A crowd stood on a small square, heads upturned. Suddenly a man flew out of a fifth-floor window and struck the gleaming wet pavement heavily as a sack of flour. Others in uniforms were led out and driven to a wall with kicks. A young man in a hat with an aigrette and a double-barreled shotgun in his hand hit an officer who was leaning on the wall — with a whirling motion hit him in the back so hard that the butt of the gun broke. The enraged man went on hitting with the barrel while the butt, broken off but dangling on its long strap, skipped on the pavement. Those in uniform standing by the wall stretched out their hands, explained, pleaded.
A sudden convulsion distorted the faces; they looked like children curled up in terror, calling in the darkness, “Mama…” But they had already taken the bullets. Some fell dully, their faces unshielded by their arms as they hit the paving stones. Others lurched against the wall, their backs leaning on it, marking the place with a pooling of liquid black, for blood appeared black on the screen and a cry for mercy is the black stain of an open mouth — a harbinger of the night that would envelop them.
“No. No.” A voice tense with repugnance came from somewhere in the audience. Istvan turned his head as if to see who had shouted.
Houses in flames. Tanks. A long column photographed by stealth from behind blinds. The segmented crawling wheel of a tank turning little by little to vanish beyond a house on a corner.
“I live not far from there,” he whispered in her ear, and again lost himself in what was being shown on the screen: the interior of a room; a stern, fanatical face. The cardinal was allowing himself to be interviewed in the American embassy. The sound came on, and the first words in Hungarian were followed by a voiceover in English. Margit was pleased; at last she could understand, and she nodded as if in agreement. But then she caught Istvan’s whisper:
“He summoned them to fight and escaped himself. Their blood is also on him.”
People passing over the border, a throng dragging suitcases and bundles. In the cold, in the pouring rain, their breath steamed. There were accusations, tears. Soldiers laid down their arms before an officer of the border guard. The Austrian nimbly felt the thighs of the defector, shook the inside pockets of his coat, and demanded in a terse German dialect, “No grenades? All weapons surrendered?”
Women in white caps with crosses on their bands were carrying meals to children from a field kitchen. The screen was filled by a close-up of a small, smiling face with tears on its cheeks seen across a steaming mess kit. Margit felt her eyes brim with tears; she sniffled. He could have been there — she squeezed Istvan’s hand — they could have killed him and buried him among the trees that hovered grimly, stripped of their leaves. And if he had managed to flee over the border, he would have been among those the West was hurrying to help. Joy kindled in her that he was, after all, here in Delhi, in another part of the world, far from Hungary. And he would not return there for she was stopping him, blocking his way.
“Did you see how it was?”
“Terrible.” She felt him quiver, so she corrected herself, “Awe-inspiring.”
“You cannot understand us—” he began, then went silent. From the screen a girl waved her hand toward them; she was speeding along on water skis, leaving two trails of foam. “Come on.” He caught Margit in a grip that was a little too strong. “We’re leaving.”
She rose obediently. The lights went on, illuminating the empty chairs and the tardy viewers packed around the edge of the theater, who now moved in a wave in search of seats. Steering them toward the exit, Istvan spied the pale, altered face of Ferenc, who saw him as well and followed him with his eyes. Istvan let go of Margit’s arm and whispered, “Walk faster.”
When they were in the car, he sat for a long time without starting the engine.
“What is it?” She leaned over him apprehensively. “Let me drive.”
“All right,” he agreed easily. They changed places and Margit gave him a lighted cigarette.
“Istvan — which side are you on?”
He inhaled and answered quietly, “When I talk with Ferenc, I know the insurgents are right. The same when I talk with the ambassador or with Judit. Talking with others, I think: What should be done to save Hungary from being torn apart? The survival of the nation itself is at stake. We can cease to exist. They will divide us; we will disappear from the map. It has happened even to larger countries.”
“Can it be as bad as that?” she asked incredulously, frowning. “You haven’t answered. Whom are you for?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I say that in all sincerity. And it wearies me, it drives me mad. I simply know too little about what has happened.”
The watchman with his bamboo rod lying tight against his arm welcomed them in military fashion.
Istvan sat in a chair with his head tilted and took a long time to light a cigarette. “I’m sorry you had to look at that,” Margit said.
“No. I must know. Only now do I grasp the scale of the disaster.”
“Even if you were in Budapest, you could see only a part of what was happening. Don’t despair. Think of what can be salvaged, how to get clear of this trap. Those who crossed the border have not stopped being Hungarians. They can do more for your cause than those who are gagged.”
He looked at her, blinking.
“Yes. So it would seem. For the time being, the world is moved by the tragedy of Budapest, but tomorrow they will have had enough of the refugees; they will only be burdensome foreigners. To remain in Canada or Brazil, which are offering hospitality to defectors, they must work, become like others, stop flaunting these bleeding wounds — in a word, year after year they must downplay their origins, put them in the drawer with their hidden memorabilia. It will come to this, that they renounce the very cause for which they took up the struggle.”
“So you believe they really shouldn’t have left?” She grew somber. “And you? What would you have done? Would you have taken a chance and returned to that Kádár?”
“What do I care about him? I would have been returning to my homeland. Understand: your country has never really been threatened. Your Australia is not just a nation but a continent. Only a man who is suffocating knows what an open window is. Kádár had to adopt the slogans of the uprising because the nation was calling for reforms. If he is honest enough to follow through with them, we must make every effort to support him. If he lied, nothing will save him. But that is in the future. Only time will tell.”
“You prefer to wait here—” her lips were parted. She held her breath.
“That doesn’t depend on me. I care most about something else. Margit, I love you. Remember that.”
She smiled, but there was anguish in her face. She lowered her bluish eyelids. He saw how fatigued she was, how overwrought. He felt a deep tenderness and gratitude. In her own way — a different way than his — she, too, was disturbed by what was happening in Hungary.
He got up and sat on the arm of her chair. She rested her head on his chest for a long time and they sat in a comfortable silence.
“Tell me,” he whispered, stroking her springy red hair, “how are things going at the university? Handsome fellows, those students? Are you nervous before your lectures?”
After seven he began to pace about uneasily. Suddenly he announced that he had something urgent to attend to, something he had forgotten about. Though the cook had set the table, he reached for the key to the car.
“I’ll be back in half an hour. I’m very sorry.”
Margit nodded to say that she understood, she would wait.
“Will madam eat? Everything is ready.” Pereira was perturbed. “Shall we wait for the master?”