’ she had asked when she was
finally called in to sign the contract.
‘We are looking for an administrative assistant who holds a de-
gree in computer science. And because you worked with the police
during the 1990s, when you were involved in the development of
the Robot-Cop…,’ the HR assistant looked into her folder and her
voice tailed off.
‘I was a data recorder in the software developer team. At least
that was my job description,’ said Data recalling the long hours in
front of the computer, strictly after work, when she was eventually
allowed to do some programming.
‘The job is a complex one, far more challenging than the usual
office work,’ said the HR assistant. ‘We need a person who is
familiar with the world of programming and is capable of applying
Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 her knowledge creatively.’ And the young woman squared her
shoulders to make it clear to Data that she, for one, was indeed
one of those creative minds who were ready to take on such
complex tasks.
‘So’, said Data, ‘officially, you are looking for an administrative
assistant for one of the teams in the homicide department, but what
you actually want is an IT geek who is not put off by the wage scale
in the public service or by the fixed-term contract?’
She could see that the human capital manager was taken aback.
Data was convinced that what the guys at the police headquarters
actually wanted was to hire cheap labour close to retirement age,
taking full advantage of the government’s Women 40+ pro-
gramme. And that the HR assistant firmly believed that the state,
on whose behalf she was acting, was doing a favour to overweight
old bags like Data was.
The last time she worked for the police she was twenty years
younger and three stones lighter. Well, maybe three and a half, said
the scales in the mornings. Lately the needle stopped well above
thirteen stones. Data had tried to overcome her disappointment
by telling herself that in the past it had been more than that. And
anyway, she hadn’t been to the loo yet, besides, there’s a heatwave,
so her body retains more water, oh, and the scale needed calibra-
tion, and so on.
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She had already laid out her clothes for the next morning. She
had wondered long and hard if she should choose the striped top
instead of the black spotted one. Not that wearing stripes made her
look slimmer, she had long ago given up believing in the magic a
pattern could work on her figure. She finally decided in favour of
the spotted tunic because it brought her good luck.
But she also made up her mind about the diet. She would stop
putting it off and start the next day. Everything clicked: new diet,
new job, new people. Except for one person.
‘The head of team C is DCI Telki-Nagy. Ask for her when you
come in tomorrow morning,’ said the secretary who called her to
say that on Friday she would only have to do half day because of
the teambuilding workshop at the weekend.
The coincidence took her by surprise but she wasn’t sure that
the secretary had been talking about the same woman she had
briefly met six years ago. So, after dinner she took out her old
laptop and called up the short exchange of emails.
She had no bad memories of Telki-Nagy although they had
met in a situation she didn’t like recalling. At that time the chief
inspector was the deputy head of a department at a smaller police
station. Data had sought help because of a puzzling case of online
harassment that could have had serious consequences. Telki-Nagy
had been the only one to take her seriously, and together they had
managed to avoid a tragedy.
Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 Data was wondering if the DCI still remembered the case
related to the sailing blog and the riddle hidden in the nicknames.
It was unlikely that the successful outcome of the investigation
had meant as much for her as for Data for whom it had been trans-
formative indeed. During the divorce of her daughter, Ági, Data
had lost all her faith in the Hungarian justice system. Due to the
manipulation of her daughter’s revengeful ex-husband, Data had
had to quit her job in the ministry and her family life had been
destroyed. The fact that she was able to trust the law enforcement
agencies again was down to the help and attention of Telki-Nagy.
And although her newly found trust wasn’t absolute, it had made
it possible for her to apply for the job in the police force, one year
before reaching retirement age.
The work with a homicide team sounded much more excit-
ing than building data bases as a self-employed person. And the
knowledge that her superior was going to be Telki-Nagy gave
her the thrill of adventures to come. Before falling asleep she sum-
moned up the success of that old case about the sailing blog. She
wouldn’t mind if at the end the personnel woman would prove to
be wrong and she would actually be the one to catch murderers.
