Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Unfortunately, I cannot sell it,” the painter said, leaning out, “but I would gladly paint madam’s portrait. I warn you in advance, so you will not be disappointed, that it will not look exactly like her; for that there are photographs. Your coloring appeals to me, the copper of your hair, the yellow dress, the violet tints in the flesh. If you find the time.”

He looked at the girl as if he were recreating her as an arrangement of lines, a heap of geometric forms painted in one dimension. There was such delight in his eyes that Istvan thought sympathetically, Yes, he would need help, but perhaps he could manage to mount an exhibit in Budapest, especially if the one in Delhi brought favorable reviews.

“And would you not sell me that grayish-blue landscape?” Margit rose, pulling a painting from a stack of canvases that faced away from her. Their backs were covered with greasy stains that shone in the glow of the sinking sun.

“With the greatest pleasure. You have chosen well. If you will allow me, madam, I will make you a present of it after the exhibition. My paintings are deteriorating here. They have no purchasers among our people. I tell myself that we have not yet grown up. Nineteenth-century realism forms our tastes, and the English, or printers’ calligraphy, imitations of decorative folk arts, superficiality—”

“No! I can guess how much this is worth. I cannot accept such gifts. Tell me, how much.”

He hesitated, fearing to name too high a price, yet already feeling his triumph over his brothers-in-law when he should shove a coil of banknotes in their faces. Or perhaps better to say nothing, to save the money for canvas and paint, for a frame, which enhances a picture as a gown enhances the graces of a woman. At the same time he wanted to show his gratitude for Terey’s favorable regard.

“Would one hundred rupees be too much?” he stammered at last.

“No. It is worth more.”

“To a lover of art, in Europe, perhaps, but not here. Will you take it now, or may I still show it? I would place a card on it to say that it is sold, perhaps even with the price. That is how it is done: the picture will gain credence with snobs for whom the rupee is the measure of everything. It will be more attractive; it will serve as bait.”

“You might put a higher price on the card.” She shot him a conspiratorial look. “I will say that I have paid that much.”

“Provided it’s not too high,” Istvan warned, “for then it begins to have the opposite effect: he came across a gullible foreigner, he succeeded in duping him, but we are wise to such tricks.”

“You are right. Moderation is always best. Let’s go inside,” he said invitingly, seeing that Miss Ward was opening her bag and searching for money. “Why should they all be looking at us?”

He drew up a chair for her, pulled the cardboard and drawings down from the bed, and tugged at a string. The roll of matting over the entrance clattered down in a cloud of dust. Margit was already taking out bills; she paid in tens, so there was a thick wad of them. He took them, wrapped them in a handkerchief and put them in his trouser pocket.

On the hanging mat they saw outlined the figure of a woman leaning lower and lower. Through a chink filled with harsh glare they could just see sandaled feet and rings on bare toes. The palms of her hands were a garish red as she set a tray with cups of coffee on the concrete. She waited a moment, stooping, but the painter did not raise the mat until she had gone away.

Handing around coffee which he had liberally sprinkled with sugar, he explained in an undertone, “That was my wife. I did not introduce you because she does not know English. She is from a village and was brought up according to the old custom. She would be ill at ease in our company.

“No. I am not ashamed of her. She is good; she would like to help me change and be like others, help me earn. She cries at night because she was given as a wife to a madman: what kind of business is this, smearing canvas with brushes? And from it arise pictures which do not resemble the world she sees. Her family married her to me. They were wealthy; it seemed that they could help me. But I have been a burden to them all these years.” Pensively he stirred a thick residue of coffee grounds and sugar. “You have no idea, madam, what it means to me to sell a painting. It is not only the money, though thanks to that my wife may believe that I really do work, and that what I do is worth something.”

Descending from the flat roof, escorted by a band of children, they found themselves immersed in pungent aromas from the kitchens on the landings. They took the steep stairs cautiously, one or two at a time. The painter unexpectedly decided that he must leave with them, for an opportunity had arisen for him to attend to urgent business. Again they met his family in a cramped huddle on the staircase, and pressed their sagging slender or plump hands. They returned greetings and murmured goodbyes. The painter’s parents and brothers-in-law must have been drawn out of their apartment by the shrieks of the children, the patter of feet, the jumping about and squeals of laughter. The little ones raced out, pushing and shoving each other to get to the car before it could be driven away. Below, the boys on guard stood erect as soldiers and reported on the events of their watch. Ram Kanval served as interpreter.

“The automobile survived unscathed, though one of the guards even squatted on the roof!” Then he said reassuringly, “Do not worry because I am coming with you. I will not squander the money, though it has fallen from the sky. Whatever I did with it, the family would be dissatisfied, for they pay for me to live. Suddenly it occurred to me that I should go and buy something for my wife. A ring or a sari? She has not had a present from me for years. After all, my paintings count for nothing; she has no capacity to enjoy them, and when she puts them back in the barsati for me, she tries to avoid being seen. Today I can give her something that will be a genuine gift, something that at last her sisters will envy.”

“How nice!” Margit said with elation, turning her head. “You are a typical husband: you want to make your wife happy, but surely you don’t know what she fancies or what she really needs. Perhaps it’s better to give her money. She could choose for herself. And perhaps she has some expenses which she hasn’t dared to mention.”

“She has too many of them,” he shrugged. “Of course she would prefer money, but the family would soon fleece her of it. Whether she needs it or not, my present will be for her alone, and it will come from my hand.”

Istvan listened with a feeling of guilt. He should have thought of Margit long ago and surprised her with a gift.

The Austin glided through the streets of New Delhi among loaded trucks, tooting its horn to scatter the dilatory cyclists, whose bells chirped like crickets.

“Where shall I take you?” Istvan asked.

“No matter where, only to the center. Do not take any trouble on my account. The boulevards are best, around Parliament and at Connaught Place. Surely that will not be far out of your way.”

It was sunset; the domes of pagodas were drenched with rose. The toothed wall flared red under the empty sky, which was rapidly taking on layers of darkest blue. Peasant women in wrinkled orange skirts and dark jackets sauntered along a path. On her back each carried a bundle of grass raked from the park. Bare sickles with broad blades like scythes gave off red gleams.

A tall girl with bushy black hair walked with a dancing step in spite of her burden. Her long, full skirt rippled; silver anklets shone below it. She sang in a strong voice and the others repeated the lines in rhythm. The melody, leaping brightly from note to note, seemed familiar to Istvan, as if the girl were singing in Hungarian. The painter laughed and put his arm out the window, catching the light on his open palm. The girls were startled and hid their faces behind their bent arms, but above their elbows their large, dark, gentle eyes with garishly painted lids could be seen.