The Ice Cream Man (7 page)

“What war?”

“When did it start?”

“Oh, it’s over already?”

“So what happened?”

“Do you intend to remember him tomorrow?”

“Remember?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

They look at each other, baffled—Mrs. Němcová, who has been hovering around Esther all morning, and Esther, who has been trying to shake her off as if she suspected there was a question on the tip of the old lady’s tongue for which she had no answer.

“Don’t you know what day it is tomorrow?”

“Tuesday?”

“The tenth of July.”

Nothing registers in Esther’s mind, but in order to gain some time she asks, “Is that tomorrow?”

“Yes, it’s tomorrow.”

“I’ve lost all sense of time.”

“There’s some wine in the cellar.”

“I see.”

“And if things work out, there might be some pork on the table, but it’s got its price . . .”

“How much?”

“Well, that depends on whether there’s a pig somewhere, and if it gets the back of an ax in its head . . .”

“I ought to ask Tomáš.”

“Pah! Surely you don’t need to consult Tomáš on everything? And anyway, shouldn’t this be a surprise?”

The landlady charges off down the slope through the tall grass, her basket swinging in the crook of her arm. The man and woman remain silent until the landlady reaches the very bottom, leaps over the ditch, and carries on her way along the road, raising a cloud of dust.

“Where’s she going in such a rush?” Tomáš wonders uneasily.

“What day is it tomorrow?” Esther asks.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow, the tenth of July.”

Tomáš is silent for a moment.

“It’s my birthday.”

“Yours, or . . . ?”

“Tomáš’s.”

Esther does not reply. Tomáš says menacingly, “You didn’t remember.”

The next day, the landlady knocks on the door to their room and is unable to refrain from asking if Esther has anything to wear. They were on their way back from a funeral, and surely no one would want to wear mourning clothes to a birthday party.

“My dear girl, I hope you won’t mind if I lend you something?”

“Tomáš isn’t bothered about fancy clothes.”

“No, of course not, but he is bothered about you. And if we put you on display a bit more, he won’t even remember his own name.”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’ve had a look at you, sized you up . . . you’re my height, and fifteen years ago I was around the same size as you. Well, I’m a bit fuller in the bust, but that’s not a problem.”

“Where is Tomáš?”

“We’ve got some time to ourselves. I sent him into the village on some errands.”

The landlady goes into her own room to bring out a blouse that might
stimulate things a bit
(it is a fiery red), and she watches as Esther turns her back and puts it on. The blouse is clingy but opens up in generous gathers around the bust, and once she’s wearing the blouse, Esther’s skirt looks even more pitiful than before. Everything has been laid out on the landlady’s bed. There’s an entire outfit that the landlady has chosen for her, but Esther doesn’t know anything about it yet. It needs to be put together with a sense of spontaneity.

“My dear, what do you say to this skirt, isn’t it simply lovely? Light as a butterfly.”
It skims the hips but flares out toward the hem, and it is made from such thin, floaty fabric that it needs a petticoat, and the landlady has one of those as well that hasn’t fit her for years, real silk. “You’re a real beauty. Let’s have a little something to start things off.” The landlady pours them both a glass of genuinely strong liquor. “What about Tomáš, I bet Tomáš will catch us.”
There is no mirror, but Esther finds a suitable angle in the window pane, and little by little, it all starts to go to her head: the landlady’s compliments, the gathers over her breasts, the curve of her hips, and the black velvet-covered high heels the landlady just happened to find at the back of the wardrobe and that fit her perfectly, though they do clomp a bit. She doesn’t even notice when the landlady heats up the curling tongs to crimp her hair or when the red lipstick appears on her lips.

“We’ll rub a bit on your cheeks as well, but your eyebrows and lashes don’t need a thing . . . and now, my dearest lovely, the finishing touch, there’s no going back now, I absolutely insist . . .”

Remaining on the landlady’s bed are a neatly rolled-up pair of silk stockings and a garter belt. If she had begun by dressing Esther in these, Esther would never have consented to so much as the blouse afterward.

“Have you seen anything like these recently?” The landlady unrolls the silk bundles and caresses them. “Feel them.”

