Stone Tablets

Chapter VI

“Repeat his exact words to me again.” The ambassador’s face was porous, like a cheese sprinkled with cattle salt. A fold of puffy razor-scraped cheek drooped above his fist as he patiently calculated the level of threat. Malevolent intent showed in his dark eyes, which were swollen with sleeplessness. His thinning black hair was streaked with bristling gray like pale lichen on a dry branch.

“So Krishan shows himself ungrateful,” he mumbled. “I expected this. People like that always take kind gestures for signs of weakness. We will have to protect ourselves from his greed and stupidity, which could harm us. Yes — above all, he is stupid. Don’t deny it: stupid, for he doesn’t know that I have him in the palm of my hand.” Kalman Bajcsy stretched out a bloated paw with glistening lines of sweat and slowly squeezed it into a fist. “He hasn’t a chance of shaking us down. But a good lawyer might come in handy.”

Istvan thought immediately of the “philanthropist”: Attorney Chandra of the ageless face and diminutive, almost boyish figure, the Hindu who liked difficult cases. He did not hasten to offer advice, however, since the ambassador not only had not asked for it, but had not even confided to him the true cause of the dispute with the dismissed chauffeur.

Bajcsy’s light, airy clothing of black alpaca, long forgotten in Europe, still passed as stylish here. The edge of his collar had a greasy gleam, and when Bajcsy raised his hand to rub his balding crown, Terey spied a white salt stain under his arm.

The ambassador nodded his head and blinked. “Thank you,” he said in an easygoing tone that proceeded from a sense of his own dignity and his strength, which could destroy his opponents.

That “thank you,” which seemed to admit him to partnership, filled Terey with aversion, vague uneasiness, and a feeling of guilt. It seemed to him that he had abused the driver’s trust — that he had sold him out and received nothing in exchange, not even one piece of silver.

He walked down the hall, brooding. The secretary’s door was open, as if he had expected the counselor to pass by.

“Look in for a moment,” Ferenc called, springing up from behind his desk. “It’s getting infernally hot. The boss is going to Shimla in two days. Things will be quiet.”

“About time. He isn’t looking especially well.” Terey frowned. “The heat is hard on him.”

He did not admit that Bajcsy had not even mentioned to him that he intended to take a holiday. A sudden cheerfulness overtook him, for the ambassador’s leaving was a sign that the vacation season was beginning for all of them, or in any case an easing of the strict observance of schedules, the long stints at paperwork, the obligatory rituals. He saw opening before him the exciting prospect of freedom, an opportunity to vanish from his colleagues’ eyes. No one would object even if he took a few days away; among the staff there was a mutual understanding about such things.

“He has reasons.” Ferenc looked him in the eye. “A ridiculous affair. And he is not in the bloom of youth. Look—” he pushed aside the shade and blinding white light poured through the window—“a sky like sheet metal. It’s enough to overheat the motor of a car, let alone his old, worn-out heart. The sooner he goes to the mountains the better. We will breathe more easily.”

He let go of the shade and the scorching glare dimmed. It was a relief.

The secretary’s appearance was impeccable: his figure was trim, his collar unwilted, his tie flawlessly knotted. He was the model of the trusted civil servant who, whatever his own ambitions, is too loyal, controlled, and good-natured, even if his superior is no longer secure in his position, to give away any of his secrets, or to indulge in witticisms or gossip at his expense. He knows that such behavior might cement his popularity for the moment, but that in the hands of alert competitors it could become a hindrance, however slight, to his advancement in the bureaucratic hierarchy. For him, to know means adroitly to revise his way of proceeding, not to lapse into familiarity, to distance himself discreetly from some people while striving for the regard of others. To know, to be cognizant, above all for his own purposes, not for social display. He does not parade the fact that he is privy to inside information, of no interest to the general public, about political actions — probative measures involving discreet requital for services, or honorable removal from the scene for a time — and to secrets about the patronage that governs postings to diplomatic missions abroad. Of course, the most coveted postings were to the “dollar zone,” not within the “peace camp.”

“I have a favor to ask you, Terey,” Ferenc began, moistening the wrapper of a dried-out cigarette with the tip of his tongue. “Are you ordering very much whiskey from Gupta this month?”

“No. I have enough for a while.”

“Could you buy me two dozen? Better yet, to save yourself the bother, simply sign the form and I will do it myself.” He had already taken a printed slip from a drawer and put it in front of Istvan. “Don’t forget your identification number. It isn’t valid without that.”

“Are you planning a party?”

“The ambassador is leaving, and you will be away yourself,” he said with an understanding smile, “for certainly you want to go here and there. India lures you. All the social obligations connected with the embassy will fall on my wife and me. With the new customs barriers, alcohol has become a luxury. The Hindus gravitate to us like flies to honey. The thirst grows as the prices rise. It’s a good thing we are not obliged to pay additional duty.”

Terey, standing in front of the secretary’s desk, signed the order form.

“The identification number is easy to remember: four, two twos, and three.”

“Four, two twos, and three,” Ferenc repeated automatically. “Yes, that is easy. It is better that the boss is going away. It is healthier for us all.” He led Terey toward the door. “A ridiculous affair, but it may be the end of him. Anyhow, best not to speak of it.”

“Indeed, best not to talk freely about the matter.” He nodded, not wishing to confess that he was still in the dark about things that were evidently known to others. In the embassy, only Judit operated on the principle that she knew nothing, that each new piece of information was a surprise to her. Only the slight corrections she inserted when one shared secrets with her attested that she had known the sequence of events perfectly well, and probably much earlier. But her vocal signs of gratitude and sincere elation preserved her visitors’ agreeable illusions that she had been caught unaware and dazzled by the news they conveyed.

Curious and a little disquieted, Istvan took refuge in his office and decided to ask her some artful questions, or at least promised himself to do so. He was anticipating a busy day; a visit from Jay Motal, with his nagging pleas for an expense-paid trip to Hungary, would not be the most agreeable part of it. Fortunately he remembered Ferenc’s look of mocking gravity and his quiet, calming observation:

“Do not refuse him. Only say that the matter is being considered by several of us in turn, that we make decisions as a collegial body, and that the petitioner is notified of them at the appropriate time. The use of the plural deflects the blame and resentment. You will meet him in company; why offend him? We will let him go on expecting a miracle.”

As he looked over the letters waiting to be answered, his eyes fell on Ilona’s handwriting. He was saddened by the dull account, the detailed recital of everyday doings, the praise of their younger son’s drawings, and the complaints about the neighbor on the floor above, who had beaten a carpet on her balcony and sent dust flying into their open window at dinnertime. He could more easily imagine that roll of coconut matting falling down and blotting out the light in the room than Ilona, who would hurry to shut the window, clenching her teeth; indeed, she would never lower herself to brawl with the neighbor. It was hard for him to admit to himself that with the cooling of his feelings, every word of this letter, rather than connecting him to his distant home and embodying their affection, seemed annoying, even distasteful. He would not put in so many words the bitter thought: it is of no concern to me.

The letter fell from his fingers and lay among the other papers, the unfulfilled requests, the bulletins printed on the duplicating machine, the newspapers with circled headlines — lay in the heap of litter, mute, dispensable. It was impossible that he had erred when he took her in his arms for the first time…when he had happily put his hand on her swelling abdomen, taut as a ripe fruit, and felt the helpless drumming of tiny heels on the walls of their fleshy prison. No. No, he answered himself as he drew a zigzag with his finger in the dust that had drifted through the chinks. The sun was burning outside the window; the bluish-gray trunk of a palm slashed the sky, a metallic geyser of motionless fronds. A green fly was battering itself against the mesh, buzzing in distress. Its lament had summoned white lizards, who scurried over the wall from three sides.

“Margit.” His lips parted and his face softened as if her very name, uttered like a call for help, had the power of an incantation.

Two nights with Margit. So it was possible to have women, and then a wife and children, and finally one day discover that one had not known what love could be. With astonishment he understood how the significance of every word, gesture, look had been transformed. He felt again the rhythm of accelerated breathing, the fragrance of hair and skin, and one’s own smell, all intensified by the nearness of bodies and the warmth of the Indian night that swayed on the ghostly sail of mosquito netting.

And then that sudden sinking into sleep with his face nestled in her arm — sleep, which made him feel ashamed. A half-conscious existence, when from nebulous memories of earliest childhood the sheltering nearness of a woman’s body exuded peace. He saw the rust-tinted sheen of Margit’s hair, the blue of her wide-open eyes, the curve of her inclined head resting on her elbow.

“Didn’t you sleep?” he asked, feeling guilty and hoping that she had awakened only a moment before.

“Why, no. It would be too bad to take my eyes off you,” she whispered tenderly. “I can sleep all those nights when you won’t be with me. Those empty nights.”

And then he truly woke up. Under the wings of mosquito netting a blue remnant of darkness lingered. The yellow light of a lamp standing on the floor was fading. Not trusting his watch, he pushed aside the shade and saw the sky like a bowl of mercury, the grass without a trace of dew. He heard the cries of birds flying in pairs toward the pools around the Taj Mahal; their pipings were telling him that the approaching day would be a torrid one. He slipped the curtain into place, trying to lengthen the soothing shadow, but the glare was already squeezing through every chink, and kindling on the floor. So he sprang back and embraced Margit hungrily, as if these were their last moments.

“What, then? What happened? You see, I’m here.” She was moved; she held him close.

Then the quick, light movement of hands, the shower, the warmth of the palm sliding over the bare back in the spray from the copper sieve, so chilly it brought on a shiver. It was bracing; with faces raised they gave themselves over to its cool crystalline lash. The water smelled of the pond and mildew. It washed away the torpor of the night. Without drying himself he hastily pulled on a shirt. It stuck to his chest, but the wet spots dried quickly. By the time he raised his clenched fingers to Margit’s lips and slipped out under the vine-covered reticulated roof, it was broad daylight.

