Jarmila (5 page)

“
T
HE BARN
was cordoned off behind us. I was taken to the fire station; my hands hadn’t been tied after all. I couldn’t sleep. It struck me in the dead of night that I might be an arsonist, thanks to my own foolishness, but Jarmila’s husband was a murderer, driven by jealousy. He had deliberately replaced the trap-door with the thin slats, he had calculatingly had the floor of the barn paved with flagstones, and he had intentionally stuffed the feathers into sacks!

And yet it had all so nearly backfired; Jarmila and at least the second child could have been mine, had I not set the fire, utter fool that I was. What could I do? Mourn the dead? Or try to avenge myself once more? Revenge is good! Revenge is better than love. Now I would not have cried, would not have held my hands to be tied.

The next morning as they were getting
Oom-Pah’s
wagon ready to take me to the county court his brother-in-law, the schoolmaster asked smugly: ‘How could an educated man do such a thing?’ Later
Maruschka
showed up, lamenting and weeping of course, but I kept my distance. ‘Don’t push me away,’ she said, ‘You’ll live to regret it!’

‘What’s left for me to regret?’ I responded, ‘I never regret.’

‘I’ll wait for you anyway,’ she said.

‘Wait? For how long?’

‘Until you get out of prison, as long as it takes.’

She looked into my eyes, ‘Am I not yours?’

‘You’re the devil’s,’ I spat, gripped by my insatiable fury.

‘Is that your final word?’ she asked, a typical woman, refusing to understand the obvious. I didn’t respond for at that moment the police officer came to collect me. I pulled my cap down to hide my face and followed him closely. He took the reins himself for he liked to drive and did it well. I looked across the fields and when we passed our little wood I thought to myself that I might not walk these fields nor smell these pine needles for a long time. For it was like Maruschka had said: ‘As long as it takes …’ But I still did not know the full story. How was I to know that five hard years of
imprisonment
lay ahead? If they had had their way they would have sentenced me to life. The old man on the other hand was guilty of the death of his wife and his second child but did not even appear before the jury. He said he had to protect himself against theft, feathers were expensive after all. A three-judge senate fined him fifty crowns for negligence, and even that had a grace period … In the village, though, everyone knew who
the murderer was. They didn’t want him as a fireman anymore. They didn’t ›er merchant, nor as a village musician, and he was forced to leave without delay. But not alone! He took my son. For he was the lawful father. And he took
Maruschka
, too, his brother’s sister-in-law and my bride to be. They got married just two years into my sentence. Now she is my child’s stepmother. He is theirs
according
to the law. Yet he belongs to me for I am his natural father. He is my flesh and blood. I’d rather burn in hell with the three of them than leave them together!”

In the meantime we had reached the hills of Vyšehrad along the banks of the Vltava, where a road had been cut into the cliffs with the help of explosives. Below the rock it was sheltered and much warmer than
outside.
He stopped, his breath coming fast. His hoarse whisper resounded in my ear: “Do you think I’m a good-for-nothing? I was in that cell for five years,
busying
myself with watch-making. It was then that I came up with my little invention, the mechanical toy. It sells well, my child and I could easily live off it! Here, or in America. I want him back, I’ll get him. Believe me! You will see!”

“Don’t you think,” I said so loudly that the rock walls reverberated, “You’ve brought enough
unhappiness
to people?”

A
LTHOUGH
I hadn’t known the watchmaker long, I felt close to him: I recognised some of my own mistakes and shortcomings in him, although I’d never gone to such extremes. Not that I was overly proud of my restraint, it was more that I wanted him to see sense. The pretty waitress’s attentions in the inn showed that people obviously still found him attractive and I thought it a waste. Some time ago, out of the blue, I was sent the watch. The glass had broken in transit, but the watch itself worked well. Unfortunately there was no letter enclosed, not a word, not even the sender’s name. So the watch did not bring me any pleasure. I kept it on my desk and used it as a
paperweight
. I felt ambivalent about it, and though I could not part with it nor would I wear it either although it was much more precise than the watch I’d inherited from my great-grandfather.

