Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Dear Mr. Ram Kanval, you are a master of your art. But I am not permitted to accept such expensive gifts.”

“Everyone will think that you have bought it. You are in contact with so many Europeans; you will whisper a word on my behalf. You know, after all, that this is a good painting. But people must be told about it, simply persuaded. They know a few names and they look at price. You can double it. Only do not broach the matter in the presence of Hindus; they will think I contrived to cheat you.”

“No,” Terey said with exaggerated determination, for the composition pleased him more and more.

“When I walked out of the house, all my family gathered at the barsati. My uncles laughed at me. My wife was in tears. They think I am a lunatic, and an expensive one, for they must not only provide me with food and decent clothing, but put out money for frames, canvas, and paints. I will leave this picture with you. Hang it; perhaps you will grow accustomed to it and want to keep it. Do not take away my hope. You do not even know how I have learned to lie. At home I will tell them the whole story of the good fortune I met with. If only they will stop counting how much they give, stop reproaching me for being a freeloader.”

It pained Istvan that he had forced such a confession from the man. He was troubled as he looked at the cream-colored jacket sleeve and dark palm that brandished the picture. Garlands of cascading branches veiled the Hindu’s face.

“I have something to propose,” he began cautiously. “Just now I am going to Rajah Ramesh Khaterpalia’s wedding. Pack the painting nicely and come with me. We will try to persuade the groom to buy it as a present.”

“He will not buy it. He does not appreciate it, it has no value for him,” Ram Kanval reflected despondently. “But I will go with you to see what possibilities there are. I live this way — by illusions.”

“I will help you. We must make a good sale with this painting,” Terey said in an artificially sprightly tone. “The cream of society is gathered there, wealthy people. Your very presence in the group will raise your reputation in the city. You will begin to be a person of importance. Let’s go! It’s high time.”

“One must not be late to a funeral. The dead cannot take their time in such heat. But we can go to a wedding any time. Is this a wedding after the English rite, or in Indian tradition? With registration in the office, with Brahmins, with blind men to tell fortunes from pebbles strewn about?”

“I don’t know,” Terey answered candidly.

“In our country the ceremonies go on for three days and three nights.”

“And the young couple are present all that time? The poor groom!”

“They go off to a bed, they are enclosed by a curtain of red muslin, but they are not permitted to come together physically. Their families can call for them to come out at any moment. They must become familiar with each other’s bodies, know each other, desire each other. There is no question of such rape as is carried out among you, in Europe. I have been told…” The painter talked passionately, as if he wanted to forget the defeat he had suffered a moment earlier.

They got into the car. Krishan slammed the doors and asked if they were ready to leave. Between them, like a partition over which only their heads showed, stood the unfortunate painting, wrapped in partly torn paper.

“You have been misinformed. In barbarian Europe, what you begin to permit after the wedding happens long before it. The wedding itself is becoming, more and more, a legal affirmation of an already existing state. Earlier, half a century ago, much importance was attached to virginity; the value of the goods was higher when they carried the seal,” he jeered. “Not today. Now it is seen as a troublesome relic that nature itself creates.”

“With us, virginity is important. A woman is supposed to pass straight from the hands of her mother to the hands of her husband. The bride’s family vouches for her. A girl should not be in contact with men outside her family, or remain tête-à-tête—”

“According to you, then, is Miss Vijayaveda a woman of doubtful reputation?”

“Oh! She can allow herself anything; her father is rich. Anyway, she is not bound by our strict customs. She is more English than Hindu. She is, if not above these prohibitions, beyond their control.”

They drove down the streets of the villa districts on an asphalt roadway. Bicyclists swarmed over it randomly, like handfuls of white moths with wings erect. They pedaled sluggishly in groups, their arms about each other’s shoulders, chatting loudly and bursting into laughter. On the grass that served as sidewalks, whole families were sprawled.

Twilight fell quickly; the sky turned green. The odors of open sewers and garlicky sweat and the cloying sweet fragrances of hair oils gusted in through the car windows. Istvan became aware that the driver’s crest of hair smelled like roses, while the painter’s was scented with jasmine. They had the grace of pampered women, he thought, and involuntarily touched the hand that rested on the edge of the canvas. It was cool and moist. Ram Kanval turned his black, clouded eyes toward him and smiled comprehendingly, as if at an accomplice.

“We must make a good sale with this painting!” he said in a spasm of zeal.

Krishan drove his machine with daredevil insouciance. Conversation died down at moments because Terey had to be watchful as the car squeezed into a crowd or, at one bound, passed other vehicles. “He’s sure to collide with someone,” he thought a little angrily. “This isn’t driving, it’s acrobatics.” The painter seemed not to take account of the danger; he was content to be sitting on soft cushions, pulling up his knees and chattering about the dishes that would be served at the wedding. At last they skirted so close to a bulky Dodge that the glare of the cars’ headlights crossed and they heard the scream of brakes.

“Easy, there, Krishan!” Terey could not restrain his irritation. “He could have hit you!”

The driver turned his jubilant face around, flashing his small, catlike teeth. He was obviously amused by Terey’s caution, which he took for a sign of fear. “He had to slow down, sahib. He could tell I wouldn’t put on the brakes. He knows me. He knows I won’t give way.”

“But sometime someone you don’t know will come along, and he will wreck your car.”

“I have been driving for eight years and I have never had an accident,” he gloated. “My father ordered my horoscope as soon as I was born. The stars favored me. The astrologer told my mother — and she remembers every word, that is why I know — that only one thing can bring doom on me: sweets. So I avoid them. I take cane syrup with water at most.”

“Look in front of you! Watch out!” Terey shouted as the wide white breeches of cyclists gleamed in the lights. As if they had been swept off the road, they swerved violently into the darkness.

“He went onto the curb,” Krishan laughed. “They are as silly as rabbits in the headlights. Oh, they fell in a heap!”

He flew on, leaving behind the jingling of bicycle bells and the cyclists’ angry shouts.

The lights of a car moving in front of them flashed red. On both sides of the avenue, limousines stood in the deep darkness; headlights licked them, revealing their colors. Their parking lights were like the eyes of skulking animals, extinguished or winking. A policeman was directing traffic; his sunburned knees, shorts, and white gloves were visible in the headlights. His eyes flashed in the glare like a bull’s. With an authoritative gesture he forced Krishan to turn off his headlights, then motioned him into the stream of automobiles that was turning into the driveway.