In front of the fishbowl that was the doorman’s lodge a short servant with thin legs like a crane was sprinkling the gravel drive from a watering can, deluding himself that he was protecting it from the haze of dust that had settled on the leaves. The doorman slept with his forehead on his hand; his hair hung in glistening coils on the back of his bent neck. A cat licked its back paw and outspread toes and blinked its yellow eyes in an almost roguish grin. Terey exhaled deeply: the air smelled of hay, the bitter breath of leaves, and tar. As he opened the door of his room he looked around him like a man pursued, but the servant went on sprinkling the drive with a circular motion, absorbed in his work. He did not notice that someone had passed by in the shade of the pergola. The time for waking had not come yet and the hotel guests slept heavily. He could be certain that no one had seen him.

“Counselor, sir”—he heard the discreet voice of the Indian clerk—“are you ready to see Jay Motal? He says he has an appointment. He is waiting below.”

“I’ll be right down,” he answered. But when the clerk had quietly shut the door, he sat for a moment more, rubbing his eyelids with his fingertips as if he had been wakened from sleep.

In the dim hallway, under the watchful eye of the caretaker, the lanky Hindu sat with his legs, in wide blue trousers, drawn back under his seat. His hands, dark against the background of his white shirt, were adjusting the flat, grease-stained knot of his tie. There was a watchful readiness in his eyes, which looked out keenly from behind hornrimmed glasses. He had an air that was at once servile and insolent. He was familiar with the etiquette of greeting; he was forming conjectures about what considerations would be brought to bear on his case and if the conversation about it would take place in the hall, among the dusty palm leaf fans in wooden boxes, or if he would be invited upstairs to the counselor’s office. Determined to steer the meeting toward a conclusion favorable to his interests, he rose obligingly, picked up his portfolio, which was made of torn paper mended with tape, and stepped up to meet Terey.

“Most sincere greetings,” he began, bowing his head, “and very best regards from Attorney Chandra — who would like very much to meet with you,” he added significantly, leaving Terey to conclude that the lawyer had mentioned nothing in particular and that Jay Motal, boasting of his acquaintance with officials at the Hungarian embassy, had simply been eager to affirm his willingness to convey greetings.

“Thank you. How nice to see you. We have not yet received a disposition of your case from the ministry, but I think that no news is good news — that you may hope for a favorable outcome.” He saw a glint of misgiving in the Hindu’s eyes, but the man seized the offensive.

“All ministries are alike. In ours as well it is easier for them to order an article than to tap discretionary funds for payment. I am prepared, if it helps my cause, to wait long and patiently. For the time being I am gathering materials and acquainting myself with the history of your country, especially with the issues of recent years. It is not at all easy to gain an understanding of the political forces that determined how the republic would arise. I have my own ideas, which might awaken your interest, counselor, and induce you to support my plan to write a book on Hungary. But surely we will not talk here; perhaps we will take refuge in the quiet of your office.” He took Terey by the elbow as if they were intimates and led him toward the stairs, politely cocking his head, ready to take fright at the first gesture of impatience, to withdraw into the posture of humble petitioner.

Terey allowed himself to be steered, however. He acquiesced easily to these tactics, knowing what their results would be. He only wanted to guide the discussion to a figure that would not seriously unbalance his budget.

When they were sitting at a small table, Jay Motal with quick fingers pulled a box of cigarettes toward him and placed one in a yellowed ivory holder. He waited for Terey to give him a light, taking the courteous gesture as a point in his own favor, and began to expound his theory.

“Your country is different from those that surround it. You were always a kingdom,” he began, looking the counselor doggedly in the eye. “You have many gypsies among you.”

Intrigued, Terey listened, wondering where the impertinent foolishness of this windbag would lead. The writer, forgetting about the smoldering cigarette, unfolded his vision of the formation of the Hungarian state. As gypsies unquestionably descended from inhabitants of Rajasthan attested, it must have come from India and — after centuries of migration and conquest — eventually reached the fertile Danubian plains. Acknowledgment of blood kinship was the greatest compliment, and there were proofs: the predilection for raising oxen, for violin music, for dancing, with the hand beating the rhythm on the heel of knee-high boots…though here in India, high boots had been replaced by wide leather straps over the ankle, hung with bells and rattles. And the long observed and respected division into aristocracy and peasants was a distinct reflection of the caste system.

The tone of this recital, which was supposed to dazzle the counselor, changed imperceptibly. Now the man was saying that his services were much sought after by the Germans, and that they would be delighted for him to write about the Federal Republic, rebutting the stubborn calumnies it had suffered from nations genuinely harmed by the late war, but unsophisticated in their thinking, incapable of a proper appreciation of Germany’s historic mission and the magnitude of the sacrifice that heroic nation had made to save a free — what an expressive accent he placed on the word! — a free Europe from the onslaught of Bolshevik barbarism.

He described the difficulties of extracting the truth from conflicting analyses, from the sources that were eagerly pushed forward. He implied discreetly that he was ready at any moment to hear the enlightened counsel of qualified people, but that the memoirs of such distinguished personalities as Churchill certainly provided material for reflection, especially the cutting designation “Rakosi and his gang.” It would pain him if his lack of knowledge were used to the disadvantage of Hungary, with which he felt such kinship. But the Germans had shown great interest in his creative projects and were prepared to support him financially, and he must unfortunately take that into consideration.

“How much better it would be”—he spread his hands as if in benediction—“if the embassy would arrange a journey to Hungary for me and pay for a three-month stay. If I could see the changes resulting from the revolution at close range, I could form my own opinion and marshal unassailable arguments which, when published in the Indian press, could promote friendship between the two nations and spread progressive socialist thought.”

His sing-song speech, naive inventiveness, and timorous faith that he was charming the counselor, securing support and perhaps even money, aroused pity. He knew how to use his gift of expression; his politeness and readiness to concede a point were ingratiating; he was inclined, like a bird, to be satisfied with a seed graciously thrown, providing the stooping to retrieve it did not require too great an effort. He had already stayed much longer than he had intended, watchfully observing the counselor’s varying moods. The coffee served by the caretaker bolstered his certainty that this was his lucky day.

The sun burned behind the curtains. The cicadas stirred the sultry air with the fluttering of their wings until the silvery jingle became anesthetizing.

Jay Motal, playing with a pack of cigarettes, was just signaling his intention to force the question of a small advance when the telephone shattered the drowsy atmosphere. It was Pereira. He had never called the embassy before.

Terey was gripped by a fear that something had gone wrong at his house. He thought a servant must have gotten into a brawl with the Sikh neighbor. He had often been told of the bearded warriors’ fits of rage, set off by the very raising of a finger toward the sky, which signifies noon. At that time their wits wander as the sun goes to their heads, which are overheated by topknots of hair, untouched by scissors, and thickly pleated turbans. He saw a blackening corpse on the concrete yard and a silent circle of figures draped in sheets. Meanwhile Pereira’s languid voice apologized interminably for his boldness in disturbing sahib at work.

He wanted to put an abrupt end to the polite verbiage that trailed like a peacock’s tail when he noticed that his visitor was watching him closely, trying to gather whether the telephone call was undercutting his case, influencing the counselor’s treatment of his request.

At last the cook, as if unwrapping a gift from a flowery scarf, lowered his voice and said, “That lady is in the bathroom. She asked not to speak to anyone, only to leave her things and come back in the afternoon. I ask, should I keep her here? Serve tea? I considered it my most pleasant duty, in spite of her stipulations, to let you know.”

His tension dissolved; Margit had arrived. He wanted to run. He was filled with joyous impatience. Let the devil take the whole embassy! He could disappear for an hour. There were no problems requiring immediate solutions. There was only this would-be freeloader. He would have to get rid of him.

“Of course, keep her there. Receive her as I would do. I’ll be right home,” he told Pereira. He hung up and looked around for a cigarette. Jay Motal grudgingly pushed him a pack he had marked for his own.

“Please submit your ideas — which, by the way, are most interesting — to me in written form. Please provide a clear conspectus of your work, point by point, without dwelling on details. That will expedite the decision.”

He saw the Hindu’s face turn to stone. Jay Motal sensed that his labor was wasted, that an agreement about the journey he dreamed of would be put off yet again — his flight from India to the gentleman’s country, to England. Hungary was a stage in that exodus. If only he could reach Europe! That was not a vast continent like Asia: from Budapest, from Prague, he would be so close to London. He knew that it was much easier to create the yet-unwritten book with the ring of the voice, the wheeling gesture of the hand outlining its structure in trails of cigarette smoke, than to hammer out an outline of it. He feared the sardonic winks the embassy staff would trade behind his back as they ruffled through the papers on which would be written the synopsis of the future book. He fell from the height to which he had soared — the limit of his hopes — like a bird shot down, and the wings of his eloquence fluttered despairingly.

“That will require additional reading and the exclusive concentration of my attention on Hungarian affairs. It will occupy a great deal of my time,” he began.

It was clear from the counselor’s approving smile that that delay precisely suited his convenience — that in fact he was counting on it.

“It is only that work on the conspectus would limit my freelance earnings. I must refuse all orders for articles and perhaps even alienate my friends at the ministry with that refusal.”

Yes — but that way lay defeat. Despising himself, he wondered what madness had induced him to expound on the yet imaginary book in such detail, to show the opponent his cards. He had lost. He must grovel, must beg. But he was spared that, for the counselor was in a hurry.

