The Trinity Six - Charles Cumming [127]
‘So I am to understand that you have been through a very difficult trauma,’ Miklós said.
The word ‘trauma’ sounded excessive, even melodramatic, but Gaddis found himself replying: ‘Yes.’
‘Well, do not worry. It is all right now. You are in good hands. I take you to my apartment quickly. My wife, she fix you the soup. I will hand you your new passport, also some money. By sunset you are back in London.’
‘You’re very kind.’ He wanted to ask the same questions that he had tried to put to Eva. How did you come to be working for MI6? How often do you do this kind of thing? But he knew now that it was best to allow these angels of the secret world the privilege of their anonymity.
‘Are you from Budapest?’ he asked instead. It was an unimaginative question, but a little conversation seemed important.
‘I am,’ Miklós replied. ‘I give you the language lesson, OK? Quick guide to Hungarian.’
‘All right.’
They were turning down a narrow street, heavy brown-stone buildings weighing down on all sides. Gaddis was amazed to see a small branch of Tesco on one corner.
‘You order cheeseburger, you say “Shiteburger”.’ Miklós was laughing. It occurred to Gaddis that he must have used the same line on every foreigner who crossed his path. ‘Is funny, no?’
‘It’s funny.’
‘And the nipple we call the “mellbimbo”. Male bimbo. Crazy language, Hungarian. You like it? Crazy.’
Soon they had parked on a wide avenue beside a pile of neatly chopped wood, around which had been thrown a makeshift fence of orange plastic. Miklós retrieved Gaddis’s bag from the boot and led him down a passageway which ran between an electrical shop and a small restaurant. They emerged into the large internal courtyard of a nineteenth-century apartment building. A creaking lift carried them to the third floor.
‘I live just down here,’ Miklós said, steering Gaddis down a corridor which was open to the courtyard on the eastern side. He took out a set of keys and opened the door of his flat.
Inside, there was a large, modern kitchen with a staircase at one end, unprotected by banisters. A woman was standing at the stove, chopping mushrooms.
‘Let me introduce you to my wife,’ said Miklós.
‘Viki.’ Viki was an attractive woman, at least fifteen years younger than her husband, with long, dark hair and a slim figure partly concealed by a navy-blue apron. Gaddis raised a hand in greeting but did not approach her; she had indicated that her hands were dirty from cooking and it did not seem appropriate to kiss her on the cheek. He felt as though he had popped round to a neighbour’s house for lunch; there was no sense of anxiety in the room, no undercurrent of alarm. Was Viki in on the situation? Was she another Hungarian on the MI6 payroll? Miklós spoke to her briefly in their native tongue then offered Gaddis a stool at a breakfast bar in the centre of the room.
‘You have a beautiful place,’ he said, setting his bag on the floor.
‘Thank you. The building is very typical, but we make some adjustments. You will take a coffee? A shower?’
‘At the same time?’
Viki laughed, turning to catch her husband’s eye. There were expensive pots and pans on butcher’s hooks above the stove, black-and-white prints in frames, an iPod hooked up to some Bose speakers on a shelf adorned with paperback novels. A dog wandered into the kitchen, glided past Viki’s legs and settled beneath a deep ceramic sink.
‘Bazarov,’ said Miklós. ‘Our best friend.’
‘After Turgenev?’
His face lit up. ‘You know Fathers and Sons? You are an educated man, Mr Sam.’
Gaddis explained that he was a lecturer in Russian History and, before long, he had a cup of coffee in front of him and was knee-deep in a conversation about nineteenth-century Russian literature. Viki produced some bread and a bowl of soup and they sat together, at the breakfast bar, pinging opinions about Tolstoy back and forth while Gaddis wondered why he felt so relaxed.
An hour after he had