5.4 Valley of Flowers

Tyler locked the door and shook like Elvis, threw down the papers on the bed and turned looking around not knowing which one to grab first. He grabbed his bag and the bulky envelope with the photos, dropped into the bag. He pulled out another bundle with negative strips and film cartridges, tossed them into the bag. He hauled the typewriter and detached it from the case. He removed the gun and holster, dropped them into the bag. He took his shaving kit, beepers and other small gadgets from the other suitcase. He then ran to the lobby.

“I want a bike,” he demanded. It was getting dark in the sky.

Tyler cycled to Rusadan and asked for an urgent meeting with Salazar. He was out of breath, “Where’s that lady, Cherry?”

The barman said, “She must have gone home.”

“No! No! I must meet her right now. Call her!”

“She has no telephone there.” He called a waiter to find her.

Then a maid gestured him to follow. He crossed the ballroom without paying any attention to the highly decorated pillars while the bandsmen prepared to start their show. He was ushered through a long corridor laid with a bright orange carpet to a dressing room filled with perfume where Salazar was receiving his final touches by two gorgeous beauticians. He noticed those pretty girls in their traditional costumes obviously.

“I have been followed,” he told the musician, “It must be the Blue Beret.”

“Blue Beret!” turned Salazar buckling his bowtie, “No, they don’t meddle in this town.”

“Cherry said that a man in the bar was watching me and his mind vibrated a picture of a girl I met.”

“Who is this girl?”

“Jaco Ferre’s companion sleeping in the room in Budapest when the assailants climbed in.”

“Ah!” cried Salazar, “I get it now. The Hungarian police must have taken her into custody if you were seen with her. You must be vigilant. Unlike small towns, when you check in at a hotel in Erevan, they will forward your details to the police. That’s the rule. And they collect at a survey unit. They know you are here. They have followed you to Hrazdan. You are on their radar. If this girl talked, they probably would be following you from Hungary.”

“Who are they?”

“Russkis.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Stay here for a couple of weeks during Easter, Mr Friesen. This town is safe. They’ll find nothing.”

“Do you think they know why I am here?”

“Why? This is precisely the place for a writer.”

Tyler returned to the bar. Cherry was waiting for him, “I was hopping on my bike to ride home when they called. What is the matter, Mister Friesen?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he explained and passed his stuff into her hands for safekeeping, “KGB must not find these things.”

Afterwards, they sat down in the bar to listen to the orchestra. It filled his ears and pierced through skin, shrieking and shrilling sharp notes of the little bells that turned the orange lights in the room to neon blue. Those bells that Salazar was talking about. Anybody could have gone deaf. Those jingles heard like breaking glass in 1701 octave pieces. The hyperaesthesia of his hearing shut his jaws and turned him stone cold like a pillar. That was in the opening of ‘The Blue Danube’.

Tyler Friesen was astonished to see those Arabs, Persians, Russians and Europeans in the room enjoying the orchestra and the music, they understood every note. He felt like putting his head inside a jet engine. They even danced. They were dressed well. Quite a different world and distinguished mannerism, he thought.

On 18^th March, Tyler Friesen left the hotel early in the morning around four leaving Hajnal to sleep in the bed until she could fully wake up and go home. She woke up around eleven, got dressed in a black minidress and high heels, brushed down her hair hurriedly and stepped out with her black leather bag and silver handbag on her shoulder. She tossed the key to Sasa at the reception and exchanged few words excitedly, “I am glad you called me to escort this guy.” He gave her five thousand forints this morning.

“Szervusz!”

Hajnal began to walk on Országház utca to her home a mile away. As she turned to Dárda lane, a police car followed from behind and stopped in front of her.

“Stop!” A Rendörség climbed down and ordered, “Get in the car!”

“Why? What is wrong?” enquired the girl.

“The chief wants to have a word with you.”

Now there were two policemen standing beside the tight-looking girl with big hair.

“I am not going anywhere!”

One of them poked his baton on her back lightly, “Get in!” and she knew there was little she could do.

Hajnal Gábris had been there once before. They kept her detained for three days in a little cell with many people. They asked numerous questions about Jaco Ferre and since she could come up with nothing peculiar, they let her go eventually.

This time it made no difference. She was taken to an interview room and they asked about Tyler Friesen who just left that morning.

“I don’t know him,” she cried.

“Don’t tell me lies,” said the Rendörség, “You’ve been with him last whole week.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who is he? Why is he here?”

“A tourist.”

“Why did you go to Nemzeti with him?”

“Oh! Nemzeti! He wants to see a man.”

“Did he meet him?”

“No, he took a photograph.”

“Let’s start from the beginning,” said the interviewer, “How did you come to meet him?”

Hajnal Gábris was held in detention for five days and asked the same questions over and over but she was unable to explain anything other than that Tyler Friesen knew about Jaco Ferre’s death. That shook the Rendörség and hidden ears of the KGB listening to their dialogue.

She was released again and luckily escaped any form of harsh interrogation. One thing she did not have to mention was about Tyler Friesen entering that hotel room of Alexey’s at Nemzeti. Nobody asked about it and she kept quiet.