The Ice Cream Man (9 page)

“You go to bed, Esther, if you’re tired.”

“You’re not offended?”

“No, of course not . . . I’ll just sit here a bit longer.”

Esther goes out onto the veranda and merges into the night, where the darkness and the wind have become entwined. She goes down the steps, clomping in her shoes without any danger of stumbling because her intoxication has reached the stage of intense introspection and excessive cautiousness: that’s why the gods are said to protect drunkards, though in fact they are protecting themselves. It feels like a matter of honor to descend the steps in high heels even when there is a lump of stone lurking at the base, the one that has already crushed the back of a man’s skull. Only when she has reached the slope among the tall, fragrant grass does Esther tumble into a tussock and roll downhill, coming to a giggling stop, lying in the grass with her stocking legs akimbo. She starts to pull down her panties underneath the suspender belt that is compressing her belly; it has been imprinting red grooves in her hips all evening. The pressure on her bladder is unbearable, and at the last instant she manages to clear an unhindered course for the impatient yellow rivulet. A few drops splash onto the landlady’s silk stockings—the very same ones that she didn’t dare touch at first.

Esther takes off her shoes, goes up the steps, creeps back to the veranda under cover of darkness, and looks through the window into the main room where the landlady and Tomáš are sitting in the warm glow of the nearly spent candles and the oil lamp. Tomáš’s face looks as though he is unable to follow what the landlady is saying and is merely trying to decipher the cadence of her voice. The impressions Mrs. Němcová has gathered during her social evening have burst into a flood of words, sounding like an absolution pouring forth from her mouth over her guest; but it is intended for herself as well, and she gulps it back down like saliva that has accumulated in her mouth during an exhilarating display. Tomáš slurps more wine (it ran out ages ago) and gazes at the landlady’s mouth as if this would bring some sense to what she was saying (“There’s no need to explain anything, and a man shouldn’t speak ill of his wife”). Tomáš waits for his moment and dives in headlong, as if leaping onto a furiously whirling carousel: “Esther doesn’t have any faults.”

“No, of course not. But she’s not a machine either, and even if she were, a machine can break down as well . . .”

“What do you mean, a machine?”

“What does the girl have to complain about? If she makes it through the war this easily, she’ll still have far more to be ashamed of than anything she might have done with a man.”

“What man?”

“What do you mean, what man?”

“Are there other men?”

“Jealousy is like a spice, Tomáš; you need to use it sparingly. If there’s too much, it ruins the whole dish.”

“Has something been ruined?”

“What have the doctors said?”

“I don’t think anyone’s said anything.”

“No? Well, then, it’s just a matter of time.” Both of them fall silent when they hear the door open from the veranda. Esther rounds the table to walk past them. Tomáš clears his throat and says, “Shouldn’t you help our landlady clear the dishes?”

The landlady hurriedly interjects, “Oh, there’s no need. I’ll leave them to soak overnight. Let Esther go to bed.”

“Are you coming?”

“Yes, Tomáš will be up shortly. We’ve still got a few things to talk about.”

“What are you talking about?”

The landlady’s mouth opens for a moment. “This and that, my dear Esther . . .”

Esther has already nodded off when something sweaty and heavy charges at her. She manages to make out the music and heavy breathing near her and the landlady’s voice at the bedroom door: “Are you asleep already? Esther? Tomáš?”

Tomáš has leapt into bed beside her in such a rush that he is lying full-length on top of the quilt, straining to control his breathing rate.

“How is it you two are so quiet? Am I disturbing you? Tomáš?”

The landlady peers into the darkness. “Can’t you hear me?”

“Esther’s asleep.”

“Asleep? That’s good. Let her sleep in peace.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Now, you be careful with Esther . . . do you hear me? Be careful.”

“I won’t hurt her.”

“It would be so lovely if everything turned out well. Take it from me; it’s just a matter of time. Life must go on.”

“Yes, it will go on.”

“Indeed, but it might go on without us.”

Beyond the closed door, the music stops, the landlady tiptoes back and forth across the floor in her stocking feet (“Ouch! The nails in the floorboards!”), the soft sounds fade out in the distance and end after the click of the lock. The dawn chorus is already underway outdoors.

Once the door has shut, they lie motionless for a long time. Tomáš props himself up on his elbows, peers at the dim contours of the sofa in the darkness, and sees himself sitting there at the very moment when there came a knock at the door. What was he thinking? Nothing at all; he’d only just started to grope for the flashlight under the pillow, and only as the door opened did he finally leap to his feet and bound across the floor into the bed. As if the late man of the house had never slept on the sofa.

Tomáš whispers, “Esther?”

The woman’s breathing sounds heavy and indifferent.

“Are you asleep?”

When Tomáš receives no reply, he lies down again, as silently as he can, and they lie there side by side, her pretending to be asleep while he pretends to believe she is asleep. This arrangement is so complicated that they lie awake for some time, listening to each other’s breathing and motionlessness.

Esther sits down on the chopping block in the backyard, which has been positioned next to the sawhorse for the purpose of chopping up trees. She lifts her hair from under the neck of her blouse. Tomáš is standing with a pair of scissors in his hand. Tomáš always appears indecisive when he has something sharp in his hand that he is meant to use to cut or chop up something, living or dead.

