Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Come in,” she called, but no one hurried to open the door. Margit started to get up, but Istvan reached the door first. An elderly chambermaid with dark skin beneath her gray hair bowed against the light of the sinking sun.

“Excuse me, miss—” she folded her hands as if in prayer “—but the clerk told me to come and take your dresses to the laundry. He did not know you had a guest.”

Under the old woman’s lowered eyelids her dark eyes were rolling, scanning the bed, the room. She knew perfectly well about me, he thought, but they wanted to check, to see what sort of bond we have, friendship or deeper intimacy; this hotel is known as a hideaway for lovers.

“Go on, take them. I threw everything into the basket in the bathroom.”

“Perhaps tomorrow. I do not want to disturb you.”

Istvan looked at Margit. They understood each other without words.

“No, take them now. Count them and write it down. You are not disturbing us at all.”

In reality they were both more at ease because the maid was standing in front of the half-open door. Her presence changed the atmosphere of their meeting, freeing them from the necessity for intimate gestures, words, perhaps even confessions, that might cause them regret. At last she left with the bundle, carrying it on her head after she had crossed the threshold.

They felt an urge to escape. It was too early for dinner. Terey decided to surprise the girl and take her to the city of spirits, Fatehpur Sikri.

Large trees with leaves that might have been cut from leather stood tall and motionless, like theater decorations. Vacant fields, yellow and red, dozed in the sun. In spite of the glare, the sky was pallid and hostile, oppressive to the sight. They were relieved to see a gentle knoll and the toothed line of red stone that was the city wall.

As he drove up under the great gate, which stood partly open, walls appeared above them, exhaling fire, enclosing a haunting emptiness. The city and its palaces slept, bearing no traces of human inhabitants, undamaged by any siege. Swarms of monkeys had taken them over. They sat on ledges between statues, looking like statues themselves; sometimes they climbed indolently, shaking their silver crests and showing their yellow teeth in grimaces of disgust. The silence was still more arresting, for not even a cicada chattered within the walls. There was something malevolent in the air; it lurked, it waited. So Margit felt, at least. An echo multiplied their footsteps and mimicked their voices. In spite of themselves they walked lightly and spoke softly.

Suddenly they heard a melodious cry. They saw a slender black silhouette on top of the wall. A man was standing there. He wore a red sash that seemed to cut him in two; from that distance he looked like a phantom.

He took a step and stretched out a hand toward them as if he wanted to stop them, then leaned out awkwardly and, with legs drawn up, fell. They heard a howl of despair, then a splatter, as if a body had struck the ground.

“My God,” Margit moaned. “He’s killed himself!”

A low wall with statues concealed the place where he had fallen. They ran, their echoing steps clattering as if an unseen crowd were hurrying along with them.

They could not see a body.

“He jumped when he saw us. Why?”

“He wanted an audience,” he said, enjoying her fright.

“You really are dreadful,” she sniffed. “Oh, God!” She stopped, horror-struck. “He fell into the well!”

Clutching Istvan’s hand, she looked into the shaft. The stone casing was dark with spattered water. She stirred the mossy green coating of plants below them, which had been torn in the center by the falling body.

“He drowned,” she whispered. “Horrible. He hit the water from three stories without bracing himself — that’s enough.”

Then from under the ragged layer of water plants, something emerged: the round shape of a head, pushing apart the tattered greenery that covered its eyes. It grinned, showing white teeth, and shouted joyfully.

After a moment the man crawled out. He came toward them exuberantly, making wet tracks on the red stone and pressing water from his slender body with his hands.

“That was a jump in honor of this respected lady, to entertain her!” he exclaimed. “Only five rupees, sahib. I can repeat it so madam can take a photo.”

When he had gone, Margit stood in front of Istvan with clenched fists.

“You knew all the time. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to spoil it for you. He is the guardian of the dead city. You give him great pleasure if you experience his death. That’s his theatrical stunt. You remember how he fell? It looked like a real accident. A good acrobat! He deserves his payment. He might have missed the well, and if he had turned in the air, he would have broken his neck on the shaft and been dead as a rabbit.”

“Stop!” She put her hands over her ears. “I don’t even want to listen to this. You’re appalling.”

They walked side by side. The echo marred the rhythm of their steps. Shadows fell on the red walls. Shriveled lizards, turning up their tails, ran in a grayish-green stream over the stones. A bright sky, clear as if it had been swept, lighted a palatial room from end to end. How she charms me, he thought. How pretty she is when she is provoked. She reminds me of an angry cat, though she would certainly not claw, only beat like a little boy with her fists. Her hair is a little stiff; it will blow freely in the hot wind, and the reddish gleams will show. The magnitude of these empty buildings quiets these thoughts, inspires brooding, feeds the heart with sadness.

They went in by the stairs to the galleries. They passed spacious rooms where the radiance of the low sun lay on the floors like golden carpets. The air smelled of arid rock and dried bird droppings, though their movements did not start up a single bird. At moments they heard the voices of monkeys and a sound like the patter of bare feet. But when they went out to the terrace, monkeys with long coats like silver tippets were sitting on the neighboring roof, just across a narrow street, observing them with mischievous yellow eyes — attending them from a distance, like guards in disguise.

“From this porch the emperor surveyed his provisions. There was his harem. Counting only one wife per apartment, which is doubtful, for they were probably domiciled by twos or threes, it would amount to something modest: thirty women. You see those paved squares in the courtyard — the giant chessboard on which he played with living people as chessmen. Legend has it that he always won from the time he beheaded one of the rajahs who dared to play with him as with an equal, and might therefore have become a political rival.”

They went into the dooryard and stood still, overcome with delight. Against a red wall, three cupolas in the shape of lotus buds rose from a small temple of white marble. Their walls — marble leaves and branches — gleamed in the rose-tinted sunset, rubbed smooth by the hands of the sculptors and of the faithful, who prayed clinging to the stone plaitwork, begging favors from the saint buried inside under an unpolished block of white stone. The little shrine was reflected in a shallow pool used by pilgrims for the ritual washing of the feet before they went in by the steps.

“Tell me; why did the people go away from this place?” She turned her bright eyes toward him. “It is beautiful here, after all.”

“Shall I tell you the truth or the legend?”

“I prefer the legend, so you don’t spoil the charm. We have the city in the palms of our hands.” She took off her sandals and carefully, gathering her skirt up, walked into the water.

“It’s hot!” She nearly whistled. “Surely this is allowed? I’m not committing some sacrilege?”