Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“And those others?”

“Don’t worry. Those are the doors to my bedroom. They are also locked,” she whispered, touching his neck with her lips. He plunged his lips into her fragrant hair. She hung in his arms. She slid down, pressing her body to his, and knelt. In a voice full of tenderness she whispered, “My dearest, my only love…my husband…” Her eyes were wide as she looked at him, without defense.

“You’re mad.” He buried his fingers in her hair and shook her head.

“Yes, yes,” she affirmed passionately, clinging to him. Her gown rolled up, pulled by her feverish hand. He saw her dark, slender thighs; she wore nothing under her long skirt.

“You have me,” she breathed.

He bent over her. He saw her tawny hips and a triangle of dark, curling hair. Like a wave rolling onto a shore she came against him, striking at him impatiently. He took her with angry delight as she entwined him forcefully in her legs, drew him into herself; she captured him, clamped him in hot fetters. He felt her burning and slippery inside. She gave herself to him with desperate passion until he wrenched free, pulled away — escaped.

She lay with parted lips, exposing her teeth as in a grimace of pain. She crossed her hands defensively on her breast and clenched her fists.

“What is it, darling?”

“Nothing, nothing…don’t look.” She turned her head away and, with a moan, wrung her fingers. Her unplaited dark hair drifted in a wide round mass; her small face seemed to be drowning in it. Her legs were parted, open, like a gate forced by an assailant. He saw how she trembled, how her belly pulsed. At last her eyes met his. She fixed him with a tense stare. He stroked her, quieted her, soothed her. Huge tears rolled down her hot cheeks. Her presence of mind and judgment returned. Seeing him kneeling over her, she handed him the hem of her wide, lacy, foam-like skirt.

“I won’t be needing it.”

He wiped himself with her wedding gown. It began to dawn on him that, for that moment of raging desire, a time of reckoning would come. His heart contracted violently. The fires went out; he felt only shame, uneasiness, and a growing wish to be gone. He wanted to disappear, to awaken as if from a dream.

Suddenly they heard applause like thunder. The guests were thanking the Chinese man for the show. The din of conversation, the clatter of steps on the tiles, grew louder. Without warning the reflectors outside the windows lit up, illuminating the palace walls. The glare hit the windows like a fist, spurting into the room, cutting the naked thighs with yellow streaks.

Grace sprang up and swept her hand through her hair. “Go,” she pleaded. “Get out.”

“When will I see you?”

“Never.” He knew what was occupying her thoughts. “In an hour I will be saying my vows…and I will keep them. A Hindu woman does not betray her husband.” She disengaged herself from his arms. “Go. Go. Go.” She pushed him toward the door. She turned the key and peeped out.

“Now.” She grazed him with her fingertips as if to apologize, and the door swung shut.

Stunned, he walked downstairs to the wide hall. The rajah’s chair was empty. He poured himself a large whiskey and dropped in a pair of ice cubes. Without waiting for the drink to chill, he took a swallow.

More and more guests gathered at the bar, jostling him, pressing against him, and he wanted so to be alone. He was afraid they would scrutinize him too closely. Lightly swinging his glass, he went up to a tall mirror. He did not see his reflection clearly, but he grew calmer. “She was mad,” he whispered in wonder, feeling a wave of sudden gratitude. “The poor thing!”

“Is what you see in the mirror more interesting than what is going on here?” Terey heard Dr. Kapur’s voice behind him.

“No,” he said with emphasis. “I only wanted to look at myself. But perhaps you will tell my fortune, doctor?” He thrust out his palm with a challenging air.

Kapur took it as if he were testing whether it were made of sufficiently resistant matter. Without looking at the lines on it he said, “You are fortunate; even your mistakes will be turned to your advantage. That which should harm you will bring you gifts beyond measure. The punishment meted out to you will be your salvation.” The words flowed with the distasteful glibness of the professional chiromancer. “Miss Vijayaveda…”

Terey gave a start and wrenched his hand away. Then he understood that this was no reading of omens, that Grace was really coming down the stairs, veiled in red, attended by two elderly Hindu women, as if she were under guard. She did not respond to the greetings of her European guests, who were already beginning to leave the palace. She advanced with short steps, like a mental patient. When she was immersed in bright light, he made out the dark oval of her face, the lines of her eyebrows and the darkish tint of her lowered eyelids. Her grave aloofness and concentration wounded him. He belonged to the past, and it was behind her; it was closed once and for all.

The rajah, in white and gold, walked toward her. In the hush one could hear the shuffling of his slipper-like shoes, with tips turned up like new moons. The young couple bowed to each other. The rajah moved first toward the canopy with its hanging clusters of bananas. She followed him meekly, three steps behind, as befitted a wife. They sat with crossed legs on leather cushions.

Now the priests made their appearance. In singsong accents they recited verses and called the guests to witness that the pair here present, of their own free will and consent, were swearing to be faithful to each other until death, solemnizing the act of marriage.

“Not true! Not true!” he repeated inwardly. But beneath it all lay the bitter certainty that he no longer mattered. She was another woman, a woman he did not know.

The rite progressed slowly. The guests had lost their curiosity; they settled onto the lawn, men and women separately. Conversations were carried on in undertones; Istvan could not understand them. He felt conspicuous, out of place in his evening clothes. He was the only European who had outstayed the hour stipulated on the gilded invitation.

On the other side of a whispering circle of women, he noticed a copper cap of smoothly combed hair; someone had just given Miss Ward a chair, assuming that she could not sit comfortably on the ground for long. She looked in his direction, so he raised his hand and made a sign of greeting. She answered with a nod.

The ceremony dragged on. Under her red veil, Grace glittered with jewels; she was immobile, curtained off. The rajah’s plump hands had fallen onto his knees. His swollen eyelids, which gleamed as if he had rubbed them with oil, were half shut. He seemed to be dozing. There was a sleepiness in the air. The lights were dimming as if they had been stifled with a bluish dust that had been sprinkled about without anyone’s noticing. The nasal voice of the brahmin rose and broke off, only to rise again, supported by the murmur of the acolytes. Terey leaned toward Dr. Kapur, who was sitting by him, and the doctor held out an open cigarette case of gold. They smoked furtively like schoolboys, blowing smoke in various directions and waving it away to keep from being noticed.

And so, he decided, it is over. At least one of us should have a little common sense. Grace — she is helpless, hemmed in. But I? He imagined the rumors, the whispers; the effects of a widely circulated scandal; the spurious sympathy of his colleagues; the helpless gesticulations, with hands spread in the air, of the ambassador, “You understand, comrade counselor, that one must disappear on the quiet. I have sent Budapest a code dispatch with your request for immediate recall. Of course I signed off on it, I wanted no harm done. I understand: too much to drink, a beautiful girl, the heat. You were carried beyond yourself. Pity to end a career this way.”