Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

In the silence they heard the crunch of the shells, the rattle of the angry tails. The intonation of the sea was fainter, as if it were farther from the land. Squeezing Margit’s hand tenderly, Istvan whispered, “To your next holidays — in Australia.”

“I want to be there sooner,” she replied impatiently. “And with you. Well, please — say it again. It’s terribly important.”

In a low-necked white dress accented by a necklace of irregularly shaped hunks of turquoise that complemented the color of her eyes, she was captivating. Her hair glowed with coppery highlights like tiny living, shifting flames from a candle; it cast a shadow on her forehead. A light shawl with gold threads was slipping from her arms.

“You know that’s what I want, too,” he whispered, gazing into her cool eyes, which were now sparkling with joy.

“But say it again,” she insisted, leaning toward him as if drawn by an irresistible force.

“With you. With you.”

On a silver tray sat a dish with leftover shells and the crisp red husk of a lobster. Its antennae threw a darting shadow on the white of the tablecloth, while the painstakingly arranged claws the color of coral wallowed among leaves of curly kale. They ate filet of turkey breast with fragrant nutmeg stuffing, sweet and biting, and pineapple salad, washing it down with chilled wine. Far away over a sea burnished with shifting light a row of golden points glided along: a passenger ship making its way south. It was sailing to where Margit wanted to go. In the quiet they followed it with their eyes until it was lost in the darkness.

“I would give anything for you to be happy.”

“I will be. You know very well that it depends on you.”

Under palm fronds the cheery English ladies raised their glasses, forgot for a moment the coolly expectant young Indians in white dinner jackets who were leaning solicitously over them, and called to Margit, “Merry Christmas!”

Istvan and Margit lifted their glasses. In the dark, outside the windows that opened toward the bay, the Angelus bell rang with an insistent, rapid rhythm. As if it had summoned him, Daniel appeared on the steps of the terrace. Margit noticed with satisfaction that he had put on the new tie, the gift from Istvan.

“Do you really want to go?” Istvan said, still resisting. “Wouldn’t it be better to go to the beach in front of us, to the ocean?”

“No. No.” She shuddered with aversion. “Let’s see the chapel and how they pray.”

When they were walking away from the radiantly lit hotel veranda, the night seemed milder. The sand glowed and a soft breath of warm wind drifted from the dunes. Fireflies flew over tufts of dry grasses. The bell urged them on, clanging beyond the palm grove.

“I told the priest you would be coming,” Daniel said with a self-satisfied air. “He was very glad. This way, please. Be careful of the roots. The path takes a turn.”

Between the gently sloping trunks of the coconut palms the sky teemed with stars — large stars that glittered nervously and hardly pierced the dusk. Now they could see the faithful, women and children, their figures moving noiselessly among the trees. Only a little lamp suspended from a black wrist made a splash of color on a sari donned for the holiday. Little lights arrived, converged, and gave off a soft glow through the open gates.

“I did not believe that you would come.” A friendly voice spoke up and a tall figure detached itself from the wall. Istvan felt the hearty, coarse pressure of a workman’s hand, a hand accustomed to wield the ax and shovel. “It is rare that any of the tourists drop in. They prefer the sea.”

They stood before the chapel gate. By the warm twinkle of the candles they could see a gray uncombed beard, a sharp glance from under bushy brows. The priest wore an orange linen habit — the color worn by Buddhist monks — and sandals on his bare feet.

“You are from England?”

“No. Madam is from Australia and I am from Hungary.”

The monk held Terey’s hand as if he were afraid he would wrest it away and escape. “Good heavens! What a surprise!” he said in a choked voice, and suddenly began to speak rapidly in Hungarian. “I also am a Hungarian, from Kolozsvár. A Salesian. I have been here since 1912.”

“Hungarians were still not free then.”

“Hungarians were always free. Only the kingdom…Are you an emigrant?”

“No. I am here temporarily.”

The priest looked him hard in the face. “And can you return there?”

“Can’t you?”

“That depends on the will of my superiors. They are accustomed to having me here, and I am reconciled to it. I had not thought that God would give me such joy on the holiday. I can speak in my native language! I even taught a pair of boys here. They picked up the words like a recording tape, but they are not Hungarians. It was as if I had taught parrots.”

“Are we detaining you, father?”

“No. Father Thomas Maria de Ribeira, an Indian from Goa, is saying mass. I will hold one later for the fishermen when they return.”

“What are you speaking?” Margit moved closer to them; they had almost forgotten her. “Is the priest Hungarian?”

“Yes.”

“Well — you are glad!”

“Yes. Don’t be jealous. Have you been in contact with our embassy, father?”

“No. They sent me the registration document, but I put it aside and there it lies.”

“And your passport?”

“Everyone knows me here. No one asks about documents. I have no intention of going anywhere. And for the last road no passport is needed. Heavens — what happiness, to speak Hungarian! Are you man and wife?”

“No.”

“But you are a Catholic — you came here—” the priest was troubled. He raked his beard with his hand.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you both would like to join—”

“We have just finished dinner. It is impossible. Perhaps another time.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The monk seemed ashamed of his insistence. “I am sorry,” he said. “I would so have liked to hear a confession in our language. How I would enjoy being an instrument of grace to a countryman! Here — in India. It is no accident that has brought you to me.”

Margit stood leaning against the door frame, peering into the church. Warm light fell on her cheeks, which were tinted rose over her tan, and kindled on her hair. From inside came singsong voices repeating the litany, and the spicy smell of the warm throng.

Women entered, apologizing for their tardiness. They bent gently and touched the worn threshold with their foreheads, kissing their fingertips as they placed them on the floor. They threw lace mantillas over their hair, glancing at Margit as if she were not well brought up, then slipped inside.

“Then you will be able to see our Budapest?”

For a moment he did not answer.

“You know nothing about the events of November, father? About Kádár?”

“Who is he?”

“Or about the revolution, the fighting in Budapest?”

“No. I have no radio. I do not read the newspapers. But tell me: what happened there?”

Where to begin? How to tell him in a few sentences? Suddenly Istvan lost the will to speak. One would have to begin with the entire history of the last forty years. “Well, there is peace at the moment,” he said bitterly.

“And I was so upset. Praise God! Better not to read the papers; the reporters write such screaming headlines now, you begin to think there will be war tomorrow. And in the meantime nothing so terrible is happening. Nothing. And that’s good.”

Deep in the chapel a bell tinkled. The old man turned around and dropped heavily to his knees. He waved an admonitory hand, cutting off the conversation, urging them to fix their attention on the altar. Over the kneeling crowd Istvan saw, between the dark fingers of the priest, the golden flame of the chalice and the fragile white disk.