Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

She turned on a little lamp.

“Sit down.”

He saw the rippling hem of her skirt, the graceful legs, almost bare, in Indian sandals. She went into the bathroom; he heard the rushing of water from the tap. He breathed uneasily. He imagined that she was pulling her dress over her head, washing, perhaps dabbing on perfume. He felt a stinging disappointment when she returned, not in the least altered, with a mug in her hand, and turned on the electric machine. She checked with a circular motion of her hand to be certain it was warm and put it on a tile. Then she sat hardly two steps away — but terribly far — pulled up her knees and clasped her hands around them.

“Do you feel very disappointed?”

“No.” After a moment he ventured, “There was no joy in your kisses.”

“You felt that. I invited you for coffee and a moment’s conversation, an important conversation,” she said with emphasis, “at least to me.”

“But you let yourself be kissed.”

“I’m not made of wood. And I didn’t want to hurt you.”

They looked at each other wordlessly. Fear swept over Istvan. Where is this leading? What does she want from me?

“Istvan, I love you. That’s all,” she said heavily. “Perhaps you’ve heard that many times from other women, but to me it’s — rather a revelation.”

He breathed deeply.

He knelt by her, held her with his hands and put his head on her breast. He heard the beating of her heart. She stroked him gently, with a motherly motion.

“Oh, that’s good,” he said in a voice so full of relief that he was ashamed.

“I’m not sure of that.”

She pushed him away lightly, not with aversion, but very tenderly.

“Well, sit still. Listen.”

“That’s not all?”

“No.”

He kissed her eyelids and sat obediently in an armchair. He watched as she busied herself with the coffee, for the water had just heated. She sprinkled Nesca into the cup and mixed it with sugar.

“Let me have it.” He took the cup, holding the handle in a handkerchief, and poured in boiling water. He was calm; he had time. He knew that he had won her. She would be his. There was no need to hurry. He looked at her legs as she shifted and stretched them, at the rising and falling of her bosom, which was only lightly covered by the thin fabric of her dress, at the outline of her face in a stream of lamplight as she turned it toward him. So a general would have looked at a city in a valley that he would take in battle.

“Drink some coffee. It will do you good. You will be driving at night, and you have a little alcohol in your blood.”

He looked at her attentively. She had gone silent; it was as though she had forgotten him. She was distant — or perhaps she was only pretending to be indifferent.

“I had a fiance,” she began, speaking very low, looking straight ahead with her head slightly raised.

“I know. The Japanese killed him.”

“You know nothing,” she interrupted calmly, almost dreamily. “Let me finish. They sent him on patrol. The regiment was in retreat; everything was in disarray. The men were utterly exhausted. Stanley volunteered. Seven went with him; they didn’t want to be outdone. They went through a swamp, and they cursed him. Every step forward made it less likely that they would return. It was night. It was real jungle, not like the thorny underbrush here. You know how darkness chatters, how it frightens you?

“They were caught in an ambush. The Japanese wounded two of them and, to save themselves trouble, finished them off at their officer’s command. He ordered Stanley to point out the regiment’s location on a map. The soldiers said, as he had instructed them, that they were from a division that had wandered away from the regiment, and only the leader of the patrol knew where he was taking them. Stanley refused to tell them what they wanted to know. He was always stubborn. From the time he was little he did as he liked.” She brooded as if she were searching in her own childhood for that young man.

“They tortured him?” he asked, wishing to make it easier for her to omit the worst, which he had already guessed.

“Yes. They bound the soldiers’ hands behind their backs and set them in a row so they would see what awaited them. They tore Stanley’s shirt off and tied him by his feet to two young trees that were bent to the ground. When the trees sprang back up, he hung with his head down. His hands were tied and touched the grass. The Japanese lighted a fire and with one kick the officer set that living pendulum swinging. Do you understand? They roasted him alive. He tried to shield his face, and then to scatter the flames with his bound hands. His hair caught fire—” she spoke with a terrible calm. “He howled with pain, but he never said a word. The officer deliberated a long time before he shot him.”

Istvan could hear the dripping of water in the bathroom, the nagging rattle of the cicadas outside the window. The poor girl. He felt enormous pity for her, and he was like an empty vessel. All the haze of alcohol vanished as if he were under a spell. What can I give her, he thought. What words can console her?

“Stanley never betrayed the regiment. The ones who watched him in torment revealed everything. Each tried to speak before the next.”

“How do you know?”

“The one who brought me the information — my first,” she sniffed contemptuously, “was looking for absolution from me. He didn’t do badly out of it. Well, you know already.”

She sat hunched over, bent with pain. Her hands, resting on her lap, looked as if they had been cut off.

What can I do? he thought in despair. Caress her, cuddle her like a puppy whose paw someone stepped on? Why did this have to happen to me? He felt aggrieved and resentful. Why did she tell me this now?

“Margit,” he began hesitantly, “that was thirteen years ago.”

“Thirteen years ago you stood by those Japanese. You were the enemy.”

He tried to defend himself. “That was long, long ago. Don’t you see, we were forced into that! Hungarians didn’t want it. Margit,” he pleaded, “forget that. I love you!”

“Don’t lie. You want me. You can have me. Today. Tomorrow. Any day you like. Don’t speak now. That way you won’t regret anything. For I truly love you. It’s terrible. I know you have a wife, sons. I accept that. Though I will fight for you if I believe you love me. So think about it, you have time. I’ll certainly not run away from you.” There was desperation in her voice. “I’m not looking for easy comfort from you. Understand: you are my life.”

He was silent, shaken, stunned as if by a blow.

“Go,” she whispered. “This isn’t easy for me, either. You understand why I’m defending myself from you.”

He felt utterly helpless. Instinct warned him not to say anything equivocal; every word would ring hollow.

“Well, I will go,” he muttered, taking her limp hand and kissing it with dry lips.

She nodded. She did not raise her eyes when he closed the door behind him noiselessly, raising his suitcase like a thief.

He started up the engine and drove away. For a moment he imagined that she would open the door and look after him, but the pergola was still black; no light flashed.

As he passed Agra, he turned on his headlights. He sped away like a man escaping something.

“Margit. Margit,” he moaned. “What can I do—”

He knew that she grasped the truth. If he loved her, he would be able to throw off the past, to erase his memories. They would be shadows, perishable shadows. Her prescience told her that. That virginal love was precious to her. It revived the hope that she could experience transcending joy, that she could lose herself in happiness. It would not be enough, after that, to satisfy the restless flesh, to sleep in a man’s embrace. She is honest. She is warning me.