·
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It was past 2 a.m. In the end, he was always victimized, cast aside
and humiliated, his affection was always ignored. The failure of his
mate choices, his therapist said, was due to some childhood trauma.
Ever since he learnt that, he always told his new partner right after
the first night that he had been raised without a father, and that his
mother had been unloving. He wanted them to understand that
he had an overwhelming need for support, care and daily contact.
But still most of them cheated on him, and had no clue about what
serious commitment meant.
He hated them, these cowards who ran away as soon as they
had to face any difficulty. Those bastards who ignored him in pub-
lic, denying their own true selves. For whom real love didn’t count.
Who preferred to let him rot, abandoned and lonely, forever.
He took the dog to the park to air his head, but it didn’t help.
He was shaking with anger. He kept pressing the phone in despera-
tion. ‘The number you have called is unavailable,’ the automatic
recording began, but he hung up.
‘…please try the fucking number later,’ he muttered, and sent
another text which was saved in his phone: Do you want to kill me?
The park had been closed for the night, but the dog run was
open. Korci was happily sniffing around by the entrance of the tyre
tunnel and then watered it well.
He bent down to pick up the tennis ball and threw it one more
time. The sweat burned his eyes. Even that animal received more
Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 love than him, he thought. While Korci was running after the ball
he searched his pocket for the dog poop bag. He crouched down
to pick it up.
‘Fuck that! It’s always down to me to clean up someone else’s
mess!’ was his last thought before the bullet put him out of his misery.
·
Telki-Nagy was woken by the explosion. In her dream, DI Vasvári
had just lifted up the Jericho 941, ready to fire at DSI Détár who,
despite his promises, hadn’t assigned the latest firearm homicide to
team C. At the last moment, the gun turned into a bottle of cham-
pagne, and Vasvári popped the cork that started to fly towards her.
To avoid it, Telki-Nagy made a sudden movement with her head and
woke up with a sharp pain in her neck. The clock said half past three.
According to the police surgeon, it was work stress rather than
early menopause that made her wake up several times each night.
The last couple of months’ preparations was to be completed by
the two-day-long teambuilding workshop that would start on Sat-
urday. This was exactly the kind of challenge she was keen to take
on, but she dreaded the possibility that the four different people
would never form an efficient investigation team.
DCI Judit Telki-Nagy was a senior detective but working
alone wasn’t her ambition. She had no desire to catch serial killers
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or dismantle the evil network of drug lords single-handedly, with
no other support than her brilliant brain and its ingenious solu-
tions. What she desired was apparently less ambitious but mattered
to her much more. She wanted to create an investigation team that
functioned in a democratic way, where everyone would accept
that the collective achievements of the team mattered more than
individual success. Her approach was not shared by many in the
police force, and she tended to attract looks of disapproval when,
after a successful case, she praised her colleagues who had played
a part in solving it.
Telki-Nagy was not naïve. She was aware that the police force
was a hierarchical organization that rested on the power relations
of ranks. That was precisely the challenge for her: she wanted
to build a team whose work was not based on blind respect of
authority but on acknowledging the expertise and experience of
each member. She was convinced that the time of lone rangers was
up, and that the romanticized action heroes of the movie screens
generated false expectations about the professionals of the law en-
forcement agencies, which ultimately prevented serious teamwork.
She had the impression that the difference between fantasy
and reality was even greater in the field of fiction. She found the
figure of the super-intelligent detective ridiculous, and even more
pathetic when they were complemented by a secondary character
– a Watson or a Japp – to highlight their brainpower. But she was
Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 aware that, while she found that line-up outdated, it was not alien
to her colleagues.
Telki-Nagy’s aim was to become a good leader, her judgment
not to be clouded by her rank and to never lose sight of that the
solution of a crime was practically impossible single-handedly.
That was why she had been so thrilled to find the EU project that
suggested to bring an inspector with qualification in human rights
into the investigation of homicide cases. The project aimed to help
eliminate in a more effective way the biases that hinder the work
of the police.
The call for applications was published at the very best moment.
