Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“It can be published without risk in Madras in an edition of a thousand copies. Because the embassy will distribute them, surely it will buy eight hundred in advance, and pay me an honorarium? Then I could easily find a publisher, for they would not risk anything.”

“How many people speak Malayalam?” the ambassador asked with interest.

“Well — over twelve million. We have a splendid literature. Great poets; a history encompassing two thousand years.”

“Would it not be better to publish in English? Then the intelligentsia of all India…” the counselor reflected.

“I can also write in English,” the man agreed hastily.

“An attractive proposition.” The ambassador tapped the edge of an ashtray with his cigarette. “How much would your honorarium amount to?”

“Two rupees—” Motal looked narrowly at the heavy, bloated face and hesitated, “well, one and a half for each volume sold.”

“Are you counting the copies the embassy would take?”

“Of course.”

“We must get the ministry’s agreement,” the ambassador declared. “I believe, however, that there will be no resistance.”

“So I am going? When could that occur?”

“Your journey around the country must be planned. You will need an interpreter — better yet, a female interpreter,” the ambassador smiled. “Women put more heart into this business. Call on us in a month; perhaps we will know something concrete. Thank you for your readiness to cooperate.”

The young man wanted to say something more, but the counselor was already standing up, extending his hand. Ceremoniously he conducted him to the secretary’s office. He exchanged knowing winks with Judit, who was busy at her typewriter.

The writer from Ceylon was not easy to get rid of, however. Mustering his courage, he asked Terey for a packet of Hungarian cigarettes, for his daughter collected the boxes, it was a fad.

“Here you are.” Judit offered a box. “Take mine. It’s almost empty.”

“No, thank you, madam,” Motal said almost rebukingly. “It must be an undamaged packet. As with postage stamps, one little tear and the most valuable specimen is rubbish.”

“Very well; I will give you one.” She reached into a drawer. “Or perhaps you would like a variety? I will give you several kinds of cigarettes.”

“You understand what a joy it will be to the child.” He pushed the boxes into his pockets. “The other girls will envy her.”

In the hall he asked if he might take a few of the illustrated publications that were laid out on a table; he wanted to add to his store of material about Hungary. Terey ordered the office caretaker to prepare a file of magazines.

Just as he thought he had finally finished with the petitioner, Motal returned in a wave of heat that rushed in through the open entrance door and asked with a resentful air, “You will have someone drive me to Connaught Place, will you not? They always do that at the Russian embassy. I got a whole basket of jellies and wines from them for the Diwali festival, and my wife got a shawl, and my daughter was given a big box of all sorts of cigarettes; they remembered our whole family. I like the Russians very much; Russia is a great nation. I like you, too. Be so kind and try to get me a car.”

The counselor summoned Krishan.

The heat was unbearable. The white light was like a load on the shoulders; even as he re-entered the dim interior of the embassy Terey felt the heated fabric of his jacket on his back, as if he had leaned against a tiled stove.

“Until the one o’clock break,” he whispered to Judit. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

He knocked at the door, heard a friendly rumble, and went in. The ambassador looked at him with the eye of a raging bull; he was speaking with someone on the telephone — someone at home, no doubt, for he was speaking Hungarian. At last he hung up the receiver, carefully, as if he were afraid of smashing it with his heavy hand.

“What more do you have to say, counselor?” He began applying pressure to Terey with a long silence. “He came to complain that you have been misleading him.”

Terey listened calmly, not hurrying to defend himself. He took a cigarette and placed it in an ivory holder.

“May I?”

“Of course, smoke. That’s what they’re there for. I’m afraid it’s only in matters like that that you ask my permission, that you remember my existence. If it’s a question of forming friendships or sitting around in clubs at night, my opinion is of no importance. Well — why are you looking at me that way? Say something.”

Terey blew out a stream of smoke slowly. In order to remain unruffled, he had to know first what he would be blamed for; a justification offered too soon might expose a weakness on his side of the argument.

“I think, comrade ambassador, that you are a good psychologist.”

The other man drew himself up behind his desk and looked at Terey suspiciously. But his curiosity came to the fore; he could not restrain it.

“You must have something on your conscience, since you begin by flattering me so coolly. As it is, I know quite a few things. Speak up! Delhi is just an oversized village. Rumors fly around faster than pigeons.”

“You recognized at once, comrade minister, the true value of this hack. He wants, like everyone, to go away, to escape. He makes the rounds of the embassies and begs. The long and short of it is he does not know how to write.”

“And what of the article he showed us?”

“The content is from the promotional brochures.”

“But they print his work.”

“I understood the entire process. Nagar told me. He brings in a text culled from other writings; he shows it to the journalists, promising to cut them in on his earnings. Then he races over here with a clipping and demands an honorarium for shaping public opinion favorably for us, gets thirty rupees, and keeps ten for himself. He is content with the scraps. One thought captivates and consumes him: to go to Europe at our expense, to forget about hardship, about the inquisitive looks of his wife and daughters, the frugal dinner, the carefully counted cigarettes, the embarrassing emptiness in the pocket. You saw through him at once, comrade ambassador, for you asked how many books he had published, and how many copies of each.”

Would he accept the compliment or rebuff it? He ought to remember who asked those questions. Bajcsy frowned and remained silent.

“Poor fellow. But he is useful in some way to the Russians.”

“They give him articles already prepared, which he places under his own name. They pay him, so the firm that publishes the articles gets them free of charge, and the Russians’ stake in the situation remains secret. A rumor without authority. So he himself crosses out the most pointed phrases, and says that the censor expurgated the article.”

“He was an activist for freedom, all the same. The English wanted to arrest him. He fled from Ceylon.”

“I have heard the general opinion on that. It is always necessary to question people from another quarter of the Hindu community; they loathe each other. He went to jail for usury and embezzling security deposits. He himself was not guilty, but his family made him the scapegoat. He escaped, and they blamed everything on him. They had to send him some money to tide him over, but lately those dribs and drabs come very seldom.”

“How do you know all this? Do you have it from credible sources?”

“I wouldn’t stake my life on it, but various small facts confirm it. For example, to let it be known in one embassy that he has connections in another, he takes out foreign cigarettes like those he cadged here, and in this way arouses generosity. It was brilliant, comrade ambassador, how you saw through him. We have gained a month without antagonizing the fellow.