Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“But don’t you dare let the onions turn brown,” he warned the cook. “Keep the cover on. Before you serve it, beat in two eggs and mix it well. Be careful not to burn it. Serve red wine.”

All the time he thought he was hearing throaty whispers from behind the thick window screen, but he could not make out the cook’s kinsfolk in the darkness that had descended all at once.

“I wasn’t long, was I, Margit? You weren’t bored?”

“No. I was thinking.” She raised her eyes to his. “I’m never bored. I don’t have to be amused. What were you making?”

“ Lecso. Our simplest dish. If you take up with a Hungarian, you have to try it.”

“You got me to eat cake with silver sprinkles. I might as well take another chance.”

“And then we have Bull’s Blood.” He was amused when she made a face. “Never fear. It’s a red wine.”

Outside the window lights in the villas went on, and yellowish street lamps still dusty from the storm.

“Is one lamp enough for us? Shall I turn on the higher one?”

“Let it be. I like low light.”

“You’re not angry with me for bringing you here?”

“I am not angry at all. I don’t know myself how it came to this, that I am perfectly happy to wander around Delhi with you. You are kind. Sometimes at the hospital it occurs to me: I must tell Istvan about this!”

There was a knock at the door.

“Well, what is it?”

But the cook discreetly declined to enter. Istvan had to open the door to hear his whisper, “Sir, everything is ready.”

“Good. Serve it.” He saw that Pereira had put on a white linen jacket and white gloves; he was appearing in full regalia.

“Come. Now you will see my better side,” he invited her. “No more whiskey. We will move on to wine.”

The table was covered with an embroidered cloth. Fruit in a straw basket gleamed in the ray from the hanging lamp. The cook had put a branch with curly masses of orange-colored blossoms into an earthenware pitcher. They had hardly seated themselves when Pereira brought in a tray with the steaming frying pan and placed it in front of Margit.

“Oh, it smells lovely!”

“Be brave. Take some and try it. You may compliment me.”

The cork popped loudly. He took the bottle from the cook and filled the glasses. He felt Margit looking at him with inexpressible astonishment.

“What is it? The dish is not good? Did he manage to botch it just then?”

“Look around.”

He turned his head. Behind him, next to the wall, four men in white and a young girl sat with their legs folded under them, staring with wide eyes. They saluted the couple with folded hands. At a sign from the cook they came closer, walking barefoot without a sound.

“What are they doing here, Pereira? Take them to the kitchen and let them have something to eat. Have you gone mad?”

The cook stood his ground, full of dignity, holding the tray with the frying pan as if it were a sacred relic.

“They have already eaten. They would not put this to their lips. They are believing Hindus and there is meat in it. I promised to show them how sahib eats; they have never seen such a thing. To them it is a true art. They say that indeed we have fingers to mix everything, to knead it and to eat it, as people eat. But sir and madam eat altogether differently, with knife and fork. That is an art which I promised to show them.”

“Did you hear?” He turned to Margit. “He is making a sideshow of us. I have to chase them away.”

“Leave them alone,” she laughed, carried away with the humor of it. “You shouldn’t disappoint them. What’s the harm? And the cook counted on you so! He is anxious, like a theater director before a premiere. Don’t be angry, don’t mind them.” She raised her glass and a little red flame flitted over the tablecloth. “Your health. Remember, we are in India.”

“We are in India. We must amaze and excite them.”

“Do you speak English?” she asked, looking toward the figures in white.

“No, madam,” the cook answered. “These are dark peasants, and that little girl is my youngest son’s fiancee. Sahib has seen him.”

“How old is your son? Eight?”

“Ten, and she is fifteen. She is already mature. She will care for him, work like a slave for him. It is a great honor for them to be connected with such a man as I.”

The lecso was a success; the dry wine brought out the pungent flavor of the dish. Nevertheless the conversation foundered. They felt the eyes of their mute audience watchfully trained on their faces and hands. The dinner became a torture.

“I will give him a piece of my mind.” In his thoughts Istvan was already threatening the cook. “His head will spin.”

Pereira switched on the device that connected the rotors of both ceiling fans. The peasant family was enchanted, impressed by his technical skill. Margit finished her coffee. She lit a cigarette and choked restlessly.

“Take me home,” she requested. “I’m beginning to feel tired.”

When they were sitting in the car, she took his hand.

“Don’t be angry. Think what pleasure we have given them. The cook has gained new authority. They will have something to tell: they have been where they are normally not received, they have seen something they have not seen before. Surely you will invite me again? I thought the lecso was delicious.”

The watchman’s upraised truncheon flashed in the glare of a headlight. He called to the neighbors’ guard in Hindi:

“My sahib is driving out — with the woman.”

That much at least Istvan heard. He gripped the steering wheel hard. Rage swept over him. Quite an event! Sahib drives out with the woman who was with him in his house.

“The meeting took place in a warm atmosphere full of mutual understanding; it became yet another proof that cultural relations are solidifying.” Istvan put down his pen and sighed deeply. Just such orotund, almost meaningless sentences were expected in the reports of all ministries of foreign affairs.

The curtain was not completely drawn; the sun beat through the chink with a white glare that made the eyelids blink and forced the face into a tired grimace. The drone of the cooling machine did not drown out the measured tapping of the drops that gathered at the end of the pipe and splashed into the little tin drip pan, then dried without a trace. The slow spattering measured the time. He raised his eyes irritably to assure himself that the next drop that clung to the copper pipe would swell and lazily detach itself. He urged it on with a look; he almost begged it to fall.

The telephone rang jarringly.

“Be so kind as to bestir yourself and come here. Comrade Ambassador summons you.” It was Judit’s voice.

“Must I come right away? I have just begun—”

“I’d advise you to come. Ferenc is already here.”

“But what for?” He tried for another moment’s delay. His trousers were sticking to his sweaty legs; the leather on his chair was unbearably hot. He didn’t want to get up, to go out into the stifling heat of the hall, to carry on a conversation with an artificial smile.

“Agra,” she said, and hung up.

He rose so quickly that a lizard that had been dozing on the ceiling scampered into a distant corner.

The ambassador stood with his hands in his pockets, resting his broad backside on the edge of his desk and stooping forward with raised eyebrows, like a bull ready to charge. Ferenc, sporting a sheaf of black curly hair and the affability of the leader of a gypsy orchestra, opened his briefcase.

“An invitation to a congress in honor of Rabindranath Tagore has arrived,” he began, as if he were serving a tennis ball.