Just three weeks ago my concierge told me two tramps had come by looking for me, an older sort and a very handsome, very young one. They spoke in a foreign language. A strange feeling stirred in me. I was very happy. Who else could it be but the watchmaker and his Jaroslaus? Was he really his own
flesh and blood, as the poor fool had believed so
fervently
? On the other hand I had a grim foreboding, the cause of which is obvious. I now expected their arrival anytime which led me to neglect even my business affairs. Finally they arrived, three days after their first visit. But what a change in the appearance of my friend—I almost felt moved to call him this. He was just skin and bone, his eyes hollow, his clothes dusty, his hands and face covered in dirt, every inch a tramp.

The child was the exact opposite: an enchantingly beautiful boy, large-eyed and slender, the spitting image of his father. He was a little pale, and his cheeks may have been rounder in Prague, but his clothes were clean, and his little hands, the nails neatly clipped, were white and smooth like a girl’s. He was wearing a small gold ring of which he seemed overly proud. He was quite at ease and held his hand out to me as if we were old friends. I ran down to the concierge straight away to order food for both of them. The father’s eyes shone longingly, but he only ate a little. The child, however, didn’t lift his beautifully lashed blue eyes once, but wolfed down his meal just like any child who has not seen a well-laden table for a while. It was evening and while we were going for a walk the warm-hearted concierge prepared the guests’ bedding from her own supply of pillows and sheets. The child
walked proudly at his father’s side, rubbing up against him like a cat. He did the same to me, and later back in the building also to the old concierge who was not known for her fondness of children but had devoted her heart to orphaned cats instead. Soon after we sent the child to bed. He obeyed without any argument. So good was his upbringing. I had rarely encountered such a charming personality which I suspect he had inherited from his mother. And yet I didn’t particularly warm to him. I told myself I was getting old. Age often brings distrust. Why then did I trust the father? He was strangely taciturn. All I knew was he had crossed the Czech-German border on foot and the weather had been pleasant. What about the second border between Germany and France which was even more treacherous to cross? He looked at me innocently—as two people would who have nothing to fear from one another—and rubbed together his thumb and index finger, alluding that it had been a costly endeavour. It seemed he had entered from Luxembourg.

Why this pointless diversion? Why subject himself to another border crossing? I didn’t probe. I was aware that former prison inmates often maintained
connections
to the criminal underworld, if only to find out about the best routes, escape points and borders, which had gained considerable significance recently. Now he lived with me and I finally knew his name,
Bedřich Kohoutek. I had to remember to register him at the police commission, but he asked me to hold off for a few days. I discussed the matter with the concierge, and the good woman, usually a stickler for official regulations regarding her lodgers, was so enchanted by the cherub Jaroslaus, that she agreed to wait a few days longer. The child had soon picked up some French and could communicate far better than his father; taking advantage of the lovely weather he played outside with children of all ages in the street or the small park nearby. He always returned on time. He was so carefree, so cheerful—I never saw him looking pensive, and he never once inquired about Prague, his old father and mother. The young father and his son would often sit side by side at my table whispering. The usually reticent watchmaker would try to acquaint the child with his plans, most of which he kept from me. Why did he whisper? I did not understand his language. And I would never have betrayed him! All seemed peaceful, no police came looking, there was no mention in the Prague papers of a child-napping, at least not in the current editions.

According to the law child-napping was a crime. At this time of the American kidnappings it was
considered
the most despicable crime of all in popular opinion. Justifiably people were more outraged by it than by theft-induced murder. I suppose that is why my
foreboding was gloomier than ever. Was it the angelic Jaroslaus’ fault? Surely he was the most innocent of us all? No angel could lock its sky-blue gaze on my eyes more innocently and directly, forcing me to look away. I took his father aside and offered him money. I advised him to escape—alone! Perhaps the man had received good news about the crossing to America that very day for he just laughed.

