Judge On Trial

Chapter Ten

1

HE WAS ON the terrace above the aircraft taxi area, leaning on the rail. An icy wind was blowing from the north-west and driving the snow in clouds along the empty runway. He turned up his collar and sheltered as best he could by the side wall.

At least he had left his parents inside; his mother would certainly have caught cold. His mother was happy, his father was more angry than anything else, and he — well, what were his feelings? Right up to this moment he had not believed his brother would really return. It had seemed too unlikely that he would come back. Hanuš had always calculated with such precision. Unless his calculations had only been a front.

A plane appeared high above the western horizon and rapidly came closer. There was no let up in the wind and the cold started to penetrate him.

Perhaps he really ought to have made an effort to influence his decision. Why hadn’t he? Because he thought it was wrong to, or because he had been afraid to? Had he been too preoccupied with his own cares? Or had he subconsciously hoped that his brother would return and they could be together again?

Now he could hear the whine of the engines; several rooks rose from the snow-covered apron and flew over his head.

At least he should have given him a more precise idea of the way things were here. When people were far from home, they easily fell prey to illusions, even if they were the best arithmeticians in the world.

The aircraft had landed in the distance on the concrete strip and was now speeding towards him. Several auxiliary vehicles set off from the terminal to meet it.

He watched in suspense as the aircraft came to a halt and the stairs were driven up to the fuselage. He walked a short way along the terrace as if to get a clearer view.

Fortunately he had good distance vision, like a sailor. The first to emerge was an air-hostess, followed by a Negro in a long fur coat, and several Japanese, or maybe Vietnamese, who all came gingerly down the stairs step by step.

He had butterflies in his stomach like before an exam. He had wanted his brother to return, after all, and now the actual reason struck him: he saw his return as a hopeful sign. Hanuš, who had always calculated everything and who had always valued freedom from his earliest years — so much so that he had always been geared up for a fight — was bound to have some rational motive for returning. Some hope, something of value that could be seen from over there better than from here, at close quarters. Even if that something of value was only that they would be near each other.

More and more figures appeared from inside the plane. His vision started to fail. The sky darkened and the cloud of snow that was swirling round the aircraft became thicker.

Finally an old woman hobbled out, probably the last passenger; he had the impression he could hear the tap of her walking stick on the metal of the steps. He sighed out loud, he had better go back and join his parents in the arrivals hall: and then they emerged. First a man in a dark overcoat and then a gendarme, the bayonet on his rifle pointing menacingly at the lowering sky. The first man waved a dark lantern, and carefully came down the stairs one at a time.

They were already on the ground. They took a careful grip on the stretcher and made their way with difficulty through the snow and darkness. He alone was missing, but that was merely an oversight. He leaped over the rail and landed softly and silently in the snow, scaring a couple of rooks, and was running towards them.

His brother’s pale, emaciated face could be seen from beneath the military blankets.

He leaned over the stretcher so that his little brother would know he was near him and did not have to be frightened any more. ‘So you’re back.’

‘Yeah. I had the feeling that you were in a bad way so I jumped on a plane. I expect you’d have done the same. After all, you even gave me blood that time, if you recall.’

The freezing snow crackled quietly. ‘Aren’t you afraid of what will happen to you?’

‘Of course I am. You aren’t afraid of what will happen to you?’

‘Yes, I am too. But less and less, I think.’

‘You mustn’t look at the gate they close behind you.’

‘And what are you looking at?’

‘At the sky, at this particular moment.’

And all of a sudden, he recalled a distant sense of release, an absurd experience of freedom on a path between two prison buildings. It was immaterial what would happen next. Only an effeminate, pampered and introverted mentality demanded the assurance that everything that caused it to rejoice at a given moment, everything that nourished and intoxicated its body and soul, would last for ever and ever. There was no way of insuring the future, one could only lose the present. He waded through the snow and was so conscious of the uniqueness of this moment that he was happy, even though, each time he glanced up, he could see before him the yawning barrack gates, and between them, beneath grinning horses’ heads, a guard just like the one escorting them stood observing their approach.

His brother was still looking up at the sky. Now his face was quite recognisable, in spite of the unfamiliar beard. Just behind him came his wife, whom he knew only from photographs. He raised his arm and waved, but his brother didn’t see him; his brother’s sight was bad, unlike his. So he ran back into the arrivals hall to welcome him.

2

He came in with the shopping and stacked it in the larder, then he went for water and firewood, cleared away the dishes, swept the floor and even dusted the shelves. He had a vague premonition that he would have a visit today.

He had started his leave last week after submitting his grounds for returning the Kozlík case. He had not even waited to see if the prosecutor would file a complaint against his action. He assumed that everything had been agreed beforehand. And even if the prosecutor did file a complaint, he would be back by the time the higher authority delivered its ruling.

He had told his wife he was going to the cottage and she had received the news without comment. Lately, she had not made any demands on him and not tried to explain anything. Either she had reconciled herself with what he had told her or she lacked the strength to persuade him he was wrong.

The evening before Hanuš’s arrival, she had come home in a very strange and wretched state: pale and shaking. His attempts to discover what had happened to her were met with delirious replies. He had wanted to cook her some supper but she told him she was not eating. He had made up her bed and offered to call the doctor, but she forbade him to and asked him to leave her in peace. The next day he had not returned home from the airport. He spent the day with his parents, his brother and his brother’s wife and had driven here in the evening, having invited his brother to bring his wife here on a visit. He had also invited Matěj and Petr. Perhaps one of them would come. Or maybe someone from the village would drop in. They often came to see him with their disputes and enquiries. It was simpler than going to a law centre.

On the other hand, his premonition might be wrong. He picked up the newspaper he had brought with him, but put it down without even opening it. It seemed daft to him to squander such a rare period of absolute peace reading newspapers.

In the sideboard he found a bottle with a remnant of cognac and poured himself a glass before finally opening the window and drawing over a chair to view the landscape. Now he could scan the whole wide horizon far into the distance, like a lifeguard from his basket.

A cool sea breeze blew in through the window and above the steep mountain peaks of Koh-I-Baba there soared an eagle, a creature whose element was freedom.

It was odd how many people had talked to him about freedom — Alexandra had even sensed in him a free creature.

