Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Why did you come? You pass my house and all the places we used to frequent—”

He cut her short. “I want to forget.”

“You have forgotten already. I am a handful of ashes. But others remember. They do not need the lights of Diwali to find their way to my door. On Tuesday Margit came with her boyfriend, an amusing American. His hair bristles like a colt’s mane when it’s cut.”

“Margit visited you!” The news stung him. “How was I to know that you had returned to Delhi?”

“There is the telephone. Don’t lie — you haven’t called. I instructed the staff to record every name. Yours is not on the list, and they know you.”

She laid her narrow palm on his hands.

“Sit down. You see — my husband is out there testing a new horse.” She motioned with her head.

The stout figure of a rider swayed on the back of a light dapple-gray Arabian with dark legs and mane. His cork helmet gleamed like brass in the sun.

“And you aren’t riding? You liked it so much.”

She removed her hand as if she were closing into herself. Her gold bracelets jingled.

“I can’t just now. Doctor’s orders.”

She was not looking at her husband, but at the children on ponies who were breaking into short trots. The hubbub, the laughter, and the whinnying of the horses could be heard distinctly; it was like a gleeful picnic. Both her hands were resting protectively on her lap. With a sudden spasm of the heart he remembered her wedding night and the spoils he had taken. Perhaps it is mine? A rebuke shadowed by alarm flashed through his mind: Why had he not waited, not denied himself that night’s pleasure, in order to gain the deeper, more ardently desired love of the woman he had lost? I am paying for Grace now.

“You are expecting a child?”

“A son,” she answered with such certainty that it seemed a foregone conclusion. “The rajah wants a son. I do, too.”

She gazed at Terey with huge, sparkling eyes full of longing. Perhaps she wanted to lock the precious features in her memory and transfer them to the unborn child. I never loved her, after all, he thought, and was appalled. I was only under her spell. I was practicing, like a dog that hones its teeth before moving out on a new scent. He felt an aversion: she was pregnant, filled with the child. He so wanted it not to be his that he disowned it at once; he conceded paternity to the rajah without contest. Margit: her name rang like the whimper of a dog scratching against a door shut and bolted. Margit, only Margit.

They heard hoofbeats very near and the rajah trotted up. The horse looked white in the harsh light; it swept its hindquarters with a lash of its darker tail and tossed its head, chomping at the detested bit. Istvan saw only knee-high boots, the glint of a lowered spur and gloved hands pulling up the reins. The rajah’s head was obliterated by a low awning that waved in the breeze.

“Hello, Terey.” The rajah was panting after his gallop. “I’m glad to see you; you’ve been avoiding us lately. I know I stick in your craw a bit, but I have nothing against your looking at Grace the way you used to, especially now.” He nearly choked with triumphant laughter.

“You’re pestering me,” she said, taking the offensive to dispel suspicion.

“I have no intention of depriving you of admirers,” he parried. The horse under him danced and executed a half turn, then under a slight pressure of his rider’s calf returned to the spot that bore the indentation of its hooves.

Istvan bolted from under the ruffle of the flapping blue awning. With his head raised challengingly he looked into the rajah’s fat, sweaty, affably smiling face. He breathed deeply and rested a hand on the back of the horse’s neck. A tremor ran through its skin and he stroked its smooth coat.

“A good horse,” the rajah said. “Do you want to ride? Look: everything I have is at your disposal.” He flung his outstretched hands wide open as if he wanted to clasp Istvan to his chest like a brother. “And you sulk—”

“Thank you. I’ll stay with Grace.”

“Only do not take her away; wait for me. We will drink Coca-Cola. Well, do not frown. I said that so as not to annoy Grace. We will get something stronger.”

Only then did Terey notice that the crepe formerly displayed on the left lapel of the red frock coat the rajah wore as a member of the club was missing.

“Since you married you have removed your mourning,” he said comprehendingly.

“I removed it because my older brother is alive.” His face tightened into a bitter grimace. “He died, he was burned, his ashes were thrown into the Ganges, and now he has risen from the dead and is threatening to take me to court. His advocate came to see me — the celebrated Mr. Chandra.”

“He is your partner, after all. Surely you can arrive at an understanding with him. He rose from the dead?” Terey shrugged. “That’s lunacy.”

“You forget that we are in India.” The rajah combed out the horse’s mane with his fingers as if he were toying with the fringe of a napkin at an unpleasant party. The cries of children jogging on ponies were disturbing the horse; it pricked up its ears and raised its lean head. “Chandra is not my partner, though I loaned him a large sum on security. I am afraid he wants to show his gratitude by fleecing me.”

Before he pricked the mare’s side with his spur, she broke into a smooth gallop, lowering her ears and thrusting her muzzle forward as if she wanted to bite at something.

The rajah sat her well. He knew how to ride, Istvan had to admit, watching the buoyant gait of the horse and the rhythmic springing movements of its legs until the animal and its rider disappeared between the hedge and the white stables.

“What’s going on here, Grace?”

She sat with the face of a drowsy madonna, intent, as if she were hearing something. Pregnancy had not marred her beauty, only lent it gravity and a quiet ripeness — the charm of an orchard before the harvest.

“It’s kicking.” Her lips parted in a shy smile and she pressed her hands to her belly. “I felt its first movements on the left side, under my heart. It will be a boy.”

He looked at her with a feeling of guilt, dismay, and a slight impatience, as one looks at a dog that fails to understand a command, though it stiffens in friendly readiness to retrieve.

“I asked—”

“Oh, don’t bore me. When he comes back he will tell you all about it. He will be delighted to have someone to listen. When will you come to us?” She raised her eyes, large eyes that seemed to draw everything into them. “I thought I was free of you, but it only takes — and it comes back as hidden tears, a tightening in the throat at the thought of what might have been, what I cast aside through no wish of my own. When will I see you? Must I wait for a lucky accident?”

“What point is there in meeting? You have your own life.”

“Before long there will be his life, too.” She laid her hand tenderly on her swelling abdomen. “A little visitor will appear and must be guided through the world. So many stars fell that night.” She spoke as though only to herself, sleepily, slowly.

He did not understand her. He saw a rocket making flashing arcs. Glistening tears slid down. A shudder ran through him when he thought of the insane audacity of his behavior.

“One star fell onto me. It is here, I feel it shining. I would tell no one but you. You will understand.”

They sat motionless, leaning forward like people half asleep, incapable of any gesture. In the distance the noise of the galloping ponies died away; they could hear the boastful squeals of the small riders and the scolding of the mothers who sat on blankets in the shade of an acacia, never taking their eyes off the mischievous youngsters. Leather boots creaked, then came the light silvery jingle of a spur.