Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

Her legs were dappled with light as she waded toward the steps, disturbing the white reflection of the three cone-shaped roofs.

He sat on the polished flagstones of the yard, his arms around his knees, and looked at her with undisguised yearning. It is not just because of the heat, he thought, nor the sensuous sigh of India, nor my own isolation, that I desire her. I could peel her dress from her here, in the middle of this courtyard, and have her on these stones that are exuding heat. But he did not move or call her to him. He was lost in contemplation of the musical lines of her neck when she shook the wave of her hair impatiently, her straight back, the curve of her hips. She raised both hands and lodged them in the woven stone work; she tried to look into the shadowed temple. She looks like a Hindu woman at prayer, he thought, and perhaps she is asking for something, not only for herself, but for us.

“Listen! It’s full of red strings, all attached.” She plucked at the yarn that was wound around the sculpted shoots and leaves and unraveled it.

“Don’t disturb it — those are pleas for a child,” he exclaimed in a warning tone. She bent down and replaited the yarn, tying up the ends. Like a terrified little girl she came back to where he was, leaving wet footprints.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You didn’t wait. The emperor was the ruler of a great state, the most beautiful women from the remotest part of Asia were brought to his harem, but he had no offspring. He tried various medicines and spells, but to no effect. Then he turned for help to a saintly old man. The old man ordered him to fast in solitude for twenty days, then fed him lavishly and sent for his favorite wife. That night she conceived. The emperor was then twenty-two years old. He wanted to thank the elder for this firstborn, this heir, so he asked him what he desired. The holy man replied, ‘I want peace, for that is more precious than anything in your treasury; I want silence.’ And the emperor, so the saint’s meditations would not be disrupted, ordered the people to leave the city and went away himself, with all his court. Three years later he died, wounded by a poisoned arrow.”

“That’s rather far-fetched.”

“Of course,” he conceded lightly. “But the man who jumped into the well is a descendant of the old wizard. Only that one family lives in Fatehpur Sikri. It guards not only the walls but the abandoned palaces. It opens the gates at dawn and closes them at dusk. At night the town is under the sway of the spirits.”

“I’d like to spend the night here,” she whispered. “When the moon is full, it must be exquisite.”

“Just as it was among the movie sets during the shooting of The Indian Tomb . Unfortunately they haven’t allowed anyone to stay here since some American tried to break off the statues and lower them on a line down the wall.”

“You’ve said so many times that everything is allowed here if only one pays well.”

“Because it is. But what do you want to find here? Haven’t you had enough thrills? I will tell the man to jump into the well again for you, if you like.”

“No. No.” Her hands fluttered as if to repel the suggestion.

“The legend of the healing of the impotent king lures infertile women. They come, they whisper beseechingly through the plaited marble, and then they tie in a red thread.”

“What for?”

“So they will not bleed. And you know how effective that is.”

“You’re terrible. You manage to spoil everything.” She sprang to her feet and picked up her sandals. “Why did they really go away from here?”

“Look at your feet. Touch them. They are rough from salt. Beds of it are underneath us. The water is not fit for drinking or for crops. The place is easy to defend, beautifully situated — but treeless, with only desert plants. It is simply impossible to sustain life here. Come. You have completed your pilgrimage, you have attached a red thread. Let’s go home.”

The western light kindled on the battlements at the tops of the walls. Long shadows fell from the towers. The first bats trembled in the air, squeaking, blackening the light, and scattering again into the dimness of the city’s interior, where they wheeled in the air as if to summon the night.

Margit stood in the sun, at a loss, embarrassed. She was ready to shake off her sandals, run to the pool, and tear away the thread. But she saw that Istvan was teasing her and, feeling annoyed, made her way to the gate.

“Silly superstitions,” she shrugged. “I’m a doctor, I appreciate the influence of desire and expectation on biological processes. That may interfere with a woman’s rhythms, but it will not give her a child.”

A trumpet could be heard in the distance: we are closing — like the signal that tells people strolling in city parks that they must leave.

“Because of that custom, there are descendants of the saintly old man.” He took the girl by her arm. “Thanks to their very simple practices, tradition endures, and instances of women receiving the gift of children increase. And women make journeys to this grave.”

“You’re a monster.”

“After the first child, a wife makes a pilgrimage of thanks, performs her acts of devotion here, and is blessed with the next offspring. This is a miraculous place, haunted by spirits extremely well disposed toward women.”

Before they walked into the deep shadows of the tower, they looked around them. The black contours of palaces and temples loomed against a fiery sky. A cry of despair seemed to come from the light; the night rose from the ground like a vast silence.

The guard waited at the half-open gate, squatting above a myriad of small elephants, monkeys, buffalo, and tigers carved from camphor wood. Margit squatted, too, and set about choosing some animals. When he leaned down to advise her, he smelled the warm exhalation of her body, the aroma of camphor and the odor of slime from the acrobat’s turban, which was still not dry.

The Hindu packed the statues into a bag of woven palm leaves and handed it to Margit with his compliments. Istvan held out money, but the girl nudged his hand away.

When they had gone down from the knoll, he had to turn on the headlights, though there was still a glow in the sky. Night was rising in the east; stars swarmed overhead, first large, then blinking, as if the sky had been sown with golden sand.

“Are you satisfied?”

“With this excursion? Yes. Thank you very much.”

“And with me?”

“Don’t talk so much. Look out — don’t let us run into an arba. I’ll be grateful to you if you get me back in one piece.”

As he stood in the dusky pergola in front of her door, he was sure they would go to dinner together. The sound of people bustling about, the jangle of glass and silverware, could be heard distinctly from the dining room. The buzzing of cicadas made his ears ring. Leaves rustled. Lizards, not yet sated, were feeding on them. The red ends of burning cigarettes flashed far away in the twilight; evidently the participants had returned from the conference. Margit felt for his hand in the darkness and tucked the bag with the carvings into it. He thought she was looking for her key, but the door was open, for the pungent smell of insecticide blew in his face.

“I’m tired. Forgive me — I’m not coming to the restaurant.”

“Eat in my room. You will drink whiskey on the rocks and get a second wind.”

“I’m half asleep.”

Their hands met. Their fingers entwined.

“Go yourself. Drink to my health. I know you’d like to see your friends.” She spoke in an undertone, a little sleepily. “I got the animals for your boys. But perhaps you’ve already sent them some?”