Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“Istvan, say that he is lying,” she pleaded, clutching his hand. “After all, this is not true. Everything that can be bought there is filthy, filthy! It is repugnant.”

“Let them think in their own way.”

The painter looked at them impatiently, irritably. He was displeased by what lay at the heart of the quarrel: the impotent pity that the women of the bordellos could not even have understood. Or perhaps he saw only colors — the play of lights and tints, the copper helmet of hair, the dark blue eyes fiery and beautiful in anger, the simple dress of thin linen that revealed the outlines of the tanned, womanly body.

The square was quiet. The whines and murmurs of automobiles — as if they had been exasperated by the unexpected halting of traffic — had died away long since. The ground shone with a red afterglow. A garland of white flowers lay spread out and trampled on the gravel a few steps from them.

Two cows, tinted rose in the evening light, ambled lazily across the square. Car horns blew warningly and headlights flashed, but they plodded on, unconscious of danger, as if the whole world did not exist for them, or was merely a wavering illusion looming in their great dark eyes. One veered slowly from the direction in which she had been walking and stood above the wreath, nosing it, or rather lowering her head and exhaling, for red dust was rising from the ground. The fragrance of the flowers must have irritated her; she stepped over the garland and moved forward as if in a dream, with the last radiance from the sky on her back. The other trailed behind her, repeating the same movements, as if they were part of some eternal ritual.

The shirts of cyclists still glowed rose in the fading sun. Spire-like palms cut the sky like long brush strokes. The night hovered low among the houses, full of gaudy lamps, the noise of radios, the chiming of bicycle bells, and boisterous hallooings. Vehicles flew by, murmuring like bumblebees. Their burning headlights hardly brightened the anxious dark.

“Oh, the devil!” said Istvan, looking at the sky half-covered by a lead-colored cloud with fire flashing around the edges. “A storm is coming.”

“Only a bluff,” Kanval said dismissively. “There has been no bulletin forecasting rain in Delhi today.”

“At all events, let’s go,” Margit begged. “Remember how it was around Qutub Minar that time. The wind nearly blew us away.”

Inside the Austin the strong odors of gasoline and heated plastic were suspended in sweltering air. Only as the car gathered speed did the breeze bring an illusory relief. They dropped the painter off at Connaught Place. At once he was lost in the chattering throng that moved about under the arcades — among the luminous white shirts, the dark faces over which the fragrance of brilliantine drifted. Young, slender men clung to each other with indolent sensuousness. The whole city seemed to have boiled out onto the street; the human stream hummed with voices and rustled with women’s silks as bodies jostled and gave off heat as evening came on. In these hoarse, tittering noises and fitful snatches of song there was an undertone of expectation and anxiety.

Margit’s hand groped for Istvan’s in the dark. Its warm touch transfixed him with desire. The girl seemed to sense it and withdrew, startled.

“Shall we go into Volga for ice cream?” he asked. “Pereira doesn’t make it.”

“No,” she whispered languidly. “Let’s go. I want to be with you.”

He thought it was just a pretext, but she surprised him by leaning over and resting her head heavily on his shoulder. Tenderness and peace swept over him.

After he drove the car into the garage, she helped him close the blinds. She turned out the lights, for the watchman had gone to the kitchen for the evening portion of chapati. He felt as if they had been married for a long time and were returning home — as if his life were only now assuming its rightful, tranquil rhythm.

Heat radiated from the walls of the villa. The earth gave off the dry, famished scent of things that wither and die. The darkness trembled with the long drill-like clanging of insects. Pereira, who had heard the car approaching, had already opened the front door for them. He was still rubbing his lips with the back of his hand and smacking his lips, as if he were savoring the aftertaste of rice fragrant with cloves.

Istvan was moved by the calm assurance with which Margit made her way around his house. She navigated gracefully among the furnishings. She knew where to find the electrical outlets.

“Saaa-hib!” He heard the cook’s plaintive whisper.

“If everything is ready, serve dinner. Remember the ice cubes.”

“Oh, yes, everything is here,” Pereira answered with zeal. “Krishan has turned up again. He wants…he asks for the embassy to vouch for him so he can buy a motorcycle on time.”

As if horrified by the audacity of the demand he had dared to repeat, he blinked with dark, membranous eyelids like a bird’s.

“He’s mad.” Istvan shrugged.

“Yes, sir, he is a lunatic.” The cook wagged his head. “He knows the ambassador is going to Shimla, and before that he would like to give the American firm the guarantee. He wants a very strong engine. He is afraid of nothing.”

Irritated that this conversation was drawing itself out, Istvan ordered tersely, “Serve the food.”

He went into the bathroom to wash his hands. Warm water trickled dully from the tap. He saw his sunburned face in the mirror. His eyes looked dogged and cheerless.

“Terry, come quickly. The drinks will get warm.” Margit’s calm voice gave him joy. He opened the door and looked at her affectionately. She held out a glass with ice cubes and Coca-Cola.

“Try it. It’s a coca libre.”

He took the glass, holding her cool hand to his cheek and lips by way of thanks.

“What have you put into it? It smells very nice.”

“A little rum. Lemon juice and one slice for aroma. The Coca-Cola isn’t cloying. It loses its sticky sweetness right away.”

He caught himself listening to her voice so as to hear the altered tone in which she spoke to him, only to him. It lent the simplest words a tinge of passion.

“My father mixed it this way at our house in Melbourne. It was the only alcoholic drink I enjoyed.”

The room had filled imperceptibly with her presence, with the subtle fragrances of her dress and warm skin. Or perhaps he was only beguiled by the delicate aromas of rum and lemon peel from the glass he was holding to his lips.

“Do you miss Australia?”

“I wouldn’t say so. You forget that it’s a continent.” She blinked indulgently. “There are a very few places that I’m familiar with. The rest of the country is unknown to me. It’s waiting for us. We’ll discover it together. If you want to.”

She was assigning him a part in her life. That was disturbing; it put him on guard. Was he being dishonest in wishing to preserve his own freedom? But passion dictated that he fulfill all her desires. He wanted her to be happy.

The door creaked. The cook gave the sign that he was putting dinner on the table. His olive face with lowered eyelids seemed to say that he would not offend by allowing himself even a glance at a woman who interested his master. Istvan could have blessed the man when he told him that he was going to the roof, to the barsati, and murmured something about an approaching storm. Yellow lightning was flashing outside the windows, as often happened in summer during dry weather. He closed the curtains and set the wings of the large ceiling fan in motion.

“And now let’s eat,” he said encouragingly, pouring the red Egri.

She needed no urging. He liked her freedom, her frank displays of feeling, her lack of calculation and refusal to play the games of coquetry. She helped herself to large portions. She was becoming accustomed to Indian spices.