He had indeed been fixated with freedom since his childhood, but had never proved capable of entering it. The war had shown it to him as a gate one might pass through to reach a world which had everything that people longed for and which he was denied: forests and home, bread and butter and warmth and a train you could get off anywhere. It was a gate that could not be opened from the inside — inside all one could do was watch and wait until some more powerful force broke it down from the outside. And so he had pondered less on the gate than on the force that would demolish it. He had never pondered on his own role; all he had to do was to enter the world which that benevolent force had opened up to him.

The benevolent force had appeared and for years afterwards he would still hear that cry of elation and relief: The Russians are here. And again and again he would be standing by that half-demolished fence: blissful, saved, alive — watching his liberators, his rescuers, his dusty angels, pass by.

He had seen freedom as something outside himself and separate from him — he had never learnt to make demands on himself, to require of himself what he required of the world around him. He had made no effort to heed himself in the way he heeded words from outside. He had tried to satisfy others rather than himself.

Had he really wanted to don judge’s attire? To believe in violence? Enforce the law? Bow the knee to the clowns dressed up as rulers, rather than donning a bright-coloured costume himself and laughing at them.

Had he not yearned far more to find a land where he would know he was alive — though it was possible no such land existed; or to wander the woods with a pack to hold his two blankets, his loaf of bread and piece of salami, and then to make love with a wandering female stranger on a crumpled red and yellow costume?

Alexandra had realised it. She had managed to anticipate what was hidden within him and rouse him from his apathy. That was something he should be grateful to her for.

He suddenly heard footsteps. From the sound of them he guessed it was a woman. Someone stopped in front of the cottage and knocked on the door.

He went weak all over and was overcome with such agitation that he needed every ounce of strength to get up and open the door.

It was Magdalena in a black coat and a fur hat, looking to him like a Russian princess who had stepped out of an old painting. He felt a sense of disappointment mingled with relief. ‘It’s you. Where have you come from?’

‘I have to talk to you, Adam. Something dreadful has happened, so I took the liberty of looking for you at home. Your wife advised me to come here.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Adam, they know everything. About that business — what we did on account of Jaroslav.’

‘Who could they know it from?’

She was aghast at the question. ‘How can I possibly tell?’

He helped her out of her coat.

‘I thought I just had to tell you about it… before it’s too late.’

‘I’m glad you came. Shall I put the kettle on for tea or — as you see, I’m hitting the bottle.’

‘I’ll have a drink with you.’

She sat by the stove. ‘You’ve got a nice place here, and it’s nice and warm.’

‘How did you find out they knew everything?’

‘He came to see me at school and showed me his pass. He said they needed to talk to me about Jaroslav. He sat me in a car and drove me all the way to Jihlava. Then we sat in his office. He behaved courteously and even spoke quite sensibly. He admitted that people sometimes got treated with excessive severity these days and sometimes the innocent caught it as well.’

‘He didn’t tell you whose fault it might be, did he?’ It had been his mistake that time when she came to ask for his help. He had meant well, or rather he had felt guilty about her for a long time. But two wrongs didn’t make a right.

‘But he’s small fry. He might not even agree with what’s going on.’

Her gaze was even more evasive than the time when she came to ask for his help. How long ago was it? Only five months. It seemed like five years to him. And it was as if all the things that had happened had started with her arrival. Had she turned up in his life in order to transform it, or had it been just a coincidence? ‘So what was he after?’

‘He said he could understand people trying to avoid reprisals, but I, for my part, had to understand that they had the job of seeing that people didn’t try to do it by illegal means. I was suddenly terrified that he knew something about our deal, but I said that I understood him perfectly. Then he asked me a few questions about how things were at our school as well as about Jaroslav. He asked whether it was true that they had wanted to dismiss him. Then I did something which I suppose was silly. I told him that threat had existed.’

‘It was stupid of you to talk to him at all.’

‘He could have sent me a summons, anyway.’

‘You are not obliged to answer questions about your husband. Not even at an interrogation.’

‘I wouldn’t have answered the question if it was anything important. But after all, everyone knew they wanted to throw him out.’

‘They always start by asking things that are common knowledge.’

‘But I’m not versed in things like that. You never talked to me about it. Then he asked why there was no longer a threat any more. I said I didn’t know. Perhaps they realised that Jaroslav hadn’t done anything wrong. But I had a feeling that he probably knew about the books. He asked me if I didn’t think there might be a connection between the fact he had kept his job at the school and my trip to Prague. And he cited the exact date I came to see you.’

‘It wasn’t difficult for him to find out about the trip. After all, you must have applied to the school for leave.’

‘No I hadn’t. It was during the holidays, remember.’

‘So you mentioned it to someone. Or your husband.’

‘He even knew you brought me back at night that time.’

‘He knew it was me?’

‘He knew that someone had brought me back by car. He wanted me to tell him what I was doing in Prague. And who I’d been visiting.’

‘You didn’t tell him, surely?’

‘What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t say I hadn’t spoken to anyone in Prague, could I? Or mention people I hadn’t met at all. Are you cross with me?’

‘What right have I to be cross with you? I got you into the situation. What else did he ask about?’

‘He wanted to know whom I’d met in Prague. I told him old friends. And I mentioned you too. Surely there was nothing wrong with saying you were an old friend of mine. But he knew about you anyway.’

‘How could you tell?’

‘He said: “And he was the one who drove you all the way home that night?” And again he cited the exact date. And the time. And he knew that we left again the same night.’

‘You’ve got observant neighbours.’

‘No, he knew about you. He asked why I had only invited you for such a short visit. I said that my husband and I wanted to consult you about something. He asked what we wanted to consult you about. I said we wanted your advice about what to do if Jaroslav lost his job at the school, of course. That you were the only lawyer I knew. He asked me what you had advised, saying it must have been something very effective, seeing that they subsequently kept Jaroslav on. Then he suddenly asked whether we hadn’t perhaps come for some money.’

‘And what did you reply?’

‘I said that we hadn’t. After all, we hadn’t come for money, had we?’

‘You don’t have to make excuses to me. I won’t convict you of perjury.’

‘But he knew everything anyway. Because then he asked me if I was aware that bribery was a punishable offence and that Jaroslav could be dismissed and the rest of us indicted.’

‘And what did you say to that?’

‘That we didn’t bribe anyone. I was so ashamed, Adam. I’m not used to lying. And on top of that he smiled and said we could talk about it next time. Only he was afraid that the next interview wouldn’t necessarily be as friendly as the one that day. I thought he was going to let me go, but instead he started talking about what would happen if they were to prove attempted bribery. On the part of Jaroslav and myself. Then something awful happened.’

