Istvan looked at their faces, which were brightening with the smiles of partners refining a strategy. They had come to terms; they understood each other. “You are a formidable man, Mr. Chandra,” the counselor said quietly. “After what you told me that night—”
“I? Ah, yes.” The lawyer waved a lean hand, ruffling a stream of smoke. “Do you mean to say that business ventures with me are hard to bring to termination? Well, yes. But, indeed, you know my specialty: I am a philanthropist. Should I not occupy myself with the affairs of a poor woman who is expecting a child and who has twice lost her husband — especially when I see danger threatening her?”
“An unusual case.” Kapur turned his head, puffed out his hairy cheeks, and sniffed.
“Only unusual cases interest me.”
“Does the rajah know of this yet?” Istvan asked.
“The later he finds out about it, the better for everyone. One worry is enough for him. I am not asking you to keep it a secret, though I think good judgment dictates that we keep it confidential for a time. Why put pressure on him? Am I right?”
It seemed to Istvan that he knew what the lawyer was thinking.
“It will be safer that way,” the doctor affirmed. “I will go to the widow today. I will examine her. I want to be certain.”
“Conditions vary with women. But since she wants a child”—Chandra seemed to be talking to himself—“she can always have one.”
“Time has passed since the death of her husband,” Kapur reminded him. “A child cannot be born too late, for they will question it. And they will win.”
“And in the seventh month?”
“It is easy to recognize a premature one,” the doctor warned.
“These considerations are theoretical at this point,” Chandra cut in. “In case…For the time being, she expects a child. A normal pregnancy. The third month. I want to have that from you in writing.”
Istvan listened with aversion. After all, they did not have to hide what they were saying from anyone. They spoke of assistance and care — matters which were not in conflict with the law.
“Attorney, you enjoy appearing in the role of fate.” He looked into Chandra’s dark, murky eyes.
“Fate? And what is that, properly speaking, if not my intention?” Arrogantly he tilted his face upward. “Faith…gods…I am not the tool of predestination. I direct it, my dear sir. I can enlist the gods in my service.”
“You are fond of money, however, and in the end it is the goal,” the counselor insisted.
“You wound me! For me it is only a means. I despise it, so it is pushed into my hand. I punish some by taking it from them and reward others by giving it to them. I love to prepare surprises. I thought you appreciated my disinterestedness. If you found yourself in a predicament…”
Suddenly there was a clink as the boy put down his spoon.
“Let’s go, uncle.”
“Perhaps you would like one more helping?” Chandra tried to pat him but Mihaly moved back, avoiding the touch of the bony hand that, like a reptile, executed a half-circle in air blue with smoke.
“No, no. I want to go back now.”
“I often think of you, Mr. Chandra—” Istvan said under his breath.
“Good. I also have a sense that you are trying to summon me,” the lawyer cut in.
“I think you are very unhappy.”
“I? That is foolish! I have everything I want.”
“You would like to be loved, adored. All you possess is paid for. You buy friendship, women, even the blessing of a beggar.”
“Not true!” His voice rose. “They must be grateful to me. I fulfill their desires.”
“Uncle, I will wait in the car.” Mihaly pulled away as if in terror.
“We’re going now. Goodbye, doctor. Goodbye.”
Chandra squeezed his hand with unexpected force.
“Before long you will be the unhappier one. That is my prediction. You will always find a confidant in me.” He looked Terey in the eye almost beseechingly. “I myself will attend to your affairs.”
Istvan turned and moved impatiently toward the door. Mihaly ran ahead, dragging him by the hand. “Uncle, that is a bad man,” he whispered. “He will do something awful to you.”
“He can’t do much. The worst injuries are those we inflict on ourselves.”
“Uncle, you heard about the girl who was given an apple by the witch. She bit it and slept as if she were dead. Or she gave her a comb that she fastened in her hair and forgot who she was. Or she pricked the girl’s little finger and squeezed out a small drop of blood, and then she put that finger to her mouth and drank all her blood…and there was no trace of a wound. Or she took hold of her blouse and twirled so long that it strangled her — the girl’s own blouse — and she was sitting between her parents, but they could do nothing to help her. Or the witch led the girl to a great mirror, and when she looked at herself, the witch gave her a push and the mirror closed behind her. It was mute and never told anyone where she was. I know he would be able to do that, and even worse things,” Mihaly insisted. “That’s why I wouldn’t let him give me anything.”
Terey listened uneasily. Mihaly seemed to be babbling like a child with a high fever, muttering to himself. He touched the boy’s head: it was cool.
“After all, you know, those are fairy tales,” he said. “You weren’t afraid of an elephant, but you run away from an old gentleman who wants to treat you to some cake? Mihaly, what happened?” he asked, trying to calm the boy. He looked at the street full of bicyclists and motorcycle rickshaws and scattered them with the blare of the horn.
“I was eating my ice cream,” the boy stammered, curling up on the seat of the Austin, “and suddenly I was afraid. His eyes seemed to suck the life from everything, even your smile and the taste of my ice cream. Because of him my heart seemed to stop and even the spot of sunshine on the table went dark. Something cold comes from him. He’s like a dead man.”
“No. He’s just an unhappy man. He has a great deal of money. He helps people.”
“His money is a part of the plot,” the boy whispered with fear in his eyes. “It takes more money from other people’s pockets and it returns to him before midnight strikes. And if you tried to stop it, it would turn into dry leaves or cockle shells.”
All at once Istvan realized that Mihaly had a gift he would look for in vain in his own sons: fantasy, the ability to create. He was moved by the receptiveness of the boy’s imagination. Perhaps India had embedded itself in him so that in years to come, when he was a grown man, he would remember today’s encounter and a feeling of dread would creep over him, with Chandra in the character of a servant of dark forces. Were his instincts already telling him that? After all, Istvan himself also had moments of unmitigated loathing for the attorney who was so ready to be helpful.
The sky took on a green tint and began to cool. A gust of wind shook the huge papaya leaves. Young Sikhs with topknots like girls’ released a red kite in the form of a vulture. A pair of spotted puppies nipped at each other’s tails. A benign chill rose from the earth; the brief twilight came on and the first stars, as if just washed, appeared above the horizon as the heat dissipated.
I would like to live on in this boy’s heart…Suddenly it seemed to him that it was not in his sons but in this child that his legacy would remain — that it was not through blood or genes, but through words spoken in confidence, intimate revelations, that the boy could inherit his traits, his desires and hopes. I am like a cuckoo, pouring into the absorbent mind of the child my own restlessness, goading him to spread his wings. Indeed, Mihaly had once said with a rending sigh, “I want to be like you, uncle.” Anyway, he doesn’t know me, he thought, smiling to himself. He creates his own version of me. He imagines someone much better, much purer: his ideal.