A streetlamp flickered erratically as Hattay Sandor walked down the dark, damp alley, his hat pushed down over his brow, his raincoat tightened at the waist. The neighborhood, commercial for the most part, was deserted at night. He hurried, afraid he would be late, his footsteps echoing on the slick pavestones.
For a moment, he was disoriented. Then he saw the small green light in the window. He headed down stairs that led to a locked basement door. Sandor knocked three times as Gigi had instructed him. A little window opened at eye level.
“Name, please,” a man’s voice said.
“Hattay, Sandor.”
“Jojjon be, kerem,” the voice said as the door opened.
The room was even darker than the street, but alive with sound, and as crowded as it was smoky and hot. The walls were covered in fabric-covered cork to keep the noise inside. He gave his hat and coat to the hatcheck girl, and then pushed his way through the crowd to the end of the bar where he found a spot with a good view of the stage.
Gigi had been appearing here for the last few Saturday nights, and had asked him to stop by. She was an actress, not a singer, but hadn’t been able to work for months. However, knowing how popular she was, an impresario had offered her a residency at his private club.
Sandor looked around. This was not the Budapest he knew – one where people were worried, sent to forced labor, or in endless meetings and arguments about what was right to do, how best to prepare, or of rumors, terrible...
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