“I can’t.” A voice emerges from Esther’s throat that is so girlish and unrestrained that even she is shocked, and she raises her hand to her rouged lips.

“Of course you can. Take them in your hand.”

Esther places a finger on the surface of a stocking and slides it cautiously, but the landlady presses the entire stocking into her hand.

“Put them on.”

“How will they stay up?”

“We’ve got a garter belt right there.”

“I can’t, I should wash my feet . . .”

“Hurry up, then!”

They are both in the corner of the bedroom, working at getting the garters fastened, when they hear Tomáš’s footsteps on the stairs. Esther giggles with fright and leaps across the room looking for a place to hide, the velvet-covered shoes making loud noises on the floor, and the landlady shushes her, stifling her laughter as she clears off in the direction of the main room. “Well, what does the paper say?”
“There were no papers; I hear they haven’t printed any for a couple of days.” “Oh, really? What could be going on? You go and get washed before we sit down to eat . . . wait! Where do you think you’re going?” “I’m just going to get a clean shirt.”

Upon hearing that, Esther squeezes herself behind the wardrobe against the wall and holds her breath. “Don’t go in the bedroom!” “Where’s Esther?” “Esther’s in there.” Tomáš goes out into the yard. Esther creeps over to the window and sees him walking toward the shed, pulling his shirttail out of his trousers. When the landlady comes back into the bedroom, she sprays some lily-of-the-valley eau de parfum around Esther’s earlobes and throat and inside her blouse, then guides her to the coal-cellar steps to wait. The landlady opens and closes the doors as if in an amateur summer theater production; the cardboard scenery shudders as she ushers Tomáš into the garden and Esther to the steps, then hustles Tomáš to the bedroom and Esther back to the main room; all the doors are deliberately left either open or closed, and the women pile the dining table with tasty foods the landlady has been preparing all week. Tomáš sits on the sofa in the bedroom, listening to the noise, until the landlady peeps through the crack in the door and waves a dark-colored scarf.

“You may come to the table on the condition that you keep your eyes shut.”

“What’s all the commotion? You ought to have children.”

“For the time being, we’ve only got you. Now stop your chatter! And close your eyes!”

Tomáš obediently closes his eyes and hears some muffled giggles, then high-heeled shoes tiptoeing and strangely sliding over the floorboards; an overpowering scent of lily-of-the-valley wafts into his nostrils, taking him so by surprise that he has to hold his breath and is just about to open his eyes wide when a scarf is tightly wrapped around them. Rapid, nervous fingers wind its edges around his head and tie a tight knot against the back of his head; he smells the closeness of hands and the sweat of armpits, fabric that has hung in a wardrobe for years, and finally alcohol. The sensory onslaught causes him to whisper. “Esther?”

A cool, slender finger is pressed vertically against his lips, demanding silence, its smell reminiscent of candle wax. Then it disappears, and he is led by the hand over to the door to the main room.

“Am I going to be shot now?” Tomáš asks.

“Sit down and be quiet.”

“Esther, the matches,” the landlady hisses.

“What?”

“Matches . . .”

“What do you need matches for?”

“Stay there, you fool!”

“They were here just a moment ago.”

“There!”

“Ah, yes. Now, everyone be
quiet
.”

“Why do we have to be quiet?”

“Tomáš is ruining the whole thing.”

“Quiet!”

For a moment, the only sounds in the main room are the ticking of the clock on the wall and the wind rustling in the crowns of the spruce trees behind the house. The landlady scrapes a match a couple of times before it ignites with a hiss.

“Not yet! No, not yet! . . . Now! Now you can look!”

“Do I dare?” Tomáš turns his blindfolded head and pushes the scarf up onto his forehead with an exaggeratedly slow movement, but he does not even manage to blink before the landlady is pressing him to her bosom. She plants three intense but precise kisses on his forehead and both cheeks. “Many happy returns, my dear boy.” On the table eight flames flutter, and the brass glimmers with a dull sheen. Knives, forks, and spoons have been placed around the plates, which have pressed napkins on top. The vase is overflowing with roses from the back garden, and only then, behind the candles and roses, does Tomáš take in Esther’s garishly painted mouth and her breasts puffed up with pleats.

“Happy birthday,” Esther says.