“Dear Mr. Jay Motal, I was perfectly aware of that,” he said with businesslike gravity, “and for that reason we are of a mind to give you an advance — a modest one, for it is a question of an outline, only a few pages long, of a work not yet written, for which we will probably remunerate you as it progresses. Well, for this we will give—” he saw the Hindu’s hungry look, saw as his eyes seemed to ooze through glasses smudged with greasy fingerprints. Motal moved his lips like a dog when a tasty bit of food is shaken in front of its nose. Terey was sorry for him. Thirty rupees; well, fifty.

But the Hindu was a good sport. He swallowed the unexpected promise of an advance without flinching. He saw the coming months as a row of rooms full of lights, where across every threshold a hand waited to count out bank notes. His childish joy mingled with calculation and a complacency that impelled him first to take what was offered, and only then to ponder how to extricate himself from his obligations.

Terey did not unleash a new torrent of talk, but only reached for his wallet and counted out the money. He asked for a receipt. Those simple actions brought a natural end to the conversation. As he was conducted to the hall, Jay Motal thanked him profusely for understanding that he was acting from the best intentions, and for his support. Istvan stood without smiling, imagining what it would be like if with one nudge of his knee he could kick the man out of the embassy into the blistering glare.

He did not return to his office. He only telephoned to apprise the secretary that he had an appointment in the city and was going out.

“For long?” Ferenc asked.

He wanted to shout, “Forever!” But he mastered himself and assured him that he would either be back after an hour or call to inform him if he had to prolong the interview. As he climbed into the car, he glanced at his watch. Not even ten minutes had passed since the cook called; only to him did it seem much longer.

When Istvan put on the brakes in front of his gate the watchman, in a floppy linen hat, locked his knees with their pink scars, beat on the cracked ground with his bamboo stick, and announced with menacing movements of his jauntily twirled-up mustache, “Milady is here.”

He had hardly pushed aside the vines when the cook, who had been watching the door, appeared like a specter and whispered, “Milady is drinking tea.”

They were handing him off one to the other, making signs like partners. Both announcements had the ring of bandits’ speech: we have her. Istvan did not fail to notice that the cook appreciated the significance of this visit: he was wearing an unpatched shirt of immaculate, gleaming white.

“Will madam be here for dinner? Should I buy something good?”

“I don’t know. But best to buy something. How much shall I give you?”

“Nothing, sir. I will take my money and bring back the bill.” There was indulgent compassion in his look, as if he were a mother and Terey an only child who had just broken a vase. “That is a real lady.”

Seeing him come in, Margit rose and extended both hands. There was an enchanting freshness and simplicity about her. Her modest dress in a vermilion pattern was pleasing to him. He remembered that they had chosen the material together under the arcades at Connaught Place. Her tawny complexion and heavy plaits of hair, so easy to arrange in becoming ways, were alluring.

A sudden radiance lit her blue eyes, and her mouth seemed to invite a kiss. He embraced her, rocked her lightly in his arms and caressed her with his lips. She rested her temple against his cheek and clung to him with her whole body.

“Oh, Istvan, Istvan, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” she lamented, nipping softly at the end of his ear with her teeth. “When the professor said he was coming to Delhi, I asked, I pestered him. Connoly, decent fellow that he is, promised to stand in for me.”

They sat down beside each other. She held his hand tightly, as if she were afraid he would leave her. She told him of the arrival of a UNESCO commission which she was going to meet at the airport the next day. The program was limited to official ceremonies at which she should appear, maintain a presence, and offer to help entertain the visitors. Afterward she could disappear before she was caught up in the rituals of hospitality, the customary sightseeing of the city arranged by the hosts. She was only certain of having a free afternoon and night; she spoke of that openly, as if it were of equal importance to both of them.

“You will stay with me,” he said, looking her in the eye. Her irises were crystalline as fruit drops; he remembered the rattle of the tin scoop in the glass jar as the shopkeeper spooned them out. He had looked at them regretfully as they dropped onto the scale, for there were always so few in the little horn twisted from torn-off paper.

“Would that be wise?”

“Pity we’re not Hindus. We could write everything off to predestination. I want you to stay.”

“And I want to. You see that I came straight here. But won’t it cause you trouble at the embassy? Won’t everyone know?”

“If I know India, no. As things are, they had better get used to your being in my home, and without this smack of secrecy. You will be here, quite simply, as if it were your own house. That’s the way it’s going to be.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. After all, you have a wife. She may be far away, but she is your wife. People who have a regard for her will tell her. The situation will be painful.”

“So what do you advise?”

“You mustn’t change your schedule in the least. I can wait here or come at dusk. You can pay the servants for their silence. It’s easy to make sure you are in their good graces.”

“Confess: have you done that already? The cook called you a real lady.”

“I gave him two rupees for carrying in the suitcase.”

“And the watchman got something for opening the gate? Now I understand everything. You walked in here like a princess.”

“Did I do badly? It’s so easy to give them a little happiness. I wanted them to feel my joy.”

He looked at her and was delighted: the straight nose, the light arch of the eyebrows, the darkened eyelids. How he loved her!

“Don’t go to sleep.” She took both his hands and, pressing them with her fingers, drew him toward her.

“No.” He shook his head. “I was thinking how to force them to keep quiet. Probably I will frighten them a little so they will keep each other in check.”

“Will that help? We have a battle ahead of us, and we can only count on ourselves.”

Her fingers were moist from clasping his hands. When he bowed his head and touched them with his lips, he noticed that they smelled of medicine and nicotine. She smoothed a tuft of his hair — as one strokes a horse, he thought. He caught the subtle fragrance of her dress, of linen heated from the sun, which reached through the window like a white ingot. He felt the warmth of her thigh as he leaned against it, and a tingling swept over him.

“If you feel like it — only for a little while, even a moment — lie down with me.”

“I do,” she answered with such a jubilant readiness that he felt a catch in his throat. “But is it worth it for a moment?”

He laughed happily and helped her unfasten the back of her dress.

“Perhaps you’d at least lock the door. It’s still daytime.” She nestled against him.

“No one comes in here,” he murmured with his lips pressed between her breasts, though he was not certain of that at all, for he knew how stupid the servants could be. He thought of the car, which he should have driven into the garage, of the key, which could be turned to open the door, yet he could not tear himself away from her. He drank her in like a man wandering in the desert who finally finds a spring and falls on it with open lips. He saw that her eyes were open wide, filled with delight and receptiveness.

They rested, lulled by the double echo of the toy peddler’s fife and the shrieks of children in his wake. Silence returned; there was only the seller of ice cream crooning his song of praise, “Frozen cream, very good, sweet like honey, vanilla, pistachio.”

The watchman brandished his cudgel and with a hoarse cry drove some boys away from the Austin. The splash of water from an opened hydrant formed a counterpoint to the jingle of crickets. The young banana trees were drooping from the heat; evidently the gardener was trying to revive them.

They felt a profound release. They were not hurrying anywhere; they were not even clinging to each other. They knew they were comfortable, ready. Their breaths could mingle, their lips touch, their eyelashes brush. “That was good,” she said drowsily, putting her knee on him and stroking him lazily with her foot.

The telephone rang for a long time, but neither picked it up. They wanted nothing but each other. The world flowed by in soft notes that penetrated the walls of the house and died away, to repeat themselves in the mind again after a while.

Margit was still combing her hair when he went out to the dining room. He saw the table set, the tea kettle swathed in a towel, and fresh flowers: snapdragons of rust and yellow. There was no one in the kitchen. Through the window he saw the servants sitting crosslegged in the shade, resting against the wall, amusing themselves by throwing a knife. The old soldier — the watchman — hit a matchbox set several paces away on the trampled path. He saw Terey through the windowpane and made a sign to the cook, who ran up full of reproaches.

“Why did sahib not ring for me?” he exclaimed accusingly. “I would have waited. But everything is ready for tea. The painter Ram Kanval telephoned to ask if you were coming. I did not know how to answer. He insisted that he would wait on the street corner. It is not easy to find his house.”

Terey looked at the forehead creased with care, the gray stubble of hair, the eyes dimmed as if with fog.

“Listen,” he began gravely. “Do you like being in my house?”

Pereira folded his hands prayerfully and beat them against his scrawny black chest until it rumbled.

“Sir, you know that you are my father and my mother. I and my family live in your shadow.”

“What happens in this house remains between you and me. It is enough that the two of us know. I have a diamond ring, and you should be happy that you have a rich master. Do you understand?”

The black eyes glittered from under raised eyelids. He understood.

“But not everyone must know of it, for there are many who are jealous and greedy.”

“Oh, yes, sir, there are many bad people.”

“So if I hear from my friends, who hear from their servants and they from you, that you are talking about my ring, the price of which you do not know, you may not return to the kitchen again, even if the door is open. I will take another cook who will work for me and be silent. Do you understand?”

The cook looked at him attentively, broodingly.

“And if the sweeper — for he is able to enter the rooms — and the watchman — he walks around the house at night and sleeps on the threshold like a dog — if they let the cat out the bag?”

“Warn them that I will dismiss everyone, for I like peace and quiet. And you know, cook, that I do not speak for the pleasure of hearing my own voice.”

“Yes, sir,” he said worriedly. “What time should dinner be?”

“At nine. Make the bed in the spare room. Milady is my guest and will spend the night here,” he said with quiet emphasis. “You are a wise man, not young. Remember what you said after you welcomed her: ‘That is a real lady.’ That is what I want you to say even when she leaves this house in the morning.”

He saw beads of sweat on Pereira’s forehead. A diagonal shadow slashed the blind yellow wall of the yard. Large tin bins gave off the bitter smell of fermenting peelings; big winged cockroaches whirred under the lids.

