The nightmare was in no way mitigated by the fact that Rakovsky did not attack Blam personally. He evaluated Blam’s class performance fairly, even overlooking minor errors: his preoccupation with general principles made him in most respects a fair-minded teacher. But Blam sensed that behind the lack of personal malice lay the patience of a fanatic circling his victim with feigned indifference while waiting for the right moment to pounce. Blam found evidence for the circling in the fact that whenever Rakovsky did lose his temper, he aimed his barbs at Blam’s neighbor, Aca Krkljuš, though it must be said that Aca gave him plenty of ammunition, coming to school half asleep, failing to do his homework, not even knowing what lesson they were on, the very opposite of his deaf and dull-witted but industrious brother, and when Rakovsky discovered that Aca went in for jazz, he started singling him out in his talks as a degenerate Slav. At the same time, Rakovsky made Čutura, Blam’s other neighbor, his pet, addressing him personally from the podium, as if wishing to separate and shield him from Blam’s evil influence. The choice of Čutura as a pet demonstrated even more than did the trips and falls caused by his poor eyesight Rakovsky’s inability to grasp reality, because Čutura (whose real name was Ljubomir Krstić, though all the students and even all the teachers other than the infatuated Rakovsky called him Čutura, “brandy flask”) was even then a committed Communist — an unambiguous, provocative, self-confident Communist, whose older brothers were both known revolutionaries in town. But Rakovsky, isolated from the rest of the population by his in-the-clouds ideas and from the rest of the teaching staff by his unpopular political stance, failed to realize not only that in Čutura he had an ideological enemy but also that in Čutura’s pointed, robust simplicity and stoic hostility he had the very type of strong-willed young Slav he called for in his talks. Čutura did no better at his lessons than Aca Krkljuš—he simply had no time to take them seriously — yet Rakovsky gave him high marks for the most superficial answers and accepted anything he said to justify his absences, which were many, for Čutura attended every illegal meeting he was invited to.
Blam occupied a middle position between Krkljuš and Čutura in the matter of Rakovsky’s respect as well. But he was instinctively aware of the fragile quality of that position, and he feared the day when its equilibrium would be upset. When the day came, after a year or more of teetering, Čutura was the cause.
Rakovsky, in his usual precise manner, had asked Slobodan Krkljuš to conjugate an irregular German verb, but his Russian accent was too much for the hard-of-hearing Slobodan, who looked up at Rakovsky’s lips with a good-natured smile and asked him to repeat the question. Rakovsky was happy to do so. A cornerstone of his pedagogy was: If you don’t understand, don’t be afraid to ask. But just as he was about to formulate the question more distinctly, Aca Krkljuš, who had been hunching behind his brother, afraid he would be next if Slobodan got the answer wrong, leaned over to Blam and begged for the verb forms with his eyes. Blam whispered them to him, but he was too loud and Rakovsky heard him and took it for an attempt to help Slobodan.
“Blam!” he screeched, as if he had just been scalded, his head jerking forward, his clenched fists falling to his sides.
Blam stood up.
“What did you say?” Rakovsky croaked.
“Nothing to him,” Blam answered, flustered.
Either failing or refusing to understand what Blam meant, unable to accept anything but lies and treachery from Blam (perhaps for some time now), Rakovsky flinched at these words as at a leper’s touch.
“What did you say?” he repeated shrilly, his face red, his lips twitching.
Having to pass Slobodan’s desk to get to Blam’s, he bumped into it on the first step, but instead of laughing as usual, he bared his crooked teeth, regained his course, and moved on with short, clipped steps, holding his head high like a soldier on parade, except that his features were convulsed with hatred, his eyes were smoldering and his thin, curled lips were spotted with foam. He stumbled once more in the space between the desks, but undeterred, lifting his fists and waving them over his head, he made for Blam.
Suddenly Čutura rose from his bench and positioned himself by Blam’s desk. He stood there calmly, arms at his side, his composure making it clear he would not budge. Rakovsky sensed as much and hesitated for a moment, but then a hoarse sound emerged from his throat: a whimper or muffled cry. He was so much shorter than Čutura that when he got to him, his raised fists barely reached Čutura’s slightly furrowed brow.
“Don’t do it, Professor Rakovsky,” Čutura said firmly.
Rakovsky flinched again, his lips curling. Then he turned to Blam, as if to find a way past the obstacle and do what he had set out to do.
Čutura took a step backward in Blam’s direction.
“Don’t do it, Professor Rakovsky,” he repeated in the same firm but quiet voice.
Rakovsky turned to him, his eyes bulging as if he had received an electric shock, his white fists shaking above his head, his mouth twisting, his breath hissing. Then all at once something snapped inside him, and he threw back his head, opened his mouth, and burst into his broken wheeze of a laugh. The class, mute from the suspense, was slow in joining him, but once he lowered his arms, the fearful, obsequious sputter grew into a roar. Rakovsky then executed an about-face and returned straight-backed to the podium. Čutura motioned to Blam to be seated and slipped silently back on to his own bench. The class resumed.
ČUTURA IS CRUISING the city. He may be wearing a sweaty shirt unbuttoned at the chest, he may be wearing a suit and tie and driving his own car, depending on the position he would have had in postwar society. One thing is certain: he is carrying a list of all the Novi Sad Lajos Kocsises in his pocket, a list consisting of addresses alone, the names being the same. Čutura is gathering new, postwar evidence of diversity beneath apparent uniformity.
*
“Does Lajos Kocsis live here?”
“What do you want him for?”
“I just want to talk to him. Is he in?”
“If it’s about money, you might as well leave now. Half of his salary goes to pay off his loans. And the three kids you see here? He’s their sole support.”
“Are they his?”
“They’re mine, comrade, and I won’t let anybody take a crumb away from them, understand?”
“The Kocsis I’m looking for is an old man. I think they gave me the wrong address. How old is your husband?”
“Who gave you my address anyway?”
“A common friend. I’m trying to give him money, not take it from him. Is that him in the picture with you and your children?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then I apologize. Please forget I ever came.”
*
“Does Lajos Kocsis live here?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Sleeping.”
“Are you related?”
“I’m his mother-in-law.”
“Can you tell me if he ever lived in Vojvoda Šupljikac Square?”
“Where? Wait a second. Marta! Marta!”
“What is it?”
“This man wants to talk to Laci.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I may be wrong. I’m looking for a Lajos Kocsis who moved to Budapest during the war. Could that be your husband?”