Only a few months ago DCI Telki-Nagy had been entrusted with
forming a new investigation team in the homicide department.
The moment had arrived, and finally, she had free hand to fulfil
her old dream.
It was DSI Détár who entrusted her with the building of team
C. Telki-Nagy had known him for a long a time. He wasn’t the
most flexible of bosses but he was always open to new ideas.
‘Upstairs gave their approval to the proposal,’ Détár had given
her the good news in a meeting in early Spring. ‘But, as it happens,
they have two conditions.’
He was in his fifties with a boyish face framed by thinning, grey
hair. His unusually small nose was twitching so much as if it was
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its firm intention to prevent the superintendent from putting on an
authoritative look. Behind his back everybody called him Asithap-
pens, and those who were able twitched their nose too.
‘The first is unofficial and I would prefer it stays between us…,’
he said and looked ill at ease.
‘I am listening, sir,’ said Telki-Nagy readily but her heart was
already sinking.
‘Well, the senior management would like the new colleague
with the qualification in human rights to be a… you know… a…
you understand…’ he said twitching his nose desperately.
Telki-Nagy didn’t need more to understand the allusion: she
had been working at the police for more than twenty years.
‘You have no reason to worry. Ninety percent of the interview
panel are usually male, I don’t think they would choose a woman
to this post,’ she replied, getting in a sarcastic dig.
‘As it happens, the terms of the project specify that in the in-
terview the representation of both genders has to be at least thirty
percent. Please understand that this is extremely embarrassing for
me. Anyway, you know how things are here,’ he said referring
to the fact that Telki-Nagy was a volunteer for Hungary in the
European Network of Policewomen.
‘In short, the new detective cannot be a woman.’
‘You are too harsh to put it that way.’
Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 ‘All right, let me rephrase it,’ Telki-Nagy said with a hint of
impatience in her voice. ‘The new colleague should be a man. Or
something in between which will still please your superiors.’
‘Who are your superiors too, DCI Telki-Nagy, do not forget.
And I would much prefer him not to be “something in between”.’
‘In that case even a woman would do, am I right?’ she said purs-
ing her lips. ‘I get it. If that is the goal than ask for DI Vasvári to
join the panel. That would guarantee that the female candidates
will leave the room screaming.’
‘As it happens, the second condition concerns him…’
Her eyes rounded in dismay. In the stunned silence the second
hand of the wall-clock seemed reluctant to move forward.
‘No,’ she said with unmistakable determination before Détár
could say anything else. ‘You can’t do this to me. I won’t have
Vasvári. I barely got rid of him a year ago.’
‘That’s true but it must have been enough for a rest. As it hap-
pens, the officers in Fraud Squad are completely worn out by him.’
‘I am not surprised. Four days out five he arrives with a booze
on his breath. And you can smell it ten meters away.’
‘On the other hand, he works the weekends on a voluntary
basis. And he doesn’t always drink. He has periods when he stays
clean and sober.’
‘And so depressed that it makes me want to greet him in the
morning with a bottle of vodka in hand.’
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‘Whatever your feelings are, DI Vasvári only has one year
before entering retirement and he has already spent time in every
department and unit.’
‘Several times each. At least fifteen disciplinary procedures
were brought against him.’
‘All the allegations were unfounded.’
‘Yes, they were all dismissed. Quite inconceivable!’ she said
giving Détár a piercing look but he was not fazed by it.
‘DI Vasvári is one of the best forensic ballistics experts in the
country.’
‘This was your only argument for him the last time, too. Con-
sidering that in the last year barely 0.04 percent of the homicides
were committed with firearms, he is not exactly going to be big
help to the team.’
‘Nobody knows the old weapons better than him,’ Détár dug
in his heels.
‘Wonderful! The city is full of serial killers who run around
with muzzleloaders.’
‘No matter how much you resist, DI Vasvári has done good
service and we should not forget it.’
‘When was that, pray?’ Telki-Nagy barked at him irritated.
