Jarmila (2 page)

W
E SAT IN THE
quietest corner of the now bustling inn: the toy trader could work undisturbed. I thought he would talk, I’d heard that Czech people were loquacious on the whole. Yet either he didn’t want to or couldn’t. The beer tasted better with every glass. But it was making me heavy and drowsy, my tongue had lost all its feeling, the vaulted room’s contours were obscured with smoke, everything sounded muffled, sleepy, peaceful and still.

I suddenly jolted from my reverie. I’d heard a
clicking
noise, like the trigger of a revolver being cocked, the noise some weapons make when the barrel is rotated. I jumped up in fright, but the watchmaker calmed me down. With a somewhat malicious smile that didn’t match the expression of his large, grey eyes which in spite of everything were benevolent, even noble, he said: “I just released the spring. The material is coarse, but not the worst, the watch will probably work for ever and outlive you!” I shook my head, I found that difficult to believe. He misunderstood me: “Don’t you trust me?” he asked. “See, I trust you,” he went on, bending over the watch once more, “And I don’t even know who you are! Definitely a foreigner!”
He now picked up the simple glass salt-cellar, tipped the salt out on to the floor and placed the glass
receptacle
over the multitude of tiny screws and the spring that lay there gleaming blue-black, half unfurled like a tiny, inert snake.

He smiled behind his thick, silky blond moustache which glistened with drops of dark beer. I didn’t want to say who I was, I never do on journeys. “Take a guess!” I said, “I’ve worked in many trades.” And indeed, who could have predicted I was destined to become a wholesaler of second-rate apples for a French conserves factory. He picked up on my smile and responded playfully. He showed me his hands: “Now, what do you read in these?”

“Well, these tell me,” I said jovially, “That you’ve never killed anyone.”

“Oh, no, no!” he said, but, unfortunately, now I couldn’t see his eyes for his right eye was glued to the watchmaker’s magnifying glass and the other one was shut. “Certainly not!” he mumbled into his beard, his head bowed over the innards of my poor watch.

I could see now that he did want to talk, but still restrained himself. Instinctively he pressed his dark red, firm lips together. A quarter of an hour later he had almost entirely dismantled the watch, and all its components lay well-ordered beneath the upturned
salt cellar. Putting the magnifying glass aside, he gave a satisfied sigh of a job completed and ordered some sausages and caraway rolls to accompany his sixth beer. When he finished eating he looked at me with his oblique smile, drew one of his mechanical birds from his pocket, gazed at it with that earlier look, half hatred, half love, and in one swoop ripped the bright yellow fluff from its tiny chest.

I must confess I flinched when I heard the tearing noise caused by the ripping of the little glued
feathers.
He kept looking at me, didn’t take his eyes off me. “Let him speak!” I thought. “If only you hold back for another five minutes he will start to talk and pour out his watchmaker’s heart to you.” And that’s indeed what happened. All through the evening (and for how long before?) he had felt an urge to open up. He had simply been holding out for the best moment to begin without burdening anybody. He could see I was waiting and so he began as though picking up an earlier conversation: “Yes, I flinched like that when, as a young man, I first saw my beloved Jarmila. There she was in front of her house, her white hand plucking feathers from the breast of a goose. Jarmila, the most beautiful in a large village full of splendid girls. Her little white feet rested on the cloth where the
feathers
fell, and she was stretching her toes amongst the feathers. They warmed her rosy soles, her tiny heels,
and her sculpted ankles. See how it floats, how it flies! Breathe out, and it is gone, breathe in, and it is there again, and all the while nothing but the stupid
feathers
of a silly goose.”

“…
AND WITH BREASTS
like Bohemian apples, so full of scent, and skin like down, and everything so delicate. The other women plucked geese in their musty rooms, but Jarmila’s lungs were so sensitive that the tiny down feathers didn’t agree with her: breathing them in caused irrepressible coughing fits until she thought she would suffocate. She clenched the thrashing goose between her firm young thighs with her skirts stretched tight and tore at it.

