Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

Bajcsy appeared with his guest. The ambassador, large and heavyset, seemed to be hustling the little Japanese man along with every breath. He spied the counselor and threw his head up, nodding to signal that he would be right back. Istvan was relieved to see his fleeting troubled look. His wife sailed up to the visitor, who stood with his head inclined. His smoothly combed hair gleamed as if the crown of his head had been brushed with lacquer.

The car engine rumbled; the hum died away on the gravel. Istvan welcomed the sound as a boxer welcomes the sound of the gong that summons him into the ring.

“Well, here you are at last, Terey.” The ambassador did not offer his hand; he only walked around with a ponderous step as if he were sniffing something. “This is a surprise. You’re being recalled.”

“As you wished, ambassador.”

Bajcsy was morose. His eyebrows were knit. “Yes, as I wanted.” He admitted it; he was courageous enough not to evade responsibility for the decision. “Well, now. Will you go back?”

“And when you are recalled, ambassador — will you go back?”

“Don’t bait me, Terey,” he said slowly. “I warned you in time. I asked you for your own good—” he looked around and, seeing that his wife was standing by, waved a hand. “Go. Leave us alone. I have something to say to the counselor.”

He waited until she disappeared into the dining room, then turned to Terey. He looked at him dourly for a moment, licking his drooping lips. “You wanted to investigate on your own hook, and there are no witnesses.” He spread his hands.

“There are none,” Terey admitted calmly, taking out a cigarette with a rustle of its cellophane covering.

Bajcsy cut to the chase. “You wanted to do me in.”

“No. Why would I?”

“So you say now”—the ambassador loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar as if he were short of breath—“only now. And I have you in the palm of my hand.” He shoved a clenched fist at Terey. “There is proof, black and white.” He waited a moment, then said abruptly, “I know who you were with at the shore.”

“Well, and what of it?” Terey said without batting an eye. “What concern is it of yours? For two years you’ve promised to bring my wife here and she’s not been here yet.”

He hated himself for saying it, but the argument had its merits. The ambassador reminded him of a country blacksmith, an old gypsy who was disguised in a light blue suit of raw silk but had forgotten to bathe. His fingers were soiled; there were traces of soot on his white collar. The comparison amused him, though he knew the stains came from the pipe Bajcsy was involuntarily tamping down.

“I’ll cut you down to size, Terey. I’ll cut you till you bleed. I’ve not yet written an opinion. It’s enough that I will attach a report of our meeting — of what the comrades said, and they had their eyes on you more closely than you think. You’ll be sacked from the ministry before you know what hit you.”

“I haven’t the least desire to stay. That’s a misconception,” Terey broke in, lounging carelessly in his chair.

“I’ll crush you, Terey,” the ambassador said gleefully, winking. “You’ll be squealing. I’ve taken bigger people than you down a peg.”

“If I were in your place I would be more careful about making categorical statements, ambassador. Try…” He was embarrassed at having said too much, for the other man had the upper hand and could injure him, accuse him — and explaining himself would bring down more blame. “There are comrades who remember your merits.”

“I was in prison. You can’t take that away from me.” He thumped his chest until it seemed to rattle.

“I wouldn’t think of it.” Istvan sat cheerfully erect. “It’s just that those merits are somewhat more common now. You liked the uncompromising way of doing things. Budapest is what it is because of people like you.”

Bajcsy was too good a player to be shaken; he took these blows. Could it be that this measly poet, this little puling cad, this detestable piddling intellectual, had his own channels of information? Was he reaching high? Did he know something the ambassador did not know yet? Had he received some signal?

“Do you want to know what the comrades attested against you?” He counted, seizing his heavy, soft fingers one by one with his other hand. “First: you hardly work. You’re lazy. And this is a country for conquest”—he quickly corrected himself—“a country that could be won over. You had nothing in your head but women, outings, amusements. No one but you belonged to a club; you’re a social climber. That circle of friends: you spent time with them, they invited you places, you became intimate with capitalists, for what is Rajah Khaterpalia? And his father-in-law? And that pettifogger Chandra? And Major Stowne, who works for the intelligence service, and everybody knows it but you? And what is she doing here, that Australian who’s attached herself to you? You picked a fine set of friends!” he intoned. “These are not just suspicions. I have evidence in hand. It was the last minute; you would either be recalled, or”—he weighed his words—“we would push you out. Cut ourselves off from you.”

“Groundless accusations,” he said with feigned indifference.

“Groundless? You foisted your trashy connections on me. On me personally.” He jabbed his chest with a finger. “And your suspicious inquisitiveness? I caught you in the cryptographer’s room, where entry is not allowed.”

“I wanted to read the proclamation of the new government.”

“You should have come to me. I would have given you access. And the strange pretexts, the sounding people out, feeling for their weak places. Who got my personnel to drinking? Did you give the caretaker whiskey? Six bottles. What did you want out of him in exchange?”

Istvan put out his cigarette. Stay in control. Next he will certainly be brandishing the invoices I gave Ferenc. I set myself up.

“Is that all?” To his own surprise, he sounded calm.

“Isn’t it enough? What would you do in my place? I only asked that you be recalled.” He leaned toward Terey, his face drooping as if in good-natured solicitude. “I didn’t want to destroy you. I wrote that it was at your request — that you have had enough of being separated from your family.”

Istvan was not certain whether Bajcsy was mocking him or overwhelming him with blame, humiliating him so he could raise him from his knees like a prodigal son with a gesture to all appearances forgiving, compassionate — raise him and press him to his bosom so tightly as to smother him.

“That’s right,” he admitted politely. “I think, ambassador, that they will not count that as a weakness on your part.”

“My dear fellow”—his fatherly tone was almost caressing—“why did you go behind my back? What were you prying and digging for?”

“I like to know things.” Istvan’s face tightened into something like a grimace.

“But for what purpose?”

“I was looking for the truth.” The admission had the ring of a concocted lie; it embarrassed him.

“At whose direction?” Seeing that Terey was silent and found the question distasteful, the older man explained as if to a stubborn child, “I will remain here. It’s impossible to move me; it isn’t even proper. If they cut Bajcsy, soon they would be asking, Why not the others? I’ve attained too high an elevation. To censure me is to discredit the party. Only those who do nothing are unblemished. Do you understand? I don’t want to yield my place to some fool! When they wanted dirty work done, they turned it over to me. And I was good then. Now they look at me as if I were a criminal. Though after people like me, something remained. It stands. It — is. Doesn’t that count? Have I ever said I am an innocent lamb?” He breathed with parted lips. Mechanically, angrily he shoved tobacco into his pipe but did not light it, for he knew the smoke would stifle him.