‘Not during the old regime, if that’s what you mean. However,
he has been working for the police force for more than three dec-
ades and his merits… Well, let’s move on! I am sorry, Judit, these
Éva Cserháti: The Mermaid’s Secret 
 are the conditions. And I strongly advise you to accept them. They She was aware that she could only test out her new way of
don’t like being refused upstairs, as it happens…’ working if the team were to be given a serious case. She hoped that
She had accepted the conditions and her proposal won the she had achieved that through DI Vasvári. The next firearm case
funding from the EU. Next morning the new team would meet would be theirs and knowing how rare they were, she would have
together for the first time. At the moment she was able to keep more than enough time to build the team.
DI Vasvári at bay, however, she knew that he was capable of She drank a glass of water in the kitchen, had a pee, and went
destroying teamwork at any point. And she was also certain that back to bed. She had three hours left until getting up.
the new human rights expert would find his personality extremely
challenging.
She hadn’t yet met the new IT support person. She hoped that
they would be flexible. She would have preferred somebody young
at the beginning of their career who wouldn’t be averse to the idea
that team work is more efficient than the realization of personal
ambitions. She was often confronted with the problem that the
older colleagues’ way of thinking was rigidly hierarchical. And,
although it wasn’t their fault, this meant they were often reluctant
to take the initiative.
Fortunately, DS László Köteles would be there too. They had
worked together on a few cases and she had asked specifically for
him to join the team. She knew that the young detective would not
let her down. This at least was reassuring.

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 excerpt
The Frenzy of Harmony
by Tibor P
translated by Kristen H
Aria “Viva il coltello!”
Stefano only rarely saw Matteo. The boy seemed happy, but his
father noticed that he only responded to his questions with one
word answers. Yes, Matteo had never been a talkative boy, but
his father still found his behavior a bit strange. The boy wouldn’t
look him in the eyes whenever he replied, and often during their
conversations, he would stare thoughtfully into the distance. The
potter didn’t attach any particular significance to this, he himself
was rather skittish when, in his childhood, he had been broken into
his trade.
Now he anxiously awaited Maestro Domenico. He might have
been a little confused when accepting the letter the cathedral’s
sacristan had brought a few days prior. In his little message the
Maestro asked that, if he were able, he would be so kind to invite
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him into his workshop. Stefano replied that he would be happy
to see the Maestro. He wasn’t sure what to expect from the visit.
While he did not have the least interest in music, he didn’t really
know what he could say to the conductor, moreover he would have
been happier if the visit were from a real teacher which, according
to Stefano, would bring Matteo forward in his studies.
Stefano offered the Maestro a seat. He fidgeted, then quickly
brought some wine, but the Maestro refused his glass.
‘Of course, my apologies, I forgot that the clergy don’t really
drink,’ Stefano said, a little begrudgingly.
‘Dear master Stefano, you are mistaken, they drink rather heav-
ily, if they can,’ the Maestro laughed.
‘See, I’ll be quick to say you’re right, because that’s what I hear
most about them, if you’ll forgive me, sir.’
‘You have a very good ear, my friend!’ the Maestro said, still in
a friendly tone.
‘So then, in all respect, I guess I can’t see you as a clergyman,
Maestro Domenico.’
‘And you shouldn’t! I thank the heavens I convinced my be-
loved father, who would have given me over to the Jesuits, that
it would be better for both of us if I became a conductor instead.’
‘I would have sworn the school’s choirmaster is also a clergyman.’
‘Not everything is gold that shines, my dear master Stefano!’
the Maestro replied merrily.
Tibor Pintér: The Frenzy of Harmony 
 ‘Then you really could have a glass!’
‘So that I can follow the fate of the monks? No!’ Maestro Do-
menico shouted, to which Stefano laughed heartily. Suddenly he
felt entirely comfortable in the choirmaster’s company.
‘Maybe a bit of grappa? I’m sure they don’t drink that behind
the monastery walls!’
‘They’ll drink anything, believe me! Now, I could certainly put
down a bit of grappa.’
