Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

Since no bullet shot in Budapest brought me freedom, I have a wife, obligations. What is unfolding in my mind is hideous. How many times my eyes have slid over brief news items under small headlines: he killed his wife, he stabbed his wife with a knife, and I shrugged them off, thinking, can two sensible, cultured people not find a simpler solution, not separate without losing respect for each other, not remain friends and part without insults and curses? Is death really the easiest way? Or perhaps the convicted murderer was more honest: he killed because he wanted to be free. She was blocking his way, so he thrust in the knife. And I am convinced that one of those bullets, blindly shot, could bring me freedom. I am a murderer, though my hands are clean. I find pleasure in these hypothetical solutions. I assent too eagerly to these possibilities. Moreover, I attribute them to Him Whose will is discreetly called fate, coincidence, or chance.

I am angry at Ilona because her existence reminds me of myself years ago, when I was mawkishly and absurdly in love. If only it were possible to forget that! To say: I did not know yet. I embraced her in a breath of jasmine, as yet understanding nothing of life. A blind puppy.

Chandra would absolve me with a simple explanation, with light mockery: that one who long ago took his vows and meant to keep them is not you. Cells die in the body and others replace them. Every so many years we change completely. Your wife is accustomed to you; she did not notice that a stranger lived beside her — not at all the same man she had exchanged promises with, but another. How can you, a living man, take responsibility for someone who a long time ago ceased to exist, only because you have not changed your name and you still look around when they call: Istvan Terey? But you can be someone else entirely. You can create yourself. It is only necessary to have the courage to say, I can, therefore I will.

Only the first step is difficult. After that you will see that you yourself created the constraints. There are no impassable barriers. None. If He exists, let Him try to stop you. After all, you created Him for yourself from ten commandments, and you carry Him like a crushing burden. Instead of wishing for your wife’s death, kill Him; that’s no great trick. It’s enough to say that He does not exist, and I myself will be the master. At once everything becomes simple.

To escape, to go where we will be happy. To take Margit by the hand and lead her. To return to my country. Let them say what they like. The whole world is of no concern to me. It does not exist apart from us. Only our looks waken it to life, and words can consolidate a more perfect, unblighted world.

One must have the courage to say: I decide. My happiness is the law. I. Margit and I. Because I want her. For her adoration, the surrender in which she herself takes such delight, has become indispensable to me.

Yet a plea arose from deep within him: Help me, I don’t want…But he did want; he wanted painfully, desired, craved. In this torment there was a disingenuous calculation: he was trying to force God’s hand, to blackmail Him. If You cannot find me a way of possessing this woman that is compatible with Your law, do not be surprised if I must break it, and it will not be my fault. I went to great lengths to find a solution.

He banished these troubling thoughts, these whinings of deceitful logic, like arguments from the chambers of hole-in-corner lawyers where dark goings-on are forever being whitewashed. Chandra greets me. Chandra offers me his services, he thought irritably. The telephone rang and he lifted the receiver, out of temper at being disturbed.

“Istvan? You invited me for today. Nothing has changed, has it?” He heard a tinge of sourness in Trojanowski’s voice.

“No. I’m glad we can chat a little.”

“Your wife is well? Your children doing well in school? Windowpanes being replaced in Budapest and scarred façades on buildings beginning to be repaired? Are you in a better frame of mind?”

“Everything is all right at home.”

“And with you?”

“Nothing wrong. I’m tired. They’ve promised me a holiday.”

“Will you dash over to Hungary?”

“No. I’m going to the seashore. A furlough in the country of posting—” he repeated the conventional form of words.

“You were born under a lucky star. I envy you. Till tonight. I am ordering the ‘wooden plate’ and red wine.”

“What time will you be here?”

“When I have sent some telegrams. One thing more — or perhaps you know already. Madam Khaterpalia’s child was stillborn.”

“What?” he cried, as if Trojanowski had accused him of something.

“Nagar said so, and he knows everything. After a visit from her doctor she felt some discomfort, and an unexpected premature birth ensued. The child was dead.”

“What happened? Such a fine-looking woman!”

“The devil only knows. Perhaps old indiscretions on the part of the rajah? How do you know that he is healthy? Money does not cure everything. Have I caught you unaware with the news?”

“It’s terrible. She had been so happy—” he whispered.

“Like every mother. Very difficult. Predestination.”

“You don’t know where she is? In a hospital?”

“Call Nagar or the rajah. I don’t know. Until tonight.”

“Goodbye.”

He put down the receiver. Poor Grace. Misfortune aimed its blows at her with appalling accuracy. So many cunningly considered measures to ensure that the one whose birth the family awaited would receive the entire inheritance: plans and calculations now set at naught. All for nothing. He remembered how, on the veranda at the club, Grace had pressed his hand to her belly so he could feel the baby’s movements. Was it mine? He trembled with alarm. No. No.

He strode nervously around the room, then called the rajah. A servant answered and promised to notify his master. His voice was serene and obedient, as if nothing had happened in the house.

“You already know?” He heard Khaterpalia’s voice. “Thank you. Grace does not wish to see anyone. Even me. Do not come.”

“You have my deepest sympathy.”

“I know. You like her.” The man sighed, and after a long silence stammered hoarsely, “She is most upset and angry that this happened within two hours after a visit from Kapur, who said that everything was okay, that the baby would be born in two weeks. There might be light pains, for the placenta was dropping, but all was well. Because of that I made light of her discomfort. Grace was suddenly frightened because it was not moving. I calmed her; I assured her that it must be sleeping. She insisted that that could not be so, that it had never been quiet for so long. The doctor did not hurry, either. And then he groped around her with his stethoscope, growing more and more apprehensive. ‘I cannot get a heartbeat,’ he said. ‘I cannot hear anything.’ And very soon the birth occurred. It was choked by the cord, which was twisted two times around its little neck. As if someone had deliberately choked it.”

Istvan could tell that the rajah was suffering, was seeing what had happened to him as a horrible injustice, as if fate were sneering at him. The hand with which he was holding the receiver was slippery with sweat. If I feel this so acutely, what state must he be in?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No. He had a tuft of damp black hair and a small face contorted as if he were crying. They said he resembled me and not Grace. I have lost a son.”

“How does the doctor explain it?”

“Does it matter? He cannot bring the child back to life. Kapur says that the fetus was small, as is usual with the first child. The mother experienced some emotional upset and the stimulus was communicated to the infant, who rotated and became entangled. But Grace was in no distress. She was so happy!”