“Smugglers of people won’t turn back for one dead man, especially a foreigner,” the young man told her with incomprehensible exhilaration. “They dissect him so he is unrecognizable and throw him into the sea.”
“Who attends to human remains?” Istvan pointed to the flashing silver crescent that was the bay.
“They will call from the hotel. A policeman will come and order the elders of the village to burn the body. He himself will not touch it, for it is not known what the man died of — perhaps plague — and he is educated and knows what bacteria are.” The young man’s white teeth showed in a winsome smile.
The blistering heat from the sand burned through their sandals and seemed to scorch Margit’s calves. As they reached the central pavilion, Istvan saw that Daniel was hanging the rinsed bathing suits on the railing. The air quivered as it rose; the melody of flutes mingled with the hiss of grasshoppers, the buzz of swirling flies, and the rippling fronds in the palm grove in a mellow symphony of holiday leisure. When they walked into the delightful shade of the hotel veranda, it seemed to Istvan that the opulence of summer was dripping like a honeycomb when a breeze fluttered the pages of the big calendar and revealed a date: December twenty-third.
“Pardon my boldness, but sir and madam are very careless.” The maitre d’hotel, dressed in starched white linen, was leaning over them. “I was observing through field glasses. You swim out too far.”
“Are you thinking of sharks?” Terey said, making light of the man’s warning. “We have become accustomed to your sign: Beware of sharks. Well — what of it? After all, we came for the swimming.”
“It is difficult to return to the shore.” The maitre d’ was still bending over them worriedly. “The current pulls hard. I was not even thinking of sharks. They have never yet attacked a white person.”
“If not to the shore, surely we could swim to a fishing boat. Its men would pull us out.”
“Unfortunately, they would not.” The man’s concern was not to be turned aside as he summoned the waiters to serve the meal. “If the sea takes a victim it desires, it also reaches for a member of the family of anyone who rescues him. After someone is drowned the catch is always better. The sea shows its gratitude. The fishermen would not rescue you, for they want to be in the good graces of the element from which they draw their livelihood. They believe this. They want to propitiate the sea.”
“Nothing is as you imagine,” Margit sighed, but just then her attention was drawn to the dish placed on the table and the beer, poured from cans, that left a cool fog on their tall glasses. “And perhaps that sadhu who was playing the gourd fife is not a beggar.”
“I don’t mind saying that it would have been just my kind of gaucherie to give him alms,” Istvan fretted. “I wanted to, but not in my bathing suit.”
“That is fortunate. He is a very rich gentleman. This hotel belongs to him, and so do a large number of fishing boats. He has warehouses for coconut meat and houses in the port.”
“And he sits by the sea and plays like a pauper waiting for pennies.”
“That prayer of his is a hymn of worship to the sea. He sees divinity in it.” He explained this as he would to children who comprehend none of the wisdom of adults.
When the waiters had left the table, Margit exchanged greetings with two elderly Englishwomen in the other corner of the veranda and asked them if they liked the place. Looking indifferently around the vast blue sky, they answered that its attractiveness, like that of the other places in the brochures, had been exaggerated. It was true that the weather was good, but it was empty and cheerless. Immediately after the holidays they were going to Colombo.
“Why did you get involved with them?” he said, quelling her friendly impulse. “We won’t be able to get rid of them. Eat.”
“I don’t think they’re happy.”
“They have bank accounts. They travel. They do as they like.”
“Too late. Everything came too late: wealth, acquaintance with the world, even the pleasures of the table. They don’t digest their food well; I heard them ask for rice gruel. But they hope to find a chink through which to escape their age. It distresses them. They don’t want to resign themselves to it. Sad.”
“And they are funny in those girlish dresses, with garish lipstick. Pearls on turkeys’ necks. They follow every Indian man with their eyes. Don’t they see how they look?”
They walked toward the blue cottage.
“They’re terribly unhappy,” she said with conviction. “They don’t believe in love even if they once experienced it. By now they only trust money.”
“And that is dreadful.” Contemptuously he kicked a coconut shell that rolled like a monkey’s skull. “They buy men’s attentions.”
She was silent, stepping lightly along the firmly tamped path covered with streaks of sparkling sand. She shook her head reproachfully and whispered almost to herself, “Everyone buys love somehow. I do, too.”
He whirled around, took her by her arms and looked deep into her eyes, where he saw the lustrous reflection of the clear sky.
“Is it so bad for you, being with me?”
“No. You know that very well,” she answered soberly. “I want only one thing: that we go to Australia and this seesawing finally ends.”
They stood in the full glare of the sun. The warm wind ruffled Margit’s skirt. Curving, feather-like palm fronds swayed above her red hair. He felt the pulsing of her blood, the fragrance of her skin, and the slow, infuriatingly calm hum and rumble of the ocean.
“Margit, you’re wise, after all.”
She gazed with anguish into his dark eyes. He looked forthrightly, defenselessly back at her. She saw the heavy line of his eyebrows, his tanned forehead, his windblown hair.
“Wise?” she repeated reflectively. “Do you mean that I feel nothing? When someone drowns, he calls for help, he thrashes about. Even when he goes under, you can see his hand grasping at the air. I know, Istvan, that you would rush to rescue him. To rescue anyone. But you don’t notice me. I eat, I drink, I sunbathe on the beach, and I sleep with you, but I’m drowning. Understand, Istvan! I’m drowning.”
He was silent. He hung his head. Their shadows joined and formed a single silhouette on the white sand at their feet.
“I understand.”
“No. At least spare me that. If you understood, you would not leave me in uncertainty. After all, I dragged you to the very tip of India. My strength is exhausted. Let’s go to Colombo. Decide on that one step.”
He looked at her with profound tenderness.
“That’s why you attached yourself to the English ladies. They are flying there.” He patted her and whispered, “Don’t distress yourself. I’ll go with you.”
Though it was a beautiful day, her eyes were clouded with sadness.
“You must not talk that way. You know it isn’t true. I am buying you. You have my body; you forget about me. You say, You are good, you are wise, you love me. And then it goes against me. You want me to end it because you don’t have the courage. I know what lies behind all those reasons you invent: Ilona, the boys. I only veil her at the moment because I am here.”
“Please understand.”
“I understand more than you.” She pushed his hands away. “That’s why this is hard for me.”
“But I’m with you,” he cried, clenching his fists in a gesture of powerlessness.
“Do you think that a condemned person is much happier if the sentencing is delayed?” she said in an undertone, turning her head toward the ocean, which advanced tirelessly toward the white beaches.
He took her, resistant and upset as she was, and kissed her temple. Gradually she relaxed and, leaning forward a little, let him lead her toward the cottage. He felt a tremor run through her; her lips were hot and dry. The sun, he thought. We lay in the sun too much. It seemed to him that she had a slight fever.