Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

The boy looked at him with round, astonished eyes. He could not remember. Suddenly he brightened and cried, “He flew like an arrow!”

“You didn’t talk about the accident with the cow?”

“With what cow?”

Istvan understood. Wishing to show the ambassador that he was not afraid of him, he himself had made it clear that he knew. He had given himself away. If I want to hold him in check, he thought, I must have Krishan’s deposition in writing, certified. He must be convinced that he should not tempt fate for too long; enough of this risk. Let him buy himself a rickshaw; he has a motorcycle. He could earn good money. I must induce his wife to hector him about it. But he will not take her opinion seriously. He will listen to me, he thought as he drove down the wide avenue.

“Are we going to the show?” the boy asked happily.

“I have business with Krishan.”

The barrel-like building throbbed with the vibrating roar of the speeding motorcycle. The din of voices frenzied with delight rose and echoed under the undulating canvas roof. He is riding, he is flirting with danger — Istvan frowned — the sense that he is risking his life has become a narcotic for him. He must be frightened into accepting my advice. I will say that I have come to warn him. That I have had a dream. It would be easy to disable the motorcycle.

He bought two tickets. He wanted to see once more how the machine thundered as it flew around the thick timbers of the barrel. The boy was already gone; he had run onto the ramp leading to the gallery and squeezed between the people leaning through the balustrade.

The motorcyclist was riding downward in a spiral, sailing into swirling blue streaks of smoke. The viewers went mad, stamped, clapped, howled, whistled through their fingers to express their jubilation.

The rider in his black leather costume halted the motorcycle at the bottom of the wooden pit, pushed his goggles down onto his silver helmet, and raised a hand to greet the audience. Istvan watched and was taken by surprise. The motorcyclist’s uplifted face was clearly visible in the sun. It was not Krishan’s.

Little hands tugged at him. Mihaly exclaimed, smiling as if he had played a trick, “That wasn’t Krishan, uncle. Come on.”

They went down. The boy shouted something in Hindi to a group of children who were running out in front of him. They answered in guttural voices, making acrobatic gestures with their hands.

“No. No!” He seized Istvan and clung with a convulsive grip. “Ask at the ticket window, uncle,” he begged. His face was contorted, as if he were about to cry. “They must know there. Those Sikhs lie, they lie…”

The stout cashier only scratched his chest, tilted his head, and stared at them with wide eyes. “You did not see the notice, sir? We have a new champion. Krishan was killed two days ago.”

Terey went cold. Too late, he thought. The lead witness is dead.

“How did it happen?”

“Who knows? He was insured. The underwriting agency took the motorcycle for inspection. They promised to give us a copy of the findings. They do not like to throw money away.”

“And a new man is riding already,” Terey said caustically.

“We always have a few daredevils who want to make some money,” the man said deprecatingly, spreading his pudgy hands. “We pay honest wages. And an accident always draws viewers. We have not been so successful for a long time.”

“He…”

“He has been burned. There was trouble with his wife. How many? One adult, two children.” He sold the tickets without interrupting his stream of talk. “She leaped onto his pyre. She wanted to be burned alive. You know, sir, such passion is a rarity today. People pulled her away; she bit and kicked. Anyone with a camera then could have made a lot of money. You understand, sir. Suttee. It would have been an extra on newsstands all over the world.”

Istvan wanted to clench his fist and hit the bloated face framed by a black beard with an oily sheen.

“Where is she? In a hospital?”

“In a hospital? And who would pay? She is over it now. She is calm. She has gone to a woman in Old Delhi. If you like, I will find out where she is. The doorman knows her. You are from the press, sir? Or from an embassy?”

“Krishan was our driver. I liked him.”

“We did as well. Just a moment.” He lowered the window and scrambled out of the cramped booth. He trotted away toward the entrance, his heavy buttocks rippling. Istvan noticed only then that the boy was standing with his face averted as tears ran down his cheeks, forming large drops on his quivering chin.

“I know this is very sad for you, Mihaly.” He put his arms around the boy, stroked the back of his neck and quieted him. “We must find her. She needs help.”

“She took him,” the boy sniveled. “I saw her, too.”

“Who?” Startled, Istvan held his fingers in the child’s pale hair.

“His first wife. Once I saw her standing behind him, and he knew as well that she was near, because he looked around. He was afraid of her. So was her sister.”

“So it seemed to you. You have been listening to fairy tales.”

The boy shook his head.

“Behind the Corso Cinema, third house on the left. Best to go through the Ajmeri Gate, sir,” the portly cashier announced. “Everyone must know her there. The accident was widely reported.”

Istvan thanked him and he and the boy moved toward the car.

He glanced at his watch; it was late. If Margit were there, if she were waiting, if she called, they could spend a long time looking for each other. They would lose an hour. Her time in Delhi was too short.

“We’ll go for ice cream. Would you like that?”

“Aren’t we going to find Krishan’s wife?”

“We will, we will, but not now. I have to meet Dr. Ward. Miss Margit.”

“I know her.”

“Of course you do. I want to take her with us.”

“Maybe she can help us,” the boy agreed.

In the low light and pleasant coolness of the coffee shop, the ceiling fans wafted bluish cigarette smoke around in rings. The lamplight played on silks of wine red and sapphire trimmed with gold. Its gleam wandered over jet black hair gathered into great knots and plaited with little chaplets of fragrant flowers. The hubbub of leisurely conversation, bursts of laughter, soft music, and jingling bracelets on dark wrists and ankles eased his tension, almost lulled him. They wandered among the tables, led on by the glances of beautiful gossiping women. Margit was not there.

“Uncle, here is a table.” Mihaly lunged toward it. His voice was still hoarse from crying.

A pair of young Hindus had just risen, leaving behind saucers, glasses, bottles, and an ashtray full of crumpled napkins with traces of red lipstick that made them look like cast-off bandages.

Istvan ordered coffee for himself and ice cream for the boy. The door-curtain was drawn aside; every flash of sunlight in the entry disturbed him. He looked impatiently at the faces of those who came in. A waiter moved between the tables, showing the guests a tablet with the names of those who were wanted on the telephone. No. No, he did not see his name.

Mihaly licked his ice cream from his spoon with growing concentration. His cheerful smile was returning; his eyelashes, still sticky from his tears, were drying quickly. His was a happy age, when one feels with equal pain the loss of a beloved toy and the death of a friend, and with equal ease forgets them. At that age everyone is immortal, and the heart is a spring with inexhaustible resources of feeling. It is easy to rationalize the deaths of other people: age, sickness, accidents, mortality, reach for others and touch them, not us, who since awakening from a calm, deep sleep have been nurtured by the measureless, benevolent waters of time…Istvan smiled gently as the little fellow blinked with delight and leaned over the stemmed silver compote that was foggy from the cold.