Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Good. That’s a trifle. I’ll see to it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m turning to you.” He rolled up the slick bills that still carried the smell of newly printed money, nodded deeply to Judit, and hurried down the stone stairs that were bare without the red cocoa matting.

Mihaly stood by the car. He rubbed the fender with the handkerchief he used to wipe his nose, stepped away, and looked with approval at his work. The light on the polished metal was so bright that the eye recoiled.

“How good that you are back, uncle.” The boy smiled so broadly that all his being seemed alight. “It was dull without you. No one has time. Everyone chases me away. I get in everyone’s way. I get under their feet.” He gave a comic imitation of the voices of Ferenc and the caretaker.

“And Miss Judit?”

“She gives me candy as if I were a little tot.”

“You’re not little at all.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“No, for if there is something to buy at the market, mama sends me, and then I am big. And when I want to go to the cinema alone, they yell at me. They tell me not to go so far by myself. Little, little—” he mocked. “Hindus my age already have wives. Really! A Sikh who plays badminton with me told me that they have already found him a wife, and he is just eight.”

Istvan took the boy in his arms. He was filled with affectionate sympathy for the child who, without friends his own age, felt isolated.

“We are very busy.”

“But why is it that you can talk to me sometimes? Why don’t you think I’m stupid? Stupid—” he frowned as if at those who pushed him forcibly back into the infancy he had outgrown.

“I like to talk to you.”

“No.” The boy contradicted him hotly. “You like me. Is it true that you’re running away?”

“You’ve got it wrong.”

“Uncle, take me with you.” He raised his keen eyes trustingly, looking for consent.

“You know that’s impossible. Your father wouldn’t let you go.”

“Yes, he would, and so would mama. Is that lady going with you?” he asked with unconscious shrewdness, groping in the pocket of his pants. “Uncle, I want to give you a present.”

Istvan had forgotten the boy, forgotten about the whole world. The question returned like an echo in empty rooms: it reverberated. It rang with reproach. It accused him.

“Uncle”—the boy tugged at his hand—“wake up. Put this to your ear, only don’t open it or it will escape.” He took a cardboard box from his pocket and thrust it toward Istvan. The lid had been pierced by a pin.

Istvan looked at the boy — at his outstretched hand holding the gift — as if he did not understand. Finally he forced himself to smile. “You have another bird,” he said, remembering the fun the boy had had with the grasshopper.

“No. I have a cicada. I caught it on the mirror. I set it between some leaves and it flashed like a piece of the sun and the cicada flew over. It walked around a leaf and jangled and then saw why the other one didn’t answer. Will you take it, uncle? It likes orange juice and the center of the lettuce best. It takes a leaf in its little hand and looks funny when it drinks. And it will wink at you if I don’t take it back.”

He tied the box with a thread and put it on the seat of the Austin. “Uncle,” he said thoughtfully, “why aren’t I your son?”

“Because you have your father.” He took the boy’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

“He is not mine. He belongs to the embassy. Do you hear how it jingles? It is saying goodbye to me.” Happy again, he waved to Istvan as he drove away.

For a moment longer he saw the little boy in his mirror. His hair bristled over his forehead as he stood alone in the sun on the red road.

When he reached the avenue he had to slow down. The whole width of the lane was filled by a crowd of shouting ragamuffins; dust rose from under their bare feet. Above the swirling streams of boisterous humanity a red banner with white curvilinear words in Hindi hung on two poles. Demonstrators peered into the car and rubbed its body with their fingers, leaving smudges. One threw him a flyer of thin paper that read, “Private sweepers of New Delhi: Demand payment of your whole wage, not just installments.” So something was stirring; for their work they were demanding the agreed-upon payment from their employers, not just a subsistence.

Pereira, rustling in his starched clothing with flat expanses where the iron had pressed hard, stepped around the table, waiting for the signal to serve the meal. In the center of the tablecloth stood a brass vessel holding a clump of cloyingly fragrant mignonette.

“Here you are at last!” Margit exclaimed. “What did the ambassador have to say? Do they want to send you back?”

“Yes,” he said in a voice that was not his own. He was like a man cut in two. He heard a command: Look. Well, look. You have her. You can do with her as you wish. And another: It is over. You chose, after all, long ago. Don’t be a coward.

“They want me to go back. As soon as possible. I’ll fly.”

Though his expression boded nothing good, she was still smiling gently, as if she were hiding a pleasant surprise.

“Fine. You should have a frank conversation with your wife. I’ll go with you.”

“No.” It was a stone being wrung from him, not a word. “You can’t.”

“I’ve been thinking of this for a long time. I can.” She waved a hand impatiently. “When all is said and done, they won’t eat me there.”

As if for the first time, she saw his gray face, dogged and full of pain.

“Surely you don’t want—” she whispered.

“I don’t.”

“So where am I to wait?” she cried fearfully.

“Don’t wait.” They were not words. They were boulders that took all his strength to push.

She still did not comprehend, but gazed at him in immeasurable astonishment, as if he were only now revealing himself to her and appearing shabby, detestable. She looked at him as if she could not recognize the familiar face, as if someone were impersonating him. But it was indeed her Istvan, who loved her, whom she trusted and to whom she was giving not only herself but all the future — life. Her life.

“Please understand, Margit. I—”

She shook her head and stepped back, standing erect.

“Enough. Don’t touch me. You liar. You miserable little liar.” Her tone was cold, superior. “Call me a car,” she commanded in a whisper that was worse than a shout. “Did you hear? I should have known it would be like this.”

He was silent. He did not try to defend himself. He only looked at her in despair as her breathing grew uneven and her eyes closed. She leaned against the open door.

“I don’t lie to you.”

“No. You don’t lie.” She measured out the blows with cruel calm. “You believe what you say — when you say what’s convenient.”

There was a knock on the window frame.

“A taxi is here,” Pereira called obligingly. “I have hailed it. What shall I say?”

They stood opposite each other, neither daring to take a step forward. He was racked by the pain he had inflicted.

“Didn’t you ever love me?” She bent over as if she were going to fall; she seized the door frame and steadied herself. Her head reeled as if she could not fathom her own blindness or the enormity of his actions. “Why didn’t you kill me? I could have drowned there, where I was so happy,” she moaned. Suddenly, with quick steps, she went out to the veranda.

He started to run after her, but the cook had already slammed the door of the old taxi shut and was standing with his gray head down, up to his knees in blue exhaust. Popping and roaring, the automobile started up and disappeared around the corner.