Istvan looked at the boy — at his outstretched hand holding the gift — as if he did not understand. Finally he forced himself to smile. “You have another bird,” he said, remembering the fun the boy had had with the grasshopper.
“No. I have a cicada. I caught it on the mirror. I set it between some leaves and it flashed like a piece of the sun and the cicada flew over. It walked around a leaf and jangled and then saw why the other one didn’t answer. Will you take it, uncle? It likes orange juice and the center of the lettuce best. It takes a leaf in its little hand and looks funny when it drinks. And it will wink at you if I don’t take it back.”
He tied the box with a thread and put it on the seat of the Austin. “Uncle,” he said thoughtfully, “why aren’t I your son?”
“Because you have your father.” He took the boy’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”
“He is not mine. He belongs to the embassy. Do you hear how it jingles? It is saying goodbye to me.” Happy again, he waved to Istvan as he drove away.
For a moment longer he saw the little boy in his mirror. His hair bristled over his forehead as he stood alone in the sun on the red road.
When he reached the avenue he had to slow down. The whole width of the lane was filled by a crowd of shouting ragamuffins; dust rose from under their bare feet. Above the swirling streams of boisterous humanity a red banner with white curvilinear words in Hindi hung on two poles. Demonstrators peered into the car and rubbed its body with their fingers, leaving smudges. One threw him a flyer of thin paper that read, “Private sweepers of New Delhi: Demand payment of your whole wage, not just installments.” So something was stirring; for their work they were demanding the agreed-upon payment from their employers, not just a subsistence.
Pereira, rustling in his starched clothing with flat expanses where the iron had pressed hard, stepped around the table, waiting for the signal to serve the meal. In the center of the tablecloth stood a brass vessel holding a clump of cloyingly fragrant mignonette.
“Here you are at last!” Margit exclaimed. “What did the ambassador have to say? Do they want to send you back?”
“Yes,” he said in a voice that was not his own. He was like a man cut in two. He heard a command: Look. Well, look. You have her. You can do with her as you wish. And another: It is over. You chose, after all, long ago. Don’t be a coward.
“They want me to go back. As soon as possible. I’ll fly.”
Though his expression boded nothing good, she was still smiling gently, as if she were hiding a pleasant surprise.
“Fine. You should have a frank conversation with your wife. I’ll go with you.”
“No.” It was a stone being wrung from him, not a word. “You can’t.”
“I’ve been thinking of this for a long time. I can.” She waved a hand impatiently. “When all is said and done, they won’t eat me there.”
As if for the first time, she saw his gray face, dogged and full of pain.
“Surely you don’t want—” she whispered.
“I don’t.”
“So where am I to wait?” she cried fearfully.
“Don’t wait.” They were not words. They were boulders that took all his strength to push.
She still did not comprehend, but gazed at him in immeasurable astonishment, as if he were only now revealing himself to her and appearing shabby, detestable. She looked at him as if she could not recognize the familiar face, as if someone were impersonating him. But it was indeed her Istvan, who loved her, whom she trusted and to whom she was giving not only herself but all the future — life. Her life.
“Please understand, Margit. I—”
She shook her head and stepped back, standing erect.
“Enough. Don’t touch me. You liar. You miserable little liar.” Her tone was cold, superior. “Call me a car,” she commanded in a whisper that was worse than a shout. “Did you hear? I should have known it would be like this.”
He was silent. He did not try to defend himself. He only looked at her in despair as her breathing grew uneven and her eyes closed. She leaned against the open door.
“I don’t lie to you.”
“No. You don’t lie.” She measured out the blows with cruel calm. “You believe what you say — when you say what’s convenient.”
There was a knock on the window frame.
“A taxi is here,” Pereira called obligingly. “I have hailed it. What shall I say?”
They stood opposite each other, neither daring to take a step forward. He was racked by the pain he had inflicted.
“Didn’t you ever love me?” She bent over as if she were going to fall; she seized the door frame and steadied herself. Her head reeled as if she could not fathom her own blindness or the enormity of his actions. “Why didn’t you kill me? I could have drowned there, where I was so happy,” she moaned. Suddenly, with quick steps, she went out to the veranda.
He started to run after her, but the cook had already slammed the door of the old taxi shut and was standing with his gray head down, up to his knees in blue exhaust. Popping and roaring, the automobile started up and disappeared around the corner.
The sun, spilling through ragged leaves, hurt the eyes. Passing his hand along the wall, he went back into the living room, slumped into a chair, and hunched over. He poured some whiskey and immediately set it aside untouched. He swallowed as if something were stuck in his throat. From far away he heard the voice of the cook as he bustled about.
“Has something happened, sahib? Did I do wrong to call the taxi?”
He shook his head no, for that did not matter now. As if he had just awakened, he waved away the tiresome chatter.
“No. Don’t serve the meal. Eat it yourselves. Nothing for me later, either. Not tonight. Go. I want to be alone.”
He noticed with amazement that his face was calm; he saw it in the mirror. He managed to pay them their wages, to listen to their thanks, to assure them that they would still have employment, that nothing they feared would happen to them.
How could she say that I didn’t love her? What is this sea of pain I’m drowning in if not love? She is my life, and it is torn away from me. Most terrible of all, I myself — and she so trusting, so yielding — did it with my own hands…
Desperately he tried to remember the first step: when had he seen, been led aside by the certainty, that he was exempt — because he was different from others, because perhaps it would not count? I create the law, so I can break it. And I broke us both. One may, in a rebellious rage, break the stone tablets, tread them down in fury with a feeling of joyful liberation. One may free oneself from them. But they will block the way, threaten, speak in signs of fire.
“Till death do us part…” He heard his voice, for the organ pipes were silenced; Geza and Sandor chanted. For from the Danube country I took my strength and I will be her son — and then the words whispered by foolish lips thousands of times: I believe. I believe. I believe. Millions repeated words of commitment and did not even know why they kept those vows. Two hundred thousand went abroad; perhaps half would still return. Others believe as they breathe, without knowledge, happy as the ox and the ass over the manger. Their prayers are heard; they are not led into temptation. They would become lawmakers, they would judge, and they would forget that they will be judged.
I would have been happy with her. I would have been. I know. At the price of triple betrayal. I understood the last ring of Dante’s Inferno in the night; I knelt on the sand before the gates of the chapel built of pugged clay and cow dung, like Hindu ashrams. I heard the singsong rhythm of an unknown language, and I knew very well what they were saying — I, a future excommunicant. I don’t want it at that price.