‘Did he know where you had taken the money?’

‘No, he didn’t say anything about it. He said he knew I was a conscientious and principled person and that I might be able to help them in uncovering dishonesty in certain cases. He said that if I acted honestly nothing would happen to any of us. It was awful how he kept on talking about conscientiousness and principles and the fight against dishonesty.’

She tried to light a cigarette but her fingers were shaking.

‘Calm down. They can’t force you to do anything of the sort.’

‘I’m beyond caring now, Adam. I haven’t been able to sleep for the last few nights because of it. What can they want from me? Some tittle-tattle from our common room. It’s nonsense. Our lot are all in the Party. All except me — and Jaroslav. I expect they’ll all be asked for a report on me. But none of them will be able to tell them anything.’

‘Or each of them will tell everything. And one thing is certain: they’ll all be terrified of each other.’

‘They’re all afraid anyway. No one dares to say what he or she really thinks in front of the others. And there’s no escape. So what am I to do? Am I to look on while Jaroslav worries himself to death and my children are prevented from studying so they’ll end up forced to go and slog in some godforsaken Hole? Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘I just remembered something… Sorry, I am listening to what you’re telling me.’

‘There’s no more to tell anyway.’

‘Remember the time the two of us were on holiday in Moravia, and the evening you sang with the fellows in the pub.’

‘Yes. I got drunk and you were cross with me.’

‘I wasn’t cross. I was more confused than anything else. I’m incapable of enjoying myself like other people. Afterwards we went upstairs to our room and you took out a whistle, or rather it was a flute, a sort of black flute, if you remember, and you played on it.’

‘I don’t recall that.’

‘All of a sudden it seemed to me that you were radiating light. It was really strange: as if you’d been transformed; you seemed so superior and stupidly I became frightened. I was afraid I’d become subordinated to you. I was afraid not just for myself but for my whole world. You did kindle something in me anyway, without my realising it.’

‘You’re kind to me. I didn’t know I had anything like that in me.’

‘There was life in you. I used to talk about the future. I wanted to do something against war and violence, in the name of those who hadn’t survived, but: there was no life in me. I used to go on about a juster society and about freedom, but I didn’t know what I was talking about. And meanwhile I took away others’ freedom and repressed it within myself. You sensed it all, you didn’t even need to know it, let alone think about it. And all the while, you wanted to leave here and go anywhere where one could live in freedom.’

‘I wanted to go somewhere by the sea.’

‘You longed for the sea, because the sea meant freedom and huge expanses and movement. You were the freest person I ever met in those days.’

‘I don’t know what to say to that.’

He had left her nonplussed. She stood up and crossed the room, stopping in front of the dark window. ‘We used to have an elm in front of the window too, but it died.’ She turned back towards him. ‘It’s a long time ago. I expect I’ve changed since. It’s such a long time.’ She returned to the table and finished her drink. ‘I ought to be going, it’s late.’

‘You don’t have to go if you’re in no hurry.’

She hesitated.

‘I’ll go and get the room ready for you.’ He took a pile of firewood with him, with the newspaper on top.

First he made the bed. Last time he had slept here with his mistress. He could also make her up the bed his wife’s lover had slept on last. We think we’re lacking rights and freedom, but what we lack most of all is moral grandeur. Anyone who had accepted the morals of the mob invoked rights in vain — they wouldn’t help him anyway. Without moral grandeur there was no freedom. He had failed to realise that then. And there was something else he had not realised: that in order to distinguish what was being done in the name of life and what in the name of death, one had to know how to live. She had tried to tell him, to hint it to him somehow, but he had been closed-minded. They had not met at the right moment.

He still had to light the stove. He started to tear the newspaper. As he picked up the last sheet, his eyes fell on a smallish headline:

DOUBLE MURDERER SENTENCED TO DEATH

He read through the nine-line news item which concluded with the information that the convicted Karel K. had appealed against the verdict.

They’d tricked him — the bastards! How had they even managed it in the time? He was seized by a compelling desire to do something. To get in his car and drive to Prague. Only what could he do there now, at this time of night? And what would he be able to do the next morning? Nothing by now. Not a thing!

He struck a match and watched the paper go up in flames, and then left the room.

She was standing outside the door, her hair loose, carrying most of her clothes in her hand. She had just slipped her dress over her naked body. Maybe it was because that was how she must have looked almost every day at this hour of the evening, at the time when they were seeing each other almost daily, or maybe it was the twilight, but he felt an intimacy, as if he had gone back those fifteen years.

‘Thanks, Adam,’ she said, ‘I’ll try and find the strength.’

3

The next morning he arrived so early at the courthouse that the corridors still loomed emptily. His boss had not yet arrived. But in the office which he still called his own, he managed to catch Alice.

‘We were trying to get hold of you, Adam!’ she said as he came in. She threw him a sympathetic look.

‘You didn’t go too far out of your way. Do you know anything about that dirty trick?’

‘I phoned you off my own bat. So you’d know at least. The trouble was I only heard about it at the last minute too. He took the file straight back — the moment you left. He took it into his own hands.’

‘Who tried the case?’ he asked. ‘He himself?’

‘Of course! Who else? He notified the witnesses while you were still in Prague. But I knew nothing about it.’

‘It was on his advice that I returned the case. The double-crosser. Why did he give me the case, then, if he didn’t want me to try Kozlík?’

‘But he did — so long as he thought you’d play ball. But then he got cold feet. He’d be blamed for not keeping you under his thumb. What are you going to do now? Aren’t you going to complain?’

‘Who to?’ he asked. ‘And what about, exactly?’

This time his boss could act naturally. There was no pretence of a smile. It struck Adam that the necrophiliac eyes had a satisfied look in them. He had managed to pull off yet another dirty trick. And to cap it all he would soon have the pleasure of viewing his strangled victim.

‘I had second thoughts after all. Guilt was obvious. There was no point getting involved in a battle with them for the sake of a crook like that!’

‘That wasn’t how I saw it.’

‘We tried to find you, but you’d already left.’

The filthy liar. And there were countless like him. Those who stood up to them got swept away. Those who didn’t were gradually transformed in their image. ‘Did he confess?’

‘Yes and no. But there was no doubt of his guilt. Did you really have your doubts?’

