Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“I am waking you,” the rajah whispered, leaning over the musing pair. “Enough of this tête-à-tête. Get up. Let’s go. Istvan, come with us.”

“I have my car.” He was still resisting.

“Go first. I want to be sure you come to us.” The rajah laid a hot hand on his shoulder. Grace had already risen and seemed to have regained her enthusiasm for life, for she took both their arms and drew them toward the door.

When they had passed through the middle of the lobby, not acknowledging the bartender’s obsequious bow, it seemed to Istvan that Major Stowne, still dozing in the corner, lifted a hand from the arm of his chair to signal his delight that harmony was restored and that he had assisted fate by steering the lovers toward each other.

Before they reached the exit door the sky went gray and a heavy rain set in. The gleaming curtain of water stopped them. The downpour sang, twittering in streams from the roof, from teeming gutters overgrown with young grass sown by the wind. A barefoot servant hurried up noiselessly and handed them a big black umbrella.

The rajah let go of his wife’s elbow. Uncertain if this were a gesture of courtesy, of favor, or if the other man were simply leaving him to perform the function of a retainer, Terey took the umbrella with the name of a London firm stamped in metal and held it over the woman. She nestled close to him and her fingers wound themselves around his hand — No! No! he cried inwardly, we are walking close together because of the umbrella. He led her down the streaming steps to the automobile, which was standing among the trees. The driver jumped out to open the doors and tried to take the umbrella from Istvan, who was shaking like a wet dog, for the leaves were soaked and streaming.

“Thank you,” Grace whispered, gathering her sari around her. She pushed off her sandals and stamped her spattered bare feet. Her cherry-colored toenails gleamed garishly.

Now Istvan brought the rajah down under the umbrella. It’s shabby on my part, he thought, this show of being meek and obliging. Was she worth no more than this to me? Margit, Margit: the name throbbed with grief like a funeral bell. He barely restrained himself from starting his car and driving until the abyss of rain swallowed him. He closed the umbrella and threw it from the open door of the Austin to the servant, who caught it in flight.

For a moment he looked at the blue fumes that belched from under the rajah’s wide green car. Behind the rear windshield Grace’s dark hair loomed; she was waving. With warning blasts on his horn he moved out in front of the rajah’s limousine. The Austin rolled forward softly on the asphalt road, which was spattered white with rain.

The avenue was darkening. The large leaves of the trees, bent under spurting water, spread and drank in the steaming moisture. He almost heard the ravenous burble of plants, leaves, and grass as they sucked in the warm torrent. They seemed to swell. The very air took on a green cast.

The balding elderly man was nearly bouncing on his chair with impatience. He was eager to break in ahead of the rajah’s easygoing narrative, but an admonitory look from his son-in-law silenced him. His bulging eyes shot angry glances and he drank his coffee with loud slurps. Istvan let himself feel the familiar atmosphere of the house: the smells of dampness and extinguished cigars, of spices, of a clump of narcissus, cloyingly fragrant as a field of blossoming potatoes, in a glass vase on the floor.

“After the death of my older brother, the entire estate passed to me,” the rajah was explaining.

“And before that you had enough,” the father-in-law put in.

“Yes, but if only for courtesy’s sake, I had to submit information about financial operations for my brother’s approval. So when he died, probably from heart failure — he was always sickly — the whole estate fell to me. There were bequests, but then jewels, currency, safety deposit boxes one doesn’t take account of. Those are family matters.”

“Good customs,” Terey interposed. “Discretion ensures lower inheritance fees.”

Vijayaveda nodded in agreement.

“His body was taken to the river in the evening. The pyre was quite grand; we don’t spare the camphorwood for our dead.” The rajah spoke with emphasis. “The body rested as if in a small house. It was covered with aromatic chips. Melted butter was poured from pitchers. When the priest touched the four corners of it with the torch, all the sky began to rumble and rain fell in sheets.

“The pyre smoked, but it caught fire. It poured, so there was nothing to wait for. I ordered the servants to attend to the burning of the remains and we took shelter in the automobile. Later we went out to the castle.” He lowered his head and brooded, then after a long pause added, “The next day it was reported to me that the remains were consumed by the fire and the ashes thrown into the river. And now he turns up, and claims his rights.” He struck his heavy parted thighs passionately with his fist.

“Now, now. A moment—” the counselor quieted him. “Did you recognize him? Is he really your brother?”

The rajah turned his head toward the window, which was washed by the pelting rain. His eyes were sad.

“I recognized him and I did not recognize him. He is so terribly burned. All over him are scars unevenly healed.”

“But he must remember at least a few things that no one knows but you. Can you catch him in some inaccuracy when he alludes to childhood events — an old nurse, a dog, toys?”

“It is not that simple. He remembers some things. Others he seems not to remember. He blames the fire for eating the past out of his head. He is surely suffering. You know, I would like him to be my brother, but I am afraid there is some trickery.”

“The servants are dark peasants. They long so for miracles that they accepted him as their master at once,” old Vijayaveda fumed. “They try to persuade us that this is the true rajah, and they want it to be him so much that they constantly feed the person who was not burned up new details, and he begins to live his role. Another month or two and he will feel himself to be the older brother. He will demand shares in the businesses, request rigorous accounts. He will be different from the dead man, for he will know what he wants.”

“Well, very good, but what do the attendants at the place of cremation say?” Terey inquired. “Is there the slightest chance that he could have survived? What does the doctor say? Surely you brought in a doctor.”

“Attorney Chandra heard statements from everyone. Confronted with this blatant miracle, they admitted that the pyre was not consumed, that the rain extinguished the flames. They threw the remains into the Ganges so they would be carried downstream. The wood they sold; it could be used for other funerals, for new dead were being brought to the place. They swear that the remains were half charred, as the terrible scars and disfigurement confirm. No one would voluntarily allow himself to be so savagely injured, even to acquire a fortune like this.

“The man says that he felt how the flames gnawed and bored into his body, but he could not move or call for help. Only when they threw away the smoking pyre and pushed him into the water did he return to consciousness. The goddess Durga ordered the waters to carry him. They licked his wounds and assuaged his suffering.” In the voice of old Vijayaveda there was a note of irony; he looked to his daughter for support, but she was silent.

“In the morning it seems that he regained consciousness, having been laid gently on the sand. He scooped up water and quenched his thirst. Women were caring for him as they did their washing on the river bank. He did not know who he was, but in his dreams, by degrees, heavenly powers restored his past to him. Do you understand?” He nodded at Terey. “It is all miraculous, out of the ordinary, exciting — but it is about money, a great deal of money.” He shifted restlessly until his spoon fell on the stone floor with a jingle like glass.