The concrete had been wetted down and was drying unevenly. Istvan smelled the sickening sweet odor of manure from open sewage ditches. Languid, throaty voices came from beyond the wall, and, from farther away, the tinkling of bicycle bells. The hour was approaching when people would swarm out of work and the road would be overrun with packs of cyclists, arms round each other, pedaling lazily.

“Should I serve dinner at the table?”

“Yes. Only wash your hands. You’ve been leaning on the ground,” he commanded, and went to his room for Margit. She greeted him with a conspiratorial lowering of the eyelids and parted her lips as he poised above them like a hawk.

“Come: a ‘very aromatic cup of tea’ awaits you,” he said invitingly, mimicking the cook. “You can even spoil the taste with a spoonful of fresh cream.”

“Don’t let my unexpected arrival disrupt your schedule for the day,” she said, munching toast with orange marmalade over melting butter. “I’ll gladly wait for you here. But I’d be happy if you could take me with you, so we wouldn’t be separated, if only—”

“I was supposed to visit the painter — Ram Kanval — but I can call that off at a moment’s notice. You know him. He was at Grace’s wedding. He helped us buy the sandals.”

She looked at him with eyes alight.

“It would be nice to pay Grace a visit. After all, you are friends.”

“I don’t know if the rajah has taken her off somewhere,” he said, wishing to defer such a meeting. “They are always traveling.”

“Find out. Call. She would be hurt if she knew I was in Delhi and didn’t look in on her. I wonder if marriage agrees with her. Has she changed much? She’s really an Englishwoman, not a Hindu.”

“So I thought, but you will not know her now. She is an orthodox Hindu. From the very day of her wedding I’ve lost contact with her,” he hedged. “With him as well. He stopped spending time at the club.”

“Confess.” She wagged a finger. “You were a little in love with her. Nothing strange about it; she’s lovely. If I were a man…”

“I didn’t know you then,” he said, seizing on a sincere justification.

“If her marriage pained you that much, we mustn’t go there,” she agreed easily. “Only take me with you now. Will that painter tell the whole city about our visit?”

“I don’t think so.” Better an excursion to old Delhi than an evening at the rajah’s, he thought. He was afraid for Grace and Margit to meet, afraid of the sparkle of happiness in Margit’s eyes and the little, impulsive gestures of intimacy that a jealous woman understands at once. “Good. We’ll go to Kanval’s studio.”

All the servants were sitting by the blind wall of the yard, carefully observing their departure. So they saw at a glance what was happening, and cleared out of the house after finishing their duties to leave us at our own disposal, he thought, and was pleased. Well, we will see; if he manages to make them the guardians of our secret, I know how to reward their silence.

As he drove the Austin, passing cyclists hurtling along in fluttering white pyjamas with a swinging motion like butterflies in flight, he saw Margit’s hands in a patch of sunlight shining through the windshield. They lay so near that he could hardly keep from taking a hand off the steering wheel and stroking them. He had to slow down on the old stretch of road; the car floundered among the tongas, whose drivers did not give way, though the blare of the horn disturbed them. They rose and looked around helplessly but had nowhere to move, so they huddled down again on the stout shafts between the withers of the slow-moving long-horned oxen. The odor of laboring beasts seeped into the car together with the smell of manure and the acrid smoke from the fires burning in front of clay huts.

Then the real houses began, four- and even five-story houses, and a few trees, which in spite of the long drought had not lost their leaves. A new neighborhood was growing up, its streets as yet unnamed, but, as usual in India, all the inhabitants knew each other, knew even too much about each other.

He spotted Ram Kanval from a distance, standing on the curb — tall, slender, turning his head like a hen who has lost her chick. He shouted imperiously at the tongas that were bearing down blindly on the braking car, converging with a creaking of axles and lowing of oxen. The painter settled into the back seat with relief, pushed his head between Istvan and Margit, and showed Istvan how to maneuver the car to his house. The road had been dug up in a few places for the laying of water pipes and cable.

Groups of children were playing on the road; the car attracted their attention. They ran behind it, gathered around it, and stroked its heated metal body as if it were a cat. The painter appointed two boys from the neighborhood to guard it. They shouted at the girls not to smudge the fenders with their fingers.

“We live on the third floor, Miss Ward,” he explained as he walked across the threshold. “We have four rooms. My studio, however, is on the roof, in the barsati. I have more light on the roof. Perhaps you will come in for coffee?”

The doors of all the apartments opened onto the staircase. Children ran in, calling to their elders, who looked with curiosity at the Europeans.

“They are envious of such a visit,” Kanval explained, obviously flattered. “I must whisper a word to them about whom they have the honor of seeing. I really had lost hope that you were coming. Diplomats are so quick to promise, and then they disappoint. I am a painter, not a merchant or an official. I do not count in the scheme of things. I am not important to anyone.”

The cramped stairs, splattered with chewed betel nuts as if with clotted blood, led them toward the aromas of kitchen spices and scalded coconut oil. Children clung to the banisters, hoping to brush against the European clothing, which was a novelty to them.

“My youngest sister.” Kanval introduced a petite girl in a cherry-red sari, who bowed demurely. “Will you have some cake? I did not send for cakes while I was still uncertain that you were coming. They are only good if they are fresh.”

Terey knew what this really meant: the painter had not been able to afford to arrange a party. If the guests had failed to appear, his family would have reproached him bitterly for wasting their money.

“No, thank you,” he answered for himself and Margit. “We have just had our tea.”

“But you will not refuse coffee? It is just heating,” Kanval said, catching the aroma. “Allow me to introduce a few members of my family.” They were clustered in the doorway of the apartment as if they not only had no intention of inviting the visitors in, but were unwilling even to let a curious glance get past them.

“My father, the mayor emeritus.” He presented a grizzled elderly man. “My brother-in-law is a real estate broker; he sells building lots. Oh, he makes money!” he added proudly, though the tired wisp of a man in a sport coat and a dhoti with rumpled skirts, from which spindly legs protruded above his sandals, did not look wealthy. There were two sisters, both married — as the two brunette heads bent, the partings of the hair blazed red with dye — and “my younger brother, a translator, who is working just now on a commissioned translation of Crime and Punishment. The author is Dostoevsky,” he said, happy to display his knowledge.

The brother wore wire-rimmed glasses. He had the pale complexion of a man shut up in darkness for a long time and a thin mustache that grew in tufts near the ends of his lips.

“Do you know Russian, sir?” the counselor asked, grasping his soft, sticky hand.

“No. My brother translates from Bengali to Hindi,” the painter interposed.

“With the help of an English version,” the translator explained in a surprisingly deep bass. “I also cast horoscopes, but only for pleasure. Perhaps one of you would like—”

But Ram Kanval forestalled their responses.

“Another brother-in-law. A merchant, the owner of a large shop in Old Delhi. He could have one at Connaught Place, but there is less turnover there.”

The powerfully built man moved majestically, as if to make others feel his wealth and importance. He pressed their hands and rebuked his wife, who was tittering, pointing to Margit’s red hair, and whispering something to her sister.

“We will go up. There is a beautiful view from there,” Kanval said to his family, as if he were a little disappointed by the turn the visit had taken. “Send us coffee.”

“Is that the whole family?”

“Oh, no,” he laughed, as if he had heard a good joke. “There are still my wife’s parents, my wife, and too many children to weary you with counting. I have four myself, three sons and a daughter.”

They climbed the steep stairs. They were relieved to emerge onto the flat roof, into the sun.

For economy’s sake two buildings had been constructed together. Only parapets separated the roofs, forming enclosures like coops in which children were chasing each other. The barsati, a small room without a front wall that had been added onto the building like an unfinished toy, was intended to serve as a bedroom for servants in the summer. The painter had fitted it out as a studio. In place of a door he had nailed up a roll of matting. Apart from easels and bundles of pasteboard leaning against the wall, the only furnishings were a broken wicker chair strewn with a few magazines and a bed frame covered with a net of string. They walked to the edge of the roof and looked into the smoky space beyond it. The warren of buildings that was Old Delhi was darkening unevenly like a great rubbish heap. Beyond it they saw the red stony hill and the withered foliage of parks, through which the widely overflowing Yamuna glimmered with a shifting brilliance that was disconcerting.

On the flat roofs of the six-story buildings around them groups of women sat, inquiring intently about their neighbors’ lives and commenting on events like a Greek chorus. A crowd of children sat on the parapet, pointing to the extraordinary visitors. As the painter approached they fled as lightly as startled sparrows.

“Those little imps,” he said ruefully. “They have to sleep here. I am preparing for an exhibition, and they climb onto the roof and turn everything over, steal my brushes and paints and start painting themselves! I find traces of their frolics not only on the walls of the barsati, but on my own canvases.”

“Can’t you press them into service, use them as models?” Margit suggested. “Draw them into your work.”

“I have tried. The whippersnappers are indefatigable with their tricks. They spy on me, they mimic me. Neighbors complained that two sheets had gone missing, that someone had cut them up and put them on a canvas. Inevitably I was suspected. It was hell for me, for of course the little devils had hidden them among my pictures.”

He threw an old bathrobe onto the chair. It was streaked with paint; brushes had been wiped on it.

Margit, seated by the barsati wall, was finding it difficult to keep her attention focused on the paintings as he showed them; her eyes wandered over the rose and yellow walls of the distant houses, the clumps of trees, the palms with their arcing, jagged fronds lazily brushing a washed-out sky in which a few vultures hung motionless.

