Her letters were filled with reports of trivialities: what the boys were doing, how they were studying, how they passed their time, the state of their appetites and what they were eating. He found them touching and a little tedious. Her heart belongs to our sons. I have a place in it only inasmuch as I am their father. He felt that she was not doing him justice.
It was easy to say, I will get a divorce. If the information found its way to the ambassador, he would order him to be recalled immediately, and a notation would go out about Margit: she would never get a Hungarian visa, and they would not let him out of the country. They would be cut off. Passport…To go abroad for whole years was only a dream for many. How the few who spoke of Paris or Rome were envied by their less happy rivals, and what slurs were whispered at the expense of those privileged ones! He had a feeling too deep for argument that he must keep Margit out of sight or he would lose her. His throat tightened at the very thought, and he clenched his fist as if to defend himself.
I must have her. All his fiber stiffened. I want to keep her.
To get a divorce and legitimize the new relationship, I ought to return to Budapest and obtain Ilona’s consent. And then they have me like a bird in a cage; they can do as they please. I can count on no support. How could I? The wider world smelled sweet to you, in particular the Australian woman, they would say; are our women inferior? You singled her out for yourself, they will say, because she is an only child and her papa has money. You want to cross over, Comrade Terey? We have had our eye on you for a long time. Be reconciled to your country; we will keep you in the bosom of the fatherland. You will have time enough not only to write your informational pieces, but poetry as well.
In his mind’s eye he saw the official who would conduct an investigation of his intended flight and, perhaps, of allegations that he had betrayed state secrets.They knew that it was impossible to go over to the other side empty-handed, that one had to have a financial base. They also liked to pump people for information. The face he saw was amazingly like the ambassador’s: puffy, yellowish, with a grimace of good-humored shrewdness. It was a good thing that Grace had married the rajah when she did; in Ferenc’s eyes that friendship was already a count against him. Information leaks from various sources, but since they would not see him among foreigners, it would be harder to form suspicions and accusations.
The telephone rang. It was Ram Kanval, timidly probing for information about whether the counselor had filed a statement supporting his request for a stipend to travel to Hungary. An exhibit in Budapest, perhaps even a courtesy purchase for a museum of contemporary art, and he would be able to see Paris. His voice rang with barely concealed fervor as if he were saying, I will immerse myself in glory.
Terey reassured him, explaining that the matter was in progress, that he could count on the ambassador’s endorsement, so nothing more than a little patience was needed before a decision would come from Hungary. Then they would establish the most convenient schedule, for it would be necessary to transport several dozen canvases; to find an available exhibition hall; to print invitations and a catalog. It all required time and synchronization.
The counselor heard a sigh of relief. In his mind he saw the painter looking down with the receiver at his ear, drawing lines on the dusty coffee-house carpet with the tip of his sandal.
“Have new problems arisen?” he asked cautiously. “Perhaps you will call on me. No, not today. In two days I will have more time.”
He was afraid there would be a desperate request like the clang of an alarm belclass="underline" Save me, I am in dire need of money. But either the artist was restraining himself from following up his request for sponsorship by pressing for a loan they both knew would be a gift, or someone was standing near him, for his reply was short and wry.
“Problems?” His chuckle was like a hiccup. “No greater than usual. My wife demands that I set about finding some work, that I begin earning money. Would you mind asking your colleagues at other embassies if they could use someone to make drawings and graphics when they publish their bulletins? I do not need much money, only somewhat more than a housecleaner, and certainly less than a cook,” he said ironically.
“I will speak to them. I will find out,” Istvan promised, full of good will.
He was not very hopeful, however. The diplomats were not especially trustful, and each was concerned about his own group of “foundlings” who had to be fed crumbs of gainful employment simply to give them a livelihood. He hung up, then called Judit to ask if a document concerning Kanval had passed through her hands. To fill stomachs, to have enough money for the daily rice: that was the fundamental problem. The bellies importune, the children scream, the wife weeps because she married an idler. This is real drama, not your romantic perplexities…
If such a document had gone out in the last mail, Judit did not remember it, so he called the ambassador.
“What news of you, counselor? You are obviously avoiding me. No cultural developments worth telling me about? No book? No film, play, concert, no other impressive event? Or perhaps some celebrity hanged himself? Not that, either? So what are you calling about? That painter? He is no painter in my book. I did not sign the request. Do you think, Comrade Terey, do you really think that in Budapest they have nothing more serious on their minds than arranging an exhibition for that shirker from Old Delhi?”
“It is a matter of humanity. The man is very well disposed toward us. He is a distinguished painter.”
“‘Well disposed,’ my backside!” the ambassador growled. “‘The man’—spare me! There are four hundred million of them! If we began slobbering over every one of them, we wouldn’t have time to blow our noses.”
“I did what is precisely spelled out in my job description. He is a good painter. I attached press clippings.”
“You were an editor. Don’t you know how such packs of banalities are fabricated? Coffee and cognac are all it takes. The newspaper lives a day; why not heap on the praise? All right, all right, Terey. I will sign if you say it is worth it. Let him make his trip and you will take the responsibility. Only do not run to tell him right away. Don’t make a to-do. This Kanval can wait. Do you know what I am going to tell you? Take a towel, fold it twice, wet it, and put it to your head.”
“Thank you, my head is fine. In fact, I understand quite a few things very well.”
Bajcsy was silent for a moment; he was unaccustomed to resistance. Finally he said in a completely different tone, “Give me a moment of your time, counselor.”
Istvan heard the receiver fall heavily under the ambassador’s beefy hand, with its patches of thinning black hair. I must use my better judgment, he thought. I must not exasperate him, for everything may have consequences that affect Margit. He has me in his hands.
“Sit down.” Kalman Bajcsy seemed immersed in work. Newspapers open to the pages with economic reports and stock market quotations lay before him; he had underlined some items in red pencil. He remained in his chair, in his shirt sleeves, with his collar open and his tie loose and crooked. He was smoking a pipe; involuntarily he pushed the mouthpiece between two of the buttons on his shirt and scratched his chest with an expression of relief. As was his habit, he left the person he had summoned to his own anxieties, as the confessor leaves a penitent to a moment of concentration so he may discern his hidden faults.
“Terey,” he began carelessly, “you gave me a timely warning that a law prohibiting the transfer of rupees was coming into effect. I failed to take it seriously, I counted on diplomatic privilege; unfortunately, I was asleep at the switch. We are about to go to Ceylon with the minister of trade. I would like to feel free, you understand.”