Jarmila (4 page)

“
I
T WAS PERHAPS THIS SPARK
which kindled my thought. The farmer had just turned round, responding to Jarmila’s call in that cooing, enticing, husky voice I knew so well. I followed a strong urge which I can neither define nor forget. I would do anything to forget for I don’t want to suffer for the rest of my life. Was I seeking revenge? Or was the little fire meant to lure him away from her so that I could have her once more? At any price?

I crept to the hay-loft, and pulled out a couple of dried tufts from underneath, positioned them against the direction of the wind, added a full box of matches, and a few pages of the timetable I’d bought for the long journey. I waited for the wind to die down before setting the pile alight, nearly falling asleep in the dark. There was a strange rustling in the hay, field-mice I suspected. Somehow the place looked different. I assumed needy tenants had tried to steal hay for their thin, mangy horses, or scabby cows. How was I to know that there were people hidden in the hay,
sleeping
soundly—the two tramps to whom I’d been so generous in the morning. If only they had woken up! But the devil was abroad. Or God was, to punish her
and me and everybody else. I wanted it to happen and then I did not. The fact was that I had taken a woman away from a repulsive old man, who’d then stolen her back from me! But to set his hay ablaze? A fire which might spread to the village? I knew it was wrong but that didn’t stop me. I took a match to the hay-stack which slowly started to kindle. Only a faint glimmer moved slowly through the dark like a glowing worm. The air was damp and I thought it might fizzle out on its own … Then I crept back to Jarmila’s house. The farmer was still leaning against the window. The room was dark. They could not see me. Again the wife called for her husband, then started to sing a lullaby. Again I gave her a signal. She paused briefly, then resumed her soothing tune. But the child was a big boy! Why did she have to sing to him? If only she had remained silent, the wretched woman! The farmer tapped his pipe against the window-frame, three times.
Usually
he was asleep at this time. The horse whinnied, probably hungry because he had forgotten to feed it that evening. But the farmer did not move. The barn stood tall and black against early autumn’s clear
evening
sky. A wind was picking up from there and blew in our direction … For once in my life I’d been lucky, I thought! You’ve had your bit of fun, a voice inside me said, and the fire has not caught. Oh well, so be it! I wasn’t aware then how long fresh hay takes to kindle.”

“
C
ROUCHING, I WAITED
in the bushes. Already though I was aware of a faint burning smell drifting over. Everyone in the house seemed to be asleep. The horse rubbed itself against the walls of the stable, its tail whisking restlessly against the wood. All the geese were awake in their coops and started to cackle softly. Animals sense fire and fear it. Anxiously I longed to race over to the barn, to view the fire, my fire, from close up. I knew I had to stay put, though. The reek of burning grew stronger and stronger. It constricted my chest, almost choking me and my heart beat wildly. Finally the dual tones of the fire siren sounded from the village. The farmer must have heard them as well for they were piercing. However, he took his time. I heard a mass of people rushing in the dark towards the fire and only then did the creaking
front-door
open slowly. The farmer stood on the threshold, and I saw her little pale hand passing him his helmet and the belt with its heavy hatchet. He was certainly taking his time. Even now! Why did I not understand? Why did we not understand? The glow of the fire was clearly visible. He must have realised long ago it was coming from his own barn, and yet he moved
without any obvious urgency. First he pulled his belt too tight, then he loosened it again. I was trembling with agitation. My blood was on fire, burning more fervently than the dry hay out in the barn. He marched off at last clad in black boots and drill tunic to join the local fire-men at their assembly point by the fire-station in the main square of the village. I emerged from the bushes. I was only two steps from the door when a girl in a dark head-scarf appeared next to me and grabbed my arm. It was Maruschka. She had looked for me at my place and then run to her brother-in-law’s. ‘But why are you here, don’t you know there’s a fire?’ she asked me tenderly, slipping her arm through mine. She had wanted to keep Jarmila company, and could only be dissuaded with some difficulty. Fortunately her curiosity gained the upper hand and she ran off to ogle her brother-in-law’s misfortune from close up. The barn was now brightly ablaze. She dragged me along. Many women and children were now running towards the fire. I managed to lose her in the commotion and hastened back to Jarmila.

The fire seemed to gain in ferocity and sparks flew towards the village which is almost entirely thatched. However, I was concerned with only one thing and shameful though it is to admit I hungered for Jarmila as never before. I was certain of two things. Firstly, the farmer would be away for at least three hours for
when a job was done the firemen always had a drink in the inn. Secondly this would be our last meeting in this country. Only a few minutes could have passed since Maruschka dragged me from the house, no more than five or six, less than ten in any case. Possessed by a dreadful premonition, I hammered on Jarmila’s door and received no answer. All I could hear was the squawking of my child calling for his mother and the second farm-hand trying to comfort him. I choose to call it dreadful, because both can be dreadful, anticipation of exquisite joy as well as the premonition of acute pain. The bedroom was dark, the beds piled high, lit only by the glow from the fire. The flickering seeped through the window, falling on the couple’s bed and the child’s cot and lit up the second farm-hand’s long, bearded face with its simple expression. Actually older than the first farm-hand but never having attained that position due to his retarded mind, he was
doggedly
devoted to Jarmila. His apparent simpleness hid a profound craftiness, a talent for lying, and a stubborn streak. He would confess to nothing, and swear to anything. Thus he had often rescued Jarmila and me from the jealous husband’s reprisals.”

