Istvan felt himself filling with bitterness; rage and grief stabbed his heart like a glass splinter. They have disposed of me. Smeared me. The dispatches have gone out urging that I be recalled. I have been pushed out of Delhi by some clandestine maneuver. Like a stupid, naive puppy I believed they were well disposed toward me. I went away with the girl; I put the evidence in their hands myself. Only one of their calculations failed: I came back. Now I’ve caused trouble for them.
He looked at the sweeper. The thin dark arms wielded the broom and wiped the dusty window screens with a damp cloth. Istvan thought of wind-up toys with broken springs; a few movements, a few shudders, and they stop as if astonished that the end is already here, that they are suddenly lifeless. The sweeper wrung out the cloth and reddish dust colored the water so that blood seemed to be dripping from the rag onto the windowsill.
He was grieved for the servants. He was the only source of subsistence for them and for their families, whom he had never met — the whole contingent of wives, mothers- and fathers-in-law and more distant kin. They were assured three times a day of a fistful of rice carried quietly out of his kitchen; he was, as Pereira said obsequiously, their father and mother. Even apart from the matter of food, he was a gift from fate.
What would happen to them now? For the time being they had a little savings; they could parcel it out, ration it, use up what remained from the past — and then? In clean, starched shirts they would make the rounds of the embassy staff, press bribes into the hands of people as much in want as they were themselves, speak ingratiatingly, plead in servile accents, for cooks are powerful; their patronage leads to the kitchen, with its delightful aromas of dishes cooking, where rice is not weighed before being poured into the pot or the heaping spoonfuls of flour for the chapati counted. To live is to attach oneself to a foreigner again. Files of effusive testimonials are not enough; one must promise a steady stream of payback from one’s wages to those who can help one to a job. They will pay for the very promise of work, for the hope that will keep them alive.
“Before I leave, I will try to find you a place,” he told Pereira, who repeated and translated the words. A glow seemed to fall on their faces; they bowed, raising prayerfully folded hands to their foreheads. They thanked him and blessed him.
The telephone rang. Margit wanted to know if everything was in order in the house.
“I’ve been recalled,” he said helplessly.
“Very good!” Her voice was clear, even challenging. “I expected that. Surely you’re not worried about it. Yes, Istvan, it’s time to bring the issue to a conclusion.” After a moment’s reflection she added, “What do you intend to do? Don’t decide anything until I come to you.”
“I must see the ambassador. And they are just beginning to clean the house. Margit, I’ll let you know when I get back.” He was almost pleading.
“Be calm. Keep your anger under control, do you hear? Remember, I’m with you. I’m waiting. Think: already they’re unimportant to you. You don’t need them. You’re free, do you understand? At last you have the upper hand. You can be yourself! They are afraid to speak, afraid of their own shadows. What are you worried about? If you’re really upset, I forbid you to go there just now. Do you want to give them any satisfaction? To show that they have struck a nerve, that it hurts? Istvan, it’s not even worth it to despise them. You can only pity them.”
He said nothing. He rested a hand on the light blue wall. He was calm again; a cold doggedness was growing in him, a desire for a reckoning.
“Do you hear me?” She sounded distressed. “Istvan, after all, they have done you a service. You should even be grateful to them. They have decided for you. You have this behind you. Do you hear?”
“Yes.”
“They can’t separate us.”
“No.”
“So nothing has happened. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I am calm. I’m going to the embassy to give them a surprise. They thought I wasn’t coming back.”
“Well, you see, they were thinking sensibly. Call first before you go. Stiff upper lip, darling.”
“All right. I really am calm.”
“I believe you. Go!”
Without replacing the receiver he pressed its holder and disconnected the call. His self-possession really had returned; he dialed the number for the embassy. Judit picked up.
“Is that you, Istvan?” She was amazed. Obviously troubled, she asked, “You know already?”
“I found out from my servants. I’d like to talk to the boss.”
“Half an hour ago he went to his residence for lunch. He has the new Japanese ambassador with him. Ferenc is sitting in. It’s empty; there’s no one here.”
“And what’s going on,” he asked sardonically, “except for my recall?”
“I must talk with you. You have no right to accuse me. You know nothing. Istvan, are you coming back? I’m sorry to ask you that, but everything depends on how you act. Don’t burn your bridges. Come — your salary is here. It would be a shame to let it go; it will come in handy. You can exchange rupees for pounds. Don’t cheat yourself to make a stupid gesture. Take what belongs to you.”
“I can pick it up anytime. I’m going to the boss.”
“Be careful. He can’t stand you,” she whispered. Then she added hastily, “He’s afraid of you.”
He did not care what else she might say. He hung up. Now she was ready to help him out with good advice, but had she said anything when they were destroying his career? I am calm, he repeated. I am utterly calm. His sweaty hand cast a shadow on the wall.
The telephone rang again, but he did not pick it up. He was sure that it was Judit, wanting to make him see things her way. She is not bad. And Ferenc? And the cryptographer? None was bad in his own right, but taken together…One goads the other, making sure no one hesitates. They are not bad, but they are not good, not only to me but for each other or for themselves.
He came into the hall, followed by the servants’ watchful looks. “It’s one,” he said, looking at his watch. “Don’t bother with lunch. Put on an early dinner, at five. A good one; make an effort. For two people. Here’s some money.” He laid out a bill, forestalling the cook’s wheedling. “I’ll pay you tomorrow.”
“For the whole month?”
“Even if I leave.”
There was no need to explain that. He walked out to the car, which was still unwashed and bore traces of the long drive. The watchman obligingly opened the door, stamped one foot, and stood at attention. On the grassy square his wife was waving a branch, chasing away a goat that had climbed onto the garden wall and was savoring a little flower. His tension was gone; release had come suddenly. Had the issue taken on its proper proportion and stopped tormenting him?
Margit is right. Nothing has happened. He smiled at himself unexpectedly in the dusty mirror. Nothing — yet.
He made his way, unhurried, through the streets of Delhi toward the ambassador’s residence. He passed motorcycle rickshaws with little canopied roofs. Hirsute Sikhs with puffy cheeks, leaning on their steering wheels, squeezed their pear-shaped horns with languorous smiles.
He left the car at a distance from the gate. The white columns of the residence were garlanded with passion flowers; the Bajcsys’ younger son was careening around a flower bed on a bicycle. Crinkled leaves rustled under its wheels and flew among the melodiously humming spokes. The boy nearly collided with the counselor.
“Look out!” Istvan exclaimed, jumping out of the way.
“You look out!” the little daredevil answered. “This is my yard.” He sped on along the paths, lowering one foot to steady the bicycle at the sharp turns.
Hidden in the shade behind the palace stood a car carrying a small white flag with a red circle in its center. The luncheon with the Japanese ambassador was not over yet. The guard, a short man with sinewy bowed legs, blocked Istvan’s way. The sun flashed on the handle of a knife thrust into his belt.