There was now no one in the men’s pool except two closely watched persons.
Ágost was firmly convinced that man was not a political animal, that was too flattering a definition, but a chattering animal. And where politics are not made but only endured, as was the case in this cunt-size country, where only servants and gentry prattle, there’s no point in opening one’s mouth to debate political issues.
How could they have suspended their argument if this conviction of his so infuriated both his two friends, albeit for different reasons.
While the storm raged unabated above the pool André Rott tried to remain one stroke behind Karakas, who spoke to his subordinates only when he reached the end of the pool. On the opposite wall, the big hand of the electric clock impassively kept clicking away on its axis.
Another hour went by; it now showed 11:20.
Any number of people might accompany Karakas on his early- or late-morning wanderings between the steam bath and the pool. He could instruct his underlings as he pleased — to let him have a towel, not that wet one, the other, the dry one, to give him his swimming cap or take away his bathrobe or, after a few years of suspended activity, to renew the construction of the Budapest subway or to start an equally large project. With insiders like André he would discuss strictly confidential matters that in the life of every state belong in the category of destructive secrets. He would also see petitioners, at least those whom his always invisible security men allowed to meet him. And there was always — or there would have been — a procession of famous novelists, well-known radio reporters, eminent scientists, successful actors, and high-ranking officials who sometimes waited for long weeks to see him, here in the Lukács, for the hope-filled moment, for the great opportunity. They hoped to reach the influential man with their irregular requests outside his office, and they always held in reserve a small favor they could do for him in return. They would want a passport; a higher place, reserved for the more privileged, on the list of those permitted to purchase a car or be allocated an apartment; a starring role in a movie or a play; a reprint of their rightfully forgotten novels or a new publication of their selected poems; an appointment as an ambassador or clemency for someone in jail for life. Or they just wanted to gush and brownnose, to buzz around the influential man and fawn. Which is such a wonderful feeling that one could practically faint with joy. The lucky ones would shudder for hours afterward when they thought about what they had said and what the man had said to them, recalling their chance to talk with such a powerful personage. They would boast breathlessly to anyone they could collar, eager to strengthen their position with this exceptional bit of news.
Karakas would not even listen to most of the insidious and cunning suggestions offered in exchange for favors. He despised these people, all of them, these worms, the choice bootlickers and ass kissers, though sometimes, mysteriously mimicking God knows what and making especially nasty remarks, he would be generous enough to accept a clumsy act of some service; he simply bought them.
The lucky petitioners would be beside themselves with joy.
And later, they could not recount these great acts of heroism, since betrayal and bootlicking had generally accepted limits. Yet keeping quiet about them was fearsome, as if they’d regressed to being bedwetting little boys, now with a little pleasure in their loins or anuses.
Today, however, the powerful master had arrived at an unusual time and remained alone.
Perhaps he needed André to avoid feeling so alone or to feel the privileged magnificence of his loneliness.
Perhaps he wanted nothing from André.
It was good to have a strong man by his side who was not an ass kisser.
Karakas was a mysterious man, nobody could see his cards. It was impossible to tell whether he was siding with the inveterate dogmatists, the Stalinists, the Muscovites, or the dispersed but still vengeful hordes of ÁVH men — in which case his helping various nationalist groups was only an illusion — or the other way around. Perhaps with all these possibilities or despite them, he was trying to maintain, in his Anglophiliac way, some kind of political pragmatism, in which case his common sense was breathtaking. Except for his wife and children, no one thought he had any feelings or emotions, or wanted to share them with anyone in the cause of political action.
He was a basically uneducated man, but once his glance strayed onto something he would note it for good and sense its essence; with lightning speed he would read everything and anything, and understand it.
He was uniformly characterless when it came to his face and his physique. Smooth as a well-sucked lemon drop, his enemies said behind his back, inside and out everything was licked down. He exuded the aroma of some strange soap or not too pleasant cologne that reminded one mostly of mothballs. He spoke to everyone in a conspicuously low tone, with a cordiality both threatening and threatened, frail and vulnerable; he never raised his voice. Perhaps he never lost his temper because in reality very few things interested or touched him.
Although this morning he had received two pieces of terrible news.
The one concerning the mass disaster reached him a little after 9:30. An overhead streetcar cable had snapped in front of the National Museum, killing a number of children — students being taken by their teachers to the celebration — who happened to be crossing the street. And that was not all. Because of some fatal fluke, the snapped cable did not trip the fuse at the big power station on Váci Street; in all probability the still-live cable made contact with the streetcar track, which hungrily conducted the electricity further, and the bodies of the victims had started to glow and smolder. The high-voltage current killed quite a few of the shocked teachers, fellow students, and passersby rushing to the aid of the children, before all the eyewitnesses realized there was absolutely nothing to be done, and they began sobbing and screaming at the top of their lungs in the stormy street where traffic stopped and became hopelessly congested.
In response Karakas ordered a full military and police alert throughout the metropolitan area and a total news blackout; he caused all the roads leading out of the capital to be blocked, public offices and institutions closed, no trains were allowed into the railway stations and no trains were allowed to leave the city. To the president of the state radio, whom he had to treat with kid gloves because she was the only female member of the Political Committee and in that capacity under the personal protection of comrade Kádár,* he suggested maintaining calm and discipline.
Considering the last days’ reports on internal affairs, provocation could not be excluded, he whispered in his most cordial voice over the telephone. He was talking to her on the special line that, at least in theory, was safe from any kind of tapping or interception, and told her that as the result of his consultation with comrades of the highest echelon only a little while ago, those were the proper guidelines, calm and discipline, and everyone concerned should follow them.
She should therefore recall her reporters; no radio personnel or vehicle could remain on the streets.
This is a sabotage action.
He can assure her that this is not his personal opinion.