Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Kádár adopted all the slogans of the insurgents in order to keep himself in power, but between declarations and implementing them, fortunately, a good deal of time elapses. The people finger their bruises, reckon up the damages, and soon it all passes; their fanaticism cools. To me these great changes are like putting on a new cap while the head remains the same, and the head knows what it wants. You may take it for opportunism when you see how I spit on my finger to test which way the wind blows. I tell you, Terey, that is what life has taught me. We must hold to the golden mean.”

Seeing that the counselor was disinclined to join in this discussion, he puffed at his pipe and inquired, “What did you think of our film showing? Not a great success? Still another proof that we must bide our time until the commotion quiets down. Then — dribs and drabs: a little article in the press. Send a Hindu to us for reportage. Place a couple of photographs of the grape harvest, pretty girls, for everyone to salivate over. But a little time must pass first. When you come back rested, we will devise a campaign.”

I must irritate him so he will show his true colors, Istvan thought. He leaned toward Bajcsy. “Did you manage that transfer? Was Attorney Chandra of any help?”

Bajcsy swung around as if he had unexpectedly been hit, but saw nothing in the counselor’s face but the readiness of a functionary dependent on his chief and devoted to him.

“Chandra—” he gave a low whistle of approval. “A magisterial intellect. I had no idea that you were acquainted with such people. He said complimentary things about you. In the end, however, I took care of it without him. You can forget about that conversation.” He rose, his heavy hips pushing the chair aside. He tapped his pipe on a corner of the desk, then flung out one foot and crushed the ashes.

“Speak to Ferenc and establish a time for your departure. In December, perhaps, so you will have free holidays.”

Then, standing in the doorway, he asked, “And where would you go?”

“South. To the shore. I daydream about the ocean.”

“A true Hungarian,” the ambassador mumbled half sarcastically. “Bombay? Calcutta?”

“Farther. Cochin. A small port.”

“Small, but important. It is a port of call for all the shipping lines from England and Italy on the routes to Malaya and on to Australia.”

He turned around and went out, leaving the door wide open. Terey looked at his broad shoulders and sloping back. Was the mention of Australia the warning signal for which he had waited?

“I’ll go,” he whispered. “I’d be a fool not to take him up on it.”

He started up the fan. The great blades scattered the pipe smoke that still hung like a blue veil under the ceiling. He set to work with such a passion that it startled him when the telephone rang. He heard a name and grew calmer.

“Ah, it is you, Ram Kanval. Only today I was asking about your case.”

“I am Kanval but I am Ram’s brother. I am a translator. I had the honor of of meeting you, sir.” The fluty voice had a pertness like a crowing rooster’s. “I did not know that you would still be at work, counselor. I called your house.”

Istvan looked at his watch; it was past four. “It really is rather late,” he said.

“Would you not like to visit my brother? Today, even?”

“What has happened?”

“I am speaking from the shop. Perhaps you will come to us, sir.”

“It is that urgent?”

“Yes — as a matter of fact.”

“But may I eat dinner?” he said humorously. “That will not take long. I will be there at five.”

“Do you remember the way, counselor? At all events I will come out to the corner of the avenue, in front of the new blocks.”

The man’s voice was clear but full of concern. “Something has happened to Ram?” Terey asked.

“Yes — but he is already better. He is conscious. You have shown him so much kindness, counselor.”

“Very well. I’ll be there.”

What had happened there? Why had Ram not called? No doubt he was starving himself to spite them. Perhaps he wanted to borrow a few dozen rupees. No, one of his paintings is enough for me; I will buy no more. I have no walls to hang them on. In Budapest? Ilona would say, “Our boys paint better.” And Margit? Did she really like his work, or had she bought a painting out of pity, or because it would give me pleasure? No; her taste is very contemporary.

It seemed to him that Kanval’s pictures would be beautifully suited to the interior of a little house with fiery nasturtiums in boxes under the wide windows. They would remind them both of summer in India, of the year they met. Already he could see the bluish-gray wall and the flat surface, the color of flame, with painted figures emerging from formlessness. On the hearth there would be a black pitcher and a spray of rust-colored branches, and beside them the stone head he had been given by Chandra. Our house — Margit’s and mine. Through a large window there would be cornfields, a sky of powder blue, and one cloud with a well sweep against it. He smiled: the Australian landscape he had sketched in outside the window embodied his recollection of the countryside that had been home to his family, the land of his happy boyhood.

He locked the drawer and hurried, whistling, down the stairs. The caretaker was napping in the hall. Istvan put the key down on a little table with a loud tap to wake him. The man opened an eye, hardly nodded by way of goodbye, tucked the key in his pocket and fell to dozing. His mustache twitched drolly as flies crawled over it. He must have had a good pull at the bottle. The embassy was silent and empty; the staff had left long ago.

He kissed Margit and quickly told her about the telephone call, even holding the door open with one foot as he washed his hands so as not to lose sight of her. He was happy that he could follow her with his eyes — happy that in his presence she did not simply walk but seemed to dance.

“Can you take me?” she asked cautiously, against all contingencies placing medicines in her bag and ordering syringes to be prepared. They finished dinner quickly, much to the satisfaction of the servants.

As he drove the Austin he managed to read a large poster: House of Wax . It was a horror film. “I forgot to tell you”—he touched her thigh—“you’re going to the movies with me today. I must see a newsreel. There will be pictures of the uprising with views of Budapest.”

“What time do we go?”

“At six, when we are back from Kanval’s. We won’t meet anyone we know at that hour. Only local people will be there because that’s the low-price showing.”

They cut through streets lined with villas. The air smelled of the country, of stables and hay loaded on the creaking tongas. Already in the distance he saw the familiar figure, the navy blue blazer with metal buttons like those worn in English boarding schools, the full, starched white trousers.

“What happened?” He looked at the small face in which only the eyes flashed, full of reproach, and the mustache, long untrained, drooped, with shaggy hairs falling to the mouth. Kanval’s head swayed with happiness that they had met — that he had them in tow and could lead them to his brother.

“He drank some poison. He is better now. I could not speak freely by telephone, for everyone’s ears were open and the people in the shop know our family. I do not want to say what he poisoned himself with. His wife is with him.”

“Suicide?”

“We did not even want to think of that.” Shame darkened his voice as he tried to dismiss the idea. “But so it seems. His brother-in-law had been speaking very hurtfully to him lately, and his father-in-law had set his wife against him. They think that he does not want to work. According to them, painting is not work, and he gets no other work, though I myself have seen how he runs from place to place in search of it. He dreamed of escaping from here, of putting India out of his mind for a few months. You, sir, promised a stipend. He was counting very much on a journey to Hungary.” Suddenly he squealed, “To the left now, through the ditch! They finished the water main and they are excavating to lay cable.”