What can I say? We used to meet at night in a small barn to the right of the house where her husband, the old feather merchant, stored his feathers. There were no children, but she wished for them. Was that wrong? It was perfectly natural! After the crops had been harvested and as soon as the second batch of hay from his few meadows was piled high in the hay-loft her husband set off to travel the country on his cart. He was a penny-pincher. According to the villagers who laughed behind his back he even refrained from touching his young blond wife out of sheer thriftiness, not wanting to wear her out. Why should an old fool have a wife? And to think he not only had the wife for ages but, eventually, the child too. Still does, up to this
very day. Will this never change? Shall he have him forever? I often sneered at him as I lay with his wife on the heavy, rustling, soft sacks in the feather-store’s
gallery.
She could feel the fine down feathers tickling her throat, she wanted to cough, but didn’t dare to! The schoolmaster, brother of the Oom-Pah, (I call him the Oom-Pah you know, that unwieldy brass instrument, a strident, immense kind of French horn with valves and tubes of brass, him, the old grey man for my young blond Jarmila) … yes, that poor old scrawny
schoolmaster
with steel-rimmed spectacles on his bony nose and his ears a-quiver, slinking around guarding his fat, rich brother’s wife. He probably would have fancied a nibble himself, but she did not want him. Only me. That oddball, so scholarly, with all his erudite books, his hunched back, and the shiny seat of his trousers, worn-out from sitting at his desk in front of stupid kids, he did not hold any appeal. However, I was soon going to learn all about ‘sitting’, doing time, myself! But I am not in the least ashamed of it since I was in the right.

He hated me and maybe he was the one who betrayed us. Don’t tell me, dear sir, that I was guilty of seducing poor Jarmila, stealing her from her rich
husband,
defying all law and order. It was him after all who would sit for evenings on end drinking beer in front of the local fire station with his associates, or playing
for the Sunday dance with the rest of the fire brigade band, slobbering into his instrument with his fat lips, pawing its valves with his plump digits …” He bent over the cogs, screws and pins again. “The mechanism is crudely constructed,” he repeated absent-mindedly. “But it is not bad. Look here—there are even some rubies. It could work and it will work. I give you my word on it, and my word is worth something, although I did serve time in prison. Five years to the day, and innocent into the bargain … Five months maximum is what I should have got and my lawyer promised me that too … But, frankly, I am not a lucky man. If I fall in love with a woman, she’s bound to belong to another. ‘Come with me instead, we’ll go to America,’ I’d say. ‘A relative of mine lives in the Negro quarter. He’s a watchmaker like myself and all Negroes love watches. But they’re both awesome and terrifying, the Negroes. Like children, they wreck them and overwind them. They have money, you can sell them a ring for far beyond its worth. It is possible to make a living there, I know it is.’ But she would have none of it. ‘If it were only me, I’d go with you, but now our child is on its way. Why don’t you share my excitement? We’ll be even happier then than we are now!’ she said, pulling me close. Stifling a cough, she kissed me and instead of suffocating herself she smothered me with her white serpent arms; it felt good, and, looking back I don’t
regret anything! Taking my breath away she
intoxicated
me; it was like a dreadful drunkenness deeper than that from dark beer; a crimson darkness fell in front of my eyes. Heat suffused each limb and turned it weak. Only my heart leapt with a furious fire and angry ardour! Surrender was sudden, and the slightest of sighs escaped, so tenderly that it barely caused the feathers to flutter, nor frightened the little mice in the corner … And I found myself agreeing with her. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘The Oom-Pah will certainly be better
positioned
to look after our child than I will having only just arrived in Harlem. But, Jarmila, have you
considered
that your Oom-Pah is twenty years older than you? Maybe he’ll die soon. Then we’ll get married, the child will be mine, and so will you! Thank God, even the rich have to die, don’t they? He bought you far too cheaply for next to nothing. Just like he swindles poor farmers, paying them a trifle for their most
precious
down feathers. He is the mighty merchant after all. He knows all about feathers separating them into piles—the finest here, the ones of average weight and quality there, and the heaviest there …’ ‘Stop talking of feathers,’ she whispered, and pressed up against me once more, insatiable …”

H
E HAD ENTIRELY IMMERSED HIMSELF
in the wretched watch and there it was, devoid of all its entrails apart from some little cogs which were apparently attached to the mechanism of the hands. He extracted one of these cogs using tweezers, held it up to the light, twirled it in his fingers, eyes half-shut.

