Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“One must eat what they eat,” he explained when they were sitting in the coffee shop. In its dim interior, electric lights created an artificial night. In spite of the fragrances of strong coffees set out in containers attached to stands, and the breeze from cooling machines, hardly any buzz of conversation could be heard. Glum Hindus sat at the tables, resting their heads on their hands. Women with lovely eyes toyed with flowers or crumbled cake with their spoons. A Chinese musician beat out jazzy rhythms. He noticed Istvan and, inclining his head, played part of a march by Radetzky — the only melody he associated with Hungary.

“Start with this cake,” Terey suggested, pouring them coffee.

“What is sprinkled on it?” Her finger hung over the tray of cakes.

“Real silver. It was hammered so long that it broke into flakes. They dissolve and the system absorbs them. People here consider silver a supplement essential for emotional well-being.”

She put some on the end of her spoon with comic distrust, and with an air of concentration took a bite. She had luminous eyes, as dolls have sometimes. She wrinkled her little freckled nose with humorous charm. She was certainly not a beauty in the classic sense, but she attracted attention; he saw glances aimed at her, he heard whispers, and they gave him pleasure. A new face, a woman about whom everything was not yet known.

“I don’t feel the silver,” she exulted. “It is utterly delicious. And the green at the bottom is edible as well?”

“Pistachio paste.”

“You will have me on your conscience — I’ve forgotten your name again!”

“Istvan.”

“It’s hard.”

“You will remember it if you repeat it often. Especially just before you go to sleep.”

“Istvan. Ist-van,” she said, pronouncing it with an English inflection, like a polite little girl learning a lesson. “Couldn’t I change it to Terry? I had a dog by that name.”

“I will accept whatever name you give me.”

“Grace was right to put me on my guard against you. You like to trifle with people’s hearts.”

“No!” he contradicted her with zeal. “You said yourself that you have been left on your own. It’s no particular sacrifice on my part to share your solitude. I’ll give you my home telephone number. Perhaps one day we can go to the cinema? Or I’ll take you to a hunt? We can take a trip by car and I will show you an authentic village. The country people are good, hospitable. There’s nothing to be afraid of. As long as you’re here.”

“So many ideas, Istvan! I’ll hold you to your word.” She looked at him warmly. “You must be bored if you find even a lady doctor’s company diverting. But perhaps you have me confused with Grace?”

He looked at her through bluish cigarette smoke, at her graceful head, her candid, unpainted lips — nude, he thought jocularly — and her eyes, so crystalline and full of blue lights that they were disturbing.

“I certainly do not have you confused with Grace.”

He felt a great friendliness toward her. It was pleasant to appear in public with a woman who was good-looking, well dressed, and young.

“You don’t even know what I’m like. Perhaps after one stroll you’ll have had enough of me.”

“No.” He shook his head; he was certain of that. She smiled perversely, emphasizing the dimples in her cheeks. She looked a little arch, as if she knew a good deal about him. He grew uneasy: had Grace whispered something to her?

“Let’s get out of here.” He rose suddenly, touching her hand, for the double curtains that served as doors had parted, and in the unforgiving blaze of the sun he spied Judit with two acquaintances from Bulgaria.

They rose and exchanged greetings with the new arrivals, motioning them to their vacant table, for which a bearded Sikh had been lurking in wait. Terey did not fail to notice that Judit discreetly raised a thumb, a sign that she endorsed his choice. They went out into the sun, blinking.

The Austin exploded with heat. They rolled down the windows frantically. The blast of air scorched their faces.

“Why did you take fright when that woman came in?” Margit adjusted her dress, which had been pulled askew by the wind.

“She is the ambassador’s secretary. They’ll be talking straight away. And what concern is it of theirs?”

“Oh, Terry, Terry, you must have gotten into a lot of mischief here. I already know whom to ask about your past if you don’t tell me yourself: Dr. Kapur lives not far from us.”

“No doubt he will charge you like a patient coming for consultation. Only you must remember that he is a clairvoyant. He will tell you of future matters, things that have not occurred yet.”

“You are afraid of Kapur?” She clapped her hands. “A fine how-do-you-do! Grace has gone away and I am thrown back on your evasions, with no defense! Who will reveal to me what you really are?”

On the road, climbing up a bare hill, stretched a caravan of wagons pulled by oxen and camels. The big wheels, made of boards nailed together, creaked loudly. The drivers shouted. The great horns of the oxen drooped with weariness in the red sun; the camels moved in stately procession, their heads swaying.

A girl in a green sari, with a bulbous vessel on her head, knelt in the middle of the road and elevated her hands in a movement full of grace. Her bracelets threw off fire; bells fastened around her ankles chimed. Terey blew the horn. She looked around, startled, and fluttered to the edge of the road.

“Stop. I’d like to photograph her,” Margit requested. “She danced so beautifully.”

“I’d rather you looked at her from a distance, but try approaching her. See what she does.”

He stopped the car beside the road and watched with roguish satisfaction as Margit made her way to the girl, showing by signs that she wanted to take a picture. The girl resisted, covering her face with fierce determination; the pot fell and dark shards scattered over the road.

“I warned you.” He opened the door. “You’d be better off listening to your elders.”

“She was gathering ox dung with her hands. She packed it into the pot on her head. Yet she seems like a princess in a fairy tale, she has so many jewels.”

“Bamboo hoops studded with sequins and colored glass. She was gathering fuel. She will mold it into cakes and stick them to the wall to dry in the sun. Who would want to cut these bushes with those tough branches full of thorns? Manure mixed with straw burns well. Look: there they are carrying away whole bags of dry manure.”

Low mud huts clustered densely along the road. On roofs covered with pieces of rusty tin, pigeons walked. Women squatted next to smoking bonfires, frying cakes in pans. Naked children with large eyes ran along behind automobiles that flew humming down the road, or sleepily sucked bits of sugar cane. Streaks of bluish smoke hung in the air, violet against the scarlet sky.

“Remember that pungent smell,” he told her. “It’s the smell of India at supper time.”

They turned off the road. The Great Mosque, an enormous red building, seemed to menace the sky with its toothed walls. Vultures dozed above the gate, each on its turret, like adornments cast in bronze. Innumerable market stalls huddled by the steps leading to the fortified entrances.

A crowd surrounded them. Itinerant barbers, cleaners of ears, sellers of vegetable soup, and swindlers with monkeys dressed as soldiers, all shouted. Leaning on the horn, Terey cut his way with difficulty through the mass of people. They stepped aside reluctantly and peeped eagerly into the car, beating their fingers on the windows. All around rose the racket of voices hawking merchandise — old pots, wires, screws, spread out on newspaper. Every kind of rubbish thrown away in a European neighborhood was looked over three times here; anything might come in handy. Some objects could be sold, others bartered, if the buyer lacked the small change to pay for them. Homeless loiterers, gawkers, moved along the stalls among the odds and ends, hoping that if they spoke favorably of someone’s wares, they could add their voices to the bargaining, be useful as intermediaries, and perhaps by flattery cadge a few paise.