Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

A wide perspective on the avenue leading to the India Gate opened in front of them. Space bursting with light streamed toward the car.

“And what does your mother say about this?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged his small shoulders. “Mama doesn’t know about it.”

Under trees with succulent foliage growing wild stood an odd building with the appearance of an enormous tub, covered by an undulating blue pavilion. They could hear the noise of an engine, like the roar of an enraged tiger, rising to a whine as the motor raced. The planks beneath the flying motorcycle rattled like loose timbers under a bridge.

“Have you been here, uncle?”

“No.”

“But I have. He told them to let me in. His wife sits there all day and prays to the king of monkeys for his success.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Krishan,” the boy said indignantly. “He is the death rider. He rides just like this”—he turned his hand flat—“until it’s frightful to see. When he comes flying by everyone huddles behind the barrier, and it hurts their ears.”

“That daredevil!”

“Krishan says he likes it. Sometimes he lies on the grass and smokes a cigarette and I run to the cashier to see how many tickets they sold, because when there are fifty, they tell him to do the show.”

Light and shadow played over their faces. They sped along beneath the overhanging boughs of old trees.

“Listen, Mihaly. What do you want to be?”

“I?” His eyes opened wide. “I want to be a real Hungarian. Like you, uncle.”

Through his linen shirt Istvan felt a warm little hand resting against him.

“Because I love you very, very much.”

“You certainly know how to get ice cream!” He put on the brakes at Connaught Place. “Well, get out.”

But Mihaly sat still and stared him in the eye.

“Go by yourself. I will wait. Because you said that I know how—”

“You’ll be sorry.”

“Yes…but if you want, you can bring me a little bit on a waffle,” he said, relenting.

“Get out. Don’t be annoying,” the counselor said, feigning impatience. “Indeed, you know that I am very fond of you and that I could not eat ice cream knowing that you were waiting in the car.”

“Oh, uncle,” the boy sighed and clasped him around his neck. Istvan felt each of his limber knuckles and the eager quivering of the heart.

He kissed the little lad with dry lips, reproaching himself inwardly because he had not answered his sons’ letters for two weeks. He held Mihaly’s hand and led him through the arcades. A slender boy with a sash around his hips moved along behind them, playing a simple melody full of lamentation on a flute. A monkey dressed in Scotch style with a plaid kilt, caftan, and beret darted ahead of them and blocked their way, then struck a tambourine and threw furtive glances from bulging eyes brimming with a human hunger.

Swollen drops of moisture falling here and there from the trees made rainbow-tinted etchings on air washed clean by the downpour. Greenish light fell through the wide, unfurled leaves. A Tibetan woman who had spread out her wares on the sidewalk cast a leery eye at the sky and rolled up the yellow sheet of plastic that had been covering bowls of old coins, round and octagonal, worn smooth from centuries of use, with holes so they could be strung on leather strips; wooden demons’ masks with grinning teeth; little bronze figures green with verdigris; old knives; boxes full of beads roughly shaped from semiprecious stones; turquoise buttons; and little pellets of nephrite that seemed to be filled with gold shavings: tiger’s eye.

The woman, with her flat, ageless face, with her hair in a mass of braids and silver reliquaries on her necklace, sluiced shining rainwater from the recesses of the plastic covering. Squatting in voluminous red and blue skirts, she arranged figurines and votive censers in even rows.

Istvan walked out of his stifling office, where the fan was stirring the cigarette smoke. It was a relief to breathe in the fragrance of wet earth and fresh leaves. The censors, or rather the Bureau of Film Appraisal, as it was discreetly called here — a commission of lethargic old bureaucrats carelessly dressed — had given him permission for the release to the public of several short informational films about Hungary and two amusing folk tales. They had demanded that one frame showing a playing field with girls in gymnastic costumes be excised as immodest. Every gesture of intimacy on the parts of embracing couples was eliminated; kisses evoked outraged mutters. “Throw it out, get rid of it!” “Scandalous!” the chief of the commission exclaimed, belching garlic into Istvan’s ear as he leaned forward in the dark projection room pierced by a cone of hazy light. No extenuation was of any use; the scissors chattered and with a dry crackle, as when one steps on a centipede, the cuttings of film fell in curls under the editing table.

Yet Istvan had been gratified when nine boxes, each containing three meters of film, were returned to him with the official inscription: Released for distribution in India and Kashmir by the Bureau of Film Appraisal. In his briefcase he had a special memorandum, a photocopy of which was to be sent with the films to the Hungarian-Indian Friendship Society.

Its members had come primarily for lectures, after which a poster announced the film and a cartoon. Papers were read in unctuous voices over the monotonous whir of fans boring through air thick as tallow; from the opening sentence the notables dozed, sprawling in armchairs. When the film came on, the hall revived and no harm was done if the boxes had been packed incorrectly and the reels were out of order; the incongruity between the commentary and the action on the screen set off a strident discussion. Each had understood what he saw in his own way. Yet even out of these dissonances a sense of his country arose — associations and images that would spring to mind when they read about the Republic of Hungary in the newspapers.

He walked along the pavement over wet flagstones the rain had littered with leaves and the remains of flowers. The square of dry red clay that had been covered with plastic glowed in the light; the crowd of oddly shaped figurines intrigued him. The bowls, boxes, and tin cans seemed to conceal unknown treasures. The Tibetan woman smiled with eyes that were narrow slits and beckoned with both hands until her tight braids bounced on her shoulders.

“Cheap, very cheap, sahib,” she cried in a croaking voice like a parrot’s. “Precious stones, beautiful stones, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, rings. And gods of bronze, stone, wood, clay…”

He leaned over and picked up a figure of the goddess Lakshmi, which was as sinuous as if she were dancing. Spots of verdigris and dried blotches of mud attested that the little statue had been dug out of the ground.

“Very old. Sahib knows to find what I have most precious.” She clicked her tongue approvingly. “Only fifty rupees.”

“What are you looking for, Mr. Terey?” A shadow fell on the little cluster of divinities. Istvan whirled around like someone caught in wrongdoing. Attorney Chandra was standing behind him, smiling indulgently.

“You prefer gods of stone and silver—”

“I can’t resist temptation. I must dig through this garbage heap.” He handed the figurine to the lawyer. “I’m always hoping to unearth a true work of art.”

“Do you like this?” Chandra moved the figurine to and fro casually on his open palm. The woman scowled at him.

“Nice lines, very graceful — and surely old.”

“Smell it.” Chandra pushed the little goddess under his nose. “Notice the odor of hydrochloric acid, the artificial patina. They may even have ancient forms, but the casting is fresh, done for tourists. They rub it with acid to make it green. They smear it with clay. The vendor is so shrewd that she will swear every trifle you choose is a true treasure. Give that back to her. It is a waste of money.”