Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

The sewing machines whirred. The hammer beat. The blackbirds whistled as if in astonishment. The old woman stopped eating and finally turned toward them. Without bothering to conceal her curiosity she scrutinized Margit, her red hair, her white plastic handbag.

“Didn’t Krishan leave any papers?” Terey inquired. “Didn’t he tell you the name of the village where they had the accident with the cow?”

“No.” Durga raised herself, looking troubled. “There, behind the photograph, is his wallet. Look, sir.”

The old woman bestirred herself and brought him the wallet. It was dark from sweat, and bent inward; it preserved the form of the chest that was now a scattering of ashes. In its compartments old identification papers were tucked, and a lottery ticket, a couple of receipts, and some slips of paper covered with serpentine Hindi writing. Discouraged, Istvan let them fall onto the bed. Perhaps it is better this way, he thought; it keeps me from being tempted. If I really wanted to, I could write to the office of the governor; they would give me what I am looking for. And if I have to stay in the background, I can put Chandra on the scent.

He shivered with disgust. What am I looking for? Do I want the information in order to feel more secure myself, or will I insist that justice be done? Leave that to Him Who reaches out alike to the defenseless, the oppressed, the small — the cadence of the gospels leaped to his mind — and the great. He reached into his pocket and drew out a wad of rupees — not many, but it seemed to him that he should show a willingness to offer support. Margit also contributed.

“No. I do not need it,” Durga demurred.

“Thank them for their kindness,” the older woman admonished her, shoving the banknotes into the wallet and replacing it behind the photograph, on the metal lid of the trunk, which gleamed like cut lead.

“What papers were you searching for?” Margit asked when they had gone out into the yard.

“Not now. When we have taken the boy back.” He looked into her large eyes and was charmed by their lustrous clarity: eyes like an angora cat. “It is for your ears only.”

“If you don’t feel comfortable telling me,” she smiled gently, “don’t. You will have more peace of mind. And I really don’t have to know. Sit by me, Mihaly. Let’s leave Mr. Terey alone.”

Blowing the horn without letup, they drove into a crowd of cyclists. Slowly they pushed their way toward the glowing red brick gate of the old fortified city. He could see, in spite of what Margit had said, that she was hurt by his silence, for she rested her hands on the arm of the front seat and began to speak.

“I was a little older than Mihaly when a fire broke out in our pasture. Not only did the bunkhouse with the shepherds’ belongings burn; so did the stone storehouse that held the wool from the shearing. The tramps who had caused it to happen were soon found — drunks who were sleeping in some bushes. Our people went into a towering rage and dragged them off and threw them into the ashes, deep ashes full of smoldering fire. They were roasted alive. Some of our people are very hard.

“Don’t be shocked. They had put in a whole year of backbreaking work and their earnings were wiped out, because everyone shares the profits from the sheared wool. I didn’t see it happen, only Stanley did, and he made me swear on his knife to keep the secret. I was terribly afraid; he said he would cut out my tongue. He was a devil, not a man”—there was a ring of approval in her voice. “My father didn’t know, and I knew, and kept my word. Today I am telling the first person I have ever told — you.”

“How could that have happened?” he stormed. “No one saw the burned bodies? Was there no investigation?”

“The coroner conducted an inquiry, but the workers all testified that the fire started in the shed where two vagrants had slept on the wool. They had caused the fire and they had burned up in it. They were guilty and they had brought the punishment on themselves; what more was there to investigate?”

“Oh, the school of hard realities! That’s a nice upbringing they gave you!” His eyes flashed.

He did not drive up near the embassy itself, but let the little boy out on the corner of the avenue. “Mihaly, remember!” He put an admonitory finger to his lips and the boy nodded comprehendingly. “You were with me, having ice cream.”

The boy pulled up his leg and scratched his calf. “The tailors’ shop was full of fleas,” he complained irritably. “Uncle, do you think we will be able to investigate? Will we find the clue?”

“Be a smart boy.” Margit stroked his hank of blond hair.

“Uncle, who killed Krishan?”

“We don’t know yet what the police will say. They took the motorcycle to inspect it. But it was an accident, I think — bad luck. Go now. Run along home.”

The boy scampered away, jumping like a goat, borne along by his own energy. He did not even look around as they drove away.

Evening colored the sky a deep purplish red. Great leaves quivered as buoyantly as feathers in the breeze. As they stopped in front of his house, Istvan heard the calm gurgling of water pouring from the open hydrant; the dry season had come again, and the lawns must be watered.

“Everything is in order, sir,” the watchman announced, striking the ground with his bamboo stick. His Mongolian face with its good-natured smile gleamed from under the drooping brim of his canvas hat. “Sir, I am getting married,” he declared joyfully. “The cook promised to help me.”

“Mind he doesn’t help you too much. The cook is clever,” Terey warned with a chuckle.

“Yes — clever. I will not give him cash in hand. We will go together to buy things for the wedding feast.”

They had hardly gone into the house, into the dimness of the hall, when he took Margit in his arms with a firm grip and began to kiss her.

“Do whatever you must to come to Delhi. I need you so.”

“I want to as well.” Gently she ruffled his short hair, which was coarse as a brush.

“You don’t even know what a joy it would be to see you every day, to hear your voice. You must be near me.”

“Don’t throw good sense to the winds.” A little dove’s note of excitement rippled in her voice.

“Margit, I am uneasy. I feel instinctively that — cook!” he shouted, as from the partly opened doorway a black hand protruding from a white shirt cuff discreetly appeared and reached for the light switch. Before he could stop the man, a harsh light flashed on. Lizards flitted around the ceiling, seeking shade under a large blade on the motionless fan. He released Margit and found himself somewhat amused by having been caught off guard.

“I am listening, sir.”

“Serve us something to eat, and quickly.”

Pereira stood in the half-open doorway. His graying hair fell in wisps on his forehead; his eyes were filled with friendly indulgence.

“Good fish, raisin sauce, salad…” he counted the items on his fingers, which were ashy gray on the undersides.

“Don’t talk, just bring it. Hurry!”

The cook saw the cheerful glint in Terey’s eye and was not alarmed by the raised voice. Bowing and loudly shuffling through the hall in his flopping shoes, he made a great show of haste and obedience.

“What is bothering you?” Margit asked as she walked into the bathroom to wash her hands. “Can’t you tell me?”

“I can.” He waved impatiently. “I just didn’t want to say anything in front of the child.” He described the accident involving the cow, and the peasant’s death. He told her about the words he and the ambassador had had. She listened alertly, mechanically wiping her hands with a towel though they were already dry.