Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

The ambassador nodded his head and blinked. “Thank you,” he said in an easygoing tone that proceeded from a sense of his own dignity and his strength, which could destroy his opponents.

That “thank you,” which seemed to admit him to partnership, filled Terey with aversion, vague uneasiness, and a feeling of guilt. It seemed to him that he had abused the driver’s trust — that he had sold him out and received nothing in exchange, not even one piece of silver.

He walked down the hall, brooding. The secretary’s door was open, as if he had expected the counselor to pass by.

“Look in for a moment,” Ferenc called, springing up from behind his desk. “It’s getting infernally hot. The boss is going to Shimla in two days. Things will be quiet.”

“About time. He isn’t looking especially well.” Terey frowned. “The heat is hard on him.”

He did not admit that Bajcsy had not even mentioned to him that he intended to take a holiday. A sudden cheerfulness overtook him, for the ambassador’s leaving was a sign that the vacation season was beginning for all of them, or in any case an easing of the strict observance of schedules, the long stints at paperwork, the obligatory rituals. He saw opening before him the exciting prospect of freedom, an opportunity to vanish from his colleagues’ eyes. No one would object even if he took a few days away; among the staff there was a mutual understanding about such things.

“He has reasons.” Ferenc looked him in the eye. “A ridiculous affair. And he is not in the bloom of youth. Look—” he pushed aside the shade and blinding white light poured through the window—“a sky like sheet metal. It’s enough to overheat the motor of a car, let alone his old, worn-out heart. The sooner he goes to the mountains the better. We will breathe more easily.”

He let go of the shade and the scorching glare dimmed. It was a relief.

The secretary’s appearance was impeccable: his figure was trim, his collar unwilted, his tie flawlessly knotted. He was the model of the trusted civil servant who, whatever his own ambitions, is too loyal, controlled, and good-natured, even if his superior is no longer secure in his position, to give away any of his secrets, or to indulge in witticisms or gossip at his expense. He knows that such behavior might cement his popularity for the moment, but that in the hands of alert competitors it could become a hindrance, however slight, to his advancement in the bureaucratic hierarchy. For him, to know means adroitly to revise his way of proceeding, not to lapse into familiarity, to distance himself discreetly from some people while striving for the regard of others. To know, to be cognizant, above all for his own purposes, not for social display. He does not parade the fact that he is privy to inside information, of no interest to the general public, about political actions — probative measures involving discreet requital for services, or honorable removal from the scene for a time — and to secrets about the patronage that governs postings to diplomatic missions abroad. Of course, the most coveted postings were to the “dollar zone,” not within the “peace camp.”

“I have a favor to ask you, Terey,” Ferenc began, moistening the wrapper of a dried-out cigarette with the tip of his tongue. “Are you ordering very much whiskey from Gupta this month?”

“No. I have enough for a while.”

“Could you buy me two dozen? Better yet, to save yourself the bother, simply sign the form and I will do it myself.” He had already taken a printed slip from a drawer and put it in front of Istvan. “Don’t forget your identification number. It isn’t valid without that.”

“Are you planning a party?”

“The ambassador is leaving, and you will be away yourself,” he said with an understanding smile, “for certainly you want to go here and there. India lures you. All the social obligations connected with the embassy will fall on my wife and me. With the new customs barriers, alcohol has become a luxury. The Hindus gravitate to us like flies to honey. The thirst grows as the prices rise. It’s a good thing we are not obliged to pay additional duty.”

Terey, standing in front of the secretary’s desk, signed the order form.

“The identification number is easy to remember: four, two twos, and three.”

“Four, two twos, and three,” Ferenc repeated automatically. “Yes, that is easy. It is better that the boss is going away. It is healthier for us all.” He led Terey toward the door. “A ridiculous affair, but it may be the end of him. Anyhow, best not to speak of it.”

“Indeed, best not to talk freely about the matter.” He nodded, not wishing to confess that he was still in the dark about things that were evidently known to others. In the embassy, only Judit operated on the principle that she knew nothing, that each new piece of information was a surprise to her. Only the slight corrections she inserted when one shared secrets with her attested that she had known the sequence of events perfectly well, and probably much earlier. But her vocal signs of gratitude and sincere elation preserved her visitors’ agreeable illusions that she had been caught unaware and dazzled by the news they conveyed.

Curious and a little disquieted, Istvan took refuge in his office and decided to ask her some artful questions, or at least promised himself to do so. He was anticipating a busy day; a visit from Jay Motal, with his nagging pleas for an expense-paid trip to Hungary, would not be the most agreeable part of it. Fortunately he remembered Ferenc’s look of mocking gravity and his quiet, calming observation:

“Do not refuse him. Only say that the matter is being considered by several of us in turn, that we make decisions as a collegial body, and that the petitioner is notified of them at the appropriate time. The use of the plural deflects the blame and resentment. You will meet him in company; why offend him? We will let him go on expecting a miracle.”

As he looked over the letters waiting to be answered, his eyes fell on Ilona’s handwriting. He was saddened by the dull account, the detailed recital of everyday doings, the praise of their younger son’s drawings, and the complaints about the neighbor on the floor above, who had beaten a carpet on her balcony and sent dust flying into their open window at dinnertime. He could more easily imagine that roll of coconut matting falling down and blotting out the light in the room than Ilona, who would hurry to shut the window, clenching her teeth; indeed, she would never lower herself to brawl with the neighbor. It was hard for him to admit to himself that with the cooling of his feelings, every word of this letter, rather than connecting him to his distant home and embodying their affection, seemed annoying, even distasteful. He would not put in so many words the bitter thought: it is of no concern to me.

The letter fell from his fingers and lay among the other papers, the unfulfilled requests, the bulletins printed on the duplicating machine, the newspapers with circled headlines — lay in the heap of litter, mute, dispensable. It was impossible that he had erred when he took her in his arms for the first time…when he had happily put his hand on her swelling abdomen, taut as a ripe fruit, and felt the helpless drumming of tiny heels on the walls of their fleshy prison. No. No, he answered himself as he drew a zigzag with his finger in the dust that had drifted through the chinks. The sun was burning outside the window; the bluish-gray trunk of a palm slashed the sky, a metallic geyser of motionless fronds. A green fly was battering itself against the mesh, buzzing in distress. Its lament had summoned white lizards, who scurried over the wall from three sides.

“Margit.” His lips parted and his face softened as if her very name, uttered like a call for help, had the power of an incantation.