Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

His mind was clear. He remembered his own behavior; he thought of himself with anger and contempt. He saw the girl curled up in the chair and, again, the other man thirteen years ago, a living body with bound hands clawing at the embers of a fire until the sparks fluttered onto the squatting prisoners and each waited until at last he died — to join in betraying the regiment.

In the glare that streamed from the headlights, innumerable insects flew like sparks. He had to slow down. He blew the horn. A column of wagons drawn by white oxen with horns like lyres moved slowly down the middle of the road. The huge, mild eyes of the animals burned with violet fire. The drivers, burrowed in between sacks of cotton, slept heavily.

A chalky sky, vacant as far as the eye could see, teemed with glittering dust. Tremors in the air created the appearance of motion, but the yellow, withered leaves and tattered palm fronds, weighed down by the burden of the heat, did not even sway. Together with the glare, which assaulted the eye like fragments of a broken mirror, the nagging rattle of cicadas floated from all directions, rising and falling like the sound of drilling. The insects were rasping furiously; all space seemed to throb with their noise. One could hate this malign aridity which had not changed for months. It made unshaded walls breathe fire. It lay heavily on people, incapacitating them, setting them on edge, making it impossible to work or rest.

In vain Istvan circled the embassy, looking for shade. Finally he parked the Austin by the garage wall with the front end buried in a curtain of vines. Terrified lizards trickled from the colorless leaves.

He was returning from the studio of an Indian radio station, where he had succeeded in arranging for fifteen minutes of Hungarian violin music and folk songs to be played on the air. No doubt it was at least partly because of the gift he had placed on the desk of the silk-clad program director. Good thing she didn’t open the box while I was there. The chocolates must certainly have melted and gone sticky, he thought, smiling maliciously. They had described the music as akin to their own; he had hardly taken it as a compliment, given his familiarity with the whining of the Hindu instruments, the songs like laments with their undercurrents of sadness and pain.

Near the garages he heard a rhythmic chopping. Mihaly was squatting on his heels, almost hidden behind empty crates. With a cleaver from his mother’s kitchen he was cutting boards into long slivers, helping himself by pushing the end of his tongue out of his mouth, not even looking around as the car pulled in. Only when Terey stood over him did he raise his flushed face and rub a drop of perspiration off his nose.

“It’s not too hot for you?”

“No. I have to help, because wood costs so much.”

“And you want to sell it?”

“I’m going to give it to Krishan. I like him very much.”

“Be careful — don’t cut yourself.”

“I am, uncle,” he answered gravely. “Is this enough?”

“For the kitchen, for kindling, that’s enough.”

“I’m chopping wood for a Hindu funeral,” he said, doing squat jumps like a frog.

“A silly game,” Istvan scolded him. “Please stop. Run along home, sit in the shade, take a rest.”

“It’s not a game. I’m really helping,” the child insisted, hitching his crisscrossed suspenders up on his tanned, slender arms. “Will it hurt her?”

“Who?”

“Krishan’s wife. She is completely dead. The old women came and put their fingers on her eyes,” he informed Terey, as if there were nothing unexpected about it. “They will burn her this evening.”

He looked at the boy in consternation. He saw lustrous eyes shaded by the light hat, and brown hands clutching the wooden handle of the cleaver. Its blade cut into a beam of sunlight, scattering sparks. The cicadas jingled as if they had gone mad.

“Is she here?” Terey pointed to the boxlike building where Krishan lived.

“No. They’ve wrapped her in blue cellophane with the ends trimmed, as if she were a sweet, and carried her on a bamboo rack. The musicians came with a drum and fifes. And her younger sister was chasing away the spirits all the time with a bunch of peacock feathers. They carried her to the river. They burn the dead there.”

“Poor Krishan.”

“He was awfully worried that the funeral would cost too much,” Mihaly explained, “so I wanted to help him.”

“You are a good boy.” Terey stroked him on the back of his slender, perspiring neck. “The rest of us will think about how to make it easier for him as well. Now be off home. That’s enough of this chopping.”

The boy straightened up reluctantly, with a deep sigh. The wall exuded heat. Big flies hit it with a metallic banging and spattered off, buzzing furiously. Istvan raised the cleaver to strike at one, but it disappeared into the glare before the blade jabbed the wall.

“It’s sly,” the boy whispered almost admiringly. “The mourners drove them away because they are spirits. There were never flies like that here. They like to squeeze into the ears or the mouth, and then the body moves. And do you know, uncle, that Krishan already has a new wife?”

“Oh, you’re talking foolishness.”

“I give you my word, uncle. I saw him give her bracelets of the dead lady’s and she tried them on in front of the mirror.”

“Mihaly, wipe your forehead. You’re sweaty all over.”

“She came from a village. Mama says a man can’t hold out for three nights without a woman. I heard her. When papa stays in the embassy a long time, mama climbs a ladder and looks through a window to see if he is alone.”

He spoke cheerfully; evidently he did not understand the real meaning of his mother’s grumblings. Istvan felt that he was abusing the child’s trust, but he yielded to temptation and said, “What about me? I have a wife and sons in Budapest, and I am alone so much of the time here.”

“Oh, you talk that way, uncle” —the boy smiled like a little fox— “but I heard that, though you don’t have a wife here, you have a kangaroo. Will you show it to me?”

All right, he thought spitefully, that’s what they wanted, that’s what they’ll have. I live in India; too many eyes. It’s enough to be seen once with a woman and already they know about you. But he drew the boy close to him and whispered:

“I don’t have a kangaroo, sweetheart.”

“It ran away?”

“It is a long way from here.”

Mihaly clung to his hand with his warm, sweaty little fingers.

“Don’t worry, uncle. Maybe it will come back.”

“If it doesn’t come back for a long time, I’ll go and find it,” he said, and suddenly he knew that he would. All he needed was an opportunity. He was overcome with affection for the little fellow who devised pastimes for himself and mimicked adults. He must help him find some enjoyment — take him out for ice cream or to the theater for a Disney film.

He heard a rumbling above his head. Someone was knocking on a windowpane. The sun blinded him; he only saw a curtain pushed aside and a figure summoning him with a gesticulating hand.

“Run along. Give your mama the chopper,” he reminded the boy, and walked into the embassy.

For an instant he felt relief. The nagging jangle of the insects died away, the hall was cool and shadowy. But soon the building felt stuffy. The odors of mosquito repellent, polish, toxic dye from the coconut matting, and smoldering cigarettes were stifling.

He found the staff gathered in Ferenc’s office. Judit’s high chestnut bun was bent above her typewriter and she tapped away doggedly while the secretary dictated, pacing around the room. The short, bald telegrapher-cryptographer sat in a small chair, calling as little attention to himself as possible.