“
I
CLIMBED UP
the small staircase, its wooden steps luminous in the fire’s glow, and opened the door to the upper storey. I called my love’s name. There was no reply. Where the unwieldy trap-door used to be, there now was nothing but a few broken
paper-thin
slats. A dreadful thought that she might have fallen through the skimpy planks took hold of me. How this could have happened, however, was beyond me for the bright slats which had only recently been cut were gleaming in the dark. On the other hand it was only now the barn was on fire that its glowing flames illuminated the room. Now I could even sense the fire’s heat and hear its roar in the wind. A ferocious cry rose from the people outside, as if in unison. I did not understand why. I stood transfixed, spellbound. Jarmila! I called out for her once more, louder this time. I shouted as though to rouse her from an unconsciousness. I pressed my hand to my heart which beat so heavily and savagely, as it did when Jarmila tried to suffocate me in her arms.

I lay down flat on the floor and saw her immediately. She was lying below, prostrate in her white night-dress with its embroidered neck-line. She was unconscious,
her arms spread-eagled, her feet naked, bare. She did not move. I was leaning over her and she looked straight up at me.

The lower storey was only about three or four metres below and usually it was piled high with feathers which created a soft mattress. Now only naked flag-stones glared at me. The feathers had been stacked in the corner in a few coarse, grey sacks which reflected the golden light of the fire. I jumped down quickly, but landed so awkwardly with my left knee on her right hand that it cracked beneath me. Not even that woke her up! I didn’t feel any pain then, it was only much later that I noticed my knee was bleeding, not the left one, but the right. Jarmila’s eyes were still open, one wider than the other, and looked at me with a gaze both troubled and mischievous. ‘What’s the matter, you little tease?’ I asked, stroking her silvery little hand, warm to the touch as ever. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jarmila, you frightened me!’ I wanted to kiss her, but something held me back.

I didn’t know she was dead, but something in me must have sensed it. Her protruding stomach bulged out like a hillock. The room was now entirely lit up. I had grown accustomed to the darkness.
Kneeling
in front of her I could see the stretch-marks we had talked about in this very place. Now they were
still, nothing moved, as if chiselled in stone.
Desperately
I crudely sought the beating of her heart beneath her warm, heavy breast for that is where the heart is, under the breast! Was it still beating? When I pressed my ear against her, she was still warm, warm with life. But her heart was frozen still, silent as the grave.

Outside people were shouting and running
backwards
and forwards between the village and the fire. I was all alone with her. ‘Jarmila?’ I shouted, ‘Jarmila, wake up! Do you hear me? Don’t scare me!’ I repeated the same three sentences over and over as I tried to get to my feet. I failed. Even that was beyond me now. Not because of any pain but
simply
because I felt paralysed. A little down feather had blown through the barn on the sharp draught and got caught in my hair. Very gently I placed it on Jarmila’s lips. It moved, it moved visibly. Was it her own dear breath or merely the draught? I touched her cool lips. Nothing. I looked at her. She looked at me. Her eyes did. Not her. I rested her head in a more comfortable position, but when I let go, her neck snapped like the spring of a broken watch. People kept running past the house and I heard someone say: ‘… Jarmila … someone called Jarmila …’ I pulled myself together. I had to get help, a doctor. But there was no getting through the hole in the store’s ceiling, it was far too
high. So I rattled the downstairs door which was
padlocked
as I had noticed on my way up. The fire was slowly burning out and I was alone with the dead, in the darkness of night.”

