Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

The darkness lowered and grew denser. Crickets chimed in the grass as if they were attracted by the lights. He heard the distant noise of passing cars, the irritable squeal of brakes, the impatient horns. Some still waited like a herd of sleepy animals in front of the palace.

No one saw us, he thought with inexpressible relief. Then he despised himself for the cowardliness of the thought and the implied repudiation of Grace.

Gigantic trays loaded with glasses of lemonade were brought from the kitchen. A waiter knelt to serve those sitting on the lawn. Kapur handed one to Terey. He took a swallow and immediately put it down. A sickening tinge of cane syrup was on his lips — a sticky-sweet taste — and a fuzzy mint leaf. He glanced in Miss Ward’s direction. She had evidently just finished the same experiment, for her nose was wrinkled and she was quivering with revulsion.

“Do you wish me to tell you more?” the doctor began, stroking his beard, which was tightly rolled and secured with ribbon. “What fate has ordained for you, what is imprinted in the lines?”

“Thank you.”

“It is not permitted to read that one, because that brings on changes.”

“I’m afraid it is the whiskey that speaks and not your intuition.”

“If I like, I can keep the whiskey from affecting me,” the Sikh insisted. “I draw this sign”—he made a zigzag motion in the air above his glass—“and I can even drink poison.”

“I shouldn’t advise drinking this lemonade, though.”

The first circle of witnesses to the rite sat rigidly, but around the perimeter of the crowd people had risen. Men stretched, walked not far away into the bushes and returned after a moment, adjusting their robes. Terey went over to Miss Ward, who, like him, was a stranger at this gathering.

“Do you like weddings?”

“This one has gone on too long. And it’s a strangely sad ceremony,” she reflected. “The end seems nowhere in sight. I believe I’ll slip out.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Here. I would have preferred a hotel, but they insisted that I stay with them.”

“Nothing more is going to happen. The brahmin will utter precepts and bless the young couple.”

“Will you stay?”

“No. I will escape as well.”

They left. No one tried to stop them; no one said goodbye.

The shadow of the priest fell on the bride and groom; the three rings of those seated shimmered white in the diffuse light. Dark heads grew faint against the background of greenery. They looked like bundles of linen carelessly done up and thrown on the grass — a picture from a bad dream.

“Are you in India for the first time?”

“Yes. I came to the UNESCO center. I am an ophthalmologist.”

“The best place for an apprenticeship.” Kapur’s voice could be heard just behind them. “Even as you gouge a patient’s eye out here, he will bless you out of gratitude that at last someone is showing him some attention.”

“You are a doctor?” she asked, bridling.

“That is how I live; I cannot afford philanthropy. I take those who pay. The more I charge, the more they believe in the effectiveness of my advice and treatment, and the more highly they value their health.”

“And the poor?”

“They remain at your disposition.” He spread his hands in a courtly gesture. “You may experiment. One must be firm with them, however, and keep the riffraff at a distance. I would advise that you begin by engaging two strong watchmen to keep order. Otherwise the dregs of society will invade you like lice.”

A tumult broke out near the house. They heard the tinkle of broken glasses. Ram Kanval appeared in the doorway of the veranda, propped up by a servant.

“Let me go.” He tried to shake the man off. “I can walk by myself. Oh, counselor!” he called, pleased, as if he could have Terey as a witness. “I put an empty glass down and it tilted the whole tray, and everything went flying.”

“Where glass breaks, success comes in a hurry. A good sign,” Kapur nodded. “With us clay pots are thrown near the bride’s feet, and she crushes the potsherds on the threshold to bring happiness on the house.”

Gently but with determination the servant pushed the slender painter in front of him, saying something in Hindi. “‘Time to sleep. He should go home,’” the doctor translated.

“Good advice,” Terey concurred. “Let’s not wait until they order us out. Good night, Miss Ward.”

She gave him her hand, and he put it to his lips involuntarily. He smelled the disinfectant that permeated her skin, and at once he understood: beware, Kapur has a good sense of smell, and no talent for palmistry.

“We will see each other again. India is not as large as it seems.”

“That would be a pleasure,” she answered smoothly.

He took the painter by the arm and waved a hand to the doctor. They went out to the front of the palace. Again the fragrance of the subtropical night met them in a rush. No one was near. Large moths fluttered in figure eights around the lamps. Drivers slept in the dark, silent automobiles, their thin legs propped against the seat backs. Others sat with their cars open, smoking cigarettes and chatting about their employers.

“I have a great favor to ask you,” the painter ventured. Vodka had made him bold; he was becoming aggressive, but he halted every few seconds. “I cannot return home empty-handed. Lend me twenty rupees.”

“Forty, even,” Terey agreed readily.

“As soon as I sell a picture I will repay it, I swear.”

The car was empty. The counselor blew the horn, and the mechanical blare, out of place amid the muted night sounds, roused the chauffeurs, who yawned shamelessly. Finally Krishan appeared.

“The rajah is supposed to be a great man, but he gave us rice, as if we were sparrows.” He displayed his belly, which was flat as a board. “So empty it rumbles.”

He drove the car out onto the road. The headlights splashed glare on the tree trunks. They hurtled along, but Terey did not try to slow them down. He wanted to be alone as quickly as possible. Insects lashed against the headlights like rain.

When they pulled up near the house, the watchman got up from the veranda. By the glow of the bulb that hung in the convoluted greenery under the ceiling, the old soldier had been knitting a wool sock. “All’s well,” he announced, beating on the ground with a bamboo stick as though it were a rifle butt.

“Krishan, drive Mr. Ram Kanval to Old Delhi.”

“Very good, sir.”

The painter said his effusive goodbyes. His hand was sticky from cane syrup. Istvan waited until the car moved away, as courtesy required. On the ceiling of the veranda, around the light bulb, whitish lizards crouched; they had a fine hunting ground there. As he passed, Terey always craned his neck and looked distrustfully to see if one of them was going to fall on the back of his neck. But they held themselves fast to the ceiling.

“Good night, sahib.” The watchman stood at attention.

“Good night.”

His “good night” was unnecessary. They had to offer him the appropriate good wishes; he should have accepted that and remained silent as custom dictated.

As he closed the door, he saw the lights of his car. It was already returning. Krishan had not wanted to take Ram Kanval home, and had put him out on the next corner. But Istvan did not have the strength to call the driver over and give him a tongue-lashing. He knew how Krishan would explain it: Kanval himself had not wanted to be driven further. He liked to walk, it was warm, a fine night, it would damage the car to hurry over that rag of a road. Let him walk. He would sober up more quickly.