Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

He sat in a wicker chair and read aloud an entertaining short story from a thick edition of the Illustrated Weekly of India . Within himself he felt an unfamiliar serenity and order; it seemed to him that they were an old married couple and that what connected them was embodied in their surroundings, confirmed and reinforced by experience. He stole a glance at her: she had grown ugly. But when all is said and done, he thought, I love her not only for her grace and beauty. Through her I have this gift of peace. We understand and trust each other.

“Sahib.” Daniel was standing in the door to the veranda in a white linen costume that made his face and hands seem even darker. “Sahib, the wealthy brother is here.”

“Just don’t do anything foolish,” she begged.

“I’ll talk with him on the veranda with the door open. You’ll hear everything. You can put in a word at any minute.”

In front of the house, in the sun, stood a man in European dress: a white shirt and tie. His face was olive; his eyes looked out watchfully from under thick brows. He held a light straw hat in his hand.

“I am not intruding, I hope. I will only take a moment. I have already seen my brother. He told me everything. I had to come and thank you.”

“Please sit down, sir.”

He bowed and pressed Istvan’s hand tightly. He walked lightly up the steps and seated himself with catlike grace. Daniel brought a tray with Coca-Cola, ice in a wide thermos, lemons sliced in half, and a metal squeezer rather like a nutcracker.

“Will you drink whiskey?”

“With pleasure. I beg your pardon, but who is in there?” He pointed to the bedroom door.

“My”—Istvan hesitated as if he were being deposed by investigators—“my wife. Unfortunately, she is ill.”

“Ah, I know. The lady doctor. I asked because we are speaking of intimate matters. I do not like it when there are too many ears. Fortunately we can see all around us.”

“Someone may be under us.”

“No one is there. I checked.” He smiled with satisfaction because he had already thought of that. “I wanted to ask you to leave this matter to me.”

“Have you informed the police?”

“No. Mr. Terey, one should not forget that you are from the Red embassy, while I am from the Congress Party. Here in Kerala the communists are in power for the time being — a coalition supported by the votes of ‘wild delegates,’ or, if you prefer, ‘independents.’ The communists enjoy a certain popularity because they want sensible reforms. But that would mean that someone must give up something, must lose so others can gain. And those who have are not at all eager for redistribution.

“This government will not sustain itself. Delhi will remove it. If the matter of smuggling people to Ceylon should come to light now, it will only be a card in the game; at least that is the way the opposition will treat it. They will say the communists are concerned about whipping up the passions of the voters, not about justice. Those drowned refugees from Pakistan — from another country — are people from nowhere.”

“Do I understand that you are against the communists, and yet you have not given up on seeing justice done?” Terey brandished his glass. The sunlight rested on his bare, sandaled feet caressingly, like a fawning cat.

“You have put it well. If you file a deposition and my brother does not confirm it…after all, you do not know Malayalam.”

“But Daniel…”

“Your attendant translated a classic poem. Right, my boy?” He turned to Daniel, who was sitting crosslegged in the shadow of the house, gazing with longing at the undulating vastness of the sea.

“Yes, sahib.”

“When one has money, one can do much. I am here a day and I know almost everything. Even if they were arrested, they would escape the ultimate penalty. Trust me a little.”

“When it is not right for me to be silent—” he said in a hard voice.

“You have already been silent for three days. I know; you were waiting for me. There are other justifications. It is not necessary to trumpet everything one knows right away. Silence is not a lie; it only leaves room for deliberation. If you file a statement, they will treat it as a pawn in a political game: you are from the communist side. Please trust me. I will attend to this.”

“What guarantee do I have that they will not load a new cargo of runaways tonight and leave them to be eaten by sharks?”

“None, except for my word.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“And what is the point of your knowing it?” The dark eyes looked sternly at him and the lips under the close-clipped mustache narrowed in a malevolent smile. “They meant to kill my brother. He was saved because he is a sadhu, a singer of the gods. The gods allowed the blind man to see the truth. You are only one link in the chain. You received him, fed him, conducted him to a safe place, and summoned me. The rest is my business. My brother’s life is worth more than that ship full of beggars. Just now I have hurried here; I am not like him. He has greater riches, riches inaccessible to me, but I have rupees enough to find hands that will assist the cause of justice. Do you believe me?”

He leaned toward Terey and gazed into his face. On the fingers of both his hands were thick gold rings with rubies.

“Yes. I believe you. I have no choice.”

“How much should I pay you for your help? Answer without restraint. I have plenty, and what you did for my mad, saintly brother is beyond price.”

Terey saw that Daniel had raised his head and was looking tensely at him, moving his sticky lips as if he wanted to shout something.

“Nothing. I really did nothing for him.”

“I apologize,” the man whispered, “for speaking in front of them.” He motioned toward Daniel and the open door to the bedroom. “Here is a notebook; write something here. You are with the diplomatic corps; you are afraid that there will be trouble. I swear, no one will know.”

“No. I would have taken in anyone in need of help.”

In the silence gulls uttered nagging cries. A flock of gray crows shrieked hoarsely as they snatched with their beaks at the jellyfish that gleamed like clouding glass in the sun.

“If not with money, how may I repay you?”

He heard a quiet call, as if Margit had suddenly thought of a way: “Istvan, come here for a moment.”

He jumped up, almost stepping on the hat the wind had blown off the windowsill without anyone’s noticing.

“What do you want, darling?”

She sat with her head tilted a little like a listening bird, her matted hair pulled back and held tightly behind her ears with small combs. Her blue eyes beamed exultantly. She motioned for him to lean over.

“Tell him to take his brother to a good oculist. I’ll give him the address. Surgery can remove the cataracts and his sight will be restored.”

He kissed her forehead, which was a little cooler now. He repeated her suggestion to the Hindu, who was smoking a cigarette. The shadows of gulls tame as doves, gliding toward the rubbish bins behind the hotel, flitted over his knees and his face, which was bathed in glare.

“We have spoken of this more than once. After all, I am not a peasant from the countryside with the hindquarters of a buffalo obscuring my view of the world. No, dear sir, neither I nor my brother would agree to that. Are you sure that what I can offer him is better than what he creates? I know the beauty and greatness of it. More than once I have been brought to tears listening to his songs. He is a poet. All India is his. All that charms us would be lost without him. His song is like a blossoming branch.”

“Have it written down and publish it.”

“I have tried, but the resonance and the gestures are not there. The parts that cannot be reproduced fall away like petals from boughs in bloom.”