Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

There was no singing, no funeral speech, only the dry snapping of the swaying flames, the smell of butter and another smell that evoked dread in Terey — the odor, well known to him from wartime, of burned, bombarded cities, of charred corpses.

The writhing bed of fire — the pyre beside which they were standing — moved from inside, as if the dead body were trying to rise. Among the flaming branches a blackened hand thrust itself out, its palm open as if in pleading. Tatters of linen were burning on it.

“What’s that?” Margit huddled close to Terey.

“The spasm of a muscle in the fire.”

One of the funeral attendants pushed the protruding hand with a pole and held it in the thick of the flames until it blackened and fell down.

“This is where the course of the river that so delighted you ends. Without seeing this place you could understand very little about India.”

Up to their waists in thick smoke, they started back to the car. The dead were being carried down on flimsy palls.

“Where do you want to go now?”

“Home, Terry, home,” she whispered submissively. “You teach me humility.”

“Not I. They.” He pointed to the long, flickering fires as if they were warning signs.

“Tell me, Istvan, what has been happening with you? You used to find time for me,” Judit reproached him. “Yesterday you were very unkind. You didn’t want to go to the cinema with me. You said you had urgent work.”

“I really did.” He looked worriedly at her.

“Don’t lie, at least. You’re no good at it. I went by myself.”

“To what film?” Suddenly he showed an interest.

“To the same one.” Then came the home thrust: “I sat two rows behind you.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“No wonder; you were so preoccupied with her. A pleasant girl, but you’re seen together a little too often. And then the way you hop around her — be careful that you don’t turn into a kangaroo.”

She smiled, but her eyes looked troubled. She rotated a fan and put her face into the stream of air.The scorching sun made a yellow glow on the curtain.

“Infernal heat—”

“Don’t blather. I’ve seen a lot and I’ve lived through a lot. You ought to take account of people a little, you know. You live in a bubble.”

“I can swear to you that there is nothing between her and me.” He looked her straight in the eye. “She is just a nice girl — and it gives me an occasion to speak English.”

“You poor thing — is there a shortage of people here for you to speak to in English?” she said with a sympathetic grimace. “You could have kept from giving yourself away. I’m sure you will enrich your vocabulary, but in an area far removed from the professional.”

“You’re buzzing like a fly. Upon my word, with Miss Ward it’s quite a different story.”

“Are you — involved?”

“What put that into your head? Believe me, it is not serious.”

“So much the worse. Istvan, you belong to the corps of our embassy, and she is from the enemy camp. Both sides will be suspicious of her. You will do her harm. At least, my lad, you ought to remember that. You ought to use a little judgment.”

“Stop. You’re being a bore.” He pretended to turn back to his work, but Judit settled in for a long stay and lit a cigarette.

“Don’t let me disturb you. Work. I came to look at you because I had almost forgotten how you look.”

“After all, we see each other at the embassy,” he said in self-defense.

“What kind of seeing is that?” she waved dismissively. “You used to come for a Coca-Cola and talk like a close friend.”

They were silent for a moment. A cicada in the climbing plants behind the tightly closed window jangled monotonously; the sound was like a mowing. The insect was intoxicated with the surfeit of sunlight.

Istvan looked at Judit’s mild face in profile: the capricious lips, the heavy wave of dyed hair. She must have been a very handsome woman. She had been through a great deal; she was wise and self-possessed. By now she only wanted peace, the companionship of well-wishers, a few comforts.

“After all, we didn’t meet just yesterday,” she said to soothe his irritation. “If I caution you, I do it for your own good, not to nag you. You surely don’t suspect me of jealousy?”

“Certainly not,” he rejoined warmly, not noticing that he was causing her pain.

“Istvan, Istvan! You do not see the woman in me at all!”

“I am so sorry!” He raised her hand to his lips.

“Well, as compensation you may tell me what your Australian is like.” She gave a conspiratorial wink. “Out with it — yes, as you boys would talk among yourselves. What sort of person is she?”

“A doctor. An oculist. She works for UNESCO. Her father has some woolen factories; rather a wealthy family. They have a yacht. Her mother died, her father married again, but she thinks highly of her stepmother.”

Judit folded her arms and nodded sympathetically.

“You speak of her as if she were one of the Hindu girls: money, factories, yacht. What do I care about all that? Tell me about her, about what she is. What do you see in her?”

“Nothing. Really, nothing.” He wriggled like a boy whose mother has caught him with his first cigarette. “I take her around and show her things about India — sometimes frightening things. She came here to work for at least a year at the Ophthalmological Institute to spite her family. Do you understand?” he said, almost pleading.

“More than you think.”

The door opened cautiously, and Ferenc stood in it.

“Don’t you hear the telephone in that room? It has been ringing and ringing.”

“We hear it,” she answered lightheartedly.

“Why don’t you pick it up?”

“You only have to hurry if you want to catch fleas. It will ring and it will stop. Do you have more serious worries? If it’s really something important, they’ll ring back.”

But the secretary leaned forward and whispered, “The ambassador has called a briefing at eleven. At five to eleven there will be a meeting in my office.”

The breeze from the large fan blew into the painstakingly arranged waves of his hair. He smoothed them down immediately.

“Terey,” he said with a disapproving look, “here you are again without your tie. You are introducing bohemian habits.”

“Don’t you know what the boss has on his mind? He usually notifies his captive audience about these conclaves at least a day in advance. I have a tie in the drawer. I will make a dignified appearance.”

“Hurry up, then.” Ferenc tapped a fingernail on the crystal of his flat gold Doxa watch.

“Do you know what he’s going to talk about?”

“I know.” He raised his eyebrows and, seeing that their curiosity was aroused, withdrew, closing the door.

“They are certainly beginning to treat me like a schoolboy again,” Istvan sighed. “I’ve had enough of this sermonizing.”

“No. You will come into your own when the time is right, when everything is ripe. I know what is on the boss’s mind, too.”

“Everyone knows but me. I am not worthy of confidence.” He strode around the room, pulling on his tie with an expression of dread, as if it were a noose.

“It’s the best evidence that you have distanced yourself. Istvan, you cannot think only of that woman. If you had come over to say a stupid ‘Good morning’ to me before the beginning of work, I would have whispered, ‘Glance into the garage. Have a chat with Krishan.’”

“What the devil for?”

“Let’s go. It’s time.” She crushed her cigarette in an earthenware ashtray. “We are at the mercy of Bajcsy’s watch, even when it’s a quarter of an hour fast.”