Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

No; he shuddered at the thought. I am from another world, a world differently constituted. To live — that means not simply to adapt to the world as it is, but to hasten change, throw out those in power, and build. I would lead those famished people, that staggering mass of shadows, to full shops, I would let them be satiated for once. I would push weapons into their hands and strike the dry ground like a drum with my heel, calling on them to fight for the rights of man. But they would look at me with mild cows’ eyes, not comprehending what I was calling them to. The knife would fall from their apathetic fingers, clanging like a false note on the stone steps of the temple. They would take me for a madman, perhaps for one of the demons that Ganesh, the god with the head of an elephant, rammed with his body in the depths of hell.

The sky was streaming with scarlet; his eyes were riveted to it. A painter who imitated it would have been criticized for his lack of restraint. Only nature could allow itself this lavishness, this delirium of achingly vivid color.

“Wonderful! That is really exciting.” Behind him he heard the voices of Englishwomen. He turned his head, but saw little; the fire in the heavens still filled his eyes. Slowly he accustomed himself to the duskiness of the fortified tower.

In the spacious passage, four naphtha lamps shone with a yellow glow. By their light he could see something like a stage: a frayed mat spread on stones. An animal was jumping. It looked like a marten. In the center an enraged cobra lifted its distended flat head. Its eyes, glittering in the lamplight like drops of molten copper, were fixed on the dancing predator. It hissed; its head like a broad spear it held level, ready to strike.

Istvan went nearer and nudged the fakir, who pushed a flat basket toward him. “Give me five rupees, sir,” the man said in English.

Just this sort of duel takes place in reality, only much faster, he thought. Pity my boys can’t see this; in any case they would have read The Jungle Book.

The reptile leaned forward, poised to glide from the lighted arena into the friendly darkness. The two tourists retreated with cries of fear.

He threw two rupees into the basket.

“Is this real?” asked the thin Englishwoman.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he answered. “Obviously it is a live cobra.”

“But does it have venom? Is the bite fatal? It’s said that they pull out snakes’ teeth and extract the poison glands.”

“Put it to the test, madam,” the fakir challenged her. “Please give me your hand.”

“Oh, no! No!” She recoiled. “I thought it was all an act, a spectacle for tourists.”

The mongoose, which had numbed the snake with its monotonous hopping, suddenly broke the rhythm of its hunting dance, leaped onto the back of the cobra’s neck, and shoved it to the ground with its muzzle, squealing. Its white teeth gnawed into the scaly skin like a tiny saw. It held its victim like the winner of a wrestling match who wants not only the judge but the spectators to acknowledge his supremacy. Then it jumped away, stretched itself, and lay down in the basket. The cobra shook with revolting spasms of powerless rage. It hissed and with wide open mouth moved toward the viewers. Then the bare black arm of the fakir emerged from the darkness and seized it adroitly by the head.

“Why didn’t he let the mongoose bite it to death?” the Englishwoman asked. “He duped us!”

“Thirty rupees for biting to death,” said the snake tamer gravely. “This is an exceptionally cunning reptile.”

“I will pay.” She dug nervously in her handbag. “I want to be certain that it will be killed. Here is the money!”

The Hindu, eagerly taking what she offered, let a smaller snake out of a bag. It was more venomous than the cobra, he boasted, yet the mongoose made quick work of it, biting it into three parts and then, in revulsion, scratching with its hind feet.

“It’s a swindle!” The Englishwoman pouted. “I paid for the cobra.”

The Hindu was displeased.

“I am honest,” he cried. “It had to be a poisonous snake, bitten to death, and it lies on the mat. There had to be death, and there is death.”

“If everyone paid them for a cobra killed, they would catch them and exterminate them themselves,” the tourist muttered, “and India would soon be a pleasanter place.”

“No one demands that the animal tamer in the circus shoot his lion,” Terey said in the man’s defense. But the Englishwoman persisted rigidly:

“I paid for the cobra.”

“The cobra is a holy serpent.” The Hindu spread his hands. “To kill it for amusement is not permitted.”

“With you everything is holy — monkeys, cows, snakes,” she stormed, working herself into a rage. “That’s why a human being meets the fate of the beasts.”

The gaunt Hindu gazed at her as if he understood, though he hardly knew even the words he needed to gather an audience. His dry, shriveled face glistened like old ivory. He crouched behind the departing woman as if he wanted to leap onto the back of her neck.

Something could be done with these people yet — Istvan clenched his fist — only there would have to be powerful incitements. They fear the loss of dignity more than the loss of life. That is their strength.

He walked between the huge trees. Thick leaves, curled and crackling, rustled under his feet. The sky was sprinkled with stars. He looked at the glowing hands on his watch: it was time to change into his dinner jacket and put in his appearance at the reception.

The time dragged by. He waited, half unconsciously deluding himself that he would meet her, that she would appear unexpectedly among the chatting groups of guests. Margit…There was a moment when he thought he saw her reddish hair. He was moving across the withered lawn when suddenly the woman turned her head and he saw an elderly, violet face and flabby dewlaps like a turkey’s.

He was surprised to see Chandra, the lawyer, at this evening party. The modest title on the man’s business card—“philanthropist”—had lodged in his memory. They greeted each other and again Chandra made Istvan a present of a cigar.

“Are you wondering what I am doing here? Tagore is my real passion,” the Hindu mocked unblushingly. “Only on this occasion can I meet people who adore him as I do, exchange opinions, enrich my intellect. Well, don’t flinch. Of course I am here on business. But it is a rallying cry: Tagore!”

He abandoned Istvan for a magnate in a long white shirt and tight, creased knee-length pants, who wore so many rings that his hands seemed to hang helplessly under their weight.

“My dear fellow,” said Nagar, who knew almost everyone, “don’t demand too much of your friends. Chandra is a dangerous man, for he is clever and without conscience. He really did come to deliver a paper on Tagore. He will be rewarded for it. In Delhi it is possible to underestimate by a hundredfold the value of a meeting with the elite here — in Delhi, or in the rest of India — yes, perhaps in the rest of the world.”

“But how?”

“Don’t be naive,” Maurice scolded. “A first impression is important. So is the place of meeting, and the people who keep company with him. Later he will allude to the acquaintance formed here, discreetly emphasizing its intimate character, and it will be difficult not to receive him, to refuse him a favor, since he commented so beautifully on Tagore’s prose. The name of the dead writer can be used like a master key.”

“What door will it open for him? I would give a lot to know.”

“What for? If you know about wrongdoing, you ought to denounce it. If you don’t, you become complicit. Why the devil be involved with him against your inclination unless you have something in particular to gain? Better to keep your distance. Let it be enough that I know him, and I don’t vouch for him.”