Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

The congress was easing toward its close. The attendees were going out for cigarettes and, notwithstanding efforts to summon them back by the bearded moderator in the tunic of Biblical cut, were in no hurry to return to the hall.

A large group drove out to visit a model collective farm, the strong point of which was not only agriculture and dyed fabrics, but, as Nagar informed him, that its workers had even managed, without coercion, thanks to four years’ persuasion and patient advocacy, to divert to a field a stream of liquid manure that for ages had flowed straight to the well. The drinking water was no longer fouled and fewer people fell ill with typhus — a genuine achievement, he concluded satirically.

Only a few dozen white figures in academic headdress could be seen in the hall. A poet with splendid eyes and hair curly as a woman’s falling to his shoulders recited verse to the accompaniment of three-stringed violins. He wore a wide-sleeved shirt fastened with a scarlet ribbon in front, and black and gold slippers with turned-up tips.

“A good poet,” attorney Chandra, sitting by Istvan, whispered in his ear. “Pity they don’t print his work.”

“The police prohibit it?”

“No. There is no money for printing. And there are no people keen to purchase; they do not yet know how to read.”

“What about records? Every little shop has a gramophone. What do you say to that — as a philanthropist?”

“Not a bad idea,” Chandra admitted, raising his hand as a sign that he wanted to listen to the musical intonations of the poet.

“What is he talking about?”

“He is speaking of the joy of knowledge, of bathing in the sun of truth,” Chandra whispered.

“Aha!” Istvan nodded with feigned approval. “I understand.”

He took advantage of the ovation to slip toward the door, culling publications from a table on the way. He settled into a wicker chair under a tree and smoked a cigarette, gazing into the dome of leaves drenched with light.

This is nice; I’m suspended in heat like an insect in amber. I completely forgot about Delhi and the embassy. I sent a dispatch, and I feel like a man in a boat with the ropes cut, drifting with the current. I loathe my own passiveness and acquiescence. I’ve become like the Hindus: let it be as it must be — he laughed and threw away the cigarette butt, then thought of Margit — provided it is as I desire!

At four he called the hospital. Again he could not get a connection, so he sat in the bar and chatted lazily with guests waiting for a bus before he summoned the clerk. Margit called to tell him to eat dinner alone — not to delay it, for she would be coming later. He should get the key to her room, not stand on ceremony, rest.

“I’ll get the car right away and come out for you.”

“No. It’s not necessary. I don’t want you to wait here. Fred will drive me.”

“Perhaps I should go back to Delhi. Perhaps something has changed?” He was angry, and still angrier at the few seconds of silence that passed before she answered:

“No. Stay. Then you will do as you like.” She threw in the last phrase with a smile, as if she realized that she had promised too much. “I still want to see you, Terry, so much.”

He hung up the receiver heavily and left, followed by the clerk’s watchful glance.

A wasted afternoon; why is she keeping me here? An angry obstinacy rose in him, and an urge to assert his independence. He did not reach for the key, though to the staff the very permission to take possession of her room was evidence that they enjoyed a close relationship, and he could have savored a moment of easy triumph in her confirmation of it. He bided his time in a corner of the bar, slowly sipping whiskey. He waited it out, stiffening internally with resentment and vowing to even the score with her for leading him on.

But it was enough that finally she appeared, simply herself, her hair almost dark in the dim light, and affectionately extended her strong hand. It was reddened from its recent scrubbing and from the disinfectants. He was disarmed.

“Why didn’t you take the key? You didn’t want to compromise me? And what do I care about all of them? I see that you’ve been drinking a little. Well, why are you sitting here in such a mood? I had to perform treatments, then write my notes on them while it was all fresh. Order a double for me. I won’t spoil your dinner with tales of my cases. Cheer up—” she raised her glass with its goldish liquid. “I made Fred hurry, and when I knocked on my door, I thought you were asleep. Then I got the key. I was sure you were angry at me, and had left. I turned on the light, I waited a while, and finally I came over here, as befits a doctor, to enjoy a glass of something. Then I saw your car and I wasn’t worried anymore.”

With wide eyes she took a swallow from her glass, then looked at him with great tenderness, or so he thought. They went together to the dining room, which was almost empty. They were immediately surrounded by waiters in red and gold who set out huge trays of sliced meat and a profusion of vegetables cut with masterful precision, some sculpted into flowers. There were toothed spirals of turnip, radish roses, red starfish made of carrots, frizzly lettuce.

“You’re not afraid of amoebae?” She munched a cool spear of white radish.

“They’re washed in a potash solution. Anyway, a drunken amoeba can’t hurt you.”

He looked at her with delight. “If only you knew how beautiful I find you!”

“Perhaps I know. I had proof of that today, when you cleared out of the hospital. But now, after the whiskey, I can even believe it—” she chaffed him, touching his hand. “You like me, a person who does not exist. The Margit invented by you. For what do you know about me? You haven’t even looked at my passport. Perhaps I have a husband, children.”

“No. After all, you said—” he went steely all over.

“How old are you? Do you still believe what women say? They create themselves all over again for every new man. Well, don’t look at me like that. I’m not lying. Why did I keep you here? I don’t know myself. Perhaps you mean something to me and that’s why I wanted you to stay.”

“But yesterday—”

“Maybe I was afraid. Today at least I’m certain that you’re capable of going away. And probably you should. That would be better.”

She spoke in an undertone, rather as if she were lost in thought and talking to herself. Suddenly she slapped his hand and demanded, smiling, “Put down that cigarette. Eat.” She herself set about eating fried fish with such an appetite that he found it infectious. After a while they were chatting like a pair of students skipping their lectures.

“Shall we have coffee in my room?” she asked simply.

He followed her, gazing at her hair, which was swept up and fastened high on her head. He wanted to plunge his fingers in it, to seize her, turn her toward him and kiss her.

“You’ve done your hair differently.”

“Oh, you noticed.” She turned her head. “You must be in love.”

When they were immersed in the deep twilight of the pergola and the leafy roof curtained them from the star-strewn sky, he felt every accidental touch of her body. There was something furtive in his step, like an animal ready to spring onto its prey. In front of her door he put his arms around her and kissed her on the lips. Inside the room he tried to kiss her again, and she yielded without passion. The fragrance of her skin, her hair, disturbed and inflamed him.

“Let me go,” she whispered.

He felt that she was resisting. He still held her in his arms; he touched her, not with his lips, but with his breath.

“I asked you,” she reminded him, so he let her go.