Wojciech Zukrowski: Stone Tablets

The front of the palace shone incandescent white. A myriad of colored light bulbs were attached to the shrubbery and hung in the branches of the trees, like varicolored bouquets blooming in the dark. They created an atmosphere of mystery, of fairy tale, a little reminiscent of the sets in a second-class theater. Servants in red uniforms with lavish loops of gold braid, like operetta costumes, leaped to open the car doors.

“Don’t wait for me, Krishan.”

“I will be at the end of the avenue, on the left,” he answered as if he had not heard the order. It had no place in his thinking; it would have been an affront to his dignity if the counselor had returned home on foot, or if one of his friends had taken the opportunity to drive him. Anyway, he wanted to have a part in the festivities, to stare at the women’s jewels. He thought as well that some treat would be prepared for the drivers.

The painter alighted first, a little intimidated, for over him, like chiefs reconnoitering the field of an oncoming battle, stood both hosts: old Vijayaveda, Grace’s father, and Rajah Khaterpalia in a formal red dolman belted with a white sash. It seemed to him that their gazes, and those of the staff who formed a double line, were concentrated on the shabby paper wrappings exposed in all their trashiness by the low beam of a headlight hidden in the shiny leaves of a holly bush. Swiftly he removed the packaging; he thought of throwing the crumpled paper onto the seat, but the car, responding to the insistence of limousines vibrating impatiently, was sliding into motion. Worriedly he folded the paper in quarters, then once more, shoved the roll into the pocket of his pants, and bent to retrieve the strings. He wadded them hastily, partly concealed behind Istvan, who was entering the receiving line nursing the package done up with ribbon as if it had been a baby in a bunting.

“How nice that you have remembered us, sir,” the old manufacturer greeted Terey. The white, youthful teeth in his dark, bloated face were jarring, like false teeth too well made.

“Congratulations,” Istvan said quietly. “I have brought a present for the bridal couple.”

But the rajah quickly interrupted, “Give it to Grace. She will be pleased. She is busy with guests just now. We will talk when I have finished here.”

With boredom in his eyes the rajah extended a sleek hand to the next guest, from whom he took a gift and passed it carelessly to a servant standing behind him. The servant took off the wrappings with curiosity, under the supervision of a distant member of the family.

“My friend, the distinguished painter Ram Kanval.”

“Very pleased.” Vijayaveda did not even bother to turn his head. A servant snatched the painting from Ram Kanval and turned aside, looking askance at it. He shook his head in astonishment and handed it to the gray-haired old man.

“Beautiful,” he muttered without conviction and set it on a chair, but the flow of gifts soon displaced it. The picture stood against a wall, its tomato-red background blazing while the shadows of the legs of passing guests swarmed over it.

“It seems that we have not brought it at a good time,” the painter said dolefully, stuffing the coils of string into his pocket.

“Nothing is lost yet,” Terey said consolingly. All at once he felt that the struggle to sell the painting was futile; the artist, dragging worry, poverty, and sadness in his wake, grated on his nerves with his air of helplessness. He who gathers old string and picks up buttons, went the old saw, will never be rich, for he does not know how to take a loss. “Come on, we must look for the bride. I want to get rid of this.” He held up the wrapped pitcher.

“If you want something to drink, I will hold it,” the painter offered, his eyes following a tray high above their heads. A bottle of whiskey the color of old gold, a silver basket with ice cubes, a siphon and glasses all clinked softly like music turned low, but behind the servant the crowd blocked the way.

They went out to the park. On the lawn the guests stood in a dense, sluggishly moving mass. The figures of women and the white jackets of men were articulated by a geyser of changing lights, blue, green, violet, orange — a foaming fountain, opening like ostrich feathers. Every few minutes a servant blundered as he changed the glass in the lantern; then in the white, denuding glare the peacock colors of saris flashed, and the diminutive sparkles of rings and bracelets, diadems and necklaces. Heavy bodies reeked overwhelmingly of perfume and Eastern spices. Above the din of conversation soared the nasal voice of a singer, accompanied by a trio of flute, three-stringed guitar, and drum. The noisy chatter did not disturb the vocalist, who sat crosslegged in white bouffant pants with his hands between his knees, crooning plaintively with closed eyes while the fleshy pulse of the drum supported the hovering melody.

Dr. Kapur in a white turban, adroitly elbowing his way through the crowd, folded his hands on his chest in the Hindu greeting. He caught Terey by the sleeve. “Are you looking for the bride?” he asked in a confidential tone. “Indeed, she is before us!”

Her movements circumscribed by a red cord, she bustled among the tables on which the gifts were displayed. Gold chains and expensive brooches glittered from opened cases — family jewels and presents from the rajah, who had been more generous because they remained his property. Behind one table two tall, bearded guards kept watch, hands crossed on their chests.

Grace floated about in a white lace gown, looking as if she were immersed in foam. Her deep decolletage left her bosom almost exposed. It was easy to imagine that her straps would slip down and she would be nude to the waist, beautiful, unashamed, defiant. When Terey approached her, apologizing for the modest keepsake he had brought, she had just been showing a chain with a medallion set with pearls that brought cries of delight from the friends who gathered around her.

“What did you get? Go on, look!” they begged in birdlike voices, pressing against the red cord. He was gratified by the childish hurry with which she undid the ribbons and took out the bewhiskered peasant with arms akimbo. He gazed with stolid satisfaction at the jewelry that was spread around the table.

“You remembered that I liked it? What deity is this? What good fortune does it ensure for me?”

“A wagoner. I got him from a friend, so he would bring me back safely to my country. So he would remind me of our steppes.”

“Oh, good!” Filled with delight about something known only to herself, she set the pitcher in the center of the table above the jewelry. Suddenly that yellowish-black figure seemed to overshadow the entire glittering display.

“Istvan,” she said a little defensively, “I must stick it out for a while in this zoo, and I want something to drink so badly. I sent Margit for a drink, but I don’t know what has become of her. The servant is all the way out at the edge of the crowd. Be nice and bring me a double whiskey.”

Then he saw that she was in low spirits. Her eyelids were dark with sleeplessness.

“This is not easy for me,” she said in an intimate whisper, laying her hand on his. She spoke almost as though her flock of female friends counted for nothing — as if they were alone, alighting from horses in the wild pastures. He wanted to comfort her, to say a few good, simple words, but he was filled with bitter feelings. I am a stranger here, he thought, I will go away; that is why she can be frank with me. I am of no importance; she might vent these complaints if she were smoothing down a horse’s neck on impulse.

“Well — here you are!” she cried joyfully.

A slender red-haired girl in a greenish gown, straight as a tunic and fastened on one shoulder with a large turquoise clip, was coming toward them, holding two tall glasses. Without hesitating Grace took them both from her and handed one to Istvan.