Terey sat by her on a pile of English magazines and old albums with ornate covers. The painter brought out paintings two at a time, leaning against the railing and looking uneasily at his guests, trying to read their responses in their faces before hearing their trite expressions of praise. The small fry crowded on the low wall between the roofs greeted each new painting with a chorus of laughter and applause, which must have irritated him greatly, for he turned toward them several times, pleading and threatening — or so at least it seemed to Istvan after the tension in the man’s voice reached a nearly hysterical pitch. Only the presence of foreign guests, a rare occurrence, restrained Kanval from chasing the mischievous little rabble away.

The pictures, in a serene spectrum of gray and rose or vivid juxtapositions of ocher, yellow, and white, contained distorted outlines of houses and human figures, or perhaps only masses of human forms draped in gray sheeting. From them came the moan of warm earth devoured by drought, and the melancholy of sudden twilight.

“He doesn’t know how to draw,” a little girl squealed in English, hopping about on the wall. The little bells around her ankles jingled like sardonic laughter.

The viewing of the pictures, the choice of some for the upcoming exhibit, seemed a torment for the painter. He switched the canvases more and more quickly, astonished when Terey stopped him. This was real painting, perhaps more genuine because it had no market in the city. Even among the artist’s own kindred and acquaintance it was seen as a wasteful obsession. To his overworked brothers-in-law, who were forced to chase every business opportunity that could bring in a few coins, the artist himself seemed an offensive idler maintained by their charity, and they were quick to make him feel it. Once in a gloomy moment he had confided to Terey that they had also turned his wife against him: she had refused to give him a carefully hoarded rupee for paints and paper.

“What do you think of this?” Margit asked in a whisper when Kanval had disappeared into the barsati. “It’s good, isn’t it? It would be cruel to praise it if you don’t believe in his art.”

“It is very good,” he answered sincerely. “This one, for example, with a girl in a green sari, covered to her eyes, and the pairs of slender figures leaning toward each other, almost transformed into a pattern of plants — everything lighted from below by the fading orange fire that always burns in this country. I’d like to buy this picture.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot sell it,” the painter said, leaning out, “but I would gladly paint madam’s portrait. I warn you in advance, so you will not be disappointed, that it will not look exactly like her; for that there are photographs. Your coloring appeals to me, the copper of your hair, the yellow dress, the violet tints in the flesh. If you find the time.”

He looked at the girl as if he were recreating her as an arrangement of lines, a heap of geometric forms painted in one dimension. There was such delight in his eyes that Istvan thought sympathetically, Yes, he would need help, but perhaps he could manage to mount an exhibit in Budapest, especially if the one in Delhi brought favorable reviews.

“And would you not sell me that grayish-blue landscape?” Margit rose, pulling a painting from a stack of canvases that faced away from her. Their backs were covered with greasy stains that shone in the glow of the sinking sun.

“With the greatest pleasure. You have chosen well. If you will allow me, madam, I will make you a present of it after the exhibition. My paintings are deteriorating here. They have no purchasers among our people. I tell myself that we have not yet grown up. Nineteenth-century realism forms our tastes, and the English, or printers’ calligraphy, imitations of decorative folk arts, superficiality—”

“No! I can guess how much this is worth. I cannot accept such gifts. Tell me, how much.”

He hesitated, fearing to name too high a price, yet already feeling his triumph over his brothers-in-law when he should shove a coil of banknotes in their faces. Or perhaps better to say nothing, to save the money for canvas and paint, for a frame, which enhances a picture as a gown enhances the graces of a woman. At the same time he wanted to show his gratitude for Terey’s favorable regard.

“Would one hundred rupees be too much?” he stammered at last.

“No. It is worth more.”

“To a lover of art, in Europe, perhaps, but not here. Will you take it now, or may I still show it? I would place a card on it to say that it is sold, perhaps even with the price. That is how it is done: the picture will gain credence with snobs for whom the rupee is the measure of everything. It will be more attractive; it will serve as bait.”

“You might put a higher price on the card.” She shot him a conspiratorial look. “I will say that I have paid that much.”

“Provided it’s not too high,” Istvan warned, “for then it begins to have the opposite effect: he came across a gullible foreigner, he succeeded in duping him, but we are wise to such tricks.”

“You are right. Moderation is always best. Let’s go inside,” he said invitingly, seeing that Miss Ward was opening her bag and searching for money. “Why should they all be looking at us?”

He drew up a chair for her, pulled the cardboard and drawings down from the bed, and tugged at a string. The roll of matting over the entrance clattered down in a cloud of dust. Margit was already taking out bills; she paid in tens, so there was a thick wad of them. He took them, wrapped them in a handkerchief and put them in his trouser pocket.

On the hanging mat they saw outlined the figure of a woman leaning lower and lower. Through a chink filled with harsh glare they could just see sandaled feet and rings on bare toes. The palms of her hands were a garish red as she set a tray with cups of coffee on the concrete. She waited a moment, stooping, but the painter did not raise the mat until she had gone away.

Handing around coffee which he had liberally sprinkled with sugar, he explained in an undertone, “That was my wife. I did not introduce you because she does not know English. She is from a village and was brought up according to the old custom. She would be ill at ease in our company.

“No. I am not ashamed of her. She is good; she would like to help me change and be like others, help me earn. She cries at night because she was given as a wife to a madman: what kind of business is this, smearing canvas with brushes? And from it arise pictures which do not resemble the world she sees. Her family married her to me. They were wealthy; it seemed that they could help me. But I have been a burden to them all these years.” Pensively he stirred a thick residue of coffee grounds and sugar. “You have no idea, madam, what it means to me to sell a painting. It is not only the money, though thanks to that my wife may believe that I really do work, and that what I do is worth something.”

Descending from the flat roof, escorted by a band of children, they found themselves immersed in pungent aromas from the kitchens on the landings. They took the steep stairs cautiously, one or two at a time. The painter unexpectedly decided that he must leave with them, for an opportunity had arisen for him to attend to urgent business. Again they met his family in a cramped huddle on the staircase, and pressed their sagging slender or plump hands. They returned greetings and murmured goodbyes. The painter’s parents and brothers-in-law must have been drawn out of their apartment by the shrieks of the children, the patter of feet, the jumping about and squeals of laughter. The little ones raced out, pushing and shoving each other to get to the car before it could be driven away. Below, the boys on guard stood erect as soldiers and reported on the events of their watch. Ram Kanval served as interpreter.

“The automobile survived unscathed, though one of the guards even squatted on the roof!” Then he said reassuringly, “Do not worry because I am coming with you. I will not squander the money, though it has fallen from the sky. Whatever I did with it, the family would be dissatisfied, for they pay for me to live. Suddenly it occurred to me that I should go and buy something for my wife. A ring or a sari? She has not had a present from me for years. After all, my paintings count for nothing; she has no capacity to enjoy them, and when she puts them back in the barsati for me, she tries to avoid being seen. Today I can give her something that will be a genuine gift, something that at last her sisters will envy.”

“How nice!” Margit said with elation, turning her head. “You are a typical husband: you want to make your wife happy, but surely you don’t know what she fancies or what she really needs. Perhaps it’s better to give her money. She could choose for herself. And perhaps she has some expenses which she hasn’t dared to mention.”

“She has too many of them,” he shrugged. “Of course she would prefer money, but the family would soon fleece her of it. Whether she needs it or not, my present will be for her alone, and it will come from my hand.”

Istvan listened with a feeling of guilt. He should have thought of Margit long ago and surprised her with a gift.

The Austin glided through the streets of New Delhi among loaded trucks, tooting its horn to scatter the dilatory cyclists, whose bells chirped like crickets.

“Where shall I take you?” Istvan asked.

“No matter where, only to the center. Do not take any trouble on my account. The boulevards are best, around Parliament and at Connaught Place. Surely that will not be far out of your way.”

It was sunset; the domes of pagodas were drenched with rose. The toothed wall flared red under the empty sky, which was rapidly taking on layers of darkest blue. Peasant women in wrinkled orange skirts and dark jackets sauntered along a path. On her back each carried a bundle of grass raked from the park. Bare sickles with broad blades like scythes gave off red gleams.

A tall girl with bushy black hair walked with a dancing step in spite of her burden. Her long, full skirt rippled; silver anklets shone below it. She sang in a strong voice and the others repeated the lines in rhythm. The melody, leaping brightly from note to note, seemed familiar to Istvan, as if the girl were singing in Hungarian. The painter laughed and put his arm out the window, catching the light on his open palm. The girls were startled and hid their faces behind their bent arms, but above their elbows their large, dark, gentle eyes with garishly painted lids could be seen.

“What was she singing?”

“That her bodice is tight and there is no friendly hand to loosen it, so I offered my help.”

“Well, well! I didn’t think you had such songs.” Margit shook her head. “Your customs are strict: the family exercises discipline and a girl goes meekly into the bed of the man who is the family council’s designee.”

“That is not a real song,” the painter countered. “She made it up herself. She is hot from her work, her bodice is squeezing her, and she finds relief in singing. She thought no one could hear but others like herself. How could she know that someone else was listening? Well, well, such girlish banter!”

The radiance from the west hovered under the trees among heaps of fallen leaves. The lavender earth gleamed through the trampled grass. The shirts of men walking along the paths were dazzling white.

“It’s amusing to overhear such a request,” Terey laughed.

“Don’t forget that the singing was not meant for our ears. I overheard and translated it,” the painter said defensively.

They were heading into a traffic jam. Police in red turbans were standing by, their bare legs dark, their sleeves rolled up; in their sinewy hands they held long bamboo sticks.

“The road is closed,” Istvan said, taken by surprise. “Something must have happened.”

“Full speed ahead. Have no fear,” Ram Kanval urged. “They will not dare to stop you.”

