Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

He saw the white river, full of its own sheen, and someone warned him that that was just the truth. Simply to spite himself, he made his way to the water with an angry fearlessness, plunged a foot into it, and was appalled to realize that that white-hot metal, moving as from a blazing invisible furnace, would cool in unknown forms. He had seen such a pouroff of steel in Csepel, in Budapest. He felt no pain except that the leg with which he had stepped so confidently, which he had trusted not to fail him — a part of his very self — gave way and he lost his balance. He flew toward death in blinding light.

He woke, involuntarily feeling with his hand to be certain he still had a leg. His foot stung; he must have thrust it out from under the netting when he pushed himself onto the mattress. He scratched himself for a long time, happy that he had a leg. He dozed and dug at the bites with his nails again. The mosquitoes must have squeezed in under the mesh, for it seemed to him that they were trumpeting straight in his ear, grazing him, tickling him with their wings. But he did not fight them; he only covered his head with his hand and slept.

In the morning they drank strong tea and in delightful weather drove to Hyderabad. Their Hindu acquaintance had already risen at dawn so as to perform his ablutions on the steps of the temple above the smooth surface of the cistern, over the edge of which the sky seemed to have been poured. Though they had not slept through the night, they were not tired. The sun, not yet in full glare, sparkled through the trees beside the road and seemed to breathe in their faces.

At noon Margit took the wheel and something like a daze, a somnolence, came over him. His head drooped. He knew they were riding through plains tufted with sparse clumps of trees. Real images blended with dreamlike visions and he slept, breathing in the fragrance of dry leaves, fires dead in their ashes and the girl’s light, elusive perfume.

He awoke feeling embarrassed and scrutinized her for a moment from under his eyelids. He caught her solicitous look as she checked to see if sudden jolts disturbed him. A smile, momentary but full of warmth, appeared on her face like a burst of light. He felt deeply anchored in this state of peaceful happiness, and in her unobtrusive presence; she was simply beside him, taking over the driving, ready to share an hour’s tiring journey with him, or a day’s, or even fate itself.

They talked about simple things: about rest, food, lodging, the condition of the car and the supply of gasoline. At night they fell briefly into each other’s arms, exchanged wordless caresses, and fell asleep at once. The Asian moon, orange-tinted in the early evening, was frightening, like a face rubbed with chalk. White light splashed on the mosquito netting and the whining of jackals woke them for a while. They listened and then, profoundly relaxed, nestled together and settled gently back to sleep in the fecund darkness.

Two days later just at noon the Austin, red with dust, drove into the suburbs of Delhi. A railroad track crossed the highway; as if for spite a guard with lanky legs protruding from under his long shirt beckoned a group of children over, blocked the iron gates, and secured them with a large padlock. Though the train was not due for twenty minutes, there was no power that could force him to let the car through. The instructions were written for slow-moving tongas harnessed to oxen. Several were standing there, with the animals’ heads dully drooping. Istvan and Margit could hear the sticky switching of tails soiled with excrement.

The drivers squatted over a ditch and relieved themselves, chatting drowsily. A stork with a head that looked very old and a pouch under its beak stood on one leg above the whitened bones of a dead cow. No one looked for smoke on the gleaming rails. No one hurried. A light wind sprang up, driving clouds of dust, and scampered over the stony fields. Far in front of them rose the chunky shapes of houses with flat roofs. Flocks of circling pigeons flashed like handbills shaken from the faded sky.

“First, take me to the hotel,” was Margit’s plan. “Then find out what surprise they have waiting for you at the embassy and let me know. I’ll wait.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to come to my place first thing?”

“No.”

“Hope for the best.”

She said nothing. Her hands clasped her upraised knees. Her eyes were sad.

He got out and wiped the windshield with a chamois. The glass was covered with starry bloodstains where horseflies had smashed against it. The bass-toned whistle of the locomotive, like an organ chord, flew over them. The train streamed past — only a few cars, nearly empty; two with cooled air for Europeans and the rich.

The train had long since passed by — it was hardly even a speck on the horizon, blowing smoke like the horsehair brooms the tonga drivers used to beat away the flies — before the guard saw fit to unfasten the padlock and open the iron gates. Istvan leaned on the horn and passed the tongas. Amid yells and the creaking of enormous wheels, the Austin sprang across the tracks in front of the line of wagons and sped toward the city.

He dropped her off in front of the sunlit façade of the hotel on the shady street where Tibetan women had spread their rubbish heap of fabricated antiquities on mats under the trees — fragments of busts, imitation bronzes, and wooden masks. He heard the young men at the reception desk call joyfully, “Kumari Ward. Doctor Ward.”

The suitcases bumped into the revolving door as their knees pushed against the flashing plates of polished brass. Istvan felt that he was returning home. Suddenly he began to hurry. He breathed in the urban smells of asphalt, scorching paving stones and dust, the odors of exhaust and pastilles.

The car sprinted on. Before him stretched the avenue leading to the Arch of Triumph — a compelling perspective boldly conceived. The India Gate was a soft rose against the wan sky. In the distance stood a clump of tall trees and circus tents respiring in the wind. He had looked for Krishan there. Farther on lay the road to the embassy, to Judit, to the place that in this country he called home.

He was surprised that the watchman was not standing in front of the gate; the entrance to the yard was open. A goat with udders protruding at her sides and knocking against her shaggy legs looked at him with a malevolent yellow eye and went on nibbling colorless flowers that had long gone unwatered.

After all, they must have heard the murmur of the engine. But no one came out to greet him. On the veranda he bumped into a pallet and a blanket. A clay hearth stood there, full of gray ash, and a small pot in which flies swarmed. Leaves shriveled with drought crackled under his feet.

All the joy of returning to his old haunts left him. The house had fallen into disorder. Ilona and the boys were not waiting there for him, that was certain. The door to the hall was unlocked. He walked into the stuffy interior, following the din of voices, angrier by the moment at the slovenliness he saw. From a distance he recognized the half-senile grumblings of the cook and the languid voice of the sweeper, the peculiar effeminate sniveling.

He took them by surprise as he stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Apart from those of his own household he saw the neighbors’ servants, all of them sitting in a circle, conferring with each other as their hands reached into a large pan of rice and vegetables. The kitchen was filled with a stifling odor of something burning, of sweat and cigarette smoke.

“Sahib!” exclaimed the frightened sweeper. “Namaste ji!” Old Pereira wiped his soiled fingers on his patched, unbuttoned shirt and folded his hands, bowing so low that his bristling tuft of gray hair bobbed.