‘I wasn’t given any opportunity to say what I thought. How did he take it?’

‘He put on a calm face, saying he had expected it. In fact he was shitting himself silly. Killers like him always shake when their necks are at stake.’

‘Everyone shakes when his neck’s at stake,’ he said. ‘I’d like to talk to him. Could you try and arrange it?’

‘Hardly.’ The Presiding Judge stared at him in consternation. ‘Whatever next!’

‘I know it’s impossible, but I also know that anything’s possible if they feel inclined.’

‘It’s against all the rules.’

‘The way you took the case off me was also against all the rules.’

The Presiding Judge did not bat an eyelid. ‘Where you’re concerned we acted entirely according to regulations. From the moment you returned it, it was no longer your case. If you think otherwise, you’re welcome to file a complaint.’

‘I don’t want to file a complaint. On the contrary, I wish to inform you that I’m leaving for good. As fast as I possibly can. I would merely like a word with Kozlík.’

‘You know very well I can’t allow you to see him. I can let you send him a letter if there’s something you want to tell him.’

‘I don’t want to tell him anything. I want to speak to him.’

‘If there’s something you want to learn from him, he could write you a letter. That can be arranged too.’

‘This is absurd! Only last week I was supposed to be trying him.’

‘May I ask what is so important that you wanted of him?’

‘I didn’t want anything important of him. I didn’t want anything at all of him!’

‘As for your departure, I’m glad you’ve raised it yourself. After all the scandals that have surrounded you…’

‘I don’t know of any,’ he interrupted.

‘I have in mind your exotic friendships, relations with foreigners and your altercation with State Security,’ he explained. ‘It wouldn’t even be a good idea for you to continue in your current line of activity.’ He paused for a moment, as if giving him a chance to object, but Adam said nothing.

‘I don’t want to finish you in the law, naturally, nor lose you entirely. You are well aware that I valued many aspects of your work. You’d have no problem becoming a notary. It would only mean moving up a floor and it’s not such a bad number. That’s unless you’ve something better.’

‘I’ve not been looking for anything, as you’ll understand.’

‘So think about it. There’s no rush. You’re on holiday. You could even extend it if you liked. Take another month!’

He was actually offering him paid leave. He was generous that way.

‘OK. I’ll think about it.’

Alice was no longer in the office. He was at a loss what to do. Start packing his things? He had nothing to put them in. Anyway he was still on a holiday. He remembered he had an empty case in his car from the things he’d taken to the cottage.

He came back with it shortly afterwards and started to fill it with the contents of his desk drawers. He ought to sort the papers out and throw away the ones that were of no more use — which was most of them. But he was unable to concentrate at that moment. Under his glass desk-top, Manda’s seven horses pranced — he had not had much time to enjoy them.

Go up one floor? How long would he stay there? He would hardly have time to set his bits and pieces out in his new office before he would be moved up yet another floor. The next floor up was the loft, and above that were just the chimneys!

The suitcase was so full he could hardly lift it. There was still his judge’s gown in the locker. He folded it as best he could and stuffed it in with the books and papers. It was unlikely he would ever wear it again. The grace that he had enjoyed conditionally so far had now been taken away. It was not long ago that the very thought of it would have terrified or even crushed him. Now he felt curiosity more than anything else: what was life like when one was bereft of the rulers’ grace?

All those people he had sent to prison during his time as a judge. If only he had had some sort of belief in the regime in whose name he had delivered those verdicts. If only he had had some belief in his own authority. But with the passing years, his self-confidence had dissipated. A judge who lacked self-confidence had to quit sooner or later, and accept with relief the moment when he could hang up his gown. What at first sight looked like defeat could bring liberation. On the other hand, he could be entirely mistaken, regarding as liberation what was actually defeat. The border between the two was imperceptible. It would be up to him how he interpreted what had just happened to him.

He sat down once more at his empty desk and again opened the drawers. In one of them, he found a long-lost photograph. It was of him and his wife. She was holding Martin in her arms and behind them towered some skyscrapers. The buildings were unfamiliar, though it must have been somewhere in America. He slipped the photo into his wallet and closed the drawer again.

All that remained on the desk was the black telephone. He lifted the receiver and dialled: ‘Is that you, bro?’

‘Yep. I thought you were at the cottage. I was just getting ready to come out to you.’

‘That’s good. I see you’re not working yet.’

‘Next week, maybe, all being well.’

‘What would you say to a bike trip?’

‘Now? Isn’t it a bit too cold for that?’

‘It’s quite warm outside. For the time of year.’

‘And where do you fancy going?’

‘To look for work, of course. And you never know, it might even be for real.’

‘Could be. But I don’t think I’ve got a bike any more.’

‘You could borrow one. A friend of mine…’

‘If you get me a bike, you’re on!’

‘OK, I’ll call you back.’ He picked up the case and left the office.

The route to Matěj’s took him past the Bránik brewery. He pulled up in the street called Za pivovarem. It contained just five old single-storey cottages. Several rusting cars were parked by the kerb and a stench of sewage, sauerkraut and brewer’s yeast hung in the air.

He hesitated. He hated gestures, but he had to wind the case up for himself somehow.

When he rang the doorbell he suddenly became aware of his unaccustomed status: he could now talk to anyone he liked, and say what he liked. He was no longer bound by any ties of responsibility or duty.

She came to the door herself. She obviously did not recognise him at first, so he introduced himself.

‘Oh, yeah, I remember now,’ she said with reluctance. ‘What do you want me for?’

Through the open door he could see into the kitchen. Nappies and brightly coloured underwear were drying on a line.

She was not very welcoming, but then he had not been particularly welcoming the only other time they had met.

‘Were you at the trial?’

‘Only for a little while,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave him alone for long.’

‘Is it a little lad?’

‘He’s a boy. What was it you were wanting, comrade?’

‘Did you speak to your fiancé?’

‘He’s not my fiancé.’

‘I’m sorry, I only wanted to know if they had allowed you to visit him.’

‘No. I haven’t the time to go visiting.’

‘But you will go and see him, won’t you? You realise that no one else will.’

‘Do you think I ought to?’ She relented and he followed her inside. ‘They are advising me to hurry up and forget about him.’

‘Who is?’

