“Perhaps your family has arrived? Your wife is waiting in Delhi?”
“He’d have let that cat out of the bag. He wouldn’t have kept it a secret.”
“He gave you a hint. He said that you would not be lonely.”
“You know, that’s possible.” He seized on her explanation. “They may be that idiotic with their idea of a surprise.”
In the darkness the car sped along the highway by the sea, which reminded him of a plowed field. White moths floated about obliquely like the first flakes of snow.
“Tell me — what is she like?”
“Who?”
“Your wife.”
He caught a glimpse of her chiseled profile, the stubborn line of her chin and the shadowed waves of her hair, which seemed to be submerged in water rather than in darkness.
“She’s different,” he began cautiously.
“I know: above all, she’s the mother of your boys,” she said enviously. “But if you want it this way, so do I. Will you have the courage to tell her that she will return to Budapest alone?”
“Don’t worry. I can tell her.”
“Are you still hesitating? Surely you won’t make me talk to her.”
“Leave it to me.”
“Remember — I’m with you.” She spoke as a friend speaks to bolster the courage of one who is about to meet a powerful opponent. “It’s the end of our holiday. When do we start?”
“In the morning. As early as possible.”
They drove onto the white sand on which the hotel stood. It glittered a little ominously, like camphor sprinkled under the lid of a trunk. Daniel appeared in the glare of their headlights and showed them where to park the car so it would have the most time in the shade. He had no idea that that was no longer necessary.
“Turn out the light and pull down the netting.”
“I won’t sleep tonight. Let’s listen to the sea,” she urged him. “Our last night…”
“That’s a thought.” He brought out a blanket, spread it on the steps of the cottage and covered her legs. “Do you have cigarettes?”
The zipper on her bag made a grating sound and she handed him a packet wrapped in crinkling cellophane. For an instant he saw her downturned face in the little yellow flame of the lighter.
Far in front of them the sea was a luminous white. It moved with a wet scraping and rustling as if it were diligently shifting the gravel and the sticky sand, from which water was streaming. It sighed and stuttered like a man engaged in heavy work. He put his arm around the girl. In spite of the cigarette smoke he caught the fragrance of her hair — the exciting fragrance that was so distinctively her own.
His eyes roamed over the shoals of stars and their shifting brilliance as they rose, sank, and reappeared in shimmering powdery sprays. Water rats scurried among the piles that supported the cottage, scattering the sand. The paper they had dragged in to line their dens in the furrowed edge of the mound rustled.
I have her. He stood stiffly, holding his breath. I truly have her. I have her because she wants to be mine. I find the confirmation of that in her: I have her. If Ilona has come, I must tell her honestly; I have already made my choice. It’s simple: all that’s necessary is to stand by Margit openly, in front of everyone. Let them see.
When they sat nestled together on the wooden steps in the friendly dark, it all seemed easy to him, though he knew that he would suffer, and that he would inflict pain.
She was smoking, saying nothing. Suddenly she flicked away her cigarette; it sizzled in the sand amid a spray of sparks. Fanned by an imperceptible breeze, its red tip glowed as if someone had picked it up and was finishing it greedily.
“What are you thinking?” He touched the back of her neck.
“That I’m still with you. That these days have passed so quickly that I feel cheated. Tomorrow we’re going back, and I still — what did I want to find here? What eluded me?” There was resignation in her whisper.
“You wanted to break the ties that bind me to my country.”
“And it didn’t work.”
“It did work. You got in the way of them. But it only took one conversation for them to tighten around me again.”
“One conversation, with that Hungarian of yours,” she said slowly, brooding. “And I didn’t even think…”
From behind the mane of black palm fronds the rim of the moon emerged, filling half the sky with a white glow. It floated straight toward the lighthouse, as if the flashing were drawing it irresistibly. They were silent.
“Have I lost?”
“No!” he said hotly. “You have me.”
“If only that were true. You love me, but I have no real place in your life. You even put yourself before me: you have honor and integrity, a deep sense of the obligations you’ve taken on. You respect the law. Perhaps that’s why I love you. Though I don’t want to admit it, the verdict has been pronounced.”
“Are you thinking of Delhi?”
“Yes. After all, you’ve procrastinated. You didn’t want to pronounce it yourself. You preferred that the decision come from beyond us both. You invoked it, and now you have it.”
“If a hundred ambassadors were breathing down my neck, I would decide for myself in the end,” he said with a catch in his breath. “This only hastens our departure.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do, then?” She looked straight ahead at the white windmill-like tower of the lighthouse.
“I knew from the beginning.”
He expected her to ask the next question, to probe for the truth. But she only leaned on his arm and reminded him, “All day tomorrow behind the wheel. You must rest before the drive.”
His hand was on her erect back. He led her into the bedroom; neither turned on the light. His ear caught the familiar rustling, the steps of bare feet, before she appeared out of the darkness naked, vulnerable. She stood with hands lowered as if transfixed by a sudden chill. He knelt half a step in front of her. She stood motionless so as to be near him, so his cheek could rest on her flat belly and his arms encircle her hips. “Margit,” he whispered. “My love.”
When he touched her she trembled, nestled to him, and pressed her lips to his. “I’m taking you to me as if these were the last moments of my life. As if it were all I could take into eternity.”
“Don’t say that!” he pleaded. He stroked her hips, then encircled them tightly with his arms.
She put her hands on his arms and dropped to her knees. Her firm nipples moved against him. Her cool skin slid softly against his, and in a cloud of hair her temple rested against his shoulder. Her forehead pressed against his pulsating neck and she heard the hammering of his heart; she felt his trembling. They knelt for a moment, listening to each other like horses that stand in a pasture head by head gazing at the setting sun, and only a shudder runs through the glistening reddish coats.
Morning broke, washed by a short, hard rain. The palm fronds gleamed as if they were freshly polished. The ocean danced in silver and green. “It’s as changeable as your eyes,” he said when they had emerged from the water and a light breeze was drying them.
“Our last swim.” She stood still, luxuriating for one more moment in the tranquillity of the bay.
“Stop,” he begged. “Be glad a beautiful day has begun. It’s like a good omen.”
“It will be sweltering. We’ll drive in shifts, shall we?” She bent to brush sand from her feet. “I liked that bay. I felt happy here.”
“Perhaps we’ll come back.”
She looked at him with enormous eyes that seemed to say: Do you believe that? The Angelus bell warbled plaintively; someone tugged at it as if in anger. Suddenly the ringer stopped dead, and the bell clanged off key.
Among the slender trunks of the palms, at the feet of the furrowed mound, stood a jeep. Police in shorts and red turbans were standing motionless; the high bank was swarming with half-naked fishermen swathed in white. Without going far out of their way, they saw what had drawn the crowd. The peasants’ eyes were riveted on the actions of the police as they examined faint tracks awash with loose sand.