Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“It is not known yet if the changes will be permanent.” Ferenc hesitated as if he were not certain whether to confide everything to Istvan. “The boss crumpled a dispatch, threw it on the table, and said to the cryptographer, ‘They changed the hat for the time being, but the head remained the same. Get those papers away. They are littering up the place.’ Apparently he believes that everything may still reverse itself.”

They went in and walked up the stairs to the second floor, each to his own office. Stacks of local newspapers lay on Istvan’s desk. He read the large headlines, inhaling the familiar odor of printer’s ink. Above the news of the changes in the central committee in Hungary he saw the proud words about freedom for African nations: the declaration from the Brioni islands on the issue of freedom for Algeria. Nehru, Nasser, Tito; the order of the names was just as Nagar had predicted.

He waited until noon, expecting that the ambassador would call them in and give an account of the situation in Hungary. The matter was becoming urgent, for journalists they knew were calling, asking for what they politely called “background” comment. But the embassy staff had no details, no sense of the atmosphere of the congress, no authoritative information from the home country, he thought, writhing.

Outside the window the heat was intensifying. The cooling machine wheezed air sticky as vapors from a laundry. Rakosi gazed at him from the wall with a roguish sneer. I didn’t hang him there. Let Ferenc take him down, he sighed, rubbing the sweat from his face. The caretaker had just brought him coffee when someone knocked lightly at the door.

“Come in,” Terey said in Hungarian. He was not expecting any calls from “contacts,” the term used by embassy staff for Indian visitors from the city. But no one entered.

Then the caretaker opened the door. Behind it stood a stocky man, an importer who numbered the embassy among his customers. He pressed his hands together in front of his chest and inclined his head, which appeared distended in a turban painstakingly done up in small pleats. His face had a greasy gleam.

“Greetings, sir.” He approached the desk. “I have a small matter.”

“Are you taking orders, Mr. Gupta? I asked for half a dozen cases of whiskey.”

“I have just brought them. They are waiting below in the automobile. As you ordered. The servant will bring them directly. Or perhaps we will simply leave them at your home?”

The caretaker waited to see if the counselor would tell him to bring more coffee. Terey paid no attention to his questioning look.

“And what about payment? Check or cash?”

The merchant threw a meaningful glance at the caretaker. Obviously he found the presence of a witness bothersome.

“Well, then, Mr. Gupta?”

“Cash.” Reluctantly he drew a thick envelope from the pocket of his wide, baggy, rumpled trousers. “Mr. Ferenc doesn’t like checks.” He tried discreetly to hand the counselor the envelope, which was stained with grease and bulging with a roll of banknotes.

“What is this money?” he asked in amazement.

“It is for the whiskey.” The Sikh thrust out a thick lip under an oiled mustache. “They have raised the duty so that my countrymen will only drink at embassy receptions.” Suddenly comprehending that the counselor was not going to take the proffered envelope, he snatched his hand away and began to explain that the secretary was not in his office, though he had called from the city and arranged a meeting.

At that moment the door opened and Ferenc came in. He greeted Gupta.

“I went out for a moment. The ambassador summoned me. Have you brought the vodka?”

“Yes, and I cannot find out how much I am paying for it now, because they have raised the duty.”

“For Indians, not for us. Diplomatic status. True, Mr. Gupta?”

“Yes,” he affirmed warmly. “For me, a poor merchant, it is a loss; for you gentlemen it is a profit. They locked my warehouse. I can sell only what I brought in at the earlier price.”

“Well, how much must I pay?” Terey demanded.

“Nothing. It is a gift from a friend,” said the Sikh, twisting his puffy face into a grimace.

“That is not possible.”

“But it is possible. It is.” Ferenc took the merchant by the arm and pushed him toward the door.

“Take it as they give it, Istvan. As you drink it, you will have time to think about why you got it.”

“Take it, counselor, sir,” whispered the caretaker. “Perhaps you will have a bottle to spare for me?”

“One always has to pay three times over for this free whiskey,” the counselor retorted. “What does he want from me?”

“I am waiting for a new order,” the merchant said, bowing. “I even have one written out here.”

“Come to me. We will consider this in a calmer moment.” An impatient Ferenc waved the man out. “How hot it is!”

When they had gone, the caretaker looked at Istvan approvingly.

“May I have a bottle? Why not a little something for me, too?”

“Take it,” Terey waved a hand, “and be off.”

“Right you are.” He drew himself up in soldierly style. “I have not been here at all, counselor.”

The telephone rang shrilly. The ambassador was calling him to a briefing. Istvan rose, stretched, and adjusted his loosened tie. As he closed the door, he looked again at the portrait, at the bold, conical head of the man who had bullied Hungarians for years.

“I have read you the bulletin.” The ambassador rested both hands on his desk and, straightening his heavy trunk, looked out from under lowered eyelids. “Well — this you already know. De-Stalinization has taken over our country. It is a complex process — the consequence of errors, perversions, and a quite complicated situation in our camp. It must be embraced with great caution, since the very process that carries within itself the possibility of favorable changes, if unleashed without restraint, may lead to internal upheaval and drastically weaken the resiliency of the party machine, and its enemies are just waiting for that.”

They stood in a huddle, a little dismayed by the paucity of words, the absence of a feeling of relationship to recent events.

“He is biding his time,” Istvan whispered to Judit. But she only pressed his fingertips to silence him.

“Go back to work. Are there any questions?”

“Journalists are on our doorstep, wanting details,” Terey began.

“They must be pacified. Tell them the truth — Hungarian radio does not reach us, and we have received no official commentary as yet. Do not rush to the fore with any statements. Send them to me, and I will get rid of them…as many as manage to catch me, for I intend to leave Delhi for a couple days just now.” He grinned, showing crooked teeth yellowed from nicotine. “There is no need to rush into some folly. There is always time for that. True, Comrade Terey?”

It seemed to Istvan that he was only now about to hear a truthful remark. He took the bait.

“‘To err is human,’” he said.

“But an official, especially when he is attached to the embassy, ought to avoid it. Remember, Terey, that you are not here as a poet. Do not let your imagination have its head too soon.”

“This mentoring is rather astonishing to me.”

“To me as well. You are not a young colt, Terey, to go kicking over the traces here. It should be time to think seriously of the future.”

“That is just what I am doing,” he said obdurately. He turned and walked out. But he felt that the ambassador had not let him out of his sight, and was barely restraining himself from calling him back.

Nothing has happened. It is just the way he is, he reassured himself as he smoked a cigarette in his office. He shouts at one person to single him out from the group and force him into some capitulation, taking the occasion to throw fear into the others. He spoke quite sensibly; there is nothing worth worrying over, though the schoolmasterly tone was grating.