‘The lot of them.’ She offered him a battered kitchen chair to sit on, after giving it a wipe with a rag. The child was sleeping in a wicker cradle in a corner of the kitchen. ‘He done the dirty on me; a rotten trick like that just before it was born.’ She stared at him for a moment. ‘I didn’t see you there neither. That wasn’t you in the robes, was it?’

‘No, it wasn’t me. I only wanted to ask you, Mrs Körnerová, irrespective of the court’s finding: do you still think that your fiancé — Mr Kozlík, I mean — was innocent? Don’t you think it might have all been just a mishap?’

She gaped at him for a moment. ‘I ain’t going to tell you nothing. His lawyer told me not to either. He said I don’t have to say nothing, and that was what I was to tell anyone if they tried to drag anything out of me.’

‘I don’t work for the court any more, Mrs Körnerová.’

‘So what?’

‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

‘You weren’t the one who tried him?’

‘No.’

‘And you won’t be the judge any more?’

‘No! But I’d like to find out if there might be something we could still do for him.’

‘There’s nothing can be done for him anyway. That’s what they all told me. His lawyer told me I shouldn’t build my hopes up.’

‘I wouldn’t have sentenced him to death. I’d have only sent him to prison.’

‘But you just said you weren’t going to be his judge.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So it’s easy for you to talk.’

She was right: he was allowed to say what he liked, ask what he liked and even criticise authority. But the only reason he could was because he was powerless to do anything any more. So he just asked her: ‘Will you visit him?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve enough troubles of me own.’

‘You ought to go and see him. He is the father of your child.’

That was probably the most he could still do in the case: persuade her to visit him.

If he acknowledged the case for what it really was, a dispute over a human life and not merely a conflict over his own career, then he had to admit he had lost. He stood up.

‘Thank you for sparing me your time.’ She was going to see him out, but at that moment the baby started to cry and she went back. As he was closing the door he could see her leaning over the cradle. For the rest of his life, that child was going to have to write on official forms: father — deceased. And if the form required more specific information: reason for death — asphyxiation from hanging.

His last case had closed. What remained for a judge when he was no longer allowed to deliver a verdict as he saw fit? What remained for people when they were not allowed to speak? Who in the world, what in the world, could they turn to?

4

Matěj lent Hanuš his elder son’s bicycle and joined them on his own machine. He even suggested a destination: a village with the church whose claim to fame was that his great-great-grandfather had built it almost two centuries earlier. And it was most likely the only church in the country to have been built from foundations to roof by one single man.

They were lucky with the weather — the low sun actually gave out some heat. And even the wind was untypically warm for November.

As they neared the foothills, the landscape became more undulating. He was not used to cycling any more and although they had been on the road for only two hours he could scarcely move his legs. His brother, on the other hand, looked cheerful and whistled now and then.

The village lay on a gentle slope and the church could be seen from a distance. They rode up to it along a road strewn with yellow sand. He had been expecting a small church or even something more like a chapel, and was amazed to find just how massive a structure it was. The tower dwarfed the centuries-old lime trees that surrounded it. Its roof was topped with a weathercock which had doubtlessly turned before it rusted up. Six tall, narrow windows soared above them in the side wall. They leaned their bicycles against the trunks of the lime trees and Matěj went off in search of someone to let them in. The path around the church was covered in dead leaves which crunched underfoot.

‘Would you believe it,’ Hanuš said, ‘everyone stares at me as if I’ve gone off my rocker.’

‘Because you came back?’

‘Not just Father, either: at the institute, as well. They all want to know why. What shall I tell them?’

‘Do you need to tell them anything?’

‘Last month, a colleague of mine from Gloucester invited us to his home. He lives in an old brick town-house. He was born in it, in fact. And it struck me at the time that I too was born in an old house — an even older and finer one, but I would be unlikely to have the chance of showing it to him. Or even seeing it again. Is that a reason?’

‘It could have been for you.’

‘There was no reason. Alternatively, there could have been a hundred other reasons like it. And just as many reasons against too. After all, there’s nothing which you can state with certainty will be as important to you tomorrow as it is today. Unless you believe in God, that is. Or maybe you know of something?’

‘Hardly.’

‘I declared all false hopes taboo. Maybe it was also a case of being resigned to it. If Father were me he wouldn’t come back, because he knows he would have a better chance of working there and of achieving more. I could have achieved something there too, but in fact I couldn’t have cared less. But don’t tell Dad that, it would upset him: he set great store by me. Let him think I came back on account of them.’ He broke off. ‘After all, I don’t see why one should feel more responsibility to one’s work and career than to one’s parents.’

Matěj returned alone, but was carrying a bunch of old-fashioned keys.

It was cool inside the church and it smelt musty. The floor was covered with stone slabs, the ceiling was already cracking and immediately behind the pulpit there was a gaping hole in the plaster.

‘Is it really true that it was built by just one single man?’ he asked Matěj.

‘Yes. It took one man to build it, and now the whole village can’t keep it in repair.’

They walked up a wooden staircase, passing the organ-loft, until they found themselves among the giant roof beams. Then they walked along the brick vaulting which looked unusual and skilfully constructed from there.

‘How long did he take to build it, that forefather of yours?’ Hanuš asked.

‘The parish records say that the first services were held after two and a half years.’

‘That’s not possible!’

‘Why not?’ Matěj said in surprise. ‘Even when he worked from morning to night?’

‘All on his own?’

‘Apparently his wife occasionally passed him bricks or carried sand for him.’

‘And nobody else?’

‘Nobody else is mentioned.’

Hanuš became restive. He started to pace out the length of the building and then went over to one of the windows and examined the wall for a moment. He was clearly measuring its thickness. Then he sat down on a beam and took out his calculator. ‘Not on your nelly!’ he said finally.

‘Why don’t you think so?’

‘The walls alone come to over eight hundred cubic metres.’

‘Is that a lot?’

‘For one man? And who dug the foundations and put in the beams?’

‘He did, probably.’ Matěj went over to the bell. ‘It has a splendid sound. Whenever I hear it,’ he said, stroking its metal body, ‘I feel as if the old man is talking to me.’

‘What does he say?’

‘Go in peace! Go in peace! If I understand him rightly. A pity you can’t hear it.’

Hanuš was still pressing the keys of the calculator.

Meanwhile Adam climbed out on a beam and looked out of a small dormer window. He could see the roofs of the cottages and the tops of the bare trees above them, as well as ploughed fields, yellowing meadows and the glistening surface of the village pond which lay in a shallow depression.

