To escape, to go where we will be happy. To take Margit by the hand and lead her. To return to my country. Let them say what they like. The whole world is of no concern to me. It does not exist apart from us. Only our looks waken it to life, and words can consolidate a more perfect, unblighted world.
One must have the courage to say: I decide. My happiness is the law. I. Margit and I. Because I want her. For her adoration, the surrender in which she herself takes such delight, has become indispensable to me.
Yet a plea arose from deep within him: Help me, I don’t want…But he did want; he wanted painfully, desired, craved. In this torment there was a disingenuous calculation: he was trying to force God’s hand, to blackmail Him. If You cannot find me a way of possessing this woman that is compatible with Your law, do not be surprised if I must break it, and it will not be my fault. I went to great lengths to find a solution.
He banished these troubling thoughts, these whinings of deceitful logic, like arguments from the chambers of hole-in-corner lawyers where dark goings-on are forever being whitewashed. Chandra greets me. Chandra offers me his services, he thought irritably. The telephone rang and he lifted the receiver, out of temper at being disturbed.
“Istvan? You invited me for today. Nothing has changed, has it?” He heard a tinge of sourness in Trojanowski’s voice.
“No. I’m glad we can chat a little.”
“Your wife is well? Your children doing well in school? Windowpanes being replaced in Budapest and scarred façades on buildings beginning to be repaired? Are you in a better frame of mind?”
“Everything is all right at home.”
“And with you?”
“Nothing wrong. I’m tired. They’ve promised me a holiday.”
“Will you dash over to Hungary?”
“No. I’m going to the seashore. A furlough in the country of posting—” he repeated the conventional form of words.
“You were born under a lucky star. I envy you. Till tonight. I am ordering the ‘wooden plate’ and red wine.”
“What time will you be here?”
“When I have sent some telegrams. One thing more — or perhaps you know already. Madam Khaterpalia’s child was stillborn.”
“What?” he cried, as if Trojanowski had accused him of something.
“Nagar said so, and he knows everything. After a visit from her doctor she felt some discomfort, and an unexpected premature birth ensued. The child was dead.”
“What happened? Such a fine-looking woman!”
“The devil only knows. Perhaps old indiscretions on the part of the rajah? How do you know that he is healthy? Money does not cure everything. Have I caught you unaware with the news?”
“It’s terrible. She had been so happy—” he whispered.
“Like every mother. Very difficult. Predestination.”
“You don’t know where she is? In a hospital?”
“Call Nagar or the rajah. I don’t know. Until tonight.”
“Goodbye.”
He put down the receiver. Poor Grace. Misfortune aimed its blows at her with appalling accuracy. So many cunningly considered measures to ensure that the one whose birth the family awaited would receive the entire inheritance: plans and calculations now set at naught. All for nothing. He remembered how, on the veranda at the club, Grace had pressed his hand to her belly so he could feel the baby’s movements. Was it mine? He trembled with alarm. No. No.
He strode nervously around the room, then called the rajah. A servant answered and promised to notify his master. His voice was serene and obedient, as if nothing had happened in the house.
“You already know?” He heard Khaterpalia’s voice. “Thank you. Grace does not wish to see anyone. Even me. Do not come.”
“You have my deepest sympathy.”
“I know. You like her.” The man sighed, and after a long silence stammered hoarsely, “She is most upset and angry that this happened within two hours after a visit from Kapur, who said that everything was okay, that the baby would be born in two weeks. There might be light pains, for the placenta was dropping, but all was well. Because of that I made light of her discomfort. Grace was suddenly frightened because it was not moving. I calmed her; I assured her that it must be sleeping. She insisted that that could not be so, that it had never been quiet for so long. The doctor did not hurry, either. And then he groped around her with his stethoscope, growing more and more apprehensive. ‘I cannot get a heartbeat,’ he said. ‘I cannot hear anything.’ And very soon the birth occurred. It was choked by the cord, which was twisted two times around its little neck. As if someone had deliberately choked it.”
Istvan could tell that the rajah was suffering, was seeing what had happened to him as a horrible injustice, as if fate were sneering at him. The hand with which he was holding the receiver was slippery with sweat. If I feel this so acutely, what state must he be in?
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. He had a tuft of damp black hair and a small face contorted as if he were crying. They said he resembled me and not Grace. I have lost a son.”
“How does the doctor explain it?”
“Does it matter? He cannot bring the child back to life. Kapur says that the fetus was small, as is usual with the first child. The mother experienced some emotional upset and the stimulus was communicated to the infant, who rotated and became entangled. But Grace was in no distress. She was so happy!”
“This is terrible. Please convey my—”
“Very well,” the rajah interrupted. “When she is calmer I will let you know. I must create a cheerful situation for her, gather friends, leave no room for thoughts of…She did not even see that child. Let the whole incident be like a bad dream. I have ordered that everything be removed that could remind her of him: the little carriage brought from London, the layette, the crib. She had already been walking around the hall with that carriage to see what it would be like. It is gone. It was not there. We did not have a child at all. These were only dreams.
“Thank you, Istvan. I knew that you…You will be the first of those I wish to see at her side. Only I warn you: speak of anything, even that you were a little in love with her, as long as you do not allude to this. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Now a few days’ quiet. Until she is herself. I will let you know. Remember, a child is in her future. It will come in a year, a year and a half. That one did not exist.”
Istvan was speechless. Magical thinking: he believes he can expunge pain from memory, make it disappear like that tiny curled body that the water of the Yamuna swallowed up.
Outside the window the garish sun beat down. The wind carried clouds of red dust and caressed the heavy coat of leaves on the tangled vines that covered the garage wall. Out of sheer force of habit he completed the last bit of writing for that day. He left the embassy with relief. Mihaly in a jockey cap with upturned visor was swinging on the unlatched gate, which scraped mournfully.
“Uncle, take me. I will go for a ride with you, uncle.”
“I’m not going home,” he answered through the lowered window of the Austin.
“You don’t like me like you used to! We don’t have any secrets anymore.”
“Get in, you little blackmailer.” He opened the door. “But I can’t bring you home for quite a while.”
Behind the small moss-covered temple, besieged by brambles and with its roof chipped like a bitten apple, the city’s gardens began. They saw long swatches of red snapdragon and green mignonette. Fields of salvia blazed such a jubilant red that they seemed to shimmer. Autumn did not hamper the luxuriant plant growth as long as hoses sprinkled the ground. He bought an armful of huge violet gladioli; their sleek chalice-like blossoms were open. Blinking in the sun, Mihaly cradled them carefully