Indeed, when they turned aside and drove toward the cordon with one wheel on the grass, an officer — a black-bearded Sikh with a pompom on his cherry-colored beret — saw the insignia of the diplomatic corps on the car and ordered the police to stand aside.

“Some important person must have arrived,” Kanval mused, leaning out through the open window and staring curiously in every direction.

“They would have sent me an invitation to an official meeting,” Terey said a little huffily. “No, this is some parade. A big crowd is standing around the Parliament. Probably we won’t get through.”

They had to stop. Three trucks with police were blocking the street. They could have walked farther by taking the shortcut across the grass, but everyone was doing that. Istvan saw the journalists; the fiery sunset flashed in the lenses of carefully aimed cameras. He spotted Nagar’s slight, nimble figure in the crowd, but before he decided to try and overtake him, Nagar was swallowed by a wave of rushing women. They were being chased by the police, who seized them and menaced them with uplifted clubs but hit no one. The light caught the shifting greens and yellows of the women’s saris. The crowd gave way, squealing, then formed a circle with all eyes on a group of people who were shouting in rhythm. In these chases, or attempts by the police to disperse the crowd, there was something almost like fun, almost comic, yet grave, for a hymn or recitative was rising from the square.

“Shall we go closer?” He took Margit by the arm, afraid that she would be swept away in the whirlpools and waves of human particles and he would lose sight of her.

“This is curious.” She pulled him into the dense mass of people who were chanting in the square. “What is it about?”

Women were moving all around them. Not only did they hear the soft rustle of silk and the clinking of bracelets; they were caught in a stifling wave of fragrance, the mixed odors of strong perfumes, powders, spices, sweat, and heated bodies. They saw young faces and wasted ones, flamboyantly painted, eyes glowing feverishly, hair ingeniously piled high on the head, plaited with garlands of flowers and covered with misty veils from Benares. Supple bodies gave way to them reluctantly, but eyes watched importunately, provocatively. Thick lips parted in enticing smiles. It struck Istvan that he had really never met Hindu women of this sort on the streets or in fashionable coffee houses. They were conscious of their beauty, of their full, warm bosoms as they nudged him. An atmosphere of animal tension was forming, of lurking readiness to bite and claw, and, it seemed, a great despairing sob. Istvan and Margit felt the agitation.

“What is this strange demonstration?” she asked. “Where did these women come from? Look, they’re dancing.”

A tremor ran through the crowd on the square. The dry earth rumbled. Light dust rose and floated toward the sunset in a red cloud. Flutes and three-stringed fiddles struck up; drums purred like cats and small bells twittered. Half-naked men, old and gray or very young, stamped in place in front of them, blowing fifes. With wooden fingers like partially burnt roots they tapped, they scraped, they stroked the skins of drums that chatted in bass voices. Istvan shuddered; he had just noticed the sunken eyelids, the empty eye sockets, or eyes wide open looking straight into the savage glare of the sun, eyes with white, dead irises.

“Look!” He pulled Margit closer. “Blind — the whole crowd, as far as those trees. They are all blind.”

“What’s going on here?” she asked in a frightened whisper.

“Nothing alarming.” Ram Kanval had just come up behind them. “The prostitutes came to present a petition against the implementation of a decree that would resettle them outside the capital. They are not allowed now to practice their profession closer than twenty-five miles from New Delhi. It is amusing”—he pointed to the steps of the Parliament—“they call the delegates by name. Several they know well. No, not as clients, but they own the streets, the houses in which they live. They are calling out—” he translated, “‘Must I return to the village, where people dry up like the earth?’ ‘Does my body, which gives pleasure to so many, have to wither away?’ ‘I support an entire family. They live because of me. Condemning me to hunger, you condemn them as well.’”

The calls became more and more anguished and despairing. The high, senile whine from the choir was filling the square.

“Why are those older men shouting?” Istvan tugged at Kanval’s arm.

“They are afraid of what will happen to them. The blind — they will starve as well. Till now they have had work. They earned money honestly.”

“How?”

“They played for the dancing in the bordellos. They accompanied the singers. They made time pass pleasantly for the guests. They are blind, so their presence does not interfere with the diversions. Living music boxes, human nickelodeons. What will they do? Where will they go? They can only beg, condemned to slow death.”

“How many of them can there be here?”

“Well, about a thousand. There is an economic problem that cannot be assuaged by talking. The deputies will think long and hard before making a decision. At any rate, pressures will be felt from all sides. It will take away income from the owners of the houses, shopkeepers, tradesmen. Astrologers, drafters of love letters, they all earned money. And doctors and charlatans. Hordes of people lived off those girls. The resettlement decree could ruin tens of thousands of families whose livings are indirectly connected to that trade, its supplies and services. It is a more important matter than you think.”

The exhalation of the crowd was in their faces, the smell of sweat, attars, powders. A great lament resounded from the square. Two women carried a petition encircled with garlands of orange flowers toward a group that stood, cordoned off by the police, on the stairs of the Parliament. They did not dare hand it directly to the deputies, but, according to an old custom, laid it on the steps, bowing to the feet of the officials standing a few steps above them and putting their fingertips to their lips in an act of humility and obeisance (“I kiss the dust of your sandals”). One of the police brought the rolled paper to his officer, who handed it to the deputies.

Then someone leaped through the cordon — a young man in a loosely wound dhoti and a shirt hanging from under a European sport coat. Dark, slender legs moved piston-like in shoes that were too large. He shouted something to the crowd, but was drowned out by commands issuing from a megaphone. The crowd swayed and began to flow, peacefully forming itself into a procession.

“I know him. He is a communist delegate,” the painter said. “He has given them his pledge of support.”

It seemed to Istvan that he saw a familiar face among the deputies — sallow, ageless, the face of Chandra, the attorney. Others, talking and debating, were gathered around him. Slowly the large building of rose-colored stone swallowed them all.

The philanthropist, Terey thought with a bitter smile. He will take care of them.

A haphazard, iridescent river of women drifted along. Songs started up here and there and mingled; the melodies drowned each other out. The noise and the twanging of instruments grew louder. The pleading calls repeated themselves in the twilight with a hollow sonorousness, but could not penetrate the thick walls behind which the decision would be made.

They walked down to the grass. In front of them the blind moved in rows with short steps, shuffling. Those on either end of each row held onto long bamboo rods that served as fences on both sides of the marchers. Little boys led them, shaking tambourines, hitting them against their close-clipped heads and jumping cheerfully about, unaware of the seriousness of the demonstration. A pale memory of sunset shone in the sky.

“A Breughel painting, indeed!” Margit shuddered.

“A hundred times over — for that is India,” said the painter, not without pride. “The government must deliberate well before it extricates itself from this ruling. It is easy to pass a law, but how can it be implemented sensibly, without adverse effects? What the women were shouting is the truth: resettlement is a sentence to death by starvation. They have nowhere to go back to. They earn what they can to maintain their families, they put up dowries for their sisters, the younger ones for whom they find husbands — the affianced virgins, submissive, resigned. The one knows only the arts of the bed, the thousand-year-old prescriptions and recommended methods of lovemaking, but love itself she will never know. The other is ready to love anyone her family designates, or fate or the matchmaker presents.”

They looked at the procession streaming slowly between the huge trees. Behind them, like sheepdogs driving their flocks along, the policemen walked unhurried, their red turbans glowing in the rapidly falling darkness. Others climbed into the covered backs of trucks. The bluish smoke of the first cigarettes, well earned after a long stint without them, floated out from under tarpaulins and formed a mist against an apricot-colored patch of sky.

The odor of musk and the spicy smell of heated bodies lingered in the air, but cars were already moving. They forced their way through the traffic, trumpeting angrily, flashing their yellow headlights, demanding the right-of-way with long blinks. Streaks of dust and exhaust bleared the stream of lights. This was the scented twilight of a city in the tropics.

“There is a cruel curiosity in the human being,” Margit whispered. “One forgets that they also desire and suffer. One would like to lay bare their secrets, learn how they live, what makes them happy. Though I know that knowledge is no good, since I can’t help them.”

“What they have they value very much. They even think that fate singled them out: they have enough to eat, they wear silk saris, they bask in adoration and desire. Some find permanent admirers. Not only do they receive gifts, they share them with their own families,” the painter shrugged. “The rules of your world, which you would try to impose on them as if for their good, they would not consider liberating. We cannot better their condition, and, worse, we do not want to share with them, to give up wealth. The deputies only institute demands, judge and contemptuously condemn these women’s way of life and of earning a living, the only one available to them.”

“Have you ever been — with them?” she asked, moved by the anger in his voice.

“Certainly. There is nothing shameful in that. In our world, matters of the body are hedged around with so many prohibitions that they continually distract and disturb us. Even those little boys who are running around near the women — though they are kissed and petted because they remind the women of the brothers and sisters they left behind — see nothing that would corrupt them. What we see there is what we are told in a poem about gods’ struggles for love, or by statues in temples — entwined bodies, which for those accustomed to look at them from childhood become almost like the linear motif of a frieze. Certainly I have been there. This is not like prostitution in your world — the debasing purchase of a body, which because of that is only a body, for someone demands it, so it must dehumanize itself. Here there are not prostitutes exclusively, but dancers, singers, tellers of magical tales whose art involves physical movement. True artists are found among them, artists whose way to the stage was blocked by poverty and peasant origins.

“In front of a crowd of men sitting on the floor, they dance to the birdlike whistle of the flute and the dove’s cooing of the drum, expressing the love of the earth goddess for the sun god. They bend the naked torso, part the thighs, tremble, surrender to an unseen lover. The dance is like a primordial prayer, like a compressed history of the world, a creation of what is alive.

