Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“What is this desertion? What’s going on here? Why is the house neglected, dirty? Open the windows, sweeper!” he barked. “You have an hour to get things in order.”

The other servants slipped away stealthily on all fours. Only in the heat of the yard did they straighten to their full height. Their bare feet fluttered dully on the stones.

“We were told that you were not coming back.” The cook looked furtively at him through eyes welling with tears. “We have not been paid for the new month.”

“Who told you that?” He nearly choked with anger; it throbbed in his temples.

“Mr. Ferenc. He was here and took all the mail.” The cook sounded terrified.

“The devil! What mail?”

“Letters that came for you. The ambassador told him to.”

“Who told you to let things go like this? What have you been up to without me? I’ll chase down the lot of you!”

He strode to the hall, where the sweeper had flung open the windows and dust gleamed gold in trails of sunlight. He saw the watchman in front of the house. He saw the small figure of the girl, whose falling hair covered her face as she leaned over, hastily rolling up the bedding, like a dog digging a hole in the ground to bury a bone. The light streaming in through the windows exposed layers of dust on the top of the table.

All at once it seemed to Istvan that he was an intruder — that he was causing confusion, like a dead man who had been carried out and buried and had suddenly claimed his place among the living. Pereira was standing before him, wringing his hands, exuding worry.

“What will become of us, sir? Will the new man keep us?”

“What new man?”

“He is not here yet. He is just flying in.”

Istvan was stunned. Now he understood.

“How do you know?” he asked quietly.

“From the ambassador’s staff. I took the liberty of asking the secretary when he was here. After all, it is a matter that concerns us — whether we will have a living — and he confirmed it.” The man with his aging face looked at Istvan to see if there was any remedy, any hope.

Istvan felt himself filling with bitterness; rage and grief stabbed his heart like a glass splinter. They have disposed of me. Smeared me. The dispatches have gone out urging that I be recalled. I have been pushed out of Delhi by some clandestine maneuver. Like a stupid, naive puppy I believed they were well disposed toward me. I went away with the girl; I put the evidence in their hands myself. Only one of their calculations failed: I came back. Now I’ve caused trouble for them.

He looked at the sweeper. The thin dark arms wielded the broom and wiped the dusty window screens with a damp cloth. Istvan thought of wind-up toys with broken springs; a few movements, a few shudders, and they stop as if astonished that the end is already here, that they are suddenly lifeless. The sweeper wrung out the cloth and reddish dust colored the water so that blood seemed to be dripping from the rag onto the windowsill.

He was grieved for the servants. He was the only source of subsistence for them and for their families, whom he had never met — the whole contingent of wives, mothers- and fathers-in-law and more distant kin. They were assured three times a day of a fistful of rice carried quietly out of his kitchen; he was, as Pereira said obsequiously, their father and mother. Even apart from the matter of food, he was a gift from fate.

What would happen to them now? For the time being they had a little savings; they could parcel it out, ration it, use up what remained from the past — and then? In clean, starched shirts they would make the rounds of the embassy staff, press bribes into the hands of people as much in want as they were themselves, speak ingratiatingly, plead in servile accents, for cooks are powerful; their patronage leads to the kitchen, with its delightful aromas of dishes cooking, where rice is not weighed before being poured into the pot or the heaping spoonfuls of flour for the chapati counted. To live is to attach oneself to a foreigner again. Files of effusive testimonials are not enough; one must promise a steady stream of payback from one’s wages to those who can help one to a job. They will pay for the very promise of work, for the hope that will keep them alive.

“Before I leave, I will try to find you a place,” he told Pereira, who repeated and translated the words. A glow seemed to fall on their faces; they bowed, raising prayerfully folded hands to their foreheads. They thanked him and blessed him.

The telephone rang. Margit wanted to know if everything was in order in the house.

“I’ve been recalled,” he said helplessly.

“Very good!” Her voice was clear, even challenging. “I expected that. Surely you’re not worried about it. Yes, Istvan, it’s time to bring the issue to a conclusion.” After a moment’s reflection she added, “What do you intend to do? Don’t decide anything until I come to you.”

“I must see the ambassador. And they are just beginning to clean the house. Margit, I’ll let you know when I get back.” He was almost pleading.

“Be calm. Keep your anger under control, do you hear? Remember, I’m with you. I’m waiting. Think: already they’re unimportant to you. You don’t need them. You’re free, do you understand? At last you have the upper hand. You can be yourself! They are afraid to speak, afraid of their own shadows. What are you worried about? If you’re really upset, I forbid you to go there just now. Do you want to give them any satisfaction? To show that they have struck a nerve, that it hurts? Istvan, it’s not even worth it to despise them. You can only pity them.”

He said nothing. He rested a hand on the light blue wall. He was calm again; a cold doggedness was growing in him, a desire for a reckoning.

“Do you hear me?” She sounded distressed. “Istvan, after all, they have done you a service. You should even be grateful to them. They have decided for you. You have this behind you. Do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“They can’t separate us.”

“No.”

“So nothing has happened. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I am calm. I’m going to the embassy to give them a surprise. They thought I wasn’t coming back.”

“Well, you see, they were thinking sensibly. Call first before you go. Stiff upper lip, darling.”

“All right. I really am calm.”

“I believe you. Go!”

Without replacing the receiver he pressed its holder and disconnected the call. His self-possession really had returned; he dialed the number for the embassy. Judit picked up.

“Is that you, Istvan?” She was amazed. Obviously troubled, she asked, “You know already?”

“I found out from my servants. I’d like to talk to the boss.”

“Half an hour ago he went to his residence for lunch. He has the new Japanese ambassador with him. Ferenc is sitting in. It’s empty; there’s no one here.”

“And what’s going on,” he asked sardonically, “except for my recall?”

“I must talk with you. You have no right to accuse me. You know nothing. Istvan, are you coming back? I’m sorry to ask you that, but everything depends on how you act. Don’t burn your bridges. Come — your salary is here. It would be a shame to let it go; it will come in handy. You can exchange rupees for pounds. Don’t cheat yourself to make a stupid gesture. Take what belongs to you.”

“I can pick it up anytime. I’m going to the boss.”

“Be careful. He can’t stand you,” she whispered. Then she added hastily, “He’s afraid of you.”

He did not care what else she might say. He hung up. Now she was ready to help him out with good advice, but had she said anything when they were destroying his career? I am calm, he repeated. I am utterly calm. His sweaty hand cast a shadow on the wall.