You said someone must have told on him if they lifted him, didn’t you? And what did I say? It may have been the devil himself, but it wasn’t me. Can’t you understand a man’s words any more?” “I understand all right, but somebody must have ratted on him. They turned him in, they’ll turn you in, they’ll turn me in.” “So you’re just going to stay shit scared, are you?” “All . . . right . . . I’ll go.” Brtko got to his feet uncertainly. The inn was full of drunken song. Whatever I’m thinking We can drown in the drinking Of Slivovice and Terkelica “Well, well, Uncle Piti, what’s on your mind?” A young man in Hlinka guard uniform came over from the next table to sit by him. “What do you want me to say? It’s merry enough in Paradise tonight, but it’ll never be the same as it was in Eden and that’s a fact.” “Haven’t you got anything else to tell me, Uncle Piti?” The young man sounded coaxing. “Nothing for you. You know what people say: better bite your tongue out in front of Peter Carny, but never say a word.” “So that’s what they say. I wonder who?” “I wouldn’t know. My memory’s not what it was, son, but there’s no law against that, is there now? I’m getting on in years, you know. . .” “And you wouldn’t even know where your pal’s gone to?” “He’s gone to spend a penny, if I may use the expression, or to take a breath of fresh air. . . It’s got a bit too much for him.” Uncle Piti poured a glass. “Have a drink with me, Carny?” ( 98 )
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Brtko was out of breath by the time he reached the little basement shop on Main Street. Pressed against the shutter, he merged with the darkness, and it would have taken a very sharp eye to detect the huddled figure against that dark background. The half-moon, fresh from its shower, did its best to hurry across the sky from cloud to cloud, but in vain. The dark mass broke open, and Brtko felt that the light was shining right down on him as he felt for the keyhole. He tried to send the shutter up quietly, but it stuck. “The devil take it,” he muttered as the thing creaked loudly. Seizing the corrugated iron in both hands, he sent it flying up with one great heave, and the clatter roused all the dogs in the neighborhood. “Better wait a minute,” he growled to himself, and looked round cautiously. “They’ll catch me at it and brand me a white Jew,” he muttered drunkenly, but nobody appeared, no lights went on in the houses round about, the dogs quietened down, and only the breeze blew softly, cooling his feverish head and face. There was a bottle sticking out of one of his pockets. At last the bell stopped ringing and the night sank back into itself like the surface of a lake after a stone has rippled the water. Brtko felt safe to go in. “Who’s there?” he babbled as a lighter shadow against the darkness assumed the shape of the old lady, bent and motionless behind the counter. “Who’s that?” he called out in sudden fear. There was no answer; his question hung in the air and fell with the tinkle of the bell to lie on the creaking floor. His fingers groped toward the mysterious object, and, with a rustling sound, a sheet of paper fluttered from one of the shelves to the floor. He opened the kitchen door and struck a match; the flickering light revealed Rosalie’s bedroom beyond, like ( 99 )
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some forgotten dream. With another match he lit the three-branched candlestick. As the shadows flickered this way and that, the furniture seemed to be struggling out of immobility. He crept toward the bed. The old woman lay on her back, the bedclothes up to her pointed chin. She was breathing regularly, the breath passing in and out through half-open lips. The shadow flickered over the bedclothes, over the wrinkled face, and passed over the snow-white nightcap tied in a bow under her chin. Alone in the kitchen again, Brtko felt in his pocket. Slugs of wine trickled down his throat, making him even more undecided than before. He heard a movement and creaking sounds from the bedroom. Carrying the candle to his mouth, he blew it out. It was dark. There was a step, then another; the floor creaked and the door groaned on its hinges. In between the shelves in the shop he took another swig. His face pressed to the glass door, he watched the blackedout square. The outline of the monstrous pyramid was visible against the night sky. The night was quiet now, and as Brtko stepped away from the door, he felt he was looking into the oval mirror in Rosalie’s bedroom and the wind seemed to carry the sound of voices to him from far, far off. The noise of rasping saws and battering axes grew louder and louder, and then he thought he heard Danko and Eržika, and many children’s voices, like a choir of angels. The darkness was fading from the oval mirror and the brightness growing with every moment. A shattering gleam rent the air, and, in the flickering mirror, lit as though by sunshine, Rosalie Lautman moved as nonchalantly as if she had lived through this moment a hundred times before. She was dressed in her best with a snow-white bonnet on her head and glass beads at her throat; in the bright light she looked youthful. Her long, wide sleeves with lovely old lace at the cuffs were no less becoming than the slightly old-fashioned and almost an( 100 )
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