“Everyone sees what he desires: one sees poetry, grace of movement, and the traditional school of sacral gesture; another is fascinated only by the pretty young girl who taps the floor with her bare feet dyed red as her bells clink like hail. And she is inaccessible, though everyone present is panting with lust, his mouth hanging open with delight. They have forgotten about their cigarettes, which are burning their fingers. One man alone will have her that night. The others can only envy him.

“That one takes out a banknote, moistens it with saliva, and sticks it on his forehead. The dancer has already seen him; she approaches him with catlike steps, her hips swaying. She sits by him, exuding warmth and scents, for we have special methods of enhancing the effects of perfume — the temples, underarms, and nipples are all moistened differently, and the knees, and the insides of the thighs. So she bends, she leans over her admirer like a branch heavy with fruit, she gives off the scent of a body heated from the dance. She brushes against him lightly, like a moth against the reflection of a lamp in a mirror. She is not permitted to reach for the banknote with her fingers, only with her lips, for he is supposed to press it to her bosom, which is gleaming with sweat. When she removes it, that is consent. So — you did not know this — the woman has a right to choose. She conquers in order to be bought. With this one lover she goes to an alcove, and the remaining men return home. They are aroused; they will take their own wives, still seeing in their minds the other woman with her serpentine movements, the woman who was coveted, desired.”

“How dreadful!” Margit clenched her fists in front of her chest as if to defend herself. “Don’t you understand that?”

He smiled at her indulgently.

“I would not say so. It is the pursuit of the unattainable, for quite a few of those men were poor, were street vendors. Each could pay for entrance, but not for the woman. But sometimes she rewards a man’s perseverance, responsiveness, and strength of feeling. Why kill dreams? Why should people not have longings? For all those men whose decision to marry was dictated by the family council in order to increase their capital, unite clans, gain patronage and influence — who married women they did not desire, women chosen for them by others — here is a temporary escape, a change from the everyday tedium. With their wives they will have children; the families demand nothing more. There they can seek fulfillment, delight, beauty, I dare say even cleansing from the sins marriage perpetrates against love. But you cannot understand that…”

“Istvan, say that he is lying,” she pleaded, clutching his hand. “After all, this is not true. Everything that can be bought there is filthy, filthy! It is repugnant.”

“Let them think in their own way.”

The painter looked at them impatiently, irritably. He was displeased by what lay at the heart of the quarrel: the impotent pity that the women of the bordellos could not even have understood. Or perhaps he saw only colors — the play of lights and tints, the copper helmet of hair, the dark blue eyes fiery and beautiful in anger, the simple dress of thin linen that revealed the outlines of the tanned, womanly body.

The square was quiet. The whines and murmurs of automobiles — as if they had been exasperated by the unexpected halting of traffic — had died away long since. The ground shone with a red afterglow. A garland of white flowers lay spread out and trampled on the gravel a few steps from them.

Two cows, tinted rose in the evening light, ambled lazily across the square. Car horns blew warningly and headlights flashed, but they plodded on, unconscious of danger, as if the whole world did not exist for them, or was merely a wavering illusion looming in their great dark eyes. One veered slowly from the direction in which she had been walking and stood above the wreath, nosing it, or rather lowering her head and exhaling, for red dust was rising from the ground. The fragrance of the flowers must have irritated her; she stepped over the garland and moved forward as if in a dream, with the last radiance from the sky on her back. The other trailed behind her, repeating the same movements, as if they were part of some eternal ritual.

The shirts of cyclists still glowed rose in the fading sun. Spire-like palms cut the sky like long brush strokes. The night hovered low among the houses, full of gaudy lamps, the noise of radios, the chiming of bicycle bells, and boisterous hallooings. Vehicles flew by, murmuring like bumblebees. Their burning headlights hardly brightened the anxious dark.

“Oh, the devil!” said Istvan, looking at the sky half-covered by a lead-colored cloud with fire flashing around the edges. “A storm is coming.”

“Only a bluff,” Kanval said dismissively. “There has been no bulletin forecasting rain in Delhi today.”

“At all events, let’s go,” Margit begged. “Remember how it was around Qutub Minar that time. The wind nearly blew us away.”

Inside the Austin the strong odors of gasoline and heated plastic were suspended in sweltering air. Only as the car gathered speed did the breeze bring an illusory relief. They dropped the painter off at Connaught Place. At once he was lost in the chattering throng that moved about under the arcades — among the luminous white shirts, the dark faces over which the fragrance of brilliantine drifted. Young, slender men clung to each other with indolent sensuousness. The whole city seemed to have boiled out onto the street; the human stream hummed with voices and rustled with women’s silks as bodies jostled and gave off heat as evening came on. In these hoarse, tittering noises and fitful snatches of song there was an undertone of expectation and anxiety.

Margit’s hand groped for Istvan’s in the dark. Its warm touch transfixed him with desire. The girl seemed to sense it and withdrew, startled.

“Shall we go into Volga for ice cream?” he asked. “Pereira doesn’t make it.”

“No,” she whispered languidly. “Let’s go. I want to be with you.”

He thought it was just a pretext, but she surprised him by leaning over and resting her head heavily on his shoulder. Tenderness and peace swept over him.

After he drove the car into the garage, she helped him close the blinds. She turned out the lights, for the watchman had gone to the kitchen for the evening portion of chapati. He felt as if they had been married for a long time and were returning home — as if his life were only now assuming its rightful, tranquil rhythm.

Heat radiated from the walls of the villa. The earth gave off the dry, famished scent of things that wither and die. The darkness trembled with the long drill-like clanging of insects. Pereira, who had heard the car approaching, had already opened the front door for them. He was still rubbing his lips with the back of his hand and smacking his lips, as if he were savoring the aftertaste of rice fragrant with cloves.

Istvan was moved by the calm assurance with which Margit made her way around his house. She navigated gracefully among the furnishings. She knew where to find the electrical outlets.

“Saaa-hib!” He heard the cook’s plaintive whisper.

“If everything is ready, serve dinner. Remember the ice cubes.”

“Oh, yes, everything is here,” Pereira answered with zeal. “Krishan has turned up again. He wants…he asks for the embassy to vouch for him so he can buy a motorcycle on time.”

As if horrified by the audacity of the demand he had dared to repeat, he blinked with dark, membranous eyelids like a bird’s.

“He’s mad.” Istvan shrugged.

“Yes, sir, he is a lunatic.” The cook wagged his head. “He knows the ambassador is going to Shimla, and before that he would like to give the American firm the guarantee. He wants a very strong engine. He is afraid of nothing.”

Irritated that this conversation was drawing itself out, Istvan ordered tersely, “Serve the food.”

He went into the bathroom to wash his hands. Warm water trickled dully from the tap. He saw his sunburned face in the mirror. His eyes looked dogged and cheerless.

“Terry, come quickly. The drinks will get warm.” Margit’s calm voice gave him joy. He opened the door and looked at her affectionately. She held out a glass with ice cubes and Coca-Cola.

“Try it. It’s a coca libre.”

He took the glass, holding her cool hand to his cheek and lips by way of thanks.

“What have you put into it? It smells very nice.”

“A little rum. Lemon juice and one slice for aroma. The Coca-Cola isn’t cloying. It loses its sticky sweetness right away.”

He caught himself listening to her voice so as to hear the altered tone in which she spoke to him, only to him. It lent the simplest words a tinge of passion.

“My father mixed it this way at our house in Melbourne. It was the only alcoholic drink I enjoyed.”

The room had filled imperceptibly with her presence, with the subtle fragrances of her dress and warm skin. Or perhaps he was only beguiled by the delicate aromas of rum and lemon peel from the glass he was holding to his lips.

“Do you miss Australia?”

“I wouldn’t say so. You forget that it’s a continent.” She blinked indulgently. “There are a very few places that I’m familiar with. The rest of the country is unknown to me. It’s waiting for us. We’ll discover it together. If you want to.”

She was assigning him a part in her life. That was disturbing; it put him on guard. Was he being dishonest in wishing to preserve his own freedom? But passion dictated that he fulfill all her desires. He wanted her to be happy.

The door creaked. The cook gave the sign that he was putting dinner on the table. His olive face with lowered eyelids seemed to say that he would not offend by allowing himself even a glance at a woman who interested his master. Istvan could have blessed the man when he told him that he was going to the roof, to the barsati, and murmured something about an approaching storm. Yellow lightning was flashing outside the windows, as often happened in summer during dry weather. He closed the curtains and set the wings of the large ceiling fan in motion.

“And now let’s eat,” he said encouragingly, pouring the red Egri.

She needed no urging. He liked her freedom, her frank displays of feeling, her lack of calculation and refusal to play the games of coquetry. She helped herself to large portions. She was becoming accustomed to Indian spices.

“I don’t know much about wines,” she confessed, raising her glass and looking with delight at the red fire in the delicate crystal, “but this is nice after that devilishly hot sauce.”

“When you come to Hungary,” he began, but his words lacked the confident ring of her invitation to Australia. He broke off, embarrassed.

She rotated the glass in her hand, enjoying the play of red lights on the tablecloth. Suddenly the lamp went out.

“What the devil—” He stopped the clatter of the ceiling fan. “Don’t move. I’ll check.”

He pushed aside the curtains. The long, vivid flash against the walls of the neighboring villa startled him; only when the darkness returned like a thick curtain falling outside the windows did he understand that it was the reflection of lightning. The windowpanes jingled faintly and a mutter as of a bass voice jarred the walls.

“What are you doing?” he asked, unnerved by her silence.

“Nothing. Drinking wine,” she answered nonchalantly. “We had already finished, and to tell the truth, we don’t need the light.”

