Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

The bartender greeted him as if he were the prodigal son, and, seeing two upraised fingers, poured a double whiskey from a silver jigger and tossed in some ice. He rocked it for a minute in his dark palm, testing the temperature, before handing it to Istvan with a genial smile.

“Your friend the rajah is out riding today, sir. He also had not been here for a long time.”

“Justifiably. He has a young wife.”

“And that does not help: he is fat again,” the old barman said solicitously, stealthily pouring himself a little whiskey and sniffing rather than drinking it.

They think of me as one of them, Istvan thought. They do not stand on ceremony with me. He would not dare drink in the presence of an Englishman, even if the English were buying for him. He would thank them politely and pour it into a cup, assuring them that he would take a sip for their health, but only when he was off duty.

A diffuse yellow glow from fly-specked bulbs hovered high up under the ceiling, which was ribbed like the ceiling of a hangar. Large fans milled the stagnant air; he felt no breeze. He took his glass and had just settled in among the creased, agreeably cool cushions of a chair when he spotted Major Stowne, with his narrow head like a bird of prey’s, in another corner of the room, apparently napping. His head was thrown back; from under his lowered, lashless eyelids he was actually observing the exit to the riding course. He greeted Terey with a dilatory raising of his open hand. The gesture and the downward movement of the protruding Adam’s apple on the lean neck amounted not only to a salutation, but an invitation to keep him company.

Stowne belonged to the old cadre; he was one of the British who could only be comfortable in India, for the changes that were taking place in England aroused their revulsion. They felt almost like foreigners on the island, or newcomers who had wandered in from an earlier epoch in which the social hierarchy was respected. In India he was still shown deference; he moved in the best society, among ministers and diplomats. Rajahs invited him to hunts, and his protégés glittered with generals’ gold braid. He could honor, could add splendor to parties with his presence, could revive the prestige of the former guard of the Empire.

The story that was told about him Istvan could hardly believe. It was said that he had been enamored of a wealthy Hindu woman, or even been her lover. At first it seemed incredible; it was enough to look at his stark profile, which seemed carved from red wood. Then, too, the sternness long ingrained in him would have appeared to render it impossible. There were allusions to a Hindu beauty with enormous eyes and dead-black hair, the furled sail of nights of love. She concealed her left hand in a lace glove and never removed it. Even the servants, from whom inquisitive women friends tried to wrest the truth, never saw their mistress’s hand uncovered. It was whispered that she had a birth mark or eczema, but her beauty could not have been significantly marred, for the deep tone of her skin glistened through the eyelets in the lace.

The Hindu must have had a fortune if she had allowed herself to defy convention and appear openly with her English friend. Then, unexpectedly, she disappeared. Stowne, even in his cups, never answered questions about the absent woman. He turned his back and left the room, then smoked a cigar and paced pensively around the park long enough to be sure the conversation had moved on to some other subject: the price of emeralds, the value of horses, the trustworthiness and devotion of servants.

But then vague rumors arose that the Hindu lady had gone mad, that they had been forced to lock her up, that she had been sedated with a brew of herbs and conveyed to the vicinity of Shimla, or that she had renounced the world and become an initiated yogini in one of the mountain retreats.

The major had not married in spite of many determined overtures from dowried women. He remained alone with his legend.

When Istvan had risen from his restful leather chair and its cushions had regained their shape, wheezing as if with relief, he made his way slowly to the major, uncertain whether he had read his gesture of permission correctly. Stowne waved his forefinger as if he were shaking the ashes from an invisible cigar, so Istvan sat down beside him, reassured. They had still not spoken, were not even looking at each other.

“Have some more?” The major said at last, showing him a bottle and siphon nestled close to his brown chair. He himself took a generous swallow from a glass.

“Yes, indeed.”

“Pour for yourself.” When the hiss of the siphon stopped, he whispered, “Hard, eh?”

Istvan nodded.

“Playing hard to get,” the major sighed. “Resisting.”

“How did you—” Terey turned away abruptly.

“There isn’t much that I don’t notice.” He winked with thickly creased eyelids. “It’s not only hard to find true feeling these days, but one doesn’t meet real women.”

“Oh!”

“You think I don’t know about anything but lances and horses: stupid retired old Stowne.” With strength from some unknown inner source he sat upright and his watery, somnolent eyes took on a gleam. “She could have had me — indeed, I begged — and she wouldn’t, though she could have so easily—” he lapsed into an alcoholic daze.

“She didn’t love you enough,” Istvan said, not sparing the major or himself.

“She loved me for sure, you foolish boy. She held my lip with her teeth and closed her eyes and trembled. ‘I want to be with you! I’ll throw over the service and the uniform and I’ll go where you go,’ I said. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘I can’t. I love you too much.’ It was enough to make her press harder with her teeth.”

He looked down at Istvan as if he wanted to peck him. Red veins showed in his face and his inebriated eye flashed from under a bristling white eyebrow.

“The only woman who was capable of loving that much. You see? That’s why she renounced me. And we could still have been happy for years. There was always time for that. I had a revolver, I wouldn’t have hesitated. If she had said so, we’d have gone away together. Understand?”

He shook his head.

“Leprosy. The nursemaid took the girl to the cave to be blessed. The sadhu scratched her with a dead hand.”

Istvan looked spellbound at the man’s bluish lips: Stowne’s secret had been revealed to him. Before he understood what had prompted the major’s confession, he heard a whisper:

“Go to the veranda. She is there. She came with him, but I know she is waiting for you. Go, then, and behave unwisely. I tell you this, I, Major Stowne. It is worth it to behave unwisely.”

He was willing Margit to appear so insistently that he already saw her with Connoly. He shook the major’s dry, bony hand, put down his glass, and moved toward the door. His steps beat dully on the walkway of thick coconut matting.

On one of the lounge chairs that were scattered about in the shade of the veranda Grace was resting, wrapped in silk. She turned her head reluctantly from the level course, drenched with gold in the sun, with its bright white horse pens, posts, and stakes. The riders bustled about, flashing in shimmering colors like doves in the cloud of dust that rose from under the horses’ hooves. From behind the shrubbery came the joyful calls of children; a little girl burst into happy, intoxicating laughter when a groom ran out into the light leading a trotting pony.

“Oh, it’s you.” Grace smiled gently. “You were lost; we have not seen you for years, Istvan.”

She must have noticed his surprise, which was slightly tinged with dismay, for she turned her face away and let her eyes escape to the wide pastures and the riding course as if to assure herself that her husband was there — as if only he were important. Only when Istvan was standing over her did she seize his hand convulsively. Here was no great lady, only a poor, groping, uncertain woman.