Elizabeth’s imposing nave. Late afternoon, and the crew is bare bones, scattered here and there, up on the scaffolding and down on their knees, painting, scraping and polishing. We descend the stairs. I rap lightly on the door of Tibor’s small room. No response. I inch the door open and am assaulted by a wave of sour odor. The glazed window I had noticed on my earlier visit is shut, trapping the stench inside. Sunlight pounding through the window illuminates Attila on his back, the blanket in disarray at his ankles. I cup my hand over my mouth and nose but my stomach is already queasy from the smell. It lurches when I glimpse Attila’s face. Eyes closed, skin sickly white, green-tinged vomit spilling from the corner of his open mouth. “Ó Krisztus,” Gustav whispers next to me. We step deeper into the room. Gustav kneels down beside Attila. He lifts a limp wrist, then rests an ear on Attila’s chest.