‘Then I’ll bring it out!’ Stefano hurried into the house for his
flask, and as he did, he thought about what a frank and humorous
person the conductor was. Who would have thought there could
be such a teacher in the Catholic school?
‘And here I am, Maestro. To your health!’
‘And to yours, my fellow master, and of course to your son, Matteo!’
They clinked their glasses, threw back their drinks. The Maes-
tro hated liquors, and therefore painfully, but successfully, he
choked back the groan that tried to escape him after a sip.
‘Tell me, Maestro Domenico…’ But the acknowledged sud-
denly interrupted him.
‘What do you say, my dear master, if we simply called each
other by our Christian names? After all, I too am only a gentlemen,
believe me!’
‘That disturbs me, truly, Maestro Domenico. After all, you are
my son’s highly respected teacher, aren’t you?’
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‘Highest respects are given to the highly respected, the teacher
as well, but Stefano, are we not both masters in our own trades?
You sir form clay, as I hear, by way of mastery, like I form voices.
You may believe the two are not so far from each other! You, sir,
put all your arm’s strength into your work, while I just wave my
hands in the air. Mastership is mastership, whatever way you look
at it. I don’t really care for those haughty artists who are too high
up on themselves. You see, many painters and sculptors are in
raptures with their own work, but what do they do differently than
you or I? They just put the materials in the right place, as do we.
You put it to the wheel, and I, if I think it over, into the air. They
put it onto a wall, or to canvas. You may believe these things are
the same. In fact, we could be colleagues, the two of us.’
‘You are absolutely right, Domenico, with your permission.
I myself don’t like big painters, sculptors, and architects who turn up
their noses, as if they took the biggest shit, excuse my expression.’
‘You said it well, Stefano. Among musicians, one comes across
a fair number of such people! That being said, and so I don’t for-
get the reason for my visit, I did come to see you on a matter of
mastership.’
‘Do tell, Domenico. This is about Matteo, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Is there a problem with him in the chorus? Does he have a bad
voice?’
Tibor Pintér: The Frenzy of Harmony 
 ‘No, no, absolutely not. In fact, just the opposite. I must say,
he is my most talented vocalist. You can be proud of your son,
Stefano!’
‘I am truly glad to hear it!’
‘In fact, that is why I am here. Matteo has a big future in his
trade, Stefano. I was overwhelmed by my conscience when I fi-
nally decided to visit you, as I realized I must inform you of my
experiences with Matteo.’
‘You think you could make a conductor out of him?’
‘That too perhaps, but you can make a conductor out of almost
anyone, if they aren’t tone deaf, and have a bit of wit. But much
more is at stake here. Considerably more.’
‘And what would that be?’ Stefano asked, the lines of his face
hardening.
‘Forgive my asking, but is Matteo your only child?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Just out of curiosity. It’s rarely so.’
‘Maybe, for me and Rosaria, that’s my wife who passed, it’s all
we got.’
‘Forgive me if I have brought up an uncomfortable subject.’
‘It’s nothing. Tell me, Domenico, do you have any children? If
I may ask.’
‘None. I am a bachelor. I didn’t really have time for marriage,’
the Maestro said, and he gave Messer Stefano a pointed, somber
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glance, which the man misunderstood. For a moment Stefano
thought of what his life would have been like without his wife,
and how it would look now, five years later. He could imagine the
Maestro living his entire life in such a way. He didn’t envy the him.
‘I feel a father-like love towards Matteo, therefore you must
know that your son’s voice is unparalleled among its kind. I have
been the Capodistria Cathedral’s conductor for twenty-five years,
and I have never been met with such talent before.’
‘You must be exaggerating, Domenico. That my Matteo could
be so talented, I’d have a hard time believing it. Sure, when he’s
at home he sings a lot of tunes, and he always loved to stand in
the nearby church choir, but right now I think you might be exag-
gerating.’
