Deceptions by Anna Porter (pride and prejudice read .txt) 📕

Vaszary, tried to straighten his squashed folder, and stepped back. “There is a problem,” he said.

“No problem we cannot solve. Together.”

“My minister has been called back to Warsaw,” Zbignew said. “He will not be at the Assembly today.”

Vaszary was, for a moment, lost for words. It was only the briefest pause, but it offered an opportunity for the door to the inner office to open and another man — grey-haired, square-set, jowly — to enter the conversation. “We have counted on Poland’s support,” he said. “We are joined in our fight against the vermin now directly invading our countries, directed by Brussels, ready to destroy our Christian identity.”

“It was unavoidable,” Zbignew said.

“No,” thundered Árpád Magyar, the jowly man whose many portfolios had included minister of justice, but who was now most likely still the deputy prime minister. He was in the habit of making portentous announcements. “It is not yet unavoidable. Please tell him I had planned to talk about our battles against the Turkish hordes and Bem, your great Polish general—”

“He is back in Warsaw,” Zbignew said more forcefully. “He has been recalled. We are reassessing our approach to the European Union. Our party leader must consider all the implications. I am sorry. Personally, I am sorry . . .”

There was a moment of silence, then Magyar returned to Vaszary’s office, banging the door shut behind him. Vaszary, with one sidelong glance at Attila, followed, leaving Zbignew, Attila, and Mrs. Gilbert to look a little embarrassed and, at least in Zbignew’s case, to beat a hasty retreat. Attila stood up and raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Gilbert. She shook her head. He sat down again.

Ten minutes later, Vaszary returned. He glared at Attila. “You were late again,” he said.

“Flights from Budapest . . .” Attila said, lifting his shoulders in a universal sign of helplessness.

“You will go to the police station and see captain Hébert and find out what the fene he wants with me. I have no time for him today. You will explain to him that this is the most important day for our country. He will understand. You will return here at one.” Much less effusive in Hungarian, Attila thought as he gratefully bounced down the steps and out the glass (bullet-proof, for sure) doors.

Helena wore the blue dress she had purchased in Rome. It was modest but slinky, swishing about her knees as she walked. She had combed her Marianne Lewis hair forward into bangs to cover the lines on her forehead, made up her eyes to seem larger and her lips to seem fuller. She used the light blue contact lenses and shaded her eyelids just enough to indicate that she had taken trouble over her appearance. Maybe she wasn’t young enough to be of serious interest to the acned guard, but she could pass for a youngish, adventurous Australian, out for a good time in Budapest.

He was talking on his cellphone when her taxi drew up to the house. She waved at him even before she paid her fare. He stuck his phone into a pocket and made a great show of sauntering toward her. He must have watched a few too many westerns. Belt low on his narrow hips, the small handgun dangling in its leather holster, his ears even more prominent than last night (did he get a haircut?), but his grin was welcoming. “You are back,” he shouted eagerly. “I thought you wouldn’t after what happened here last night.”

“What happened?” Helena asked.

“The shooting. Not far from here. A man was shot in his . . .” he stopped and blushed. “He is in hospital. You didn’t hear anything?”

“No. Maybe it was after I went back to the hotel. These hills . . .”

“Come,” he said. “We see the house now.”

It was even more beautiful than she had imagined it would be. Painted yellow in front, with red outlines around the windows and above the doors, the lines running along the sides of the house and coming down to the edge of the garden. Brick on the side. Part Bauhaus, part art nouveau, it appeared to have been lifted out of a rich Viennese neighbourhood and dropped here. There were two small towers, one above the front door, a second above the garden entrance, and an elegant nude statue by the pool.

“Imre,” the guard said, and offered his hand.

“Marianne,” Helena said. “It’s magnificent.”

He unlocked the pale wooden front door and ushered her inside to a spacious, rusty pink living area with a winding yellow staircase leading up to the second floor, evergreens in maroon planters, a Persian rug under the grand piano, uncomfortable art nouveau chairs, and two tall paintings that looked like Rothko. Her father used to commission Rothkos like this and had gained the support of a dozen so-called experts who had been willing to swear to their authenticity. The buyers had not bothered with their own forensic analysis. She was not an expert on Rothko, but these two paintings, while beautiful, did not look right. Close up, she could see that the signature was all wrong. It seemed to have been traced, but she couldn’t risk looking too closely. “These are lovely,” she said. “The colours are fabulous. Must be very expensive.”

“Mr. Magyar bought them to fit with the colours of the walls. Please don’t touch them!” he yelled as she approached one of them.

“Wow!” Deep ochre, orange, and yellow, blending into one another at their soft edges, a white centre that seemed bruised or weeping.

“He bought them last year,” Imre said.

“Here?” With no effort at all, Helena managed to sound awed.

“Yes. I helped him bring them home.”

“Amazing,” she said.

“Yes. We packed them into bubble plastic, and I wound more paper around them. They were very heavy to get downstairs.”

“Downstairs?”

“From an apartment on Fő Street with an elevator that was too small. ”

“No one else helped? Doesn’t this man have a bunch of people working for him?”

“Yes, but they are all official. At the ministry. And