“Here it is, dear sir! Either the cog was badly cut and was acting up for that reason or it wasn’t lying dead level, thus distorting the entire mechanism of your watch. I can’t say which as I don’t have the appropriate tool with me: do you want to come back tomorrow evening?” I replied that come tomorrow I’d be on my way to Paris. He seemed sorry about this, but remained silent.

“Please keep the watch,” I said. “You’ve laboured over it and I have another at home, a gold watch.”

“Keep it? No, that’s out of the question! Give me your address, I’ll send the watch on.”

“All right. I live in rue Monsieur, number nineteen. Do you want to make a note of that?”

“What for? My memory is far too good, I
remember
everything as though it were etched upon it as on stone. You’re an educated man. Can you teach me how to forget?”

“If that’s all,” I said laughing, “I certainly can.” Breathing heavily he stared at me with his right eye wide open. He had drunk excessively, but was still lucid. As for me, no amount of alcohol, even a
quantity
like that affects me.

“Well, come on! How can I forget?” he asked with unusual intensity.

I was ashamed of my big mouth. “Well, you know the answer yourself, there’s only one way: old father time.”

“But how long?”

“A year, or two, perhaps five.”

“And if five years haven’t helped, what then?” I said nothing. Nor did he. We continued to drink. The tavern was beginning to empty. The tall, slim waitress came past every now and then, skimming the head of the toy trader with her bare arm. He pretended not to notice, but his smile seemed increasingly bitter. And yet he was deeply affected as I could tell from his hands. He couldn’t control them as well as the
expression
in his eyes.

“It’s a bitter-sweet thing being the slave of a woman. And it’s the same for a woman. But why should he, the Oom-Pah, the lawful husband, be entitled to only sweetness and light? I’ll be honest, sometimes I beat Jarmila. Mostly Mondays. Although I danced with her nearly every Sunday in the inn as her husband was
sitting on the terrace blowing into his instrument with his fat cheeks. As his musical part dictated he played only the bass notes, emitting flaccid, gurgling sounds like a merry pig: gorged and gratified, robust and rotund. His rosy, ugly mug, smug with glee, reflected in the shiny brass belly of the horn which she’d had to polish for him in the morning until it gleamed. He played well, with gusto—and downed his beers. He allowed us to dance, the young lass and lad. But he made up for it at night, taking what was his by law. Not under sacks, to the scampering of mice, not in the stinking residue of feathers, a little blood and muck always sticking to the quills … No, upstairs in the
softest
of downy white quilts. I didn’t take it out on him, but on her. In spite of her condition. I didn’t hit her hard, mind, oh no. And she clawed at me or
half-strangled
me when I returned from a tête-à-tête with a girl at some house entrance or at the well. I wanted to get away from her. Enough was enough! I could
easily
get married: I was well-respected in the place as a qualified watchmaker and precision mechanic; not badly decorated, either, as a former artillery gunner in the war and a reservist in our Czech army. They didn’t hit one another though! And when the child came, what joy for the pair of them! The pair of them! Did he deserve it? I was the one she had wanted it from, therefore it was mine, right? Tell me honestly, could I
really leave it to him? It’s not natural, no human could do it! And I was to be left with nothing! Did he know? Did he not know? He could not possibly believe that his wife who had been barren all along, infertile, would suddenly ripen for him, bear his fruit and bring a little Oom-Pah into the world? No, oh no. The child was mine. If there’s one thing I know in this deceitful world, it’s that. At first she admitted as much. It couldn’t be otherwise. Just like me, as the pictures in the album at home will show you, the child was born with a halo of hair like rays of sun; his father-by-law, on the other hand, had been black as the night in his youth, and was now grey as sand. My dear sir, I don’t know if you have wife and child, nor whether one should wish these earthly treasures on a man who has not embarked on this path yet …” He glanced at my bare ring finger, but I didn’t respond to his question. “No,” he said, “if you’re not married yet, don’t do it. If you have never held a new-born child in your arms and if it hasn’t yet dampened your skin with its warm pee,” he was
chortling
now, a child himself, and I could see his beautiful, sharp teeth, “then let it be. I said to her: ‘Jarmila, come on, let’s go now! It’s the only way, Jarmila, believe me!’ She acted as though she didn’t understand.