‘No, my dear Stefano, believe me, I am not. I thought it over
quite a long time before I decided to come speak with you. Your
son has great success awaiting him as a singer. You know, the art
of singing is by far the most reliable trade in music. The Creator
has placed a treasure into some throats, and the public is in rap-
tures with these people, the most powerful gentlemen fight for
their graces. You heard me correctly, my dear friend, it is not the
singers who fight for these men’s graces, but the reverse! Tell me
one trade in which powerful men prattle over those they commis-
sion! And most importantly, in which they eagerly reach for their
pocketbooks! In the courts and big cities, like Venice, for example,
Tibor Pintér: The Frenzy of Harmony 
 talented artists like Matteo are bathed in gold. Yes, Matteo has gold
in his throat. And believe me, dear Stefano, that’s real gold.’
‘I have to admit, Domenico, I don’t know much about music,’
Stefano replied. ‘I put my son in boarding school so he could go
somewhere in life, according to the opportunities available. I thought
maybe he’d find his place in the town hall, as a clerk, for example.
All that I know about the musician’s trade is that it might be unreli-
able. It’s all ups and downs. There’s work, then there isn’t. Anyways,
people don’t have the greatest opinions about musicians. They find
them idle company. Forgive me, I know you are a musician, and I
would not say the least about you. You may just have upset me a
little with your advice. But I’m very happy you came and shared
your thoughts about Matteo. I’ll think it over, you can be sure.’
‘Every word you said is absolutely truly, Stefano! I won’t ar-
gue with you. But tell me one trade that isn’t unreliable! It was
a smart idea on your part to think of a municipal office for your
son’s future. But let’s think about the situation there. One man
gets himself into some kind of mess, then he must leave, his stallum
is gone, everyone points their fingers at him, most likely he can’t
even stay in town, he’ll be cut off. The other works day and night
for nothing, and because of malicious people, he can hardly take
a breath. Believe me, Stefano, there is no corner of the earth in
which we can work in peace and safety. Certainly you yourself
work day by day with the same swindlers, the thankless customers,
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
the paint vendors, the insolent men who deliver your clay. It’s true
that people say all kinds of things about musicians. But most of
these are lies, tales. I know this world well. There are as many idle
people among them as anywhere else in the world! But the one
who works faithfully, respectably, wins the trust of his audience
and his patrons. And what’s most important—like I said to you
earlier—that success is within reach, in the most literal sense. The
musician’s patron is generous, not like that of a clerk or, pardon me,
of a potter, who must suffer when his work isn’t taken seriously, or
if he is only rarely offered a legitimate commission. I don’t have to
give abstract examples, there’s Prince Giulio, the musician’s great
and generous patron.’
‘Prince Giulio?’ Stefano interrupted, astonished.
‘Yes, Giulio de Monfalcone. Surely you have heard about the
prince.’
‘Why, of course.’ Stefano did not want to betray what remark-
able commissions he owed to the prince, nevertheless he listened
to the Maestro even more carefully.
‘The singers in Prince Giulio’s court theater receive an hono-
rarium that, to our kind, is unimaginable. Last time he paid a cas-
trato eight-thousand lira for one concert.’
‘What?’
‘You can be sure, my dear friend! And I must add that this
singer wasn’t even among the best out there. You can believe me.
Tibor Pintér: The Frenzy of Harmony 
 I can quickly recognize who has real talent, and who has only
reputation. What I heard that night was made of far less talent
than what I see in your Matteo. But I go on. In Venice, this same
vocalist received almost two-thousand lira for just one part. And
what did he have to do? He sang altogether four arias, and said
a couple of lines to tie them all together. The audience, and not
to mention the impressario, were in raptures. An astounding ap-
plause followed however many arias, and the whole town was left
talking about it. When and where does a clerk, if you’ll excuse
me, see this kind of success? Maybe in El Dorado, but here, never.
That’s all I have to say.’
‘Two-thousand? In a single night? That’s impossible. That
kind of money just doesn’t exist!’
‘As I said, two-thousand. But if Matteo were standing on that
stage, they couldn’t buy him for so little, you can be sure.’
