Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

The old caretaker, busy with the reddening chickens that were roasting on a wire net over hot charcoal, seemed not to notice that the visitors were waiting. The dog scratched with its paw, pushed aside a creaking partition, and stepped into a dark corner. They heard the thin, mournful whine of a puppy.

Margit hurried to help. The bitch lay by her pups, impaling one on a sharp point of the armor. She would not allow the whimpering little dog to be freed. Istvan lit the corner with a flashlight. The dog growled at Margit, ready to bite. Her lips were curled and trembling; her fangs were bared. The oppressive armor, unnecessary inside the house, pressed against her back. The puppy was damp and soft as dough; she licked its lacerated belly and turned the others over with her paws. They pushed their way unerringly toward her teats. Her downy coat swarmed with translucent yellow fleas.

“Stop worrying about the whole world.” He drew her firmly to him. “Come and eat.”

She rose obediently. A savory smell was coming from the roasted chickens. The juicy meat with its crisp surface held the pungent aroma of spices. She hardly bothered to taste it before biting eagerly into a leg.

The bitch left the mewling puppy and drew near them, waiting, tense with anticipation, to be thrown a bone. The gleam of the open fireplace played on her tin spikes. The flames glimmered; red sparks flew up, tracing zigzags in the air. The remaining chickens squeaked in their sleep, sometimes stretching their necks and cocking their heads to look out with eyes like rubies, full of wonderment, only to tuck them under their wings again. Perhaps they had seen an apparition; perhaps they had heard those cries again.

They went into the servants’ quarters; the screen door stuck on one of the tiles in the floor, scraping harshly. Behind the partition of boards plastered with wallpaper the light was dim. Smoke floated over the makeshift wall as an unknown man puffed at a cigarette. The portable mattresses, pillows, and linen spread on plank beds were covered by old army mosquito netting painted with green and yellow spots.

“Which do you want?” she asked, yawning.

“Does it matter? I’m sleeping with you.”

“No.” She shook her head, motioning with her thumb toward the wall, which was rickety as a screen. Tiny rays of light burst through holes in the wallpaper.

He showed her a hook affixed to a beam at the end of the corridor. A cord was attached to the hook: he explained the mechanism. Water ran boisterously from a gasoline barrel. In the drain, covered with a slimy grating, something was scratching. She pulled down her dress, asked him to run the water again, and bathed, suppressing her aversion. The medallion in the shape of Buddha’s hand gleamed, throwing a golden blotch like a birthmark on her breast. When the water began to flow into the drain as if from a watering can, there was a scraping in the hole under the floor and a rat fled, squealing.

In the dark, invisible mosquitoes flew over them, spinning out their tremulous hungry whine. Their bites burned like sparks from a fire. They communicated in whispers, since under the barrel ceiling of the old chapel voices were amplified. When they returned, their neighbor’s curtain was pushed aside and they saw a slender, balding man in striped pajamas.

“Do not let my presence constrain you”—he inclined his head—“since we must share accommodations. Please behave as if I were not here. I have shown myself so you can see that I am not asleep.”

“Are you still working?”

“Who can sleep when the moon is full? It draws me outside. Do you hear, madam, how the jackals howl? They, too, are restless.”

It was clear that he was waiting for them to prolong the conversation, but they bowed politely and made their way to their quarter of the room.

They undressed in the dimness. There was nowhere to hang things, so Margit laid her dress over the foot of the bed under the mosquito netting. Istvan sat lost in thought, feeling to the bone the fatigue of the long ride that had demanded alertness and concentration. When he closed his eyes, he saw orange cliffs in the harsh sun; blue shadows and thorny ashen-colored brush on the slopes; watermelons almost black, with water streaming from them as if the rinds were coated with wax; Margit’s pale breasts ever so slightly brushed with tan in the flashing shallow stream.

“Are you thinking of what will happen in Delhi?” she whispered. She was as invisible under the spotted net as if she were hidden in a treetop.

“No. I feel calm.”

“Budapest?”

“I’d give a lot to know what’s really going on there. It’s quiet as a cemetery. Everyone wants to forget what happened.”

“There are demonstrations at the Central Committee again. The workers went with torches of burning newspaper.”

“How do you know?” He raised his head, suddenly alert.

“I bought some papers. There’s been unrest there for quite a while.”

“Why didn’t you tell me at once?”

“I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Where are the papers?”

“In the car. You’re not going to read them by flashlight, after all.”

She heard only the screen door frame scraping the floor. A moment later the other man was shuffling about as well. She lay with her hands under her head, half asleep. With a crackling sound the rat tore splinters from the wooden grating over the drain. It squeezed through with a squeal of relief and scampered along the wall. Margit, hidden behind the mosquito netting, did not see it. In the deep shadow its claws scratched on the stone; furiously it set about tearing at some paper. She thought solicitously of Istvan. No doubt he was sitting in the car reading the news briefs by flashlight for the hundredth time. Without knowing it she fell asleep.

Istvan could read by the light of the full moon; he sighed tranquilly. If the workers could hold rallies and march in the streets burning the party newspaper, and no cannon fire dispersed the crowd, that meant the new government was confident. Things were not so bad. He breathed more freely. Around him the world was white with luminous, shifting moonlight. Dung houses slept below him like cast-off building blocks. Monkeys sat on the peak of a small pagoda, and it seemed that they might easily jump onto the enormous face of the moon, which was all too near. The pond bristled with two-headed monsters: the heads of ruminating buffalo were reflected in water heavy as mercury.

In the distance, mountain ranges shimmered in the starlight. The quivering air was filled with lustrous, disquieting blue dust. Roosters hoarsely announced the midnight hour; a vast silence lay on the heart, unmarred by the sobbing of the jackals close by who slipped past in pairs, disturbed by the unusual brightness of the moon. In the yard, in a puddle of rippling silver, the dog in its weird armor, trailing a long, misshapen shadow, circled quietly this way and that like an antediluvian beast. Leaning against the wall of the inn, the Hindu was sitting crossed-legged, peasant-fashion, wrapped in a blanket. His bald head glistened in the stream of moonlight.

“Are you in a hurry to seek oblivion, to lose yourself in sleep?” he asked, wishing to detain Terey. “Sit on this stone. Let us talk for a while. What a splendid night! Surely madam is asleep already.”

All at once the captivating loveliness of the night was laid bare to Istvan. He was moved; he felt a warning twinge of sadness. Feast on this, he thought; drink in the beauty of the full moon over India. This may be the last time you will see such a night in the Ghat Mountains. His feelings choked him as if he were saying goodbye. He wanted so much to call Margit to him, to have her share the silence in the shifting radiance of the moon.