Fires in the Dark

by Louise Doughty

  Josef allowed himself a conspicuous yawn. White people. Gadje. National this; national that – the Empire had been dead for eight years and still they were scrapping over its corpse. How may one own the earth? Plant on it, travel it, dig it – but own it? Gadje. They would plant a flag on the moon if they could. Gadje, gadje dile. Truly, there was nothing wrong with the world that was not the fault of the gadje.

  He glanced around the villagers – a small group, not wealthy by the looks of them. The women were stout and tired-looking, sallow-skinned. Odd how these Czech gadje could seem both dark and unhealthily pale at the same time. Josef preferred Eastern and Balkan gadje. They were swarthy and vicious, the lot of them, but you knew where you stood. These Bohemians thought of themselves as progressive and that often made them worse.

  The Officer was talking about a new law to enable the commencement of the building of integrated town complexes in the spirit of constructivism and functionalism.

  Josef wondered if Myclík’s son was the slender youth to his left who was standing with his