As he moved back slightly from the window, he became aware of the shaft of light that cut sharply through the gloom of the loft area.

How long ago was it that he had yearned to climb up such a shaft of light and escape his fate? He was overcome with a forgotten exaltation: he caught the sound of an organ from the depths below him — someone had started to play the same old melody. With amazement he realised the coincidence, even though he had discovered long ago that one could not escape one’s fate, that there was no way of climbing out of one’s own life. However much one tried to convince oneself of the contrary, it was impossible to start afresh, or return to the point where one went astray. The most one could hope for was to stand on the summit — if one managed to reach it — and view the landscape one had passed through on one’s travels and try to descry within it what had so far eluded one’s gaze; one could also raise one’s eyes to the heavens which one had forgotten. And steel oneself for the deed one had postponed for years, or which one never believed could be achieved.

He also knew by now that one would never find freedom in this world — however perfect were the laws and however great one’s control over the world and people — unless one found it in oneself. And nobody could endow one with moral grandeur if it was not born in one’s soul, just as nobody could release one from one’s bonds if one did not cast off the shackles of one’s own making.

Perhaps he had managed to do just that: to cast off the shackles which he had grown so used to over the years that by now he regarded them as a need, as part of his own nature. Now, whatever the future might bring, he felt a sense of relief: for the first time in his life he was not requiring something better or different from the world or other people, he was requiring it of himself.

The sun went behind a cloud and the shaft of light disappeared. The organ fell silent too. The landscape outside sank into the shade and the forest on the horizon went dark.

He was making his way through that forest, his pack on his back, striding between the trunks of century-old beeches, oaks and pines, alone in a strange wood, neither followed nor pursued by anyone, clambering over the gentle slopes of sand dunes.

Night was falling, it was time to pitch a tent from his two blankets and cut himself a slice from his loaf of bread. He sat down under a tree and felt good. He was running away from no one, renouncing no one, not intending to abandon anyone or bind anyone to him, and least of all did he want to judge anyone.

All he knew was that he had to make it to this point: this seclusion, a place between life and emptiness, where his father had once found himself also. But his father had been driven here by a violence so unbridled that it took away his good sense and opened his mind to delusions, whereas he realised now that his own mind was just opening to life,

‘He couldn’t have built it on his own,’ Hanuš declared. ‘It wouldn’t be humanly possible in two years.’

‘Maybe the others helped him a bit,’ Matěj conceded.

‘But you said he built it himself.’

‘So it says in the records. But it could be that nobody noticed the others. All they could see was the individual who decided to build the church by himself.’

‘That didn’t occur to me,’ said Hanuš and put away his calculator.

5

In recent days, she had prayed every night: she prayed for herself, that she should at last find the strength to be humble and manage to be good; she prayed for Adam, that he should awake from his beguilement and at last find peace; she begged the Lord in His mercy to restore their understanding and love, and prayed for her children that they should obtain love and faith and mercy and that their lives should not end in emptiness. And she also prayed for her former lover that he should encounter understanding and human involvement, and for her long-lost friend Maruška that she should conquer her bitterness. She prayed too for the murderer whom she had never set eyes on.

But not even prayer earned her peaceful nights. Suddenly, after so many years, her dead friend Tonka had re-entered her dreams. She would arrive and ring the doorbell, or wait for her near the entrance to the bathing area, and she would find herself walking at her side with a feeling of relief and happiness; then they would swim together in the river until the moment she realised she was swimming alone. She would cry out in terror but already she could see the lifeguards carrying a lifeless body. She rushed over to them and recognised Adam’s face, blue and bloated, water running from his mouth.

Lord Jesus Christ, who died on the cross for our sins, let this cup of bitterness pass from me, grant me a little peace.

She was frightened of going to bed, fearing the anxious dreams and looking forward to Adam’s return. After all, he couldn’t stay there all alone indefinitely (if he really was alone), he had to return to work and come back to the children and her.

And when he did not come, the thought came to her each time that he did not have to return ever, that his departure had been merely a way of informing her — as painlessly as possible — that he was leaving her for the other woman. One day she would find in the letter-box a summons to attend court, and then the court would finally pronounce that the two of them no longer belonged together, even though they had lived ten years together and given life to two human beings. No, Adam could not leave her, he couldn’t do it, because after all they belonged together; they had promised each other that they would stay together in good times and in bad.

Maybe he had already returned to Prague and was living at his parents for the time being. But surely he would not be capable of being so near and not getting in touch.

She called in on her way home from work (she was able to choose a route that took her right past the house on the Old Town Square). She climbed the wooden staircase with beating heart and a dry throat (as if she had done something wrong and was coming to ask forgiveness), rang the doorbell, and quickly rehearsed a few naive excuses in her head to explain why she had stopped by so unwontedly and without letting them know in advance.

Fortunately there was no one in.

As she was coming out on to the square, she noticed in front of the house an old man whose face seemed familiar. He was wearing a hat of the sort worn by painters at the beginning of the century. He was holding a black umbrella and looking straight at her. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to her, raising his hat, ‘do you live here?’

‘No, my husband used to live here,’ she said, although it was no business of his.

‘I wonder if I might make so bold as to trouble you with a question: you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the history of this house, would you?’

She shook her head: ‘I’m afraid not. He might, as he was born here.’

‘The thing is, I’m trying to record the history of the entire square,’ he explained. ‘I have discovered that every stone here, if it were given the power of speech, would have a tale to tell. The patres chose this place well for a statue of a man who was as much a maker of the modern age as Columbus or Gutenberg.’ The old man leaned towards her and said to her in a half-whisper: ‘When I finish the history, it will make your blood run cold!’ He raised his broad-brimmed hat once more and moved away from her with short, crazy steps.

Then she decided to confide in Anka and tell her everything that had happened. So she called her and they arranged to meet; suddenly the hope grew in her that Anka would be able to advise her and would come up with something; or maybe her husband would. Matěj would then drive off to see Adam and tell him he was behaving neither properly nor sensibly and bring him back.

But when Anka arrived, they first talked about children and acquaintances and Anka started to tell her about a teacher friend of hers who had fallen madly in love with one of her pupils, who was twelve years younger than she was; then, when the lad left school, that reckless woman had left her husband and children.