‘Go to Prague, you mean?’ she said. ‘I’d like to travel to Prague, it’s meant to be so beautiful, so
elegant
and such fun!’

‘Take our child in your arms, wrap your scarf round your head, and let’s sail from Hamburg. Come on. I’ll take care of you!’

‘Only as far as America?’ she asked in a derisive tone I didn’t know her capable of. ‘Off to America with a new-born baby on one arm and you, with only your good looks and wits to declare, on the other? Prague for a day, fine! America and the unknown? Never!
Penniless!
Forever? I think not.’

‘But what’s to become of the four of us?’ I asked, foolishly.

‘Four? Only two! You and me! Am I not yours?’ she whispered, drawing me into her house, into the bedroom, showering my forearm with a hundred kisses or more, from the palm of my hand upwards to the elbow, even the place that our child had
dampened.
Her beautiful, full bosom heaved with every hot breath (we were of course alone in her house, her
husband
away buying feathers from small farmers). She unfastened the brooch of her blouse with its splendid embroidery (the local women are all accomplished at embroidery, and Jarmila was perhaps most talented of all!); she lifted the child very gently from the cradle and held him in her hands and let him sup;
whenever
the strong little rascal let go of her nipple I could see it erect, gleaming rosy-red in the dusky room. I watched the baby sucking and gurgling and laughing,
a picture of contentment and health, thank God! I sat very quietly, taking in everything and saying nothing. Perhaps none of this was mine. And yet I stayed! I heard footsteps outside and thought it must be one of the farm-hands, thankfully both friends of mine. Or maybe even be the brother-in-law, the schoolmaster. But she didn’t think so and dropped her blouse even further: I now could see her body changed by our love, rather like dough that rises in the tepid warmth of the oven. From her navel down to her hips were slight, tender furrows, like etched lines, stretching from one side to the other. This was new to me, and
frighteningly
beautiful. I averted my eyes. ‘Look! These are from you as well,’ she said, ‘They’ll never disappear.’ Her arms too had grown fuller and lost the slenderness of youth. ‘Don’t you want me anymore?’ she asked. ‘I love you,’ I replied. It was then, I think, I confessed my love to her for the first time. But she didn’t respond in kind. So I left the bedroom and the house, left even the village, and walked for an hour into a little forest. I didn’t see her again for a long time. Believe it or not, I struck up a friendship with Oom-Pah’s brother, the schoolmaster. He lent me beautiful books, and I made him beautiful clocks, with cuckoos or pleasant chimes. I even planned to make him a revolving globe out of a bowling ball, old maps and papier-mâché, but I didn’t manage to. His sister-in-law came by often:
Maruschka, a very lovely, innocent creature, willowy, and brunette, but with work-worn hands which were not as fine as Jarmila’s. Her hair had a tart smell, not like Jarmila’s, which smelled like corn-flowers … My child was christened, and the Oom-Pah swaggered around proudly. He sat below at the dignitaries’ table now on Sundays, while I was playing the violin on the podium, fluffing my way through. Maruschka,
practically
my bride, listened, and so did the other one, Jarmila. But finally the Oom-Pah couldn’t bear it any longer. He came upstairs, forced me off, and took up his instrument. I just laughed. I didn’t mind.”