Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“I am happy”: the words were too simple. The poverty of the phrase struck him painfully when he tried to find a name for this state of joy beyond joy, to fix it, to lock it into the core of memory.

What will happen to us when Margit’s contract expires? And my continued residence in India is uncertain as well; it depends on my personal rapport with the ambassador and the whims of some official far away in Budapest. Not on long-term projects, only on unspecified initiatives.

Be glad that you have her near you, within reach. Don’t provoke the jealous fates, he counseled himself. Under this timorous silence he harbored the instinctive certainty that when he stood face to face with the ultimate choice, he could make it, even if he had to defy everyone: friends and enemies. But what a price he would pay for Margit!

The soft burden of her hand rested on his chest. He put away his misgivings and fell asleep unawares, though he would never have admitted it, for he was determined to satiate himself with the joy of this evening hour. Through his closed eyes he still felt lightning flashing over the city, as if some enormous stranger were running to the window with a lamp to peer at their figures as they nestled together like fallen statues, not even covered by a sheet, defiantly naked.

The walls quaked from the distant thunderbolts. His joy was mingled with apprehension: for a moment he felt as if they were snuggled together on a berth in a train hurtling toward an unknown coast, while light from the stations they were passing in the night was glaring into the half-open window. They would travel that way over the ocean to immense beaches, he was sure, beaches the dawn had just reached. He already felt the nearness of those measureless waters in the bracing wind and distant roar of the waves that died with hisses on the sandy curve of a bay like an arena.

They were roused by a rumbling outside the house and the mournful rattling of the windowpanes.

“Istvan.”

“It’s the ocean,” he answered, half conscious but filled with satisfaction that he could reassure her. “Sleep.”

Her laugh banished his sleep. He saw what was amusing her: rain was battering the windows. It washed over the walls in great spurts, pummeling the vines on the veranda. The ground could not absorb the water, which covered it in a widening tide. Green lights blazed on the flooded square.

“The monsoon!” she cried. She leaped to the window and threw it wide open. Through the wire mesh a cool draft rushed toward them, together with the frenzied splashing of water flooding the ground and the splendid fragrance of the awakened earth as it began to quench its thirst. Heaven and earth reeled in the swaying light. They seemed to hear the distant booming of a drum; they saw flares surrounded by swords of fire. Hindus, hunched over and wrapped in sheets of linen, ran through the streets seeking shelter. Thin bare legs pounded through puddles full of glare. They looked like corpses from cruel legends, running around fiery meadows in search of their severed heads.

“At last one can breathe,” she said, kneeling over him. Her body itself exuded the freshness of the cleansed air. “I’d like to run out now into this downpour full of fire and drink those cool sparks the wind is sprinkling. I’d like to dance for you. If you could only understand how beautiful the world is when someone loves you! Get up and come to the window, anyway.”

He encircled her with his arms, put his lips on hers and pushed her down into the sheet.

“I will give all the world for you,” he said as if it were a vow. “I will give everything. Everything. Margit!”

The afterglare from the lightning was coming through the window, and distant thunder like a cannon salvo. A strong scent of vines, soaked hay, and wet masonry rode on gusts of wind that careened over the flat roof. Huge banana leaves flapped like half-furled sails in the green and yellow glare.

“Tomorrow is ours,” she said happily. “In weather like this they will have to cancel flights. There will be no delegation.”

How had she managed to think of that at such a moment? He imprisoned her in his arms. Having seen that the sky was going pale and the rain quieting down, she was already rising.

“I’m going to my room. They will check to see if I have slept there. You may laugh at my silly deviousness; they know we spent the night together. But we must care a little for appearances.”

He stroked her back. She sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed.

“Surely you won’t leave me alone? But perhaps by now you want to sleep. Are you glad to be rid of me at last? The whole bed to yourself: really, how delightful.” She taunted him on her way out until he sprang after her. Bare feet beat on the stone floor.

When he had caught her and clasped her to him, she commanded, “Go back and close the window. The rain is blowing in.” She nestled close to him and whispered in his ear, “And then come. But only for a little while.”

The storm was regaining force. In its heavy muted roar they slept profoundly, satisfied.

A short, violent rain chopped at the riotous greenery of the trees and rattled among the wide, wobbling banana leaves, then suddenly stopped. The sun blazed in myriads of puddles. Starlings dived into the beaten-down grass, whistling impertinently and gorging themselves on waterlogged insects unable to escape. The earth emitted the cloying odor of teeming life breeding in a layer of fermenting decay — a sweet smell as from a vase when no one has changed the water for a long time.

Istvan shuddered when the branches of the climbing plants he jostled with his head sprinkled him with water. He could not bear being in the house; an angry restlessness forced him out among people. He needed company, though he knew he could open his heart to no one. He did not expect to find relief, to free himself from oppressive thoughts. A moment before he had flung down the receiver because the mild voice of the receptionist had told him that Miss Ward had gone away from Agra.

He had not seen Margit for three weeks. To be precise, it was the twenty-third day she had eluded him, perhaps even deliberately avoided him.

Without thinking he flicked large beads of water from his pale jacket, where they had left dark spots. From the garden and from the overgrown lawn on the square came the smell of drenched plants, a musty smell that subsided into a haze of moisture.

What could be simpler than to take the car and dash over to Agra? Again? — he mocked himself. After all, he had been there and not found her; he had loitered around all the familiar corners of the city with a bitter, lost feeling, as if he had happened on the wrong address. In the hospital the old Swedish professor had looked at him as though he were an insect fluttering on a pin as the sick people droned monotonously. They seemed to hover in the overheated air along with the soiled bandages, the whiffs of stinking sweat, pus, and the souring milk their families were giving them to drink.

“Miss Margit is conducting surveys with Dr. Connoly out in the neighboring villages.” With his hand the professor described an arc on the horizon. “It is difficult to say exactly where they are, for a sudden downpour could wash out the road in a couple of minutes and turn it into a red swamp. The all-terrain vehicle would hardly get through. Many times they got oxen from a village to help. They laid branches under the wheels. With the Austin it would be impassable. When Dr. Ward returns, I will tell her you were here. Perhaps you will leave a note?”

He looked at the narrow, red-veined face and wanted to hit the man, though he had in no way injured him. The professor was looking at him with pale eyes and blinking with white eyelashes. His failure to supply information was irritating, but how could he guess that Istvan had a right to ask about Margit, that he was not just a casual acquaintance?