“
I
COULD HEAR
a crowd approaching now with a cart or barrow, softly muttering. ‘Put them in here,’ a low croaky voice instructed. It belonged to the mayor who had only yesterday advised me to leave the village. ‘Not there,’ retorted Jarmila’s husband, ‘I don’t want them in my house. They belong in the municipal building, those two.’ ‘It’s me who gives the orders,’ the mayor said. ‘You’ll open your barn, and everything will remain here, untouched, until the police get here.’ Jarmila’s husband was still reluctant: he claimed he had mislaid the keys to the padlock and would not let them break his expensive lock. It was his. ‘Fine, then we’ll take them to your home: they mustn’t leave the premises for your house is closest to the scene of the crime. So, let’s get on with it: it’s the law.’ Grudgingly Jarmila’s husband opened the padlock. I was crouching by Jarmila’s body, as if to hide her. As if there was anything to hide. But I felt embarrassed for her … As long as I live, I’ll never forget the moment before the lock broke open and they entered one by one: first the mayor, then the chief of the fire brigade, still wearing his helmet, gleaming hatchet in his belt, and holding a powerful lantern,
then Jarmila’s husband and finally two young firemen, each one wheeling a barrow bearing a large dark mass covered by horse blankets. On crossing the high threshold one of the blankets slipped and I could see a corpse, charred, scorched, hair and nails burnt away, in terrible disarray, sooty rags hanging off the body. It was one of the tramps I’d shared lunch with that very morning. I shouted in fear for I was not in control of myself—it’s only now that I am able to describe the incident without shuddering. When the farmer hauled me up from the floor and dragged me from his wife it did me more good than harm, and I had no strength to resist. ‘What are you doing here? Were you planning to steal my feathers again, you filthy thief?’ he asked me. ‘And what have you done to my wife? Jarmila, what are you doing here? Why are you here, with him? Don’t pretend to be asleep, Jarmila, get up!’ He pulled Jarmila by the hand, even grabbed her hips and tried to make her sit up. The way she slumped down proved to everyone that she was no longer alive. Tears were streaming from my eyes. With his face drained of all colour, he remained silent for a long time, only stroking her hand. He shook his head. ‘So he killed her. What are you waiting for? Tie him up! He’s the one who broke into the storage room from above. He’s the one who set fire to my barn.’ I stared at the floor, neither acquiescing nor denying. I had immediately
recognised the corpses on the barrows—there weren’t any stretchers in the village—and was convinced of my guilt. Three people dead. I held out my wrists to be bound. There was no chain or rope though and when they tried a belt it slipped off. ‘Thief, scoundrel, murderer! What, in Christ’s name, have you done to my Jarmila?’ This time he shouted much louder than before. By now he had gained control of himself and spotted the small pool of blood formed by the slight wound in my knee. Deliberately exaggerating his anger he shouted, ‘You’re not only an arsonist but a murderer too! Look at this? Do you recognise it? You killed the woman! You are all witnesses, this is blood, isn’t it?’ He dipped his hand in the blood and held it up for everybody to see. All stood transfixed, in deadly silence. Full of horror, I looked down at the shiny new white tiles. I noticed Jarmila’s bare feet, the skin in shades of white and red. Delicate pearl-coloured feathers had been carried along by the draught and had gathered around them. This reminded me of the first time I saw her, those rosy feet embedded in light down. This sight had led to the ruin of us all.

He had lunged at me now in feigned fury, pounding and punching me brutishly, his massive knee thrust in my back like a stone. The mayor tried to protect me. Yet the farmer would not let go and pulled his hatchet from his belt to deal me a blow on the skull. ‘I’ll kill
him. He murdered her and I see this as an act of selfdefence. Such filth does not deserve to live!’ The mayor threw himself between us.

‘Shut up! Leave him alone!’ he said. He had looked upwards and seen the broken floorboards. He continued in an even graver tone: ‘You’re not to touch anything else either. Your wife wasn’t murdered. We are dealing with an accident. She fell on to the stone floor below. Where is the heavy trap-door you used to have here?’

‘He pushed her, he murdered her! Don’t you know him? He’s been after her for many years. In vain. Now he has finally had his revenge.’ He turned to attack me again, but my strength had returned and now I was the one to hurl him into the corner, sending him sprawling among his sacks of feathers, still clutching his ridiculous hatchet. ‘No one moves until the police get here. Everyone stay where you are! Get back!’ the mayor barked.

I meant to obey. He was right! Yet just at that moment the second farm-hand, the retarded one, appeared. He was bewildered by all the commotion. In his arms he carried my little son who was awake and looked around with his big, blue eyes. I jumped up and ran towards him …

Only to stop in mid-stride, stopped by the thought that he should be spared the sight of his dead mother.
A child of two years with a receptive mind should not be exposed to this sight, for he might never forget it. I snatched the horse blanket which covered the second tramp and flung it over the half-naked young woman, over Jarmila. I never set eyes on her again. No one stopped me. We all waited in silence for the police to arrive. A few old women whispered prayers, crossing themselves, shuddering piously while deep inside
revelling
in their old hate. The wooden trickle of the rosary beads could be heard—perhaps this was as it should be. The lanterns had been placed on the ground, the light fell on the barrows’ wheels and the dead tramp, the younger one. Jarmila’s husband had gone up to his child. With fat fingers he patted his shoulders gently and tenderly until he stopped crying. No one
intervened
when he picked him up and carried him back to the house and put him to bed. Then he returned. He ignored me and I him. By now the old women had started to weep and the police had trouble shooing them all out of the barn. The officer compiled a brief report and announced my arrest. Jarmila’s husband was also under suspicion but released on bail for he was a landowner after all and the suspicion surrounding him was not of the same gravity. They didn’t believe him capable of anything, but me of everything!”