Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

Two nights with Margit. So it was possible to have women, and then a wife and children, and finally one day discover that one had not known what love could be. With astonishment he understood how the significance of every word, gesture, look had been transformed. He felt again the rhythm of accelerated breathing, the fragrance of hair and skin, and one’s own smell, all intensified by the nearness of bodies and the warmth of the Indian night that swayed on the ghostly sail of mosquito netting.

And then that sudden sinking into sleep with his face nestled in her arm — sleep, which made him feel ashamed. A half-conscious existence, when from nebulous memories of earliest childhood the sheltering nearness of a woman’s body exuded peace. He saw the rust-tinted sheen of Margit’s hair, the blue of her wide-open eyes, the curve of her inclined head resting on her elbow.

“Didn’t you sleep?” he asked, feeling guilty and hoping that she had awakened only a moment before.

“Why, no. It would be too bad to take my eyes off you,” she whispered tenderly. “I can sleep all those nights when you won’t be with me. Those empty nights.”

And then he truly woke up. Under the wings of mosquito netting a blue remnant of darkness lingered. The yellow light of a lamp standing on the floor was fading. Not trusting his watch, he pushed aside the shade and saw the sky like a bowl of mercury, the grass without a trace of dew. He heard the cries of birds flying in pairs toward the pools around the Taj Mahal; their pipings were telling him that the approaching day would be a torrid one. He slipped the curtain into place, trying to lengthen the soothing shadow, but the glare was already squeezing through every chink, and kindling on the floor. So he sprang back and embraced Margit hungrily, as if these were their last moments.

“What, then? What happened? You see, I’m here.” She was moved; she held him close.

Then the quick, light movement of hands, the shower, the warmth of the palm sliding over the bare back in the spray from the copper sieve, so chilly it brought on a shiver. It was bracing; with faces raised they gave themselves over to its cool crystalline lash. The water smelled of the pond and mildew. It washed away the torpor of the night. Without drying himself he hastily pulled on a shirt. It stuck to his chest, but the wet spots dried quickly. By the time he raised his clenched fingers to Margit’s lips and slipped out under the vine-covered reticulated roof, it was broad daylight.

In front of the fishbowl that was the doorman’s lodge a short servant with thin legs like a crane was sprinkling the gravel drive from a watering can, deluding himself that he was protecting it from the haze of dust that had settled on the leaves. The doorman slept with his forehead on his hand; his hair hung in glistening coils on the back of his bent neck. A cat licked its back paw and outspread toes and blinked its yellow eyes in an almost roguish grin. Terey exhaled deeply: the air smelled of hay, the bitter breath of leaves, and tar. As he opened the door of his room he looked around him like a man pursued, but the servant went on sprinkling the drive with a circular motion, absorbed in his work. He did not notice that someone had passed by in the shade of the pergola. The time for waking had not come yet and the hotel guests slept heavily. He could be certain that no one had seen him.

“Counselor, sir”—he heard the discreet voice of the Indian clerk—“are you ready to see Jay Motal? He says he has an appointment. He is waiting below.”

“I’ll be right down,” he answered. But when the clerk had quietly shut the door, he sat for a moment more, rubbing his eyelids with his fingertips as if he had been wakened from sleep.

In the dim hallway, under the watchful eye of the caretaker, the lanky Hindu sat with his legs, in wide blue trousers, drawn back under his seat. His hands, dark against the background of his white shirt, were adjusting the flat, grease-stained knot of his tie. There was a watchful readiness in his eyes, which looked out keenly from behind hornrimmed glasses. He had an air that was at once servile and insolent. He was familiar with the etiquette of greeting; he was forming conjectures about what considerations would be brought to bear on his case and if the conversation about it would take place in the hall, among the dusty palm leaf fans in wooden boxes, or if he would be invited upstairs to the counselor’s office. Determined to steer the meeting toward a conclusion favorable to his interests, he rose obligingly, picked up his portfolio, which was made of torn paper mended with tape, and stepped up to meet Terey.

“Most sincere greetings,” he began, bowing his head, “and very best regards from Attorney Chandra — who would like very much to meet with you,” he added significantly, leaving Terey to conclude that the lawyer had mentioned nothing in particular and that Jay Motal, boasting of his acquaintance with officials at the Hungarian embassy, had simply been eager to affirm his willingness to convey greetings.

“Thank you. How nice to see you. We have not yet received a disposition of your case from the ministry, but I think that no news is good news — that you may hope for a favorable outcome.” He saw a glint of misgiving in the Hindu’s eyes, but the man seized the offensive.

“All ministries are alike. In ours as well it is easier for them to order an article than to tap discretionary funds for payment. I am prepared, if it helps my cause, to wait long and patiently. For the time being I am gathering materials and acquainting myself with the history of your country, especially with the issues of recent years. It is not at all easy to gain an understanding of the political forces that determined how the republic would arise. I have my own ideas, which might awaken your interest, counselor, and induce you to support my plan to write a book on Hungary. But surely we will not talk here; perhaps we will take refuge in the quiet of your office.” He took Terey by the elbow as if they were intimates and led him toward the stairs, politely cocking his head, ready to take fright at the first gesture of impatience, to withdraw into the posture of humble petitioner.

Terey allowed himself to be steered, however. He acquiesced easily to these tactics, knowing what their results would be. He only wanted to guide the discussion to a figure that would not seriously unbalance his budget.

When they were sitting at a small table, Jay Motal with quick fingers pulled a box of cigarettes toward him and placed one in a yellowed ivory holder. He waited for Terey to give him a light, taking the courteous gesture as a point in his own favor, and began to expound his theory.

“Your country is different from those that surround it. You were always a kingdom,” he began, looking the counselor doggedly in the eye. “You have many gypsies among you.”

Intrigued, Terey listened, wondering where the impertinent foolishness of this windbag would lead. The writer, forgetting about the smoldering cigarette, unfolded his vision of the formation of the Hungarian state. As gypsies unquestionably descended from inhabitants of Rajasthan attested, it must have come from India and — after centuries of migration and conquest — eventually reached the fertile Danubian plains. Acknowledgment of blood kinship was the greatest compliment, and there were proofs: the predilection for raising oxen, for violin music, for dancing, with the hand beating the rhythm on the heel of knee-high boots…though here in India, high boots had been replaced by wide leather straps over the ankle, hung with bells and rattles. And the long observed and respected division into aristocracy and peasants was a distinct reflection of the caste system.

The tone of this recital, which was supposed to dazzle the counselor, changed imperceptibly. Now the man was saying that his services were much sought after by the Germans, and that they would be delighted for him to write about the Federal Republic, rebutting the stubborn calumnies it had suffered from nations genuinely harmed by the late war, but unsophisticated in their thinking, incapable of a proper appreciation of Germany’s historic mission and the magnitude of the sacrifice that heroic nation had made to save a free — what an expressive accent he placed on the word! — a free Europe from the onslaught of Bolshevik barbarism.