Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

He paused and seemed to doze off for a moment, then roused and spoke with animation, “I did not ask the astrologers about my marriage, only the economists, lawyers, those who know the international markets, copper and wool futures. I talked with politicians — not from the representative side, but those in control. We are receiving signals from all Asia: there is a downturn, a stubborn one. It is possible, by taking action, to retard it or pass through, as in wartime communiqués, ‘to positions designated in advance,’ but the pressure on us persists. I am a modern man. I must have a strategy to deal with all this. I will not be content to sell the family jewels.” He leaned forward and blew out a plume of smoke. “I carry on sufficiently extensive financial operations that, should one business fall through, the surplus on five others will make up for the losses. I consider marriage one of the best.”

In the course of these reflections the rajah lapsed now and then into anxiety that cut him to the quick. He had to unbosom himself, and to him Terey was a harmless poet, even a friend. He spoke more candidly to him than he would have to one of his countrymen; he felt no constraint.

The guests were beginning to disperse in pairs, quietly, avoiding goodbyes. The men’s patent leather shoes and the women’s silver sandals gleamed in the low light of the lamps. A crackling like gunfire floated in from the veranda, then voices full of delight. The fireworks had begun.

“You do not expect a revolution?”

“Not in India. Our peace is assured for a long time. Listen, Istvan, are Hungarians good soldiers? Good as the Germans?”

In spite of bitter memories, Istvan answered objectively, “I would say so. Hard fighters. But we are a small country. Keep that in mind.”

“I understand. We have more holy men than you have people. Here ten million of the devout mill about on the roads in search of eternal truth, but each walks alone; that saves us. And communism is crammed down your throats.”

“And what about the example of China, which is literally next door?” Istvan goaded.

“A beautiful boundary, the Himalayas. They barged in there and they have been looking down at us ever since. Here people don’t like them. They call the Chinese corpse-eaters because they eat meat.”

“They would organize your life. They would teach you to work.”

“No need! I understand that the poor, in a mob, will always crush the rich because they aren’t risking much. They don’t value life. And the rich man doesn’t like to stick his neck out or take chances with his fortune. Revolution takes hold easily in poor countries. Take the Russians. Take the Chinese.”

“In India there is no lack of the destitute.”

“Just so, the destitute — too weak to raise a stone, let alone a rifle. They are proud of their own powerlessness. Think: there are four hundred million of us. Ants. Conquer us and we will assimilate the conquerors, and go on being ourselves. No, there will be peace here for a long time.”

From the park came the booming of rockets. Bursting projectiles sprayed festoons of sparks. The whistle of the shooting fireworks set Istvan on edge. It reminded him of the war. “Come,” he suggested, putting down his glass. “The illumination will be worth a look.”

“Leave me in peace. Go yourself,” the rajah demurred. “I know precisely what the show is like. I signed the bill.” He sat resting his head on his hand with both knees drawn up onto the chair, like a pampered only child who did not go to sleep when he should have and is petulant toward the whole world.

Terey stood in the doorway. Deep darkness bore in on him. The cables were disconnected; the reflectors and the garlands of colored bulbs gave no light. The guests, densely clustered together, looked with upturned heads at what was going on above them. Luminous streaks crossed each other, and arcs of green, as if someone had hurled emerald rings into the sky. Chrysanthemums of fire blossomed and softly trickled down. Then stars heavy with gold soared upward, riveting the watchers’ eyes, and the fiery flowers fainted imperceptibly and went out, swallowed up by the night.

The lawn that had been cordoned off — where the wedding gifts were displayed — had been taken over by the master of the fireworks, a Chinese. Two assistants had driven bamboo rods with pointed tips, full of compressed energy, into the grass. With a wand tipped with a small flame the master lighted the fuses until they sprayed sparks. The missiles full of stars glided into the sky with a bloodcurdling whistle, bursting apart in flashes of color.

Istvan leaned against the door frame, smoking a cigarette. A warm hand touched his back. He was certain that it was the rajah coming out to his guests. He was watching a shooting star when the fragrance of a familiar perfume reached him. He spun around. Grace was standing behind him.

“A few hours yet, Istvan, and I will no longer be myself,” she lamented in a low voice. “He bought me like a piece of furniture. No one asked my opinion. I was simply informed that it was going to be this way.”

“You knew for a year, after all, why he was courting you.”

“I didn’t think it would come on so quickly. I will only be a Hindu,” she said with a despair he found incomprehensible.

“The Englishwoman in you is struggling.” He stroked her hand. Their fingers pressed each other.

“The Englishwoman in me is dying,” she whispered.

“You wanted this…”

“I wanted to be with you. Only with you.”

Flakes of trembling light floated around her face, mingling with the sparkle of her eyes. Suddenly he was seized with bitter regret that she had slipped away from him — that she would be inaccessible, enclosed by marriage, hedged about by the watchfulness of a wealthy family, shadowed by servants.

“Indeed, you could not have married me.”

“You never spoke of marriage, even as a joke.” She seized his hand with unexpected force. “Have you never heard of predestination?” she asked.

“It’s easy enough to write everything off to fate.”

“I will convince you that it exists. Come. Have courage. I have it.”

He did not speak. Tenderness swept over him. She must have known it, for she turned away slowly and walked along the edge of the shadows through the hall, then toward the stairs that led to the inner rooms on the second floor.

He walked a step behind her. She was on the opposite side of the wide room where the rajah lay dozing in his chair with his legs tucked up. In his mind Istvan heard the man’s self-important prating, and again felt an angry aversion. Grace was standing on the stairs with one hand on the banister. She beckoned to him. The small white purse she wore on her wrist swung like a pendulum, as if it were measuring time. Istvan passed through the hall with determined steps and hurried to her. They started up the stairs together as if everything had been foreseen long ago.

The house was empty; all the guests and servants had turned out to admire the spectacle in the park. Inside, the roars of exploding rockets resounded as a dull echo. The two moved silently, quickly. They stopped before a dark door.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Here.” She was leaning down, plucking a small key from the purse.

Inside the room, only one lamp was burning, its form like a flower on a tall stem. Tables and sofas were piled high with boxes artistically bound with ribbons. Stacks of folded bridal lingerie and silk saris lay on the floor.

“Here are the presents I received. I will take this room for myself.”

Knowing what she risked from the moment he heard the rattle of the lock, he held her close. He cared nothing for the consequences to himself. If they were found, there would be no explanations.