‘No, that’s impossible, Domenico! Two-thousand lira…’ And
Stefano became dizzy, the world spun around him. Never in his life
had he heard about such a sum in his own trade. Prince Giulio’s
commission had been something extraordinary, and he had spent
two weeks preparing Amphora replicas for only two-hundred lira.
‘Now, my dear friend, if your son witnesses this kind of success,
you can be sure that you too will see some of it. Matteo obeys the
Ten Commandments, and in your case, we have to think of the
fourth. However much your son succeeds in his life, he cannot
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
forget his father, who provided him the opportunities to make that
success a reality. What’s more, regarding his musical education,
and of course his general studies, our generous supporters provide
everything, so that you, dear Stefano, are free from the expenses
of raising your son, and that’s no small sum in boarding school.
Just think, my friend! Your son could be the guarantee of his own
future! Can you imagine any more heartwarming feeling? That
the person you’ve fought and sacrificed yourself for could give
back in manifold, from his youthful goodness, the goodness that
he has received, like Jesus Christ when he thanked his Father
for the blessings poured out over him.’ The Maestro hadn’t said
exactly which evangelical position he had in mind, but he sensed
that his sophisticated oration did not go without effect, and once
he saw the dumbfounded smile on Stefano’s face, he knew that he
had accomplished the task that had been before him when he first
set out for the potter’s workshop. After a moment of silence, the
potter sobered up a little from his amazement, and he turned to
Maestro Domenico.
‘What did you say again, Domenico? Which kind of singer was
this great success?’
‘He was significant, but not enough, at least not compared to
Matteo’s talent.’
‘That’s not what I meant, rather if this person was, if I under-
stood correctly…’
Tibor Pintér: The Frenzy of Harmony 
 ‘Oh, yes, he was castrated. For most singers in the trade it is,
I might say, a natural part of the process.’
‘Now I may not know anything about music, but you’re saying
it only comes down to neutering the singer.’
‘Dear Stefano that is a strong expression for this harmless
procedure. But undoubtedly, yes, it is necessary. Of course not
for everyone, there are singers with lower voices, but those aren’t
worth much.’
‘And in Matteo’s case this—procedure—is necessary?’
‘Unconditionally. For his voice this small operation is what
I would call the ‘key’.’
‘Domenico, you never brought this up!’ Stefano shouted. ‘We
talked about how my son could be a great success, but you never
said that this would be the price!’
‘Calm down, my dear friend!’ the Maestro replied coolly. ‘You
have nothing to worry about. Skilled doctors will undertake this
painless, necessary step, which will be no more than a couple of
minutes. This golden voice, this promising candidate, is gently
rocked to sleep, and after one or two minute gestures, the whole
thing is over. The youngster wakes up, he feels there is some kind
of stitching down there, but he won’t be bothered by it much,
as these young bodies refresh and recover so quickly. That is
another one of God’s blessings, just like the voice, which the all-
knowing Greeks also used this wise method to protect. You must
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
know Stefano, the testiculus, that is the testicles, must simply be
removed. His masculinity, as we call it, won’t be harmed in the
least. The liberation from these two small body part is, like I said
earlier, the key to success. Anyways, what more is it than the little
toe on a man’s foot?’ From Stefano’s glance, the Maestro realized
that his comparison had been audacious, but it was necessary to
take certain gambles during the conversation.
‘I’m sorry, but a man’s equipment is more than a toe!’ Stefano
protested. The Maestro let out a raw, genuine laugh, a little softer
than a shout, and it was only by his firm discipline over himself that
his face remained stern and impassible.
‘My dear friend Stefano, I don’t claim that my metaphor holds
up one-hundred percent. But if lofty goals stand before us, then
what we once considered important often becomes insignificant,
and what we once thought unimportant becomes absolutely
essential.’