The thought of Anka relating her troubles in similar vein to a third person killed any desire to confide in her. She only said that she knew of lots of marriages which had ended on the rocks lately and people were beginning to look for some other meaning to existence. Oldřich Ruml, for instance, who had always given her the impression of being a trustworthy sort of person, was said to be carrying on with Adam’s colleague at court.

Anka was curious to know what Oldřich’s wife thought about it, and then recalled that she had recently caught sight of her: she was going into a shop with Adam. Anka had scarcely recognised her as she had dyed her hair black.

When Anka left, Alena realised that in the course of their conversation she had learnt something that perturbed her, although it probably meant nothing. After all, Adam would hardly be carrying on with his friend’s wife. And anyway she was such a reprehensibly empty person! But why had he been going to shops with her? And why hadn’t he even mentioned meeting her? She realised there had been no opportunity to mention anything, as they hadn’t spoken together for weeks.

And if Ruml was carrying on with another woman, she realised with sudden concern, his friendship was not binding on Adam. And what sort of friendship was it? The two of them had hardly been seeing each other lately as far as she knew. Adam tended to associate with those who had been persecuted. He had never spoken about Oldřich. Apart from that one single reference to Oldřich’s infidelity. Why had he drawn her attention to Oldřich’s peccadillo, in fact?

She tried to picture Oldřich’s wife. She had not seen her for several years. All she could remember were rich colours: silver nail varnish and long shiny hair bleached almost white, false black eyelashes and an exotic dress made of a material imitating leopard skin. She could not recall exactly when and where she had seen her. And apparently she’d had her hair dyed black!

She couldn’t abide women who wasted enormous time and money at hairdressers, dressmakers and cosmetics counters.

A thought struck her. For a while, she resisted the temptation, and went and washed up the coffee cups. Then she wiped them and put them away. Only then did she go into the front hall, and with the sort of tense curiosity with which we open letters that are not addressed to us but we suspect contain important information about ourselves, she opened Adam’s wardrobe. He only had two suits: one he had taken with him, the other she had recently brought back from the cleaners. A crumpled sweater still lay where he had left it, and on a hanger there was a pair of trousers that he had bought in America; she could not recall when he had last worn them. With sudden shame she picked up the sweater and brought it out into the light. She really did find several dark hairs on it, but they seemed quite short to her and could easily have been his own.

And even if they were not his hairs, so what? She did not need any proof he had had relations with another woman: he hadn’t denied it.

If it really was Oldřich’s wife, then it was obvious why he had refused so doggedly to reveal the slightest thing about her. It would be just too loathsome and shameful.

She was overcome with excitement; as if she had discovered the mechanism which would open the impregnable gateway at last.

Her first inclination was to rush off to the station that same night and go after him. But what would she say to him? Could she ask him straight out? What if he still didn’t tell her, or didn’t tell her the truth?

When she went to bed, she tried to pray but was unable to concentrate and take her thoughts off her.

Next morning, she started to make a cake, in order to have at least something to take with her for Adam. She put it in the oven and went to wake the children. When they heard about the trip they wanted to go with her and she had to contrive all sorts of reasons why they could not.

To take their minds off it she played at doctors and hairdressers with them, allowing her daughter to invent several different hair-styles for her, and her son to prescribe her some toothache pills. By the time she remembered the cake in the oven, the kitchen was full of thick smoke. She almost burst into tears; it was not a good start to her journey.

She took the children to her mother’s and then went straight to the bus-station.

Dusk was falling when she got off the bus. She still had at least another half-hour’s uphill trek ahead of her.

It had become colder; a cold wind was blowing straight at her. When she finally reached the house, her fingers were so numb with cold she could not even insert the key in the lock. She banged on the door, but no one came to open it. Besides, she had not seen the car. Obviously Adam had not been here at all; he was off gallivanting somewhere with her.

She unlocked the door and went into the kitchen. The stove was cold, the ashes left in the grate; but the washing-up had been done and stood tidily on the draining-board: two cups and two glasses.

She knelt down and lit the stove and then pulled a chair over to it. As the room warmed up she became drowsy.

What if he refused to talk to her yet again? Would he go on repeating that cheap excuse that the two of them were incompatible?

Just tell me one thing: was it her? She made an effort to pronounce the name distinctly: Alexandra?

How did you find out?

I heard about it from someone who saw you together.

He said nothing. He wasn’t brave enough to admit it. He wasn’t afraid to judge other people, but he lacked the courage to own up himself.

How could you have… With someone like her! And what’s more, she’s your friend’s wife. It’s shameful. Can’t you see how shameful it is? We may not count for you any more, but what will your friends think about you!

I needed someone to love me, seeing that you didn’t love me any more.

You’re a coward. Instead of making a play for me, you went crawling after the first slut who crossed your path.

She suddenly heard voices from a long way off; then came the sound of a bell followed by heavy footsteps. She opened her eyes and then recognised Adam’s voice. She stood up quickly.

Three of them rushed in the door at once.

‘You’re here?’ he asked in surprise. ‘You’ve got the stove going. That’s good. We got frozen on the bikes.’

‘You came on bikes?’

‘We’ve been on a trip.’

She had been preparing herself to meet him on his own; what was she to do now? What did these two know? How was she to behave towards them?

Hanuš said: ‘You look fantastic as always, Alena!’ But he grimaced as if he meant she looked even more ghastly than usual.

‘You too, old chum.’

She offered them tea, but they declined. They sat down at the table. Matěj opened his pack and pulled out smoked sausages, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. Adam tossed the sausages into a pan of hot water and fetched the glasses. For her too. Then he went out again and she could hear him lighting the stove in the next room. Where and how would they sleep? Where would he sleep, and where would she?

She joined them at the table. They invited her to help herself but then they chattered away as if she wasn’t there. They talked about a church that was apparently built by some ancestor of Matěj’s.

There was a time when people built churches, or at least chapels, and took part in processions on Corpus Christi, and had joy in what they did and enjoyed their work; nowadays they ran after tarts, and had to get drunk in order to enjoy themselves.

Hanuš looked overwhelmed. He said he had not had such a splendid day in three whole years. Or rather — he corrected himself, as he had indeed enjoyed many splendid days over there — a day so free of worry and nostalgia.

