Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“This is terrible. Please convey my—”

“Very well,” the rajah interrupted. “When she is calmer I will let you know. I must create a cheerful situation for her, gather friends, leave no room for thoughts of…She did not even see that child. Let the whole incident be like a bad dream. I have ordered that everything be removed that could remind her of him: the little carriage brought from London, the layette, the crib. She had already been walking around the hall with that carriage to see what it would be like. It is gone. It was not there. We did not have a child at all. These were only dreams.

“Thank you, Istvan. I knew that you…You will be the first of those I wish to see at her side. Only I warn you: speak of anything, even that you were a little in love with her, as long as you do not allude to this. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Now a few days’ quiet. Until she is herself. I will let you know. Remember, a child is in her future. It will come in a year, a year and a half. That one did not exist.”

Istvan was speechless. Magical thinking: he believes he can expunge pain from memory, make it disappear like that tiny curled body that the water of the Yamuna swallowed up.

Outside the window the garish sun beat down. The wind carried clouds of red dust and caressed the heavy coat of leaves on the tangled vines that covered the garage wall. Out of sheer force of habit he completed the last bit of writing for that day. He left the embassy with relief. Mihaly in a jockey cap with upturned visor was swinging on the unlatched gate, which scraped mournfully.

“Uncle, take me. I will go for a ride with you, uncle.”

“I’m not going home,” he answered through the lowered window of the Austin.

“You don’t like me like you used to! We don’t have any secrets anymore.”

“Get in, you little blackmailer.” He opened the door. “But I can’t bring you home for quite a while.”

Behind the small moss-covered temple, besieged by brambles and with its roof chipped like a bitten apple, the city’s gardens began. They saw long swatches of red snapdragon and green mignonette. Fields of salvia blazed such a jubilant red that they seemed to shimmer. Autumn did not hamper the luxuriant plant growth as long as hoses sprinkled the ground. He bought an armful of huge violet gladioli; their sleek chalice-like blossoms were open. Blinking in the sun, Mihaly cradled them carefully

“They smell like wet dirt!” His face puckered with disenchantment.

Istvan attached an envelope containing a note: “I share your pain, Grace.” It was not true.

He felt a fear, a vague presentiment that the hand of judgment he had invoked might also reach into his life. If You want me to settle the question, very well, so it shall be: the thought returned like an ominous musical phrase sung by distant choirs. Grace lost the child she longed for. The most agonizing blow. He knew what to take — and what will He take from me? He shuddered. Distant song, and the dull beat of drums slapped by a scrawny hand, streamed on the air like black ribbon. Do I not have the right to reach for what is most precious to you, since you call Me your Lord?

He stopped the car in front of the park gate and sent Mihaly to deliver the bouquet and the note. The watchman who always guarded the entrance, circling about like a dog on a chain, was not there. The doorway to the palace was open, and dark; the small windows on the second story were tightly closed.

The boy was already running back, his knees catching the light.

“No one was in the hall, so I put the flowers on the table,” he panted, full of elation. “They will be surprised!”

When the automobile had started again, he turned to Istvan with a flushed face and begged timidly, “Since we are here, couldn’t we have ice cream? It is so awfully hot.”

“It’s not nice to trick me, Mihaly,” he said sternly, but he did not have the heart to refuse. “Have you had dinner yet? I don’t want to get in trouble with your mother.”

“Ice cream isn’t food. Anyway, I won’t brag about it. If you like, that will be our secret today.”

In the colonnade at Connaught Place, vendors of illustrated American and English publications had spread their wares on a brightly colored carpet on the walk. Terey stopped; he was always drawn to books. A gaunt Hindu with a sunken chest and a graying mustache detached himself from a pillar and said in an exhalation of garlic, “I have banned items: Secrets of the Black Pagoda and Indian Nights . I have photos. Thirty classic positions.”

Istvan shrugged. The man looked tearfully into his eyes. “Sahib — perhaps the address of beautiful girls?”

From habit, so as not to kill the hope in eyes glittering from hunger, Istvan put him off. “No, not today. Another time.”

The peddler bent in a respectful bow. It seemed that his slender, veined neck would break under the burden of his enormous turban.

In the sweet shop the curtain was drawn back. Sunlight from the windows shone through the layered cloud of bluish cigarette smoke. The fans were not humming, so the din of voices divided itself clearly into Hindi and English. The quiet laughter of women, the jingle of spoons and the clapping of hands to summon the waiter drew their attention to the neighboring tables. The exquisitely pleated turbans of Sikhs clustered thickly in the snug booths. Their tightly rolled beards gleamed oily black. It was difficult to find seats. Terey looked around uncertainly.

“I will take it on a waffle, in my hand,” Mihaly said helpfully. They moved toward the buffet, which was shrouded in a haze of steam from the balefully hissing coffee warmer.

It seemed to Istvan that as he moved through the narrow space between the tables, he caught himself on something. Then he felt a hand detaining him.

“Come and sit with us.” He heard the voice of attorney Chandra. “You know Kapur. Doctor, please make a little room. What for the boy? For you, strong coffee, I know.”

“Ice cream,” he answered mechanically, taking a seat with relief. He pressed the lawyer’s cold, bony hand and the doctor’s warm, strong one.

“The child must eat slowly,” Kapur advised, puffing out his full cheeks. “He could easily take a chill, you know? And I predicted: too much good fortune all at once.” He rolled his eyes. “A fortune. Youth. Health.”

“And love. Love,” Chandra prompted sarcastically.

“It is written on her palm: she will give birth to two more.”

“And if they are daughters?” the lawyer asked.

“They must try until the end is achieved.” The doctor threw up his hands as if to say that there was nothing more to discuss. “They are both young, after all. Nothing is lost. She can still bear children.”

The waiter brought a tall, slender silver bowl of ice cream with coconut cookies stuck into it. He poured coffee from a glass globe that he set above a spirit lamp. Its blue flame pierced the dimness with a sepulchral glow.

“Doctor”—Chandra leaned on his elbow—“pay the check, and in exchange I will furnish you an opportunity for substantial earnings. A great opportunity: decide quickly.”

Kapur smiled distrustfully and shook his head as if to say: I will pass it up.

“I think, however, that it cannot be done without my help,” the attorney began in an undertone.

“I might have known!” the doctor retorted. “I see what awaits me. The risk, mine. The profit, yours. I will not be taken in. I do not agree to it.” Then he said appeasingly, “In any case, I will pay the bill.”

“I have not finished yet. The rajah has lost his son. The important thing was, after all, a son. A great deal of money was waiting for him; a fortune! Undivided.”