Stefano was confused. The Maestro had described the neces-
sary procedure so simply and so comprehensibly that he himself
was no longer terrified of the operation. What more, he thought,
he had also needed to make sacrifices for his own trade. Once he
almost lost the pinky finger on his left hand. It surprised him that,
after hearing the Maestro’s astonishing metaphor, the possibility
for these tiny little accidents would come to mind. It occurred to
him that even without his pinky finger he could have continued his
Tibor Pintér: The Frenzy of Harmony 
 work. And as he thought of those several thousand lira, he had to
reconsider the plans he had made for his son’s future. It wouldn’t
be any problem for the boy, he would be back up on his feet in no
time, anyways the Maestro had described those attractive pros-
pects so convincingly which awaited not only his son, but Stefano
himself. All this considered, one thing still disturbed him:
‘I understand what you are saying, Domenico, and it has re-
ally made me think. But there’s one thing I still can’t get out of
my head.’
‘Be frank, my friend,’ the Maestro assured him.
‘Well, you know all this means I won’t have any grandchil-
dren… Only if what you say really happens, of course—’ he
added quickly.
‘You are right, there is no denying it. And while I’m no father,
and therefore don’t factor grandchildren into my life, I still un-
derstand, and I can empathize with your concern. However there
is one thing I know, and I would like to share that with you, my
friend, even if doing so might cause you pain. You and I are insig-
nificant people, we pull our burdens, laboring day and night. And
why do we do all this? Just so we can live. But there is joy in our
lives, we love our trade. We have family, or at least you do—’ and
again he looked sadly into Stefano’s eyes— ‘which also brings us
beauty. But still, we all go down into the grave, as we never even
existed on this Earth. And now there is your beloved son, Matteo,
 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’
who the Creator has given such a treasure that—and He knows
why—he has not given to us. And that is why I ask you, my friend,
if we would be clear with our conscience knowing that we stood in
the way of God’s plan? Certainly not. But God looks after us, that
those things we must give up, which we see bring joy to the lives of
those around us, will be replaced with something sweeter than we
could have ever dreamed. Imagine, my friend, sitting in a box seat
in Venice, listening to your beloved son sing, and then when the
applause comes, and all the standing ovations, you know that you,
and only you, were the reason for this dizzying success, because
without you, that night’s shining star wouldn’t be on stage. And
then you’ll think: this is what was worth living for! Serenissima lies
before your son’s feet!’ As the Maestro finished his speech, he took
a furtive glance at Stefano’s face to observe its effect. The potter
was staring off rigidly into the distance, his pupils wide, and then
he looked gleefully towards the Maestro.
‘Domenico, you are a real priest, and the prophets speak through
you! However—’ he added quickly, ‘those liras ring even louder
than your words! And if I don’t offend you, may I ask, is a way
I could see some kind of advance from that lovely sounding gold?’
The Maestro assured Messer Stefano that his request would
find the most sympathetic of audiences in the school, and at Prince
Giulio’s court. What he had been waiting for, that the repeated al-
lusions to money and fame would have their effect. The desire for
Tibor Pintér: The Frenzy of Harmony 
 worldly riches had crept out of Messer Stefano. It was something
the Maestro could always count on. Throughout all his experience,
the Maestro knew the fathers to be more concerned with them-
selves than their boy’s fate. He did not find anything exceptional
in this. The son owed his father obedience, because his parent kept
him alive, which the boy considered more important. Anyways,
the father didn’t have the child so the boy would be his life’s pur-
pose. Everything was based on the Fourth Commandment. The
Fourth Commandment wasn’t just an obligation, it was—to the
parents’, particularly the father’s benefit—the law, too. Maestro
Domenico knew that the law became valid when the father’s life
could be significantly changed by the son. Of course they told
themselves they had assured the boy’s future, but the truth was that
their own futures had brought them to this conclusion. He wasn’t
as experienced in this as his colleagues in Naples—he confessed—
but every case in Capodistria was made successful by using this
knowledge. The boys’ castration was in the largest degree possible
due to the fathers’ support.

 Prae Publishing presents its series ‘Crime Today’

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