In front of him stood the dark building, like a gigantic tub reeking of tar, in which Krishan had been killed. He had not yet come here to remonstrate with the police about the woman they had arrested. And Mihaly had begged him so earnestly, had looked so trustingly into his eyes. Tomorrow, he vowed. Tomorrow. First thing in the morning.
Though it was not late, the streets were empty. The bracing chill had swept the Hindus off them. Only a seller of peanuts napped, crouching over his hot stove with his head covered by a paper bag with slits. Ashes reddened by a gust of air glimmered on his extended hand.
“Sahib,” he whined, “sahib, fresh, very tasty monkey nuts.”
Istvan bought as if fulfilling the mandate of the goodness he hoped to attain. The little pouch made from fronds warmed his fingers.
If my statement is not enough, I will ask Chandra for help. Poor Durga. Or perhaps it is better that they locked her up; he remembered the avaricious eyes of her caretaker and her cohorts, whose faces were hidden in the shadows. They promised gowns and trinkets and pushed girls toward ruin. She had lost the man she loved and her body had become useless, a vexing burden. She could dispense with it. She had lost Krishan; she had lost the world. With a leap into the fire that had absorbed the visible form of her beloved, she had made her choice: she had died.
Automobiles hurtled past. In the greenish glow of the streetlights he spied red jackets and gold braid: the officers of the president’s guard. Perhaps Khaterpalia himself had sped past him. Behind him came a huge black limousine with a small, hunched white figure; yes, it was Nehru, with his beautiful, gloomy daughter. He glanced at his watch. Ten after eight. The grand reception at the Russian embassy was just beginning.
Like a moth lured by a light he made his way toward the park, which was ablaze with the glow of headlights. The large building with its pillared front resembled an ancient temple. Two policemen in white gloves were urging the drivers of the arriving cars to keep them moving. The glow of hanging bulbs dusted the layered branches of trees whose lower trunks glittered with reflected light. Beds of salvia blazed scarlet. From a distance the tinkle of lively music could be heard, and the swelling din of guests eating and drinking.
Istvan stopped in the dusk. A group of onlookers covered with sheets of linen sat on the sidewalk, quivering in the chilly air, drinking in the unusual spectacle. Cars flowed in through the gate, bearing dignitaries over the crunching gravel toward the carpeted staircase. Other people alighted from taxis and walked with dignified steps, splashed with glare from the headlights of automobiles almost in gridlock. Women in saris threaded through with gold seemed to sail on streams of fragrance, sweet aromas of perfume and flowers. On their shoulders some wore fur stoles drooping low so as to reveal necks framed by gold collars sparkling with jewels.
On the grassy island opposite the gate a small, compact group of men in white were rhythmically shouting a slogan. No one hampered them. Istvan thought they were partisans of a new political order demonstrating in support of a revolution. There were about twenty Hindus. All at once he understood their chant and felt a pain so acute that it frightened him.
“Hands off Hungary! Hands off Hungary!”
An embassy official moved toward the wide-open gate — a tall, powerfully built man with a mane of blond hair. His navy blue suit was rather too large; his trousers fell in wrinkles onto his yellowish shoes. He exchanged a few words with the police, who called an officer over and pointed to the group of demonstrators. The officer threw up his hands in a gesture of powerlessness. The group’s shouts grew louder; guests alighting from their cars paused to listen before moving on quickly to the radiantly lit park with its holiday decor. They don’t want to spoil the festivities, he thought, and clenched his fist. What do they care about Budapest?
The embassy official returned with three Hindus. They carried, as if it were an unknown weapon, a black bullhorn with coils of cable, which they installed by the gate so that the device faced the dark street. A song spurted at high volume from the megaphone, surging with chords sung by choirs at full voice. The demonstrators opened their mouths, but their voices were lost. They stood for a moment more, conferring with each other, huddling together. At last they began to disperse listlessly, scattering into the dusk along the avenue.
He walked behind them. He wanted to know who they were and where they had come from. When he caught up with them and asked, they gathered around him in a friendly way, pressed his hand with cold fingers and exclaimed one after another:
“We are from the university!”
“Today we shouted catcalls at Nehru himself when he began saying that the attack on Hungary was justified.”
“He forgot why the English put him in jail.” Someone breathed the odor of spicy food and cheap cigarettes into Istvan’s face.
“Equivocator!”
“Defeatist!”
A slender boy hung on Istvan’s arm, entwining his fingers around his palm like a woman. Long, matted, frizzy locks of his hair brushed Istvan’s cheek as he whispered close to his ear, “Krishna Menon said before the United Nations that he could not approve the actions of the foreign armies, and called on the Russians to leave Hungary.”
“Nehru said the same thing only a few days ago,” declared another student with an angry, accusing air. “Nehru lost his nerve.”
“It is true that we are not a military power, but our strength is real. We must be the conscience of humanity.”
“How did Nehru explain this?” Terey asked. “He had to give you an answer, after all.”
“He said that the issue was complicated, that it was over our heads. That we are led by the impulses of our hearts and not by political acumen…That we should study, and leave politics to those older than ourselves,” they said, interrupting each other, full of indignation. Their sandals clattered on the damp asphalt; they walked briskly to keep warm in the chilly twilight.
“We had to attack him because he changed his opinion as if it were a banner. Then he admitted that he had only gotten the full reports today, and he said it was an act of courage for him to alter his assessment of the situation now that he knows a great deal more; that he has learned better than to rush to judgment about matters concerning which he has not thought deeply.”
“Then we began to whistle.”
“He called us a band of fools.”
“He is burned out.”
“He is afraid of the Russians and the Chinese.”
“He is in the pocket of the Russians,” they sniffed with sudden malice. “He has sold out for the steel mills they are building for us.”
“We agreed among ourselves that we would go and protest at the embassy. They wanted to give us five rupees each to go away.”
“And that fellow who wanted to pay us more to protest?”
“But what a beautiful car he had…”
“An American.”
“Not one of us took a rupee from him, either. We are independent.”
“We are young. We can afford to defend the truth for its own sake.”
They accompanied him to Nagar’s villa. They made an appointment to visit him at the embassy the next day, and asked for informational brochures. They wanted to sign on with the Hungarian-Indian Friendship Society. The boy who had held him so tenderly by the arm whispered, “And I would like to get a few Hungarian stamps, for I have a collection…”
Istvan was touched. Their impulses were so childlike, but they were sincere and full of zeal. “We are for socialism,” they assured him, seizing his hand in the darkness. “But violence is contemptible.”