Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

She took him by the hand and pulled him along with a jocular air.

“To know does not mean to understand, and even less to spread something around. What you know, keep to yourself, and be glad that you are privy to it. Remember, old Judit tells you so, and beware. Sometimes your knowledge may be turned against you.”

The ambassador had the appearance of a man whose energies have suddenly been roused — who has encountered defiance and must enforce obedience ruthlessly, must administer the matter as he has determined beforehand. He was rather like a predatory animal who puts its heavy head on its limp, tucked-up paws and blinks its yellow eyes, while now and then a spasm darts through its muscles and its claws thrust themselves out, ready to rip open a living body.

They sat in a half circle, in armchairs. Ferenc occupied a smaller chair, looking very proper, his head tilted forward in a way that signaled concentration and readiness to serve, provided the expected services did not affront his dignity. Judit had a notepad on her knee in case some decisions needed to be recorded. The cryptographer, a short, sturdy fellow, drew in his legs, hardly hiding his boredom, for after all, how could these instructions concern him? His duty was to change words to numbers, to read dispatches, to painstakingly destroy notations and guard the key to the safe in which copies of reports were hidden, together with Ministry of Foreign Affairs directives and codes. The ambassador carried the other key in his wallet. It was the emblem of the highest level of initiation. The members of the trade mission waited on a sofa, treating each other to cigarettes. Only the caretaker Karoly was missing.

Several bottles of Coca-Cola and siphons of soda water glinted on a table covered with green baize, rather ominously presaging a long meeting.

“Dear comrades,” Bajcsy began, “do you recall the recent incident involving the Turkish ambassador, who went on a hunt for peacocks? A peacock is a sacred bird here. In fact, the devil only knows what isn’t sacred here. The monkey is, too, and the snake, and the cow. The meat of the peacock is a delicacy”—he seemed to be remembering the savor; he closed his puffy eyelids—“especially from the female. They went out at dawn and killed a few birds. The driver shoved them into a bag. He was a good Muslim, he didn’t find the blood revolting. But the ambassador’s wife wanted a fan of peacock feathers for the wall, so instead of tearing off the tails, crumpling them up, and throwing them in the bushes, they left them on, sticking out of the bag like feather dusters.

“As luck would have it, two tires went flat. The chauffeur had no spare, and the tubes had to be patched. They stopped in the village. A crowd gathered, staring. In a place like that anything is worth gaping at, let alone taking tires off and looking for holes. The villagers helpfully brought a tub of water and assisted en masse. Unfortunately, the chauffeur opened the trunk, and out flashed a tuft of peacock feathers. The crowd hooted and began throwing stones.

“The ambassador didn’t wait to catch a thrashing, but took off on foot. The driver tried to defend the car; he has a broken hand. The peasants turned the car over and set it afire so as to ensure a worthy funeral for the sacred fowl. And that was not the end of this unlucky diplomat’s troubles, for the affair was bruited about and got into the papers. Though there’s no official ban on hunting peacock, custom ought to be observed. As a matter of fact, the Indian Ministry of Foreign Affairs apologized to the ambassador, but such a climate of opinion grew up around him that he had to ask to be recalled — to say nothing of the fact that the Hindus never made restitution for the demolished car.”

Bajcsy suddenly exploded with fervor. He stared into the faces from which no glimmer of interest was rising and delivered his blow:

“Why, you must be wondering, does the chief blither about this? Yesterday I had an accident. That idiot Krishan rammed the car into a cow.”

Everyone shifted in their chairs and looked him nervously in the eye.

“A sacred cow?” Ferenc asked with a hint of a laugh in his voice.

“Is there any other kind of cow in this country?” Bajcsy, incensed, puffed out a thick lip. “Fortunately the hood was only a little bashed, and a headlight was broken. We were able to escape before they beat us to a pulp. I assure you, they would have liked to. They were flying around with sticks and gathering up stones, and the cow lay on the highway with a broken spine, roaring like a siren. An old, mangy cow. Krishan, that hysteric, went to pieces, covered his eyes and bellowed. I had to drive the car myself.”

“Did you manage to protect yourself on the legal side, comrade minister?” asked the counselor for trade in a voice full of concern, as if for the chief’s health.

“Absolutely. We went to the governor of the province and I told him everything. He summoned the commandant of police and they took down statements, particularly the statement of that blithering imbecile, Krishan. The worst of it was that there is no other road back from Dehradun, and we had to go scurrying through that same village…and the car so easy to recognize with that shattered headlight. I didn’t want to be driving at night with one light, and they could only do the repair here in Delhi. So the governor gave us a truck as an escort, a platoon of police with billy clubs. What are you taking notes on, comrade?” He looked uneasily at the pad Judit was holding. “What I am saying is to be kept in strict confidence.”

“I’m just scribbling.” She held up the pad, which sported a geometrical design.

“Imagine: the villagers were waiting for us, the road was cordoned off. But the police made quick work of them. They beat them over the head with their sticks like farmers at their threshing.” He shut his eyes approvingly. “In three minutes it was all over. I saw how they drove them away so they could clear the highway. At once the people returned to the way we know them every day: slow, feeble, very quiet. They only wiped their snotty noses, which were dribbling blood because the police had given them a pretty good drubbing. And everything was calm again.

“Would you like to know what happened next? The sacred cow lay under a baldachin crowned with flowers. It only groaned with its muzzle open. They had put a myriad of little lamps in front of it. But to bring a bucket of water and give the expiring beast a drink — no one thought of that! It’s not their sense of how things should be done. The vultures had gathered on a meadow nearby; they came jumping up to see if the victim was in the last stages. If it had not been for the wailing villagers, they would have taken the entrails out of the living cow. I preferred to tell you about the accident myself, comrades, in order to show you by my own example the dangers that lie in wait here.”

He rested both hands on his desk. “The conclusion? I would ask that you remember what I have communicated. They make mountains out of molehills here. I remind you that this is a highly confidential matter. Though my position and diplomatic immunity protect me in the final analysis, please keep conversation on the subject to a minimum; I appeal to your good judgment. In particular I do not wish it to reach people who are not well disposed toward us”—he looked significantly at Terey—“people from outside our camp, for they can bring harm, not on me, but on us as a whole. Is that clear? Any questions?”

“No,” they answered. “No.”

“You had quite an adventure, comrade ambassador.” The counselor for trade shook his head. “But it could have been much worse.”

“I hope this will be the end of it,” Ferenc mused. “If only Krishan, that fool, won’t babble too much!”