Outside the uncovered window a shifting flame pulsed, though not the slightest breeze stirred the leaves of the banana trees. Reeling shadows rolled over the blind wall of the villa opposite. In the black sky, light flared in several places at the same instant. When a bolt of lightning illuminated the room, he found a flashlight in a drawer.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked. The room was bathed in undulating green. The windows, shaken by the rumble of distant thunder, began to chime.

“No. A splendid show!”

They finished the wine. When she rose, he kissed her on the mouth and led her to his room. He saw with satisfaction that Pereira, before he left, had made the bed.

“And where is my suitcase?”

“In your bedroom.” He handed her the flashlight. “I checked. Everything is ready.”

“Where shall we sleep? Here, or in my room?”

“Wherever you prefer.”

“Wait.”

He did not want to be in her way. He listened: the sky murmured in a deep bass register, but those were not thunderbolts, only a dull, vibrating rumble that the walls took up. Then a silence fell — such a dead quiet that the watch on his wrist seemed to emit a metallic chirp. Not one cicada jingled. Insects were silent, terrified by the night full of growling flame without heat.

He had to wait for Margit too long. He grew uneasy. He began to look for her. The door of the other bedroom was open. Margit stood before the uncurtained window with the darting fire that had erupted in the sky rippling over her. Her hair was blackish-green, her arms yellow as brass. The light poured over her bare body. He remembered the tales he had heard as a child of enchantresses who, beaten down by a storm in drum rolls of hail, fell among shepherds curled up on haystacks under straw hats. They chose the young, innocent boys, they smothered them with kisses and made captives of them. Their lips had the taste of herbs and the freshness of rain.

In self-defense the boys surrendered to the mad onslaught of opulent female bodies, then slept with their faces immersed in their lovers’ hair, fragrant with damp meadow flowers. They awoke, lonely, lethargic, and weak, on a dim morning, in a cloud of fog. Stallions, barely visible, with dark backs like boats, seemed to float in the mist; their mournful whinnying drifted over the river. From that time on, no woman could give them the delight they had known then. They searched among the girls for wives, they married at last, but they were never happy in love.

He watched as the glare from the lightning flowed over her arms like a glittering shawl. She turned suddenly, sensing his presence, and saw that he was still dressed. In a timeless gesture of embarrassment at her own nudity, she crossed her hands to cover her breasts. But a second later she was laughing without shame and running her fingers through her disheveled hair, which was standing on end because she had pulled her dress off over her head. She came to Istvan and embraced him, hiding her face on his chest.

“It’s not very nice of you to look at me that way,” she whispered.

“Enchantress,” he breathed into her hair.

“I’d like to be one of those. I would change you into a jewel and wear you on a bracelet, and in the evening, when I was alone, you would be yourself again. And all the time, even when people were around, I could touch you with my lips and caress you. We would not be apart even for a minute. Do you want me to do that?”

“I want it. I want it so.” He held her close. They stood in each other’s arms as the window burned with lurid green and yellow, the colors seeming to flail the sky with brooms of fire. Lightning leaped in the distance, striking, flashing. The earth seemed to quiver like a drumhead.

Their bodies, now familiar and intimate, sought each other, discovered accommodating movements, shared rhythms. Each felt the other’s breathing. They dissolved into each other; his moist skin clung to hers. He took possession of her as if she belonged to him. He bent like a bow and her eager yielding filled him with joy. In the rumbling glare the walls of the house seemed to sway. It was as if the distant roar had summoned an unknown, enormous beast that hovered over the city, ready to devour it. He wanted to remember the metaphor; already he had preserved in unfinished tropes the mood of the night, the curve of lips kissed and kissed, dark in the shimmering downpour.

“Tell me a story,” she begged. “I love it when you do.”

They lay quiet, listening. It seemed as though the crackle of the lightning could be heard in the room, but they only heard a large fly, invisible in the shadows, strike the ceiling with a doleful moan. Its lament must have aroused the appetites of lizards, for they smacked greedily with their tongues.

“I can’t hear anything but you. After all, you know that I am happy.”

“I don’t know. I don’t.” She shook her head. Their fingers entwined and they felt the pulsing of the blood subside. In the closed room the smell of bodies slippery with sweat mingled with the odors of insecticide and camphor wood.

He looked with wide-open eyes at the ceiling, which was flooded with flickering green. He saw the lizards gliding, converging; somewhere among them there must be a fly dumb with fright. In a moment he would hear its desperate buzz. He breathed in the fragrance of Margit’s hair and her moist body. Her passive fingers pulsed in his hand. She was tired; had she fallen asleep? He was immersed in the peaceful certainty that at last he had met the woman whose existence he had foreseen, and whom he had always desired. He was not thinking of the body’s cravings, the delights that would be her gifts to him. He knew that he could spend all his life with her, that here was a friend who would not leave him until the last darkness, which he would have to traverse alone.

Overcome with thankfulness, moving carefully so as not to waken her, he lowered his head and touched her with his lips, tasting her skin with the end of his tongue. It had a saltiness like blood. He thought she breathed more deeply; her arm fell across his chest and, as if reassured by his presence, lay still.

For that first conversation at Qutub Minar during the sandstorm — one of the most important ones — he kept a special place in his memory. She had spoken with disarming frankness about herself and matters of the body. Women, knowing the self-conceit of men, prefer to be silent about their experiences. Each man wants to be the only one, exceptional, unforgettable, since by now it is too late to have the troublesome privilege of being the first. At the time her revelations had disturbed him, drawn him toward her like challenges to battle. That strict sincerity persisted in her behavior. Margit pursued her goal honestly, with a courage rarely seen even in men. Was it a way of measuring his love?

“I am happy”: the words were too simple. The poverty of the phrase struck him painfully when he tried to find a name for this state of joy beyond joy, to fix it, to lock it into the core of memory.

What will happen to us when Margit’s contract expires? And my continued residence in India is uncertain as well; it depends on my personal rapport with the ambassador and the whims of some official far away in Budapest. Not on long-term projects, only on unspecified initiatives.

Be glad that you have her near you, within reach. Don’t provoke the jealous fates, he counseled himself. Under this timorous silence he harbored the instinctive certainty that when he stood face to face with the ultimate choice, he could make it, even if he had to defy everyone: friends and enemies. But what a price he would pay for Margit!

The soft burden of her hand rested on his chest. He put away his misgivings and fell asleep unawares, though he would never have admitted it, for he was determined to satiate himself with the joy of this evening hour. Through his closed eyes he still felt lightning flashing over the city, as if some enormous stranger were running to the window with a lamp to peer at their figures as they nestled together like fallen statues, not even covered by a sheet, defiantly naked.

The walls quaked from the distant thunderbolts. His joy was mingled with apprehension: for a moment he felt as if they were snuggled together on a berth in a train hurtling toward an unknown coast, while light from the stations they were passing in the night was glaring into the half-open window. They would travel that way over the ocean to immense beaches, he was sure, beaches the dawn had just reached. He already felt the nearness of those measureless waters in the bracing wind and distant roar of the waves that died with hisses on the sandy curve of a bay like an arena.

They were roused by a rumbling outside the house and the mournful rattling of the windowpanes.

“Istvan.”

“It’s the ocean,” he answered, half conscious but filled with satisfaction that he could reassure her. “Sleep.”

Her laugh banished his sleep. He saw what was amusing her: rain was battering the windows. It washed over the walls in great spurts, pummeling the vines on the veranda. The ground could not absorb the water, which covered it in a widening tide. Green lights blazed on the flooded square.

“The monsoon!” she cried. She leaped to the window and threw it wide open. Through the wire mesh a cool draft rushed toward them, together with the frenzied splashing of water flooding the ground and the splendid fragrance of the awakened earth as it began to quench its thirst. Heaven and earth reeled in the swaying light. They seemed to hear the distant booming of a drum; they saw flares surrounded by swords of fire. Hindus, hunched over and wrapped in sheets of linen, ran through the streets seeking shelter. Thin bare legs pounded through puddles full of glare. They looked like corpses from cruel legends, running around fiery meadows in search of their severed heads.

“At last one can breathe,” she said, kneeling over him. Her body itself exuded the freshness of the cleansed air. “I’d like to run out now into this downpour full of fire and drink those cool sparks the wind is sprinkling. I’d like to dance for you. If you could only understand how beautiful the world is when someone loves you! Get up and come to the window, anyway.”

He encircled her with his arms, put his lips on hers and pushed her down into the sheet.

“I will give all the world for you,” he said as if it were a vow. “I will give everything. Everything. Margit!”

The afterglare from the lightning was coming through the window, and distant thunder like a cannon salvo. A strong scent of vines, soaked hay, and wet masonry rode on gusts of wind that careened over the flat roof. Huge banana leaves flapped like half-furled sails in the green and yellow glare.

“Tomorrow is ours,” she said happily. “In weather like this they will have to cancel flights. There will be no delegation.”

How had she managed to think of that at such a moment? He imprisoned her in his arms. Having seen that the sky was going pale and the rain quieting down, she was already rising.

“I’m going to my room. They will check to see if I have slept there. You may laugh at my silly deviousness; they know we spent the night together. But we must care a little for appearances.”

He stroked her back. She sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed.

“Surely you won’t leave me alone? But perhaps by now you want to sleep. Are you glad to be rid of me at last? The whole bed to yourself: really, how delightful.” She taunted him on her way out until he sprang after her. Bare feet beat on the stone floor.

When he had caught her and clasped her to him, she commanded, “Go back and close the window. The rain is blowing in.” She nestled close to him and whispered in his ear, “And then come. But only for a little while.”

The storm was regaining force. In its heavy muted roar they slept profoundly, satisfied.