Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Thank you.” Terey patted him hard. “I think all the world understands.”

“Not all. Not all.” The Pole shook his head. “There are divergent interests.”

The other cars moved away. They stood in darkness illuminated by a row of lamps half-screened by leafy trees.

“Do you think we will come out intact?”

“And do you think they will crush you as an example, a warning to others? Not in these times, my dear friend!” Trojanowski’s hand cut the air. “Khrushchev’s dealings with Poland confirmed that it is possible to reach an agreement on anything.”

“We have only ourselves to rely on.”

“You have, after all, enlightened people as your leaders. Scholars, writers.”

“It is those who never saw the world beyond Stalin who cry loudest for freedom today. Already they are pushing to the head of the parade.”

“You do not believe that people change?”

“I believe it, I believe it,” he said bitterly, “especially those who want to maintain their positions. You know that when all is said and done, there cannot be a neutral Hungary. To jump from the socialist alliance is to fall at once under the protection of America, which will make Hungary a beachhead. It is important to see that clearly.”

“Many think as you do. They will hold the crazy ones in check. You will see; everything will arrange itself. You are not alone,” Trojanowski said reassuringly. “In Warsaw the workers are donating blood for your wounded. If anyone would take mine here, I would as well—” he pushed out his left hand and made a fist.

Istvan felt a cool breeze on his face: his jaw set. This Pole was not speaking of brotherhood, but he was offering blood. Blood counted.

The warm Indian night was singing with a whisper of wings, with the rustle of moths lured by the blazing headlights of the Austin. Istvan Terey wandered in that night, an atom of Hungary lost on the Asian continent.

The excited voice on the radio the next morning announced that the English air force had bombarded Cairo, Port Said, and Alexandria. A French warship had sunk an Egyptian frigate, and cannon fire over the water had shattered the boats with the rescued sailors. Smoke hung over the bombed cities; there was extensive damage, and the attacks had claimed many victims, chiefly among the poorest populations. Fleeing crowds had been shot by aircraft strafing the area. The international situation had undergone a sudden change for the worse — the speaker’s voice was dark with foreboding — and the peace of the world was hanging in the balance. It was as if Budapest had been forgotten. There are no new developments in Hungary, Istvan thought with relief.

Thank God, he breathed, we may be misguided when we look for connections between the uprising and the raid on the Suez.

The fiery red of the railing cut across the broad, grassy field that was the airport. In the distance the setting sun was yellow as if it were cooling; feathery palms looked like paper cutouts against it. Istvan sat at a small table to which a warm breeze brought the smells of dry meadows, cooling concrete, gasoline, and lubricants. Little moths fluttered up from the grass in a cloud, swirled for a moment in the diffuse yellow light, then dissolved into the sky. Terey crumpled a straw in his fingers and sipped a Coca-Cola. Behind him the big hangar was disconcertingly quiet. Two women in red sat hunched beside their bundles — they were certainly not passengers, for their feet were bare and callused and stained violet by dried clay. Probably they had come to visit relatives who worked at the airport, or perhaps only to stare with dreamy eyes at the departing planes.

The song of the cicadas had died away; it would return after a while with its monotonous insistence, which was amplified by the eaves of the aluminum roof. A great calm filled the wide space around him. With no announcement from the megaphone an airplane wafted unnoticed onto the grassy plain, then roared as it wheeled along the concrete runway. Moths rose from the grass in a sudden swarm like gray smoke and tried to flee, but swarmed back, sucked into the rotating propeller.

Istvan waited. This was not the plane from Agra, though that plane was already a quarter of an hour past due. No one in the office could explain the cause.

A group of passengers approached, led by a stewardess who looked strangely awkward in a European uniform. He took a few steps toward the gate; it did not occur to him that he might meet someone he knew. From the interior of the airplane, as if in anger, someone was throwing out suitcases and linen bags done up with straps.

“Hallo! Mr. Terey!” called a portly, dignified man, waving a parasol. Istvan recognized Dr. Kapur.

“Where is that plane from?”

“From Bombay.” The dark face had a bronze sheen in the sunset; the distended cheeks were overgrown with wisps of black hair. “But I am returning from the vicinity of Cairo. There are fires; the airport is not receiving flights. Haifa also refused; they ordered us to turn away because there was shooting. Some boats on the sea even opened fire on us — I saw only flashes below us and white points of light moving upward so slowly that we managed to escape.” He gesticulated vigorously. “Only Basra — from there to Karachi and Bombay…I saw war. I saw real war.”

“From a distance, fortunately.”

“No, very close. In Karachi a few Jewish shops had been damaged. The Muslims are enraged. They may well raise the cry for holy war. Because of the attack by France and England, Nasser has suddenly gained supporters. He has taken on new stature. Oh, they are bringing my things. The rascals let the trunks crush them.” He ran and tugged at a stack of linen bags, which threatened to collapse. “Enjoy the peace of evening. Who knows whether it will be for the last time?”

The megaphone boomed, announcing the plane from Agra.

He saw Margit from a distance. She walked erect in a flame of rust-colored hair. A little boy in wrinkled white preceded her. The rest of the travelers were stopped to allow a group of people with garlands in their hands to greet him. They bowed, sinking at his feet, and he, obviously bored, allowed them to place the garlands around his neck. Immediately he whisked them onto the arm of a servant, which was bent like a hook.

“Please wait.” A guard blocked Terey’s way while letting through a big Cadillac that sped across the landing field, bouncing on the grass.

“It seems there is a ban on entry to the airport,” the counselor said, surprised. “The gate is closed.”

“He has the golden keys that open all gates.” The guard seemed to be counting on his fingers. “That is the Nizam of Hyderabad. It was he who caused the delay.”

“I know, I just found out, who is accompanying you.” He kissed Margit on the lips. “I wanted to give him a piece of my mind. He has cars like that and he can’t be on time?”

“He was napping and no one dared wake him. His secretary said, ‘Fly when you must, but have another plane ready for my master.’ And because there was no other, we waited. Anyway, he is a nice little fellow. He was constantly turning to me and sending fruit by way of the servant.”

“And you are enchanted.”

“Yes”—her eyes brightened—“because I see you.”

He handed over the baggage checks. The attendants took them and a moment later dragged the suitcases to the car. Istvan took Margit’s hand and looked at the sky; it was drooping under its burden of purple. The intoxicating lavishness of violent tints drifting above them also moved the Nizam; he stopped the Cadillac and leaned out without alighting. Two doors were opened wide and held in place by servants in uniforms fit for field marshals.

Istvan felt the girl’s fingers, which he was holding tenderly, entwine themselves tightly with his. Reflected purple light fell on her face, tingeing with lilac lips parted in delight.