Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Well, here you are at last. You must have cut short a chat with your friend,” Ferenc remarked sarcastically. “Talking of ultimate concerns again?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Terey admitted. “Mihaly was telling me about death. A clever boy. I always learn something when I talk with him.”

He noticed that the cryptographer was looking tense, uncertain whether this was praise or mockery.

“Something must be done for Krishan,” the counselor began. “It was said, it was hinted that his wife would die, but no one really believed it. Surely we will make a contribution for the funeral.”

“Why? If we cared to be involved in the funeral of every Hindu who wanted to change his fate, we would go naked and barefoot, and there would be no embassy here, only a crematorium,” Ferenc cut in acidly. “He has rupees enough. I paid him two months’ compensation.”

“At last something sensible has been done,” Istvan said, gratified. “I endorse that decision heartily.”

“And you said that Terey would be of a different opinion,” Ferenc turned to Judit, “though that’s the boss’s wish, and talk changes nothing. Krishan is dismissed as of the first of the month. We part ways and — adieu!” He spread his hands expressively.

“He is a good chauffeur, in any case. Perhaps it was all a little too much for him. Can’t we wait?”

“Comrade counselor,” Ferenc broke in. It’s no good, Istvan thought, their turning to me this way; it means that they want something, they are inviting me to be one of the trusted few, they are banding together and making me a party to a decision taken without my advice. He stood with his head down, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “He was the ambassador’s driver,” Ferenc went on. “He had a bad reputation. The recent accident involving the cow entirely confirms it. We waited too long. But he had a sick wife; it was appropriate to exhibit patience.”

“You waited like vultures until she was finished.”

“The comparison is offensive.” Ferenc delivered his censure in his usual unctuous tone. He surveyed the others and the cryptographer signaled his agreement, as if he had swallowed something that had been sticking in his throat. “We proposed that she go to our hospital, we said that an operation was urgently needed, but he didn’t want to hear that, Comrade Terey. He didn’t want to hear that. Remember that we are in India, a capitalist country. We are, so to speak, under fire. We were not free to barge into a household with a troubled history and drag the woman onto the table by force. We cannot violate their cardinal rule: nonviolence. We did what was proper.

“I at least have nothing for which to reproach myself. It was Krishan who abused his own wife; his treatment of her was inhuman. He simply wanted her to die. She herself often said so, in tears. So we have no reason to sentimentalize him. Krishan is dismissed. The month has hardly begun. We are paying him for two, and even that is too much.”

“Krishan is a good driver. The accident could have happened to anyone, especially when cows are ambling all over the streets.”

“If he is really so good, it will be easy for him to find work, so we are doing him no harm.”

The cryptographer’s face brightened, and he nodded. Evidently that point of view suited him; he seemed pacified.

“You are dismissing him,” Istvan pointed out. “It is your affair. Why do you need me?”

“Because I speak too sharply. You, Terey, have the knack for chatting with people, explaining things, seeing a subject from every side. People trust you. Krishan is prepared for this. He already knows. The important thing is only that he not leave here with information about our confidential affairs.”

Seeing Terey’s astonishment, he added, stroking the air with his hands:

“He must not talk about where he drove and with whom. Why should they know who our contacts are and keep lists of those who are friendly to us? Do you understand?”

“Not very well.” Istvan hesitated. “And I wouldn’t believe him even if he swore by Kali.”

“You must convince him that we are well disposed toward him—” Ferenc locked his fingers together “—that after a time he may be able to return to his job here.”

“I don’t grasp this. Then why let him go?”

“You have a strange way of becoming less intelligent when there is something to be done. The ambassador directed you to speak frankly with Krishan. Understand: in India a dead cow amounts to sacrilege. It’s a serious matter. No shadow must fall on the embassy. Talk with him, sound him out, and then the three of us, you and I and the ambassador, will take further steps. It may be necessary to have recourse to a lawyer.”

“When should I speak to him?”

“Well — not today,” Ferenc eased off. “Tomorrow or the day after will be soon enough. In any case, before he begins to look for a new job. I would prefer that he not turn a profit from information about us.”

“These are mysteries to me,” Terey said dismissively.

“But suppose he went to the Americans. They are enlarging their center. Or to the Germans from the Federal Republic. They have modernized their industry and they are pushing their way in here, ready to open branch offices. Look at their information bureau on Connaught Place. They remind everyone that a few of their marks are already equal to a dollar. Whose currency is stronger? Hindus are sensitive to that. Such a driver could suit the Germans’ purposes very well. He would be a credible witness. Two facts will be true and five fictions added, and then a matter is difficult to interpret.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep him?”

“Evidently not, since the boss ordered that he be let go. He knows what he is doing. He has drawn up an evaluation of Krishan — a favorable one, but before anyone takes him, they will call us to verify it. Then it will be possible to allude lightly to our reservations if his new employer is not to our liking. People have stopped blindly trusting written references. We can influence the outcome of his search from a distance.”

He spoke casually, as if motivated only by friendliness. He glanced at his oval face in the windowpane and ran a comb through his thick, crimped hair.

“The couriers will be here tomorrow. Don’t forget about the reports,” he warned Terey. As he was going out, the cryptographer rose from his chair and made his way to the door as well.

“Has anything of interest come in the dispatches?” Istvan asked.

“Oh, nothing. I’m the type who, once I have decoded the dispatches, writes them out clean and right away forgets what was in them. No, there was nothing important. Certainly this much, that Rajk was innocent. Though they hanged him, he will be vindicated now.”

“Thank God!” Istvan stopped where he stood and exchanged a look with Judit. “Changes may come in the government. Well — what else?”

“I really don’t remember. I gave them to the ambassador. If he likes, he will call a meeting and inform us. If he has received other instructions, in any case we can read the details on the front page of the Times of India .”

“Well, there will be a stir in our country,” Judit said.

“Won’t there just! And whom will it benefit?” The cryptographer gave a quick nod of his close-cropped head. “It won’t bring Rajk back to life, and it won’t be easier for us, either, because everyone remembers what the papers said, the procurator’s statement, ‘Sentenced according to the law.’ And whom should we believe? Once those graves were tamped down, I’d have left them untouched.”

“But where is justice, man?” Terey cried. “We can’t give him his life back, but we can at least restore his good name. He was no traitor. He was a true Hungarian and communist.”