Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

Eager for his conversation with the capital, Istvan glared at the telephone. In spite of the clerk’s assurances that it was a good one, he barely succeeded in forcing a distorted voice out of it.

“Hello! Hello!” he shouted. “Istvan here. Istvan Terey. Do you hear me? What’s happened? What do I have to come back to Delhi for? Something serious?”

At last through the hum and crackle they understood each other and Ferenc realized who was speaking.

Margit sat motionless on the bench, pressing her hands together and resting her chin on them. She listened in suspense, trying to guess from Istvan’s shouted words what the voice at the far end of the wire was saying, since its responses might affect their future.

“I don’t understand. I’ll start tomorrow. I’ll be with you on Thursday. But what does the boss want with me?”

The clerk’s face looked as if he were sucking juice from a lemon, he was so worried for fear the words would be lost, would not reach the receiver at the end of the wire.

“Tell me, though: is it good news or bad? Tell Judit hello for me. I’ll be there on Thursday without fail.”

He held on to the receiver as if deluding himself that now he would hear what was most important. That Ferenc would change his mind and blurt out the whole truth — would perhaps dispel misgivings and burst out laughing. Then his eyes met the girl’s anguished look and he forgot about the Hindu, who waited as if in ambush. He hung up hastily and thrust the telephone through the window as into the maw of a ravenous animal that could not close its jaw.

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing. When you come down to it, nothing. He said that it would be a surprise. That I should come without delay. The ambassador had instructed him to say that. You heard what I asked him. He said that there was important information for me. That I would not be alone. What do you make of that?”

He paid impatiently, though the clerk was still checking the bill, which seemed staggering to him. The telephone call had cost a quarter of his monthly salary from the post office, so he was alert for information that confirmed what he imagined to be the earnings of foreigners from the capital, and the revenues of large businesses.

When they were sitting in the car, Margit, filled with grim premonitions, put her hand on his arm.

“Perhaps your family has arrived? Your wife is waiting in Delhi?”

“He’d have let that cat out of the bag. He wouldn’t have kept it a secret.”

“He gave you a hint. He said that you would not be lonely.”

“You know, that’s possible.” He seized on her explanation. “They may be that idiotic with their idea of a surprise.”

In the darkness the car sped along the highway by the sea, which reminded him of a plowed field. White moths floated about obliquely like the first flakes of snow.

“Tell me — what is she like?”

“Who?”

“Your wife.”

He caught a glimpse of her chiseled profile, the stubborn line of her chin and the shadowed waves of her hair, which seemed to be submerged in water rather than in darkness.

“She’s different,” he began cautiously.

“I know: above all, she’s the mother of your boys,” she said enviously. “But if you want it this way, so do I. Will you have the courage to tell her that she will return to Budapest alone?”

“Don’t worry. I can tell her.”

“Are you still hesitating? Surely you won’t make me talk to her.”

“Leave it to me.”

“Remember — I’m with you.” She spoke as a friend speaks to bolster the courage of one who is about to meet a powerful opponent. “It’s the end of our holiday. When do we start?”

“In the morning. As early as possible.”

They drove onto the white sand on which the hotel stood. It glittered a little ominously, like camphor sprinkled under the lid of a trunk. Daniel appeared in the glare of their headlights and showed them where to park the car so it would have the most time in the shade. He had no idea that that was no longer necessary.

“Turn out the light and pull down the netting.”

“I won’t sleep tonight. Let’s listen to the sea,” she urged him. “Our last night…”

“That’s a thought.” He brought out a blanket, spread it on the steps of the cottage and covered her legs. “Do you have cigarettes?”

The zipper on her bag made a grating sound and she handed him a packet wrapped in crinkling cellophane. For an instant he saw her downturned face in the little yellow flame of the lighter.

Far in front of them the sea was a luminous white. It moved with a wet scraping and rustling as if it were diligently shifting the gravel and the sticky sand, from which water was streaming. It sighed and stuttered like a man engaged in heavy work. He put his arm around the girl. In spite of the cigarette smoke he caught the fragrance of her hair — the exciting fragrance that was so distinctively her own.

His eyes roamed over the shoals of stars and their shifting brilliance as they rose, sank, and reappeared in shimmering powdery sprays. Water rats scurried among the piles that supported the cottage, scattering the sand. The paper they had dragged in to line their dens in the furrowed edge of the mound rustled.

I have her. He stood stiffly, holding his breath. I truly have her. I have her because she wants to be mine. I find the confirmation of that in her: I have her. If Ilona has come, I must tell her honestly; I have already made my choice. It’s simple: all that’s necessary is to stand by Margit openly, in front of everyone. Let them see.

When they sat nestled together on the wooden steps in the friendly dark, it all seemed easy to him, though he knew that he would suffer, and that he would inflict pain.

She was smoking, saying nothing. Suddenly she flicked away her cigarette; it sizzled in the sand amid a spray of sparks. Fanned by an imperceptible breeze, its red tip glowed as if someone had picked it up and was finishing it greedily.

“What are you thinking?” He touched the back of her neck.

“That I’m still with you. That these days have passed so quickly that I feel cheated. Tomorrow we’re going back, and I still — what did I want to find here? What eluded me?” There was resignation in her whisper.

“You wanted to break the ties that bind me to my country.”

“And it didn’t work.”

“It did work. You got in the way of them. But it only took one conversation for them to tighten around me again.”

“One conversation, with that Hungarian of yours,” she said slowly, brooding. “And I didn’t even think…”

From behind the mane of black palm fronds the rim of the moon emerged, filling half the sky with a white glow. It floated straight toward the lighthouse, as if the flashing were drawing it irresistibly. They were silent.

“Have I lost?”

“No!” he said hotly. “You have me.”

“If only that were true. You love me, but I have no real place in your life. You even put yourself before me: you have honor and integrity, a deep sense of the obligations you’ve taken on. You respect the law. Perhaps that’s why I love you. Though I don’t want to admit it, the verdict has been pronounced.”

“Are you thinking of Delhi?”

“Yes. After all, you’ve procrastinated. You didn’t want to pronounce it yourself. You preferred that the decision come from beyond us both. You invoked it, and now you have it.”

“If a hundred ambassadors were breathing down my neck, I would decide for myself in the end,” he said with a catch in his breath. “This only hastens our departure.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do, then?” She looked straight ahead at the white windmill-like tower of the lighthouse.