Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Come on!” Mihaly tugged at Istvan. “He will come to us.”

They began pushing through the crowd in which sellers of golden-brown potato chips sparkling with salt crystals moved about. From a box of ice that hung on a vendor’s belly they took slender bottles of Coca-Cola. The caps rolled, clinking, around the corrugated gangway.

The boy led the counselor behind the gigantic wooden tub to a clump of spreading trees. A kind of tent, flimsy and airy, had been set up there. An Indian bed with a pair of flat pillows in a red and yellow flower pattern stood inside it. A woman, hunched over and half kneeling, gazed at the entrance.

A group of young men, beside themselves with delight, pushed the motorcycle over the heavily trodden lawn. Krishan strode behind them issuing commands, his leather costume creaking to the tempo of his buoyant step. The girl rose and at once Istvan recognized the sister of Krishan’s dead wife — the same languid grace, rather like an animal, the same wide mouth with two points on the upper lip, challenging and childish. Krishan oversaw the placement of the motorcycle and the boys clustered around him for a moment more, holding out photographs of his flight with streaming leather wings — photographs which had been sold in front of the entrance — for his autograph. The picture must have been taken from below, by the furled roof, for the figure of the frenzied rider was seen against a background of clouds.

“Ah, sir, it’s you!” He held his hand out to the counselor without his former air of deference. “Please sit down.”

With one shout he frightened the boys away from the enclosure. He unzipped the costume that sheathed him like black armor and peeled it off, exposing a dirty, oil-stained tricot shirt. His lean chest heaved beneath it. He was perspiring profusely.

“I must stretch out for a moment.” He sat on the bed and the leather of his narrow pants squeaked. “I have a few more appearances.”

Only now did Istvan notice that pent-up tears thick with sweat were gathering in the red furrows Krishan’s goggles had made on his cheeks.

“Will you smoke?” He held out an open pack of cigarettes.

“No.” Krishan shook his head. “The ventilation in there is no good, and I inhaled fumes until my head was spinning.”

The woman knelt by him, poured boiling water from a thermos onto a towel, and with great tenderness rubbed his face. He yielded to her touch as to a caress, closing his eyes. She must love him a great deal, Istvan thought.

“You came to see the show?”

“Yes. I see that you are very successful.”

“The ambassador was here also. I knew what he wished for me. But he can kiss my—”

“You’re taking too great a risk. You shouldn’t let go of the handlebars.”

“They pay extra for that.” A small, bitter smile played over his tightly compressed lips. “After all, everyone hopes they will see me break my neck. What a sight it would be! It would give them something to chatter about for a year.”

The wall of the tent bent in the breeze. The machine twittered as the motor cooled. The rising hum of the leaves seemed to shift with a circular motion above their heads.

“That’s no good, Krishan. It’s nerves. Do you think that way often?”

“Lately, yes.”

“Are you afraid?”

He raised himself on one elbow and looked so contemptuous that the counselor lowered his eyes.

“I would like to see something that could frighten me! And you?”

Smiling, Istvan shook his head.

“It comes over me when I am in the pit and I see where I was, how high I had gone. I feel a numbing pain in my thighs, as if someone were squeezing me with pincers. Then I say, Enough. This is the last time. Take the cash and say goodbye to the managers, those old thieves. Turn the motorcycle into a rickshaw. You will earn a living that way as well.”

“A sound idea.”

They heard boisterous music from megaphones and the deep voice of the barker, who was promoting Krishan’s next show through a bullhorn: “Neck-breaking! Your blood will run cold!”

The girl sat on her heels, gazing at Krishan like a guard dog.

“When I begin riding into the circle, I really want to climb to the top as fast as I can and get out of that smoke pit. It chokes me.”

“The motor burns oil?”

“No. The fuel is specially formulated for effect. The management demands it.”

“You can’t trust that machine, Krishan. Who looks after it?”

He sat up and looked at the counselor alertly.

“And can I trust those people? I inspect it myself. I would not let anyone touch it. I know whether it is in proper condition.”

Mihaly squatted on his heels, Hindu-fashion, in the entrance to the tent. A flap rippled and nudged him in the back, but he did not notice. His eyes were riveted on his hero.

“How I hate them all!” Krishan lay with his head thrown back, beating his fist against the bed frame.

“Whom?”

“Those people waiting in there.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “Those people in the gallery. Hundreds of times I’ve thought: You want a terrifying spectacle — all I need to do is pour out a canister of gasoline and those dried-out boards would go up like paper. The narrow aisles — they would trample each other to death if the fire blocked their way. I know those voices, I know how they would shriek. Look: impregnated wood, heated by the sun. A splendid funeral pyre!”

“Krishan, you must stop doing this for a while.”

“No. Not yet. They are just waiting for an accident, so I can dream of evening the score.”

The noisy music and the gongs clamored; the reverberation drifted around the treetops. Sometimes the glare of the sun burst through a chink in the greenery and kindled like a fire on the walls of the tent. The reflected light glided quickly over the footworn grass.

“The ambassador would be very happy if I died. He would even give ten rupees for wood for my pyre.”

Istvan looked around. Mihaly was listening with his mouth open, frightened. It seemed to Istvan that the boy was absorbing knowledge about the dark side of life — that Krishan’s words were sinking into his heart.

“Buy us some candies or nuts, only choose well.” The counselor threw the child a coin; the little hands caught it in the air. When the boy had run out, he leaned toward Krishan. He sensed that the man was eager to get something off his chest.

“Now, Krishan, tell me what really happened. Only speak quickly, before the little one returns. Surely you needn’t be constrained on her account.” He nodded toward the young woman.

“No. She will not understand half of it.” The chauffeur made a wry face. “And you will keep silence as well, because the honor of your embassy demands it. We drove to Uttar Pradesh at the invitation of the governor of that state. I do not know why the boss was dawdling. I waited for a long time in front of his residence, and then we rushed as if to make up for the delay. First we were held up on the bridge over the Yamuna. Then on the Ganges, narrow bridges, one lane of traffic. I saw army supply columns, carts, and tongas moving along opposite us and a wide line of foot soldiers walking in front. ‘Push ahead of them,’ the ambassador shouted. ‘We have the right. I am traveling with the insignia, on official business.’

“And they were already coming onto the bridge. I knew they would not let us through, for what did they know about who we were? We waited, and they crawled along. Crawled along. Sometimes there were breaks in the lines and it would have been possible to shove in, but a sergeant with a flag was leaning back against the hood. He paid no attention when I blew the horn, and when the ambassador jumped out he told him to sit quietly or he would catch it! I know these Gurkhas. They are not joking. What they will do to a soldier with a chest full of medals…Would they block our way out of anger?