Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“What do you have in mind?” Istvan inquired. The man smiled, his lips forming an indulgent, slightly disgusted grimace.

“Don’t worry; not intelligence. Ordinary business. I am, like Rajah Khaterpalia, a businessman. But since you are not going, for the time being there is nothing to talk about,” he snorted superciliously. “Don’t rack your brain about it. Here is my card. If you go, please let me know. I do not think you will regret it.”

He handed him a cream-colored card and suddenly, as if he had lost all interest in Istvan, went into the part of room where the rich ladies in varicolored saris sat on the couch and in leather chairs.

“A. M. Chandra,” the counselor read. There were multitudes of Chandras; it was a common name. Beneath it was written in small letters, “Philanthropist.” And in the corner an address, Kashmir Gate, office of legal counsel, the telephone number. Yes; Old Delhi. Istvan had to smile, it struck him as such a highflown designation. Philanthropist: it reminded him of the card they printed as a joke on the birthday of one of the editors, who was always sitting around in a coffeehouse nearby, with the name in large type—“Founder”—and below, in nonpareil, “and Chairman of the Bored.” But here the eccentric designation “philanthropist” must have a particular significance — to establish a position, to attract certain persons, to arouse respect?

Since Vijayaveda and his son-in-law had been left alone, Terey took the opportunity to ask confidentially what Chandra’s occupation really was.

“Everything that is not allowed. He is an excellent lawyer, he knows thousands of gambits. He can call on precedents from fifty years back. He handles cases that are impossible to make disposition of, that drag on for years. He pulls witnesses out of hell. A man drowned in a swamp — well, a very rich owner of a copper mine — and because there were no remains, no one could take possession of the inheritance. Chandra managed to produce remains. It was said that gold fillings were put into another dead man so the dentist could identify him as his patient. He is a careful fellow: he never leaves his fingerprints on anything. He knows how much to give someone to move the case along, to obtain the indispensable signature and seal on the decision,” the rajah said reflectively. “Everyone is ready to take, but they are not so eager to work. He knows who gets things done, he knows people,” he added approvingly. “Such knowledge is invaluable. Did he propose anything to you?”

“Yes — rather vaguely,” Istvan said hesitantly.

“He is worth taking seriously,” the rajah said reassuringly. “I have lent him large sums and he has always paid them back on time. He inspires confidence. One never knows when such a man might be useful, and for what. If I were in your place, I should keep up the acquaintance.”

Through the pleasantly shaded room Grace sailed toward them. She walked with short steps, carried forward with a slight movement of her hips, her head tilted as if under the weight of her luxuriant black hair. On her neck she wore a gold chain in the form of leaves and lotus flowers, set with rubies. A servant with a tray of glasses walked behind her.

“Are you happy, Grace, to be receiving guests in the old home?” the rajah asked.

“My home is where you are,” she answered, lowering her dark-tinted eyelids.

This expression in the presence of a listener pleased her husband. Istvan thought with relief that that was the end of it, that it was as if the incident had not taken place. Suddenly he felt as though he were choking: he stood still for a moment with the cigar, now extinguished, in his uplifted hand, looking around at the faces, studying the movements of hands and bodies, the rippling of white dhotis, the impeccable cadences of sentences spoken in English. The large fan whirled above him, scattering ashes from the cigar.

He had had enough. What had he expected? What had he found here? Nasal, languid voices, enormous, flashing eyes, theatrical gestures. He bowed to Grace and the rajah, pointing to his wrist watch, and walked out without a word. The bored monkey hobbled along behind him. They stood, he and the little animal, at the top of the stairs, surveying the abyss of sunlight. Dry, twisted leaves drifted from the trees; the tobacco-like aroma of dying greenery rode on the air. A lone cicada chattered on a leafless acacia. He could see its lucent wings like trembling slivers of mica.

Hot breezes sprang up, driving the shriveled leaves around the asphalt. Tires ground them to a dust that was wafted through the air and into the faces of passersby. Istvan had just driven to the gate when a taxi with an unkempt Sikh at the wheel stopped, its tires screeching. He put his head out and was ready to berate the man when he noticed the passenger. Miss Ward alighted, holding a raffia basket full of peaches.

“Why didn’t you let me know you would be here?” she reproached him. “And I waited and waited at Volga. After all, you could have called.”

Her sudden fit of pique gave him pleasure. He liked her with tight lips and a threatening flash in her eye.

“I’ve had a rotten day. Since morning nothing has gone right. I needed you very much — needed a shoulder to cry on — and of course you weren’t there. Go on!” She dismissed the taxi driver with a gesture of her hand in a green nylon glove; her suntanned fingers were half silhouetted as if seen through water.

“Madam has not paid yet.” The Sikh thrust out his hairy lips and, gratified by her discomfiture, scratched himself under his arm.

“Oh, sorry!” She hurriedly retrieved her purse from the bottom of the basket. Two peaches rolled out and vanished under the taxi.

“Why this anger? I am not Dr. Kapur; I cannot marshal my powers of concentration and divine that you are sitting in Volga. I can only envy you. Strong coffee, ice cream.” He tucked some money into the driver’s hand. The man started up his rattletrap sluggishly.

“Where are you rushing off to?” He stopped Margit. “The at-home is still going on.”

“I wanted to wash. I’m sticky all over. And so tired! I’m sorry that you got the brunt of that”—her lips trembled like those of a child who can hardly keep from crying—“but if you knew what I’ve had to contend with, you wouldn’t wonder at it.”

He took the basket out of her hand and put it down beside him. Before she noticed, they were moving down the avenue.

“I must look horrid!” She peeped at the mirror. “Where are you taking me? I can’t be seen anywhere in this rumpled dress.”

He said nothing; he only looked far down the road. The air, veined with tremors of heat, threw a haze over the trunks of trees near the pavement and blurred the brown leaves at the tops. A pool of blue gleamed like spilled water on the asphalt. Around them stretched empty fields full of soil of a vermilion hue; the stubble was not plowed. Only patches of sugar cane stood like a green wall. In a ditch a pair of storks walked about, irritably snapping up brittle grasshoppers. In the blank sky a vulture glided like a black cross on invisible currents of air, reconnoitering.

“You won’t bother to talk to me? Have I annoyed you?”

“I’m taking you out of the city. We’ll sit in the shade, by water. You’ll rest a little. You don’t mind my abducting you?”

He drove with his left hand, putting his right out the window. The air whipping against the car was refreshing as it flowed over his body, ruffling his shirt.

“I had about thirty patients today, almost all of them children. Why do they deserve to suffer like this? Swollen eyelids oozing pus. Pupils that can’t bear bright light…the sun jabs them like a needle. Do you know, tears have made furrows on these tykes’ cheeks. Over and over I perform the same treatment: put the hook in place, pull away the eyelid, scrape, remove ingrown eyelashes, which are irritants; they lacerate the eyeball. The nurse holds the child’s head, and the mother sinks to the floor and embraces my legs as if to plead with me not to hurt the little one.” She flung the words out angrily, not looking at Istvan, only at the vacuousness of the parching fields and the bluish sky that seemed full of hot ash. “But maybe this disgusts you? Have you already had enough?”