Matĕj asked him about what he had seen and done and Hanuš was only too pleased to walk for them along Oxford Street, sun himself by the sea in Sussex, and act as their guide at parties, dances and Beatles concerts; Adam sat smiling at the head of the table as if he was happy, as if nothing had happened and everything was all right. He didn’t even ask after the children, or why she had come. From time to time he would glance in her direction, but maybe he didn’t even see her. Then he stood up and fetched the plates and the sausages. As he walked by her carrying the pan of boiling water, he asked off-handedly: ‘The children are OK?’

‘You aren’t surprised to find me here?’

‘Oh, yes I am’. He turned his back on her and started fishing out the smoked sausages with a wooden spoon. ‘You don’t know if there’s some mustard here anywhere, do you?’

She rummaged out a jar of dried-up mustard from the back of the larder and handed it to him. He set a plate for her too and also poured her wine. It was blood red. Like the blood she had spilt.

Adam turned to Hanuš: ‘You were saying that they treat you as if you were a lunatic — I propose a toast to that! That you had the courage to act unreasonably, just as the spirit moved you.’

She swallowed a mouthful of wine with distaste. She had acted as the spirit moved her that time and look where it had got her. He praised his brother while castigating her for the same thing. That was him all over: he’d always find words to suit his purpose. Now he’d even discovered the spirit: ‘as the spirit moved’ — she’d never heard anything like that from him before: no doubt he’d caught it from her. She had persuaded him that if he climbed into bed with her he would be acting as the spirit moved him. And it was she who had taught him to drink wine; he hadn’t used to drink before. And he wouldn’t have dared eat smoked meat for supper for fear of a stomach upset.

He sat here listening to what Matěj and Hanuš had to say and was obviously enjoying himself. When he was at home and she or the children wanted to talk to him, he’d be in too much of a hurry and use his work as an excuse; he would even get up from the table before everyone had finished eating.

And on account of him she had let them take that life! To make it easier for him to forgive her. In the process she had almost bled to death and he didn’t even ask her anything, or even look at her.

Remorse gripped her. She was alone, forsaken by everyone. If she had had even an inkling that she would find them here, she would have stayed with the children. What if something had happened to them in the meantime?

They started singing. Matěj inflicted his Moravian drinking songs on everyone. She enjoyed singing, even with Matěj, and they would sing together when he visited them, but today she was unable to, even when Matěj begged her to join in.

She went off to the room where Robert and Sylva usually slept. She washed in cold water and climbed into a cold bed, closed her eyes and started to pray. O Lord, who mercifully gave me back the gift of faith, do not abandon me, stay with me in my loneliness. And grant me patience and love, as well as the strength to be humble, let me forgive those who have done me wrong, and forgive me the awful thing I did, that I, a sinner, should have regarded it as the fruit of sin, that poor little innocent creature. And in Your mercy take its soul, that unsprouted seed, to You. And grant it peace and love.

Loud laughter came from the next room; she could make out Adam’s voice. She could concentrate on her prayer no longer. Then there was the sound of chairs being pushed back and doors banging. She could hear steps coming along the passage. Then the stairs creaked. The other two had obviously gone off to bed.

What two people could ever declare with certainty that they suited each other? As if something like that was pre-ordained at the outset and did not require constant effort. Nothing was pre-ordained: neither intimacy, nor love, nor trust; people had to go on looking for them and pray for them humbly. But that was something he was incapable of: he was proud, he would find it humiliating to make the effort to make friends with her, to go some way towards understanding her. Instead he’d sooner say: we are not made for each other. And what was he planning to do? To break up the home, abandon the children, leave them for good?

The house gradually subsided into silence, apart from a crackling in the stove; she ought to get up and tend to it.

Wouldn’t he even be coming in to say good night, and ask her how she was, at last?

Most likely he was waiting for her to come to him. He was incapable of admitting that he had done her wrong too; but she didn’t want to blame him for it; there was no point in worrying about the past, they should both be thinking about the future and looking for what might reconcile them again.

She listened to the silence of the house. The fire in the stove was already dying and the wind howled in the chimney. The window panes rattled and the creaking of dry branches could be heard from outside. She thought she heard a sudden quiet moan from the next room. Then a window creaked — maybe Adam was feeling unwell. He wasn’t used to drinking or eating late at night, and he had tired himself out on the bike beforehand. What an idea to go for a bike ride in the winter; most likely he was trying to prove to her, or to himself, how young and virile he still was.

She got up. She found an old coat of Sylva’s in the wardrobe and put it on.

He was sitting by the half-open window: big and powerful. He sat motionless as if turned to stone and did not even turn round when she came in.

‘What are you doing? Why don’t you go to bed?’ she asked.

‘I’m looking at the sea.’

It occurred to her that he had gone mad or was totally drunk. Then she realised that the valley below them had filled with mist and in the light of the moon above really looked like the sea. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’

‘No, I’m perfectly all right.’

He did not get up or look at her, he towered in front of the darkened window like a lighthouse above those imaginary waters. All of a sudden she realised that those waters washed him from all sides, he was cut off by deep water; it spread between him and herself; there was no reaching him any more; she could no longer speak to him, let alone embrace him, unless she leaped into that sea and swam with all her might. And at that moment she was seized by a mortal panic: as if she was already swimming, as if she was in the open sea and sinking beneath the surface, knowing she would never reach there; neither there nor back, and there was not a soul anywhere, no helping hand, no one to hear her cries, and the light that blazed out from that tower was too distant — cold and useless, incapable of saving her.

What if they really had been strangers to each other all that time? What if they had become so estranged that they would never ever be reconciled? She ought to ask him: Are you never coming back? But she could not pluck up the courage. She merely asked him once more: ‘You’re sure you’re not feeling unwell?’

‘No, I’m perfectly all right.’ At last he turned to her and actually smiled: like a stranger, off-handedly.

She went back to her own room, threw the coat off on to the floor, knelt down by the bed, pressed her face into the pillow and shook with convulsive sobs. What have I done, what awful sin have I committed? And that poor little innocent creature!

The door in the adjoining room creaked. Probably he just needed to relieve himself, or had gone for firewood, but she was seized with terror that he was leaving, leaving for good and all.

She raised her head.

Silence. Outside the window the dark branches of the bare elm tree waved noiselessly. With sudden hope she fixed her gaze on them. Appear to me, my light, my angel.

She waited but nothing disturbed the night, not even a spark left the heights.

Come back to me, little child! I sacrificed you — to what? Who will restore that life to me?

O merciful God, have mercy on me — You at least have mercy!

She stared into the darkness, into the moving branches, and waited.