“This isn’t going to work. I’m going to cut through your blouse.”

“Wait.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Haven’t you ever seen a woman’s back before?”

“Yes.”

“Then go ahead.”

“The ends are so curly, how am I supposed to make them even?”

“Use a comb first!”

“How will that help, if they curl like that?”

“Ouch! Not so rough. If there’s a tangle, you can’t pull so hard.”

“If you’d just comb it yourself.”

“It’s not difficult. Grasp the hair with one hand so you don’t rip my scalp off.”

“You’ve got too much hair. And these scissors are blunt.”

“Oh, just like the saw?”

“Everything’s got a dull edge here. Except your tongue, that is.”

“Now take some off.”

“How much?”

“Take it across the nape of my neck.”

“No, I’m not going to.”

“Go ahead.”

“No, never.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Wasn’t I just supposed to tidy up the ends?”

“That’s not enough.”

“Long hair suits you better.”

“Easy for you to say. Just think how much bother it is to look after long hair in the middle of the forest. It takes at least an hour to wash and set it.”

“You cut it, then.”

“Fine. Give me the scissors.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, yes, you will!”

“I’ve seen more than enough shorn heads.”

“Where have you seen them?”

“Why didn’t you ask the landlady to cut your hair?”

“I’ve had just about enough of this.”

“I’m only going to ruin it.”

“Then I’ll ask the landlady.”

Tomáš’s fingers glide from her head down to the nape of her neck.

“It’s so soft.”

After a moment, Esther says, “That’s from the rainwater.”

Tomáš hands back the scissors. Esther goes into the house and wanders around; there is nowhere she might hide, even from herself, and smile in secret. She puts her hands up to her face, pinches her cheeks and her lips, but that does not help either. Her eyes close, and a smile spreads across her whole body, like warm milk tipped into her lap. The door opens, and Esther turns around.

“Well, what is it?”

“I just came in to check that I still have some hair left.”

“Yes, you have.”

“Good.”

“Well, off you go then!”

“Are you angry?”

“I’m always angry.”

“You don’t seem to believe I’m on your side.”

“I see. So whose side am I on?”

But Esther does know. She is on the side of the ice cream men. Children love them. And so does Esther.

In the evening twilight, they sit by a fire. A chicken has been cooking on the embers. Tomáš picks up the chicken and places it, steaming and dripping with fat, on a newspaper.

“Didn’t the landlady want any of this?”

“She’s already gone to bed. Are you sure it’s cooked through?”

“Yes, have a look.”

“Yes, but hasn’t it gone off?”

“What do you mean, gone off?”

“Was it already dead in the village?”

“It was still languishing there on the slope before I wrung its neck.”

Hot steam rises from the meat, and Tomáš has to blow on his fingers from time to time.

“I saw you yesterday,” Esther says after a moment. “I saw you rescue a butterfly.”

“A butterfly? Me?”

“You were at it for a good ten minutes.”

“It’s done. Take this. It’s a nice piece.”

“Its wing was stuck on the table, in something sticky and sweet . . . you went in to get a knife from the drawer, searched for just the right one, and used the knife to free its wing from the table.”

“Well, are you going to take some?” Tomáš dangles a chicken leg in the air.

“Don’t burn your fingers.”

“I didn’t know you had that sort of compassion in you.”

“Women like that sort of thing.”

“Yes, but you didn’t know I could see you.”

“It was a rare occurrence.”

“Do you know much about butterflies?”

“No, not much. But I’d never seen one like that before.”

“So that’s why you rescued it? Because it was so exotic? Would you have left an ordinary Large White to suffer?”

“Large White? I’m sure I’ve never seen one of those, either.”

“You’re the first man I’ve ever met whose hobby is butterflies.”

“I haven’t got any hobbies.”

“So you’re prepared to admit that it was merely out of compassion?”

“I admit it,” Tomáš laughs, shaking his head.

“What?” Esther smiles as well. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me. It’s not often you enjoy yourself so much.”

“I’m just thinking what your husband must be like.”

Esther is silent for a moment, then asks, “Well, what’s he like?”

Tomáš shrugs. “He’s something. That’s for sure.”

“Don’t try,” Esther says. “I’ve never heard of a man who could be with a woman in the middle of the forest and be so ridiculously loyal to some man he doesn’t know. Unless the man knows that the other one is so superior that there is nothing ridiculous at all about that loyalty.”

“Or else the woman is married to some wretch. Then they’re both ridiculous.”

“You’re in a good mood. Have you heard some good news on one of your jaunts to the village? Something about the train, perhaps? It’s almost as if I’ve already heard it puffing along somewhere beyond the woods! But maybe I was just imagining it, just like everything else . . .”

They sit in silence for a long while.

“What are we going to do now?” Esther says at last.

“What do you mean?”

“How are we supposed to just stay here? Shouldn’t we be at work, or in our own homes or something?”

“I told the landlady we might stay here for a short while yet.”

“What on earth?”

“Because your nerves have been in tatters, and you haven’t been anywhere as peaceful as this in the past six months.”

“When were you planning to tell me about my nerves? And why are they in tatters, anyway?”