Tomáš merely stares, looking as if he wants to put the blindfold back on.

“Happy birthday,” she repeats.

“Tomáš! Wake up! Your wife is wishing you a happy birthday!”

“Oh, let’s just eat. When the food comes, he’ll get the picture,” Esther snaps as if in jest, but she is unable to do anything, too bashful to pick up the landlady’s carving fork. She stiffens under the man’s gaze, imagines it darkening, imagines it passing over her lips, her neck, and the pleats in the blouse around her bust. Suddenly, everything seems to be hanging on her, and she starts to wonder whether the landlady has dressed her up as a scarecrow or a decoy.

“Is that it?” the landlady asks in amazement. “What’s the matter with you two? Have you gotten shy with an old lady around?”

Esther forces herself to move and walks over to where Tomáš is sitting. Her skirt flutters around her thighs like an exotic butterfly, and her toes tense up in the clattering shoes. Tomáš makes no sign of changing his posture to make it easier for Esther to bend over and give him a kiss on the mouth, and on the mouth it must be. Esther leans down, her spine twisting awkwardly, and she puts one hand on the table to steady herself. How clumsy it looks—the landlady wrinkles her brows and peers at the man’s eyes, which are staring somewhere other than at his wife’s face or her lips. Esther bends over so far that her blouse slips off one shoulder, but the man’s arms remain at his sides like two prosthetic limbs, not even stirring in the direction of her body. Esther’s lips skim his mouth without knowing what to do; her head remains immobile, her mouth closed; she breathes through her nostrils. It looks like a film kiss; they both taste the lipstick, sensing a couple of small clumps, and when Esther finally pulls away, she blushes upon seeing his red-stained mouth. She tries to clean it off, but he starts to wipe his mouth as far as his chin. Esther whispers, “Stop it!” and then, straining as if the words are plum stones to be spat out, says, “
Well . . .
shall we eat now?”

The landlady has ceded the role of hostess to the birthday boy’s wife, as is proper, but she remains seated at the head of the table, mulling things over with her lips pursed together.

“Darling, I’m . . .” Esther can hear for herself how strained, how forced the word
darling
sounds coming from her throat. She sounds like a ventriloquist, or worse still: the landlady is speaking through her. “We’ve made your favorite dish.”

“What could it be?”

“Pork chops with dumplings.”

“You’ve certainly gone to a lot of trouble.”

“And plum sauce. You like that so much. Especially with pork.” Tomáš nods. “And just wait until you hear what we have for dessert.”

“It’s a surprise,” the landlady interjects, as if shooing a child from underfoot. “Why don’t you fetch that bottle of wine from the cellar, Esther?”

When Esther has disappeared beyond the cellar door, her cheek muscles twitching, the landlady studies Tomáš, dissatisfied.

“You look like you need a drink, too.”

“I see you’ve started without me.”

“We were having such fun.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”

“That’s how surprises are. She’s trying to please you, Tomáš. And you’ve hurt her feelings.”

“What on earth? I didn’t mean to.”

“Go after her now.”

“Should I go?”

“As if you don’t know what state the poor girl is in.”

“What state? Has something happened?”

“Don’t try and play the fool with me.”

“Why aren’t you coming upstairs?”

Esther turns away upon hearing Tomáš’s voice, clutching the wine bottle in her hand.

“Are you crying?” Tomáš puts his hand on the woman’s shoulder, pushing her impatiently to get a better look at her face. “What on earth are you crying for?”

“I’m not crying! Are you disappointed?”

“You’ll drop that bottle.”

“And what if I do? Will the world come to an end?” Esther raises the bottle and brandishes it, holding it by the neck. “It’s already come! Hell is already here.”

“This is your version of hell?”

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s a bit of a letdown.”

“It’s not going to get any better.”

“Let’s go upstairs.”

“Let’s go, and really give the landlady her money’s worth. Do you think I put all this on by choice?”

“How should I know what sort of clothes you’ve got back in Olomouc?”

“You think this is funny! That old lady did this on purpose. She knows, all right!”

“Knows what?”

“That we’re not married.”

“Of course we are. And what if we weren’t? Who would complain about that these days?”

“You idiot! It’s not about that! It’s about why we’re supposed to be married!”