Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

He described the difficulties of extracting the truth from conflicting analyses, from the sources that were eagerly pushed forward. He implied discreetly that he was ready at any moment to hear the enlightened counsel of qualified people, but that the memoirs of such distinguished personalities as Churchill certainly provided material for reflection, especially the cutting designation “Rakosi and his gang.” It would pain him if his lack of knowledge were used to the disadvantage of Hungary, with which he felt such kinship. But the Germans had shown great interest in his creative projects and were prepared to support him financially, and he must unfortunately take that into consideration.

“How much better it would be”—he spread his hands as if in benediction—“if the embassy would arrange a journey to Hungary for me and pay for a three-month stay. If I could see the changes resulting from the revolution at close range, I could form my own opinion and marshal unassailable arguments which, when published in the Indian press, could promote friendship between the two nations and spread progressive socialist thought.”

His sing-song speech, naive inventiveness, and timorous faith that he was charming the counselor, securing support and perhaps even money, aroused pity. He knew how to use his gift of expression; his politeness and readiness to concede a point were ingratiating; he was inclined, like a bird, to be satisfied with a seed graciously thrown, providing the stooping to retrieve it did not require too great an effort. He had already stayed much longer than he had intended, watchfully observing the counselor’s varying moods. The coffee served by the caretaker bolstered his certainty that this was his lucky day.

The sun burned behind the curtains. The cicadas stirred the sultry air with the fluttering of their wings until the silvery jingle became anesthetizing.

Jay Motal, playing with a pack of cigarettes, was just signaling his intention to force the question of a small advance when the telephone shattered the drowsy atmosphere. It was Pereira. He had never called the embassy before.

Terey was gripped by a fear that something had gone wrong at his house. He thought a servant must have gotten into a brawl with the Sikh neighbor. He had often been told of the bearded warriors’ fits of rage, set off by the very raising of a finger toward the sky, which signifies noon. At that time their wits wander as the sun goes to their heads, which are overheated by topknots of hair, untouched by scissors, and thickly pleated turbans. He saw a blackening corpse on the concrete yard and a silent circle of figures draped in sheets. Meanwhile Pereira’s languid voice apologized interminably for his boldness in disturbing sahib at work.

He wanted to put an abrupt end to the polite verbiage that trailed like a peacock’s tail when he noticed that his visitor was watching him closely, trying to gather whether the telephone call was undercutting his case, influencing the counselor’s treatment of his request.

At last the cook, as if unwrapping a gift from a flowery scarf, lowered his voice and said, “That lady is in the bathroom. She asked not to speak to anyone, only to leave her things and come back in the afternoon. I ask, should I keep her here? Serve tea? I considered it my most pleasant duty, in spite of her stipulations, to let you know.”

His tension dissolved; Margit had arrived. He wanted to run. He was filled with joyous impatience. Let the devil take the whole embassy! He could disappear for an hour. There were no problems requiring immediate solutions. There was only this would-be freeloader. He would have to get rid of him.

“Of course, keep her there. Receive her as I would do. I’ll be right home,” he told Pereira. He hung up and looked around for a cigarette. Jay Motal grudgingly pushed him a pack he had marked for his own.

“Please submit your ideas — which, by the way, are most interesting — to me in written form. Please provide a clear conspectus of your work, point by point, without dwelling on details. That will expedite the decision.”

He saw the Hindu’s face turn to stone. Jay Motal sensed that his labor was wasted, that an agreement about the journey he dreamed of would be put off yet again — his flight from India to the gentleman’s country, to England. Hungary was a stage in that exodus. If only he could reach Europe! That was not a vast continent like Asia: from Budapest, from Prague, he would be so close to London. He knew that it was much easier to create the yet-unwritten book with the ring of the voice, the wheeling gesture of the hand outlining its structure in trails of cigarette smoke, than to hammer out an outline of it. He feared the sardonic winks the embassy staff would trade behind his back as they ruffled through the papers on which would be written the synopsis of the future book. He fell from the height to which he had soared — the limit of his hopes — like a bird shot down, and the wings of his eloquence fluttered despairingly.

“That will require additional reading and the exclusive concentration of my attention on Hungarian affairs. It will occupy a great deal of my time,” he began.

It was clear from the counselor’s approving smile that that delay precisely suited his convenience — that in fact he was counting on it.

“It is only that work on the conspectus would limit my freelance earnings. I must refuse all orders for articles and perhaps even alienate my friends at the ministry with that refusal.”

Yes — but that way lay defeat. Despising himself, he wondered what madness had induced him to expound on the yet imaginary book in such detail, to show the opponent his cards. He had lost. He must grovel, must beg. But he was spared that, for the counselor was in a hurry.

“Dear Mr. Jay Motal, I was perfectly aware of that,” he said with businesslike gravity, “and for that reason we are of a mind to give you an advance — a modest one, for it is a question of an outline, only a few pages long, of a work not yet written, for which we will probably remunerate you as it progresses. Well, for this we will give—” he saw the Hindu’s hungry look, saw as his eyes seemed to ooze through glasses smudged with greasy fingerprints. Motal moved his lips like a dog when a tasty bit of food is shaken in front of its nose. Terey was sorry for him. Thirty rupees; well, fifty.

But the Hindu was a good sport. He swallowed the unexpected promise of an advance without flinching. He saw the coming months as a row of rooms full of lights, where across every threshold a hand waited to count out bank notes. His childish joy mingled with calculation and a complacency that impelled him first to take what was offered, and only then to ponder how to extricate himself from his obligations.

Terey did not unleash a new torrent of talk, but only reached for his wallet and counted out the money. He asked for a receipt. Those simple actions brought a natural end to the conversation. As he was conducted to the hall, Jay Motal thanked him profusely for understanding that he was acting from the best intentions, and for his support. Istvan stood without smiling, imagining what it would be like if with one nudge of his knee he could kick the man out of the embassy into the blistering glare.

He did not return to his office. He only telephoned to apprise the secretary that he had an appointment in the city and was going out.

“For long?” Ferenc asked.

He wanted to shout, “Forever!” But he mastered himself and assured him that he would either be back after an hour or call to inform him if he had to prolong the interview. As he climbed into the car, he glanced at his watch. Not even ten minutes had passed since the cook called; only to him did it seem much longer.

When Istvan put on the brakes in front of his gate the watchman, in a floppy linen hat, locked his knees with their pink scars, beat on the cracked ground with his bamboo stick, and announced with menacing movements of his jauntily twirled-up mustache, “Milady is here.”