Thank God, he breathed, we may be misguided when we look for connections between the uprising and the raid on the Suez.
The fiery red of the railing cut across the broad, grassy field that was the airport. In the distance the setting sun was yellow as if it were cooling; feathery palms looked like paper cutouts against it. Istvan sat at a small table to which a warm breeze brought the smells of dry meadows, cooling concrete, gasoline, and lubricants. Little moths fluttered up from the grass in a cloud, swirled for a moment in the diffuse yellow light, then dissolved into the sky. Terey crumpled a straw in his fingers and sipped a Coca-Cola. Behind him the big hangar was disconcertingly quiet. Two women in red sat hunched beside their bundles — they were certainly not passengers, for their feet were bare and callused and stained violet by dried clay. Probably they had come to visit relatives who worked at the airport, or perhaps only to stare with dreamy eyes at the departing planes.
The song of the cicadas had died away; it would return after a while with its monotonous insistence, which was amplified by the eaves of the aluminum roof. A great calm filled the wide space around him. With no announcement from the megaphone an airplane wafted unnoticed onto the grassy plain, then roared as it wheeled along the concrete runway. Moths rose from the grass in a sudden swarm like gray smoke and tried to flee, but swarmed back, sucked into the rotating propeller.
Istvan waited. This was not the plane from Agra, though that plane was already a quarter of an hour past due. No one in the office could explain the cause.
A group of passengers approached, led by a stewardess who looked strangely awkward in a European uniform. He took a few steps toward the gate; it did not occur to him that he might meet someone he knew. From the interior of the airplane, as if in anger, someone was throwing out suitcases and linen bags done up with straps.
“Hallo! Mr. Terey!” called a portly, dignified man, waving a parasol. Istvan recognized Dr. Kapur.
“Where is that plane from?”
“From Bombay.” The dark face had a bronze sheen in the sunset; the distended cheeks were overgrown with wisps of black hair. “But I am returning from the vicinity of Cairo. There are fires; the airport is not receiving flights. Haifa also refused; they ordered us to turn away because there was shooting. Some boats on the sea even opened fire on us — I saw only flashes below us and white points of light moving upward so slowly that we managed to escape.” He gesticulated vigorously. “Only Basra — from there to Karachi and Bombay…I saw war. I saw real war.”
“From a distance, fortunately.”
“No, very close. In Karachi a few Jewish shops had been damaged. The Muslims are enraged. They may well raise the cry for holy war. Because of the attack by France and England, Nasser has suddenly gained supporters. He has taken on new stature. Oh, they are bringing my things. The rascals let the trunks crush them.” He ran and tugged at a stack of linen bags, which threatened to collapse. “Enjoy the peace of evening. Who knows whether it will be for the last time?”
The megaphone boomed, announcing the plane from Agra.
He saw Margit from a distance. She walked erect in a flame of rust-colored hair. A little boy in wrinkled white preceded her. The rest of the travelers were stopped to allow a group of people with garlands in their hands to greet him. They bowed, sinking at his feet, and he, obviously bored, allowed them to place the garlands around his neck. Immediately he whisked them onto the arm of a servant, which was bent like a hook.
“Please wait.” A guard blocked Terey’s way while letting through a big Cadillac that sped across the landing field, bouncing on the grass.
“It seems there is a ban on entry to the airport,” the counselor said, surprised. “The gate is closed.”
“He has the golden keys that open all gates.” The guard seemed to be counting on his fingers. “That is the Nizam of Hyderabad. It was he who caused the delay.”
“I know, I just found out, who is accompanying you.” He kissed Margit on the lips. “I wanted to give him a piece of my mind. He has cars like that and he can’t be on time?”
“He was napping and no one dared wake him. His secretary said, ‘Fly when you must, but have another plane ready for my master.’ And because there was no other, we waited. Anyway, he is a nice little fellow. He was constantly turning to me and sending fruit by way of the servant.”
“And you are enchanted.”
“Yes”—her eyes brightened—“because I see you.”
He handed over the baggage checks. The attendants took them and a moment later dragged the suitcases to the car. Istvan took Margit’s hand and looked at the sky; it was drooping under its burden of purple. The intoxicating lavishness of violent tints drifting above them also moved the Nizam; he stopped the Cadillac and leaned out without alighting. Two doors were opened wide and held in place by servants in uniforms fit for field marshals.
Istvan felt the girl’s fingers, which he was holding tenderly, entwine themselves tightly with his. Reflected purple light fell on her face, tingeing with lilac lips parted in delight.
“Look. Lose yourself in the madness of the sky,” he whispered. “Those fires mean wind tomorrow, strong, hot wind. Do you know what is happening in Cairo? There are glows in the sky there as well, but it is man’s doing. Look there, Margit. The sky seems to sing with flame.”
She turned toward him. The sky was nothing to her. He saw an enormous devotion in her eyes.
“Listen: if war breaks out…would you have to go back? Or perhaps you all would be interned here,” she said as if thinking out loud. “India will be on our side. Then you would stay with me.”
Chapter XI
If Margit had not wanted to go to the reception — after all, she had no compelling reason to go — she would have resisted their urgings and stayed with me, Istvan argued to himself as he walked out of his house alone. But since she has come to Delhi to stay, and the dean invited her, it’s only fitting that she go and mingle with the professors. In the evening I will have her all to myself. How long can a party like that last? She cannot be the first to rush out or they would say straightaway that she was shunning them. Well — an hour and a half. Two at the most.
Perhaps I could drop in on Nagar. Surely he is with the Russians; he was invited. That’s all right. I’ll wait. I like the barking of the teletype. I’ll look over the latest communiqués. I may just find out something. Nagar will tell me how it was at the Soviet embassy, because the correspondents will also be pressing the Russians for information about what is happening in Hungary.
The sixth of November; the thirty-ninth anniversary of the revolution. A coolish evening, with air like the taste of light wine when it leaves a sour bite of fermentation on the tongue. Wide lawns, leaf-sprinkled basins with sluggish fountains, cloying the eye with the melancholy of autumn. A yellowish-green sky with morbid veins of red. Now and then the falling of a heavy drop of dew. The music of the insects, now growing faint. Sometimes from far away, like a paltry imitation of it, the brief, importunate jingle of bicycle bells and the bleating of rickshaws with rattling motors. He walked along the edge of the road. He had left the car at home; he had nowhere to hurry to.