Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

She looked at him with heightened curiosity. What was he driving at?

“What kind of achievement is this — to assure oneself a comfortable situation, to placate the more powerful, to beat down the weaker with impunity so as to enhance one’s sense of well-being? To write so as not to interfere with anyone, to win approval? I want to live, but I want a life worth living — to influence things, not to flatter the powers that be.

“I love Hungary. Time mixes us as a baker mixes a cake. I search for leaven, for what is good for the nation; I want justice and freedom. They exist, and notwithstanding those plaster busts, they force changes, since socialism is what it is. And these changes are irreversible. Have no illusions: this would not have been the Hungary that was my homeland.”

“So you give them bricks when they build the prison walls,” she said with an indulgent smile, looking at the tips of her dusty shoes. “You serve those you don’t consider worthy of respect.”

“Only if I plant my hands in my pockets and say: No, I will change nothing, not even myself. There was a time when I thought it was enough for me only to write in Hungarian, a beautiful language. Now I know that that is not enough. Many forces lie dormant in the nation. Socialism awakens them; that’s not just a platitude. Often those people themselves are not aware of what they have unleashed.

“The time will come when the intermediaries must be gone. The changes began in Russia, from Khrushchev’s time. We still have the old, proven system: suspicion, informing, fear. They already think differently in Poland. A thaw, a breaking of the ice; the politicians speak so euphemistically, it’s as if they had all become poets. A storm is coming. It must come to us. It must. And the struggle must not go on without me. Otherwise I would have to blame myself — to despise myself.”

She looked at him; in her blue eyes was a stubbornness that seemed to match his own. “So you don’t see a life without politics,” she whispered bitterly.

He shook his head.

The sky cleared and suddenly they felt the low sun, now a bright blur in the triple curve of a rainbow, as it looked out from beyond the horizon. The wind stopped. It had become unbearably hot; warmth radiated from the desert sand the storm had showered on the roads and the trees.

A sympathetic silence fell between them. He drove the car out onto the road. Sand, swept into waves as if by the current of a brook, covered the asphalt. Shattered branches and piles of leaves parched by drought lay on the road.

“When I shake my head I feel sand falling on my neck. I must have a bath. Take me home.”

“All right. As you wish.”

He turned the car toward the suburban villas. A few minutes later he was being informed by the watchman that a window was broken in the hall. Led by some mysterious instinct, the cook appeared.

“Where have you brought me?” Margit asked, wiping her dirty face.

“Home, as you ordered. I’ll give you a towel in a minute, and a bathrobe. I warn you: the tap marked cold is actually hot. Well, why are you looking at me like that? First you say so much about friendship, and then you seem taken aback.”

She went into the living room and her eyes fell on the rust and dark green carpet as it glowed in the western light. She stood still.

“Beautiful colors!” She nodded with approval. “I like it.”

“So do I. It reminds me of you.”

She looked askance at him.

He showed her the bathroom and threw her a fleecy towel. “If you’d like me to soap your back—” he offered facetiously.

“When I want that, I’ll call, but then don’t you be taken aback,” she interrupted, locking the door.

“Pereira!” He summoned the cook. “What do you have for dinner that’s good?”

“Rice with sauce and a piece of chicken in the ice box.” He threw out a furtive, helpless glance, but seeing that Terey was impatient, added hastily, “We have Hungarian salami and plum vodka. I will run to the market right away and buy something else. You gave us no notice that we were having a guest.”

“Do you have green pepper? Onion, tomatoes?”

“We have!” he cried joyfully.

“And bacon and eggs?”

“Those also.”

“Good. You are free. I will cook a Hungarian dish myself.”

“I understand.” The dark eyelids were lowered knowingly.

“You understand nothing!” Terey’s anger kindled suddenly. “That lady is an eye doctor. We were caught in a sandstorm outside the city. She came to get cleaned up.”

“I understand,” the Hindu repeated, wiping his hands on the hem of his untucked shirt.

“Set the table. Don’t forget flowers.”

He was exasperated at having made excuses to the cook.

Pereira disappeared. Shouts floated back from the kitchen, and the patter of running feet. Istvan peered into the corridor. Pilgrims’ canes and bundles were lying there. When the cook returned with a tablecloth and silverware, he asked abruptly, “What is that crowd in the kitchen?”

“My relatives arrived from the country. They are in the city for the first time. They wanted to see how richly we live, sahib and I. They are not disturbing anything, and they can sleep in the barsati. There is enough room on the roof.”

“Istvan, come here.” He heard Margit’s voice from behind the door.

She was sitting in a chair, her skin clean and golden, her freshly brushed hair a silken river.

“It went very well without your help. Take a shower; you’ll revive immediately. I heard how you gave the cook his orders. I was hungry at once. Well, jump into the tub. I won’t sit at the table with a dirty man.”

The cook brought in a brass tray on which tall glasses clinked, flanked by a bottle of whiskey, ice cubes, a blue siphon, and two glasses of Coca-Cola.

“I can help myself,” she said, motioning him away. “Go.”

The warm shower was a relief. The streams of water ran red from the desert dust; his skin began to breathe. He dried himself, deliberately leaving a little of the delicious moisture. He put on a clean shirt. He looked in the mirror and saw a face with cheerless eyes and set lips. One short hair still stuck up, forming a cowlick.

He was unexpectedly moved at seeing a strange comb lying beside his shaving kit. What whim of mine is this? he thought. He shook his finger at his reflection; a wave of warm feeling came over him.

“Here’s your lost property.” He dropped the comb into the girl’s lap. With a glass in her hand, she looked at the picture on his desk of a woman and two boys with a dog.

“My sons. My wife.”

“You’ve never spoken of them.” She took the photograph in her hand and looked at it closely. “A beautiful woman,” she said thoughtfully.

“You didn’t ask. I must leave you for a while. You’re probably not hankering for Indian cuisine?”

“All right. I can wait now until midnight. Drink up.” She handed him a cool glass. “You remember — that’s how our acquaintance began.”

He took her hand and kissed it. They were quiet for a moment. See, you have her, he thought. You drew her out of the crowd of guests the night of that wedding; you got to know her, you are happy together. What more do you want?

“I’ll be right back.” He put the glass down.

The smells of spices and perspiring bodies hovered in the kitchen. Pereira had spread tomatoes, white globes of peeled sweet onion, and strips of pepper like green icicles on the table. He looked around with knife in hand, as if waiting for the command to attack.

Istvan took bacon from the refrigerator, sliced it, and threw it into the frying pan. Before the fat melted he cut the center out of the pepper, shook off the seeds, and chopped it fine. The cook followed his lead; the work progressed as adroitly as a piano duet. The green chopped pepper was covered with brick-red slices of tomato, then overlaid with white onion, which was topped with round cuts of bacon. Juice oozed from the vegetables and the pan bubbled pleasantly. He added salt and a pinch of hot pepper. Then he waited until the vegetables were tender.