I
WAS DELIGHTED
for him knowing that he’d soon be where he had longed to be for such a long time. So I hid the fact that I’d miss him. I was concerned, however, about how the child would react to these plans and one day asked him—we understood each other reasonably well by now—whether he was glad to be going on this long voyage with Mr Kohoutek. Fetchingly the boy took my hands, pulled me down to him and whispered with sparkling eyes: “
Non Kohoutek, Papa! Papa! Papa oui
!” Followed by something incomprehensible in Czech which, judging by his gestures, meant the same thing. And how exuberantly he embraced his father when he returned home that evening, tired but happy, with one of the many necessary visas in his pocket! There was a ship leaving in three days. Crossing the border might have cost the father a lot of money, but by denying himself everything that was not strictly necessary he managed to have enough left. But a few things still had to be taken care of and while he rushed around the city to get them done the child stayed with me, playing with the stamps which he cut from my letters or playing out in the yard or in the small park. The watchmaker always returned with something for the child, fruit,
sweets or a cheap toy. The boy had probably never received pocket money from him. It was therefore understandable that he showed interest in the French coins cast in nickel and bronze, some of them with an intriguing hole in the middle. I let him play with them and found it delightful that he would always return them in full. He had excellent manners and I learned from his father he was also top of his class. One would expect no less with Jarmila as the mother and Maruschka as the step-mother.

But all joking aside, when Bedřich and I were sitting together late one evening in a café and his departure was approaching, I confessed how disappointed I was in him: what about the man he used to call “Oom-Pah” and now simply referred to as “the old fellow” and of Maruschka, wilted before her time: they must be
worried
sick about the child back in Prague? My friend didn’t fly into a rage. My concerns did not surprise him and he promised to make amends. He gave me “the old fellow’s” address and asked me to send news of the child upon their arrival in America, using a typewriter and not revealing their address. It wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind, but was certainly preferable to the
ongoing
silence which had shrouded the child’s fate so far.

Was there a real solution? Could nature be
reconciled
with the law? From my small balcony I have a view of the park. A wooden hut stood on its periphery
from where an old lady sells cheap ice-cream and
coconut
milk to the children playing in the park. I wanted to give the dear, sweet boy a treat, and so I handed him a franc and pointed to the wooden hut. The child understood immediately, and licked his lips with his little pink tongue like a kitten, thus indicating he would indeed use the money for ice-cream. I sat down to work and let the child go off by himself, although he tried (tentatively!) to take me with him. But I had to focus on my business and thought Jaroslaus would chatter away more freely with boys his own age than with a
middle-aged
man like me. When he had left, I went out on to the balcony anyway. It was really difficult not to watch him. I could see Jaroslaus gambolling with bouncing blond curls as he ran down the sloping street. He did not stop at the ice-cream shop, but continued instead at a slightly slower pace.

I wouldn’t have given this another thought had Jaro not fallen ill the next day. He curled up in a ball in bed, groaning in pain, holding up his long night-gown as he ran to the toilet at least twice an hour. He ate nothing, drank nothing, and yet his cheeks and his little tongue were as rosy as ever. But why would the child hitherto obedient, and looking forward to the voyage (and to the American stamps), suddenly feign an illness? His father (who had always held children dear, but wasn’t entirely sure of how to deal with them) was pale as a
sheet. He insisted we call a doctor. He reproached me for giving the child money for something as
dangerous
as ice-cream or coconut milk, and I was relieved when the doctor said he could find nothing wrong. It must be nerves, he said, his age, and similarly
meaningless
phrases recited in seemingly learned tones which would earn him his fee. The next day the child was truly wretched, shivering, although he had no
temperature.
He scuttled out every half hour now. I did notice though that he was observing us furtively, and gave a jerk at any unusual noise at the door. And another silly detail caught my attention: when he went to the toilet, the child began to whistle, something he had never done before. While this was as insignificant as the ice-cream cone and the coconut milk, my old distrust led me to suspect that the child was lying, deceiving us, or his father at least. My instinct told me he was cleverer than we were and that we shouldn’t trust him. But his father trusted him blindly, just as he had trusted the mother, the beautiful Jarmila. When I shared my thoughts with him he was furious with me, not with his beautiful,
perfect
child. He was understandably irritable for he had the tickets for boarding the ship which was to sail the next morning. The two small suitcases were packed. I advised him urgently now, desperately, to leave
immediately,
just as in years gone by he had tried to persuade Jarmila. Now, as then, it was a lost cause.