Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“If I did not know you, comrade”—the cryptographer turned his cigarette in his fingers deliberately—“I would think this was a smokescreen. Have you been talking with the caretaker?”

Istvan nodded.

“He has been doing a bit of drinking and has begun putting our people under the microscope. There’s not a one that doesn’t have some reason to say goodbye if the right moment comes. Even the boss, for he can go no higher, and what he put aside he transferred to Switzerland. Kádár will not take that away from him.”

“And you?” The counselor did not spare the man. “You have a wife and child here, and a good profession—” he pointed to the metal-clad safe. “You could parlay it into something else. The Counter Intelligence Corps would take you with open arms.”

“Certainly…but I would have to want that, and I am in no hurry. I have no quarrel with socialism.”

“And what do all of you say about me?”

The cryptographer hesitated, but snuffed out his cigarette and spoke his piece.

“You have a wife and child in our country, but that is an uncertain anchor. How many lately have been happy enough to tear themselves away from their families? You will stay, but you may yet be burnt, comrade. I speak frankly, for you go for the jugular sometimes. You do not watch—”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I have traveled abroad for a good few years and I tell you, counselor, there has been a change. We would never have chatted this way before. One of us would have been afraid of the other. It’s good that a man can open his mouth — though one must still know to whom. And with us there are plenty of people who are schooled to have no scruples about pushing others around so the authorities will prefer them, will exaggerate their merits. But I know what a person is. They may say yes, they will do something; they may say no just as sweetly. But they cannot pull the wool over my eyes anymore. Once they did, and it was enough.”

“And what convinced you that I could be trusted?”

“Comrade counselor”—Istvan understood that this form of address had a special meaning for the cryptographer—“you saved my child.”

“I?”

“Mihaly told us everything. It was even in the newspapers: ‘mad elephant.’”

“I? That’s just prattle!” Terey tried to trivialize the incident. “The elephant turned back by himself.”

“But he might not have turned back”—the cryptographer looked keenly at him—“and the boy would have been crushed to a pulp. Mihaly does not make things up.”

“Very likely ghosts appear to him sometimes,” the counselor smiled.

“When Mihaly says he saw something, it means that he did. He learned Hindi as well, more quickly than his father. I don’t know when.”

Suddenly Terey saw Kereny’s animated face grow somber and take on a decorous gravity. He turned around. The door had opened noiselessly and the ambassador was standing there.

“What are you talking about, the two of you by yourselves? Well, you must not stand on ceremony with me,” he said indulgently, putting out a pale hand.

“We were just talking of ghosts,” Terey began jauntily. “At a time like this, better to talk of ghosts than politics.”

“About what?” The ambassador’s thick eyebrows bristled.

“I was only talking about Mihaly’s apparitions.”

“Yes!” the cryptographer added hastily. “He saw Krishan’s dead wife. Even before the accident.”

“You are talking nonsense.” The ambassador was angered at being reminded of the driver he had discharged. “Let the dead rest in peace, comrade Terey. You yourself are doing nothing; do not barge in on others. You hinder their work.”

He rested his heavy, hairy hands on the table, next to the radio. “Is there anything new?” he asked. The cryptographer shook his head.

“No? What are they thinking in the ministry? They ought to give us a tip first so we could influence the press, shed a little light on things for the politicians — do something, at any rate, and not find out everything only from our opponents. Not stick out our backside and wait to see who wallops it first.”

He pulled a wrinkled piece of paper covered with writing out of his pocket and laid it on the table, as a gambler puts down a trump card. “Send this right away. And you, comrade Terey, don’t run away. I want a word with you.”

He forced Terey against the door frame and put a hand on his shoulder, puffing the sour odor of his pipe into the counselor’s face. For a moment they looked each other in the eye.

“Better to go to your office. We would be more at ease.” He pushed the counselor forward with a matey shove that nevertheless asserted his own dominance.

Now comes the business of Margit, Istvan thought. He mustered his defense, waiting uneasily to see from which direction Bajcsy would try to ambush him.

The ambassador settled into the counselor’s chair, took out his pipe and a leather tobacco pouch, and tamped the tobacco for a long time, looking askance at Istvan. Finally he asked, “Whom did you call this morning, Terey?”

“I?” He was genuinely surprised. “Ah, yes, I called the prosecutor. You already know, sir? Our information systems are working well.”

“The line was busy for so long, the operator had to explain why,” the ambassador mumbled, holding the pipe between his fleshy lips and gazing at Terey morosely. “What kind of collusion is going on here?”

“I called about Krishan’s second wife. They arrested her wrongfully.” He spoke as if the matter were of no importance. “They accused her of putting sugar into the gas tank.”

“And you can swear that she did not?” The ambassador shifted his bulky torso until the chair creaked and rested his elbows on the desk. “Why the devil do you care about this?”

“I spoke with her.”

“What for?” His voice suddenly rose to a roar. “I’ve had enough of this! Cut it out, Terey!”

The counselor was silent. He looked at the older man as he wheezed with rage, his puffy jowls quivering.

“Tell me — what is happening with you?” The ambassador spoke in an abruptly altered tone, full of friendliness. “Look at yourself in the mirror.”

“I see myself every morning when I shave,” Terey murmured

“There are changes, eh? You are simply not the same man. Black rings around the eyes. You’re goggling like a lovesick fool. And always looking for a fight.”

“Me?”

“Are you worried about your family? You had a telegram from your wife, after all. I’m sure we will get her over here now. You’ll sleep better. One must keep a grip on one’s nerves, Terey. The tropics wear us down. Do you know what I propose? I truly regret that this has been a painful time for you.” He grimaced sympathetically. “When things are a little calmer, take two or three weeks off. A trip will do you good.”

In spite of the ambassador’s reassuring tone, Terey caught a guarded glance from under the half-closed eyelids with two yellow spots like clots of tallow. He knew instinctively that the ambassador had something more to get off his chest.

“Thank you, ambassador, but won’t it be an imposition on my colleagues—”

“Ferenc will be more than capable of taking your place. I am not saying that you should go tomorrow. Comrade Terey, I am making an accommodation for you; you ought not to be testy with me. It is time for a rest.”

He rummaged through a file of clippings. “They slander decent comrades. They drag them through the mud. Their only fault was that they wanted socialism and the nation could not keep pace. Whose side are you on, Terey?” He pointed his pipe stem at him; it gave off a little haze of bluish smoke.

“You know, sir. It goes without saying.”