Istvan unfolded one letter. At the top he saw the inscription AFP. Nagar had written.
My dear fellow,
The news has reached me that you have taken leave of the embassy. Reportedly you are marrying, in spite of previous experience. Will you be going to Melbourne? I will miss you; you know how fond of you I am. If I can help you in any way, remember, you may count on me. You are not going back to Hungary: good judgment won out. I endorse the decision. Follow my example: I lost my homeland and gained the whole world.
Yours affectionately,
Maurice
The next letter was from Chandra. He proposed on behalf of a partnership including Rajah Khaterpalia, his father-in-law, and Chandra himself that Istvan assume the role of overseer of investment in Australia — of the construction of a modern cotton weaving mill and spinning factory which they had entrusted to their old partner, Mr. Arthur Ward.
“Knowing your interest in his daughter, I think that my, or rather our, offer — for it is the result of serious deliberation, and evidence of trust — may be suitable for you. Conditions remain to be negotiated.”
Why do I hesitate, then? I would make so many people happy. How comfortable it would be to say: We predicted this. This flight has been in the planning for a long time. He is guilty. At last we have the culprit! The mission was purged of a questionable element. The ambassador was not duplicitous when he said: I have evidence. There was proof enough. One does not write such letters if some shared secret does not lie behind them, some plan for the near future. Bajcsy knew what he was doing; he generously returned the letters but kept the photocopies.
Chandra’s letter was balm to his bruised self-esteem; it held out the promise of restoring his financial independence. He would not feel like a prince consort. It would be a beginning. He felt an urge to spit into the open safe, then rush to Margit, press her to himself, cradle her in his embrace and whisper, “Let’s run away from here. Let’s go. Let’s go now!”
The cryptographer looked at him out of the corner of his eye, puffing out blue smoke that swirled in the light of the draftsman’s lamp that was burning though it was daytime. The hand in which he held Chandra’s letter fell as if the paper were lead.
“Attractive offer, eh? Will you accept it?”
He said nothing.
“When will you leave?”
“I don’t know.”
The cryptographer smiled as if he had heard a choice piece of wit.
“Perhaps you two will fly out with the ambassador.” He leaned forward and exulted. “An hour ago a message came. He was recalled.”
“Does he know?”
“No. For the time being only you and I know. Amusing, no?”
His face looked a little like the face of a cat who holds a mouse in its claws: it betrayed a vein of startling cruelty. He is sure that I, too, have reason enough to hate the man and he wants, for a little while, the company of someone of like mind.
“When will you tell him?”
“Tonight. He will be more susceptible. Believe me, he will not check to see what time the wire came. He will have something to think about until morning. So many times he kept me here like a dog on a leash because he thought something would come in. He made me watch here whole nights. He treated the machine better! Now I will take this night from him. I will pull the pillow from under his head and sprinkle hot coals on it. He will not sleep tonight.”
In this submissive man, not given to conversation, condemned to loneliness because of the nature of his work, lurked undiluted rage.
Istvan brooded. If Kádár is replacing people, the change of course will not simply be a maneuver, a subterfuge, but a sign that there is life in our country, that there is hope for Hungary.
“If they shove him off the teat, you will see him spit on Hungary, and soon he will be sick of socialism. Fly out with him and bring him in by the scruff of the neck so they will make his tongue wag about what he did. But I am afraid that while they are making sense of the situation, he will become ill and put in for treatment in Switzerland, where he stored his money. And when he is close to the money, he will recover his health. He will disappear and they will forget about him right away, but the evaluations he wrote up will still affect the fates of people like me. That is why I gave you the photocopies and plates, though you did not even know about them. He will not give you a hiding. He will have to save his own skin.” The man spoke in a voice thick with anger long suppressed.
Suddenly he went quiet; they heard a knock at the door. The cryptographer put a finger to his lips. He listened: he recognized Judit’s voice and pushed aside the bolt.
“Come. Take your pay for January,” she said. “You’ll need it.”
Istvan pressed the cryptographer’s hand and went with Judit to the cashier’s desk. He signed the only blank space on the list, which was filled out with no room to spare by the embassy staff.
“Can I help you with anything?” she asked timidly.
“Yes,” he said vehemently. Seeing her face riveted on him and her eyes filled with suspense, he smiled slightly. “It’s nothing difficult. I wanted to ask you to retain my servants for the person who will take my place.”
“Good. That’s a trifle. I’ll see to it.”
“I know. That’s why I’m turning to you.” He rolled up the slick bills that still carried the smell of newly printed money, nodded deeply to Judit, and hurried down the stone stairs that were bare without the red cocoa matting.
Mihaly stood by the car. He rubbed the fender with the handkerchief he used to wipe his nose, stepped away, and looked with approval at his work. The light on the polished metal was so bright that the eye recoiled.
“How good that you are back, uncle.” The boy smiled so broadly that all his being seemed alight. “It was dull without you. No one has time. Everyone chases me away. I get in everyone’s way. I get under their feet.” He gave a comic imitation of the voices of Ferenc and the caretaker.
“And Miss Judit?”
“She gives me candy as if I were a little tot.”
“You’re not little at all.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“No, for if there is something to buy at the market, mama sends me, and then I am big. And when I want to go to the cinema alone, they yell at me. They tell me not to go so far by myself. Little, little—” he mocked. “Hindus my age already have wives. Really! A Sikh who plays badminton with me told me that they have already found him a wife, and he is just eight.”
Istvan took the boy in his arms. He was filled with affectionate sympathy for the child who, without friends his own age, felt isolated.
“We are very busy.”
“But why is it that you can talk to me sometimes? Why don’t you think I’m stupid? Stupid—” he frowned as if at those who pushed him forcibly back into the infancy he had outgrown.
“I like to talk to you.”
“No.” The boy contradicted him hotly. “You like me. Is it true that you’re running away?”
“You’ve got it wrong.”
“Uncle, take me with you.” He raised his keen eyes trustingly, looking for consent.
“You know that’s impossible. Your father wouldn’t let you go.”
“Yes, he would, and so would mama. Is that lady going with you?” he asked with unconscious shrewdness, groping in the pocket of his pants. “Uncle, I want to give you a present.”
Istvan had forgotten the boy, forgotten about the whole world. The question returned like an echo in empty rooms: it reverberated. It rang with reproach. It accused him.
“Uncle”—the boy tugged at his hand—“wake up. Put this to your ear, only don’t open it or it will escape.” He took a cardboard box from his pocket and thrust it toward Istvan. The lid had been pierced by a pin.