What He Bears
At thirty-four, Máté Nádasdy has already lived a full and conflicted life during the time the Habsburgs rule Hungary. After a troubled childhood, he served his country in battle, lived abroad in Paris, and now finds himself the owner of a popular coffeehouse on the Champs-Élysées of Budapest, Andrássy Avenue, where he hopes to live out a peaceful, if mundane, life as a café proprietor. Despite his efforts to leave the past behind, he is drawn to helping others with their problems and setting things right.
✧ ✧ ✧
1889. 23 November. Friday. Budapest.
11:34 p.m.
All was a blur of motion and pain as I retreated across the storm-drenched avenue. Once in the alley, I sank against a building wall and took stock of my wounds, unsure of my next move. I couldn’t remember what had happened. A knife wound to the shoulder, bleeding heavily, but not fatal—yet. A finger on my right hand crushed. But worst by far, my head was throbbing, spinning from a blow.
Then a flicker of a memory. A cudgel, from the left. I tried to raise my injured arm to block, but my shoulder failed me, and the club struck the side of my head. During my Honvéd days, I’d seen men take such injuries and seem fine, only to die in their sleep—or worse, wake mute, paralyzed, drifting into some invalided future. A creeping blackness around the edges of my vision threatened to push me into unconsciousness. I shook my head, feeling my brain shift. Things could be worse, for I was still breathing and moving, but how could I defend myself with my mind so muddled? Whoever was intent on putting me in the grave wouldn’t be satisfied seeing me stumble off into the downpour; they would pursue me. Máté, get to safety now!
I held my breath for a moment and listened. The rain, now coming in waves, dampened any sound. Good. It’s likely they couldn’t see or hear me once I dashed across the avenue. I let out the breath before blackness all but took my vision.
The alley was a dead end, flush brick walls on all sides. A handful of doors opened onto it, but at this time of night, they’d be locked. I stood, steadying myself against the wall, waiting for my head to stop swirling. Then, after a moment, I moved to the first door. Locked. I pounded with my fist. Solid. No response.
“He’s in the alley,” a man shouted from the avenue. They’d heard me. So foolish, Máté.
I rushed to the end of the alley and sank into a crouch, preparing to make a stand. My Laguiole was still in my pocket, so I pulled it out and flipped open the blade.
Another memory, like a photograph flashing in my mind. Two men moments ago. They expected resistance. And must have taken me by surprise since I still had my knife—I never had time to draw it. One man I could handle, but two? Two would be a problem, weakened and disoriented as I was. Regardless of my capacity, we were going to meet in this alley, the element of surprise gone, and while I had doubts I could survive, I was confident I’d inflict copious pain on the way to my grave.
I was soaked through, shivering with my back to the brick, and I peered down the alley, trying to anticipate my assassins’ strategy. They would attempt to enter silently, checking each door as they came, trying to remain cloaked in the storm.
To my left, another door. Hidden in the shadows, it was invisible from the start of the alley. I darted into the doorframe, settling into a squat. With my back to the door, I watched for any sign of movement as the rain pummeled the street. I reached over my shoulder and found the drop latch and lifted, but the door wouldn’t budge. Of course. There would be a crossbar inside, almost impossible to breach.
I pressed with all the strength I could summon, pushing with my boots against the slick cobblestones, trying to find leverage. The door creaked ever so, but nothing gave. Hopeless. The door was old, but its craftsmen made certain it would never fail, overbuilding it ten times what was needed. The planks must have been six centimeters thick, bolted together with iron bands.
But the wood had shrunk over the years, and the boards shifted ever so with pressure from my back. I pressed again, digging my heels into the cobblestones while I searched for a seam between the planks. There. One opened, just a sliver, but maybe enough. I relaxed to catch my breath, resting my legs.
Then I saw him, still holding the cudgel. He was larger than I imagined, a full head taller than me. And despite his frame, he moved like a cat, any sound he might have made washed away by the roar of the downpour. And then a few steps behind was the second. Small, sinewy frame, but in his hand, a pistol. That changed everything—my Laguiole never fared well against a firearm.
Pressing against the door, I searched again for the seam, then pressed harder. My legs burned with the effort, and a crack opened large enough for my knife. I slipped it in and caught the crossbar, then I relaxed my pressure and prayed. The knife bound up as soon as the seam closed, but I was able to wiggle it, pushing up on the crossbar. The beam crashed to the floor.
The large man swung his head in my direction. I pressed again with my back, and now the door opened with a deep moan, just enough. Standing, I grabbed at the Laguiole, but it wouldn’t move, pinched now by the heavy planks. Hesitation. The blade and me, we’ve been through much. He fit my palm like no other. But no time for that. I left it there and slipped through the doorway. After shoving it closed, I dropped the crossbar back in its place and turned to gauge my situation.
The men were pounding now on the door. I stepped aside just in time.
The pistol roared. Once. Then again.
The massive door splintered, but didn’t yield.
I turned and saw a vast, abandoned mill, with a soaring roof and a long catwalk. The air was heavy with the scent of oil, metal, and wood. Dull gray light from the skylights above illuminated eddies of dust drifting in the stale air. A row of looms emerged from the darkness, each about the size of a carriage, their shuttles and heddles frozen in the stillness.
The men. They had given up their efforts at the door, but they wouldn’t just leave. They were searching for another way in. I had to hide. My wounded shoulder was burning as if a hot iron had been thrust into it, and blood was now running freely down my arm and dripping from my hand. Only a short time before I’d lose consciousness. Why were these men set on killing me?
I rushed down the aisle between the looms, looking for a place to hide. Finally, a loom that was in part dismantled. Pieces spread across the floor. I grabbed a massive wrench from the adjacent toolbox. Its weight was considerable, almost too much to swing, but would suffice. I crawled under the loom and waited.
A moment later, the sound of wood fracturing. They must have breached the office door adjoining the mill floor. My forehead throbbed with intensity as I peered through the gaps in the loom, searching for my attackers. The head wound had stopped bleeding, but an excruciating pressure remained, as though something was inside trying to bore its way out. The pelting rain pummeled the skylights, rattling the glass, and my brain seemed to throb in concert.
Then, I saw him. Just a shift in the shadows, no more. I readied the wrench, hoping to knock him to the ground. A second later, his form appeared. The colossus. Close now. A meter away. His leg appeared through the gap as he paused, looking at the toolbox. I swung the wrench with both arms in a mighty arc. Its weight knocked him off his feet, his cudgel clattering across the floor. He was on his back now, yelling in agony, holding his broken ankle.
He rolled to his stomach to rise, but I was on him. I struck this time in the back of the neck, and he fell on his face. He started to rise again. I hesitated. Less than a second, my timing off. Then he was on his feet again, and I hit him once more, this time across the face, and he collapsed to the floor, unmoving.
The pistol thundered. A searing heat cut my ear as the bullet flew by my head.
Three.
I fell to the ground and scurried behind another loom. When I touched my ear, a dab of blood. Only a nick.
“Nádasdy. You’re not getting out of here,” the thin man shouted. “Give me the letter, and you can go back to your café.”
The letter. My mind searched. What letter? Inside my coat, I felt it. An envelope.
Then another flash. At the café, a hand, illuminated by the lamp, sliding a letter across the table. A nod. And I took it. Paid him for it. Who was he? I could feel the weight of the exchange, but nothing beyond that.
“I don’t have it.”
He laughed. “I thought you’d show me more respect. I can take it from your corpse, if you want. Don’t be a fool.”
The pistol exploded again, resounding inside the mill. The bullet whistled by my head, less than a meter from its mark.
Four.
You will die if you stay here.
The catwalk. There was a spiral staircase at the far end of the mill. Time to move. The shots had come from the office door on the right. Fear was keeping him from entering, at least for now. I crouched to stay below the level of the looms and moved to the back of the mill, away from the door. Pausing, I thought through my plan. The catwalk was shielded. Unable to shoot me from the floor, he’d have to come up after me. With both of us on the catwalk, the close quarters might even my odds. But time was short. I looked at my shoulder, my arm, my hand, the blood running down. Hurry, Máté!
But the stairs. I’d be exposed to gunfire as I climbed, but there was no other option.
Dropping the wrench, I dashed to the stairs and started winding my way to the top, my head pounding, my shoulder burning to the point of numbness. My broken hand was useless, so I pulled myself up with one arm, driving my legs into each step.
Bam. Blinding sparks and the smell of scorched metal. A bullet had ricochetted off the iron stairs.
Five.
At the top. Now high in the mill, the deluge against the skylights was deafening. I dropped into a crouch and scurried down the catwalk, protected now by the low wall. Twenty meters down, the walk ended at a door. Locked. The police would come soon, or so I hoped. Someone would hear the gunfire and summon them. But not soon enough, my strength draining, drop by drop, through the iron grating to the mill floor.
I pressed my back into the door. This time, my boots caught on the grating, and the lock tore from the frame, the door swinging back. My head wouldn’t stop spinning now, my body failing me.
The room seethed of iron and grease. A workroom of some sort. I slid inside and searched the floor in the darkness for something, anything I could use. Some discarded screws. Nothing useful. I moved to the back until I was pressed in a far corner where the blackness was almost complete except for a sliver of gray from the doorway that fell on the opposite wall.
I feared closing my eyes. A heaviness now pressed in on me. He had to come soon. Only seconds, Máté.
So, it came to this—my body was spent, my reflexes gone. And my head was so muddled.
Then. A shape obstructed the light from the doorway.
Wait. Wait.
Then, I tossed the screws into the opposite corner.
The gun fired. A blinding flash. Deafening.
Six.
He must have seen his error and adjusted his aim to my corner. He fired again. Click. Click.
I rushed at the shape, hitting him in the waist and driving him back onto the catwalk. He rolled on top of me. Hands at my neck. My vision darkening.
You’re going to die here. Unless you fight!
I brought my knee up into his abdomen. He faltered. I chopped down into his ribs with my uninjured hand. He let out a spasmed breath. And with my last reserve, I swung my arms up, breaking his grip on my neck. He fell on me. We rolled. I was up and free. He slammed into me and I gave no resistance. I turned to absorb his momentum and drove my legs into the floor. He went weightless for an instant. Fingers clawed at my arm, my coat. But slipped. A gasp—then he disappeared. No scream. No sound. Nothing except the unrelenting rain and my own heart pounding in my head.
I fell onto the catwalk and pushed myself into a sitting position against the wall. The rain. Yes, the rain. Still falling. Powerful. Indifferent.
✧ ✧ ✧
A police officer. Standing over me. My coat was sticky. Blood—my blood? How long had I been unconscious?
“There’s a doctor on the way. Stay still.”
The rain still fell. Softer now. Cloudiness in my head. “There were two.”
“We found them. One, the big one, he might recover. The other, he must have fallen from the walk up here.” He was young, his voice. I couldn’t quite focus on his face.
I felt nothing for them now, but I would tomorrow—always tomorrow. A conflicted mélange. Sorrow. Inevitability. Self-reproach. Máté, what have you become?
“Nádasdy! What’s happened?” another man shouted.
Attempting to stand. The officer forcing me back down. “Easy there, chap. Doctor’ll be here soon.”
“The letter, man. Do you have the letter?” My eyes. Trying to focus. I knew him, but how? Well dressed, important.
Did he see I was confused? He stepped back. “I’m sorry, you’ve injured your head. We’ve met before. Dr. Váradi, Royal Prosecutor.” He was staring at my arm. Blood still dripping down through the catwalk.
He was talking again. “I expected you hours ago, but you didn’t show, and I assumed your source didn’t come through. Or you found some diversion for the evening.”
Another memory. But not a picture, a sound. A man’s voice. The man who passed me the letter. ‘Who can you trust with this?’
“Lieutenant?” Váradi was holding his hand.
In my coat. The letter. Stained now with blood.
He took it. His expression curled like he tasted something bitter.
“What does it say?” I asked. But I cared not.
His chest swelled. “This piece of evidence will bring many in Budapest down. Corruption is a disease, pernicious, ubiquitous, and I shall not rest until it is purged from our city.” He looked over the railing.
“But where did I get it?”
He smirked. “Lieutenant, you never reveal your sources. Or so you never tire of telling me.” Unsettling, his words. Like he knew all this would happen. Was the letter meant for him? I shook my head. Trying to think. Suspicion clutched at my chest.
The officer again. “Doctor’s here.”
Váradi was gone. Was it right? I must put it right.
The doctor. Prodding. Sewing.
The snapshots—I remembered them.
But the missing ones. My friend will help. Róbert. Flórián. Júlia. Filling in what I couldn’t remember. But what would they say, the missing pieces? Had I done right?
Couldn’t think. Too tired. Mind and body spent. They cried for sleep, even the unsettled sort.
✧ ✧ ✧
This story is a work of fiction. Except where explicitly identified in the afterword, the names, characters, and incidents herein are a product of the author’s creation and any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.
WHAT HE BEARS. Text copyright © 2025 by Mark Mrozinski LLC. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
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