Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“And I came at the ambassador’s direction to order him to keep quiet. I advise you to mind your own business. No private inquiries. You are from the cultural division. There is no need for you to become intimate with the driver by chewing the fat about everything. Every Hindu must file reports about us, even the silly sweeper. The oversight system here works very efficiently; they want to keep an eye on our affairs. When you go out on some escapade, not to mention personal meetings, it’s always better to drive the car yourself. It’s more secure. And don’t talk with Krishan about the accident. What’s to be gained by alerting him to its significance?”

“Very well.” Terey nodded.

They went out into the sunlight. Terey had a bad taste in his mouth because he had let himself be caught in an indefensible position.

Mihaly, the cryptographer’s son, walked up to them in unbuttoned pajamas and a hat of plaited reeds, pulling a tin box on a string. Deprived of companions his own age, the child devised odd amusements for himself. He helped the chauffeur with chores in the garage. Four hours each morning he spent in a school conducted by nuns. There he had quickly learned to chatter in English, and, from Hindu children, in Hindi. Often his mother took him to the marketplace as her interpreter, for he could express himself better than she. He had the head for it, and she enjoyed showing him off. What was said in front of him he remembered at once, so that one had to be careful.

“ Namaste ji ,” the boy greeted them respectfully.

“What have you got there, Mihaly?” Istvan drew the boy to him. The little fellow raised his head, rubbing it against Istvan. The brim of his big hat rustled.

“A bus. I’m taking little birds to the shade.”

“You cut them out of paper?”

“No. Live birds.” He held the box up and handed it to Terey.

“Put it to your ear, Uncle Istvan. You’ll hear how they peck. And you, too”—he turned to Ferenc—“only don’t open it or they will fly out.”

Istvan, torn with longing for his own sons, was moved by Mihaly’s confiding behavior. The shadow of the hat, which was painted with red zigzags, fell on the warm little face.

He heard a tapping sound in the box when he held it to his ear. Ferenc did not restrain himself; he raised the lid and big grasshoppers shot out, opened their rust-colored wings and flew into the glare with a loud whirring. They landed high among the climbing plants that swayed when a breath of wind grazed them. Mihaly did not seem at all aggrieved, but rather amused at the secretary’s surprise.

“I told you they would fly out.”

“They are grasshoppers.”

“No, birds,” he insisted. “Isn’t that right, uncle?” He seized Istvan’s hand.

“Of course they are birds. Mr. Ferenc doesn’t have his glasses, so he didn’t see.”

“It is that way with God,” the boy said gravely. “My sisters say He exists, but Daddy says He doesn’t. He must not have glasses, either.”

“They are muddling the youngster’s thinking,” Ferenc said angrily. “Of course there is no God,” he added, speaking as one who imparts a fundamental precept to a child.

“You always like to play the devil’s advocate,” Terey laughed. “Of course there is. Only not everyone sees Him, and even to one who does, it may be more convenient to take the view that He does not exist.”

Ferenc sighed and let his hands drop in a gesture of helplessness. “Carry on this theological debate without me. It’s too hot. And when you have arrived at an understanding, look in on me, Istvan. I would like a word with you in private.”

He walked away with a quiet step. The sun beat down; even his shadow dwindled in the heat.

“And now we will let out the rest of the grasshoppers or they will roast in this sweltering—”

“Birds,” Mihaly corrected him. “After all, you see.”

Istvan took them in his palm. He was amused by the long legs that kicked hard and then flitted into the air, by the little red wings that flashed in the sun and suddenly sank, falling into the leaves like pieces of a brown branch. They faded into the background without a trace until they began to hiss and ring.

“Show me those glasses, Uncle Istvan,” the boy begged sweetly.

“What glasses?”

“The ones to see God with.”

“I cannot show you those because each person must have his own. They are called faith,” he whispered confidentially to the child, who looked at him with wide eyes. He felt a quick spasm of grief: who is speaking of this to my boys?

“And will I have them too, when I am big?”

“If you want them, you will surely get them. Many grownups have them. They just don’t want to admit it.”

“So no one else will take them away?”

From around a corner Krishan appeared. In a white shirt with sleeves rolled up unevenly, in wide linen pants, he looked like thousands of other men on the streets of New Delhi. It struck Istvan that although he was thin, gnarly muscles could be seen under the light covering of his skin. He was a strong, agile fellow. His watch and a heavy gold signet ring were reminders that he earned a good living. He walked with a light stoop; one could see from his expressive face that he was dejected.

“Krishan, Comrade Ferenc wanted to talk to you.”

“I have just come from him, sir, but what am I going to do when the police summon me again?”

“You have given your deposition already. And signed it.”

“Yes.” He looked dolefully at Terey.

“Stick to what you said then.”

“You know everything, sir?”

Terey nodded.

“The car will be ready for the evening.”

“Don’t worry, then. They will forget it. But you must be discreet. Don’t talk too much.”

“I know, sir. The secretary ordered me.”

Krishan turned back with a heavy step and walked toward his quarters in the outbuilding. Istvan felt that the driver was expecting sympathy, understanding, rescue. But he remembered Ferenc’s instructions and shrugged his shoulders. Krishan had been in the war in Africa; he had experience, he was not a child. He ought to know what he was doing. After all, was this Terey’s concern? He had a wife. Let her cheer him up.

Mihaly looked after the driver.

“Krishan is sad. Why, Uncle Istvan?”

“Because his car is wrecked.”

The boy walked behind him. The tin box rattled as he dragged it over the tiles. “Uncle—” he seized Istvan’s hand in his hot, moist palm, “is it true that you have a kangaroo?”

Terey stopped where he stood, stunned. The rumor-ridden atmosphere had begun to exasperate him, but it had its amusing side.

“Mama said she saw you at Jantar Mantar with your kangaroo. I would so terribly like to see it. Will you show it to me?”

“I will show you, but don’t tell anyone. It will be our secret.”

He twitched the brim of Mihaly’s hat and pushed the hat onto the boy’s nose, then walked into the stuffy interior of the embassy.

What to do, then, he thought. Go into hiding? How, exactly? The very idea was funny. They might stop paying so much attention to me. Now, fortunately, they have the accident to talk about. Perhaps they will let me have a little peace. He felt almost grateful to the ambassador for concentrating the attention of their little world on himself. But his impatience was growing. If Ferenc tries to play the teacher with me, I’ll give him a talking-to he’ll not soon forget.

Having to explain his acquaintance with Margit, to endure conversations about her, to anticipate gently mocking smiles, seemed odious to him. He wanted to pass by Ferenc’s office, but the door was partly open and the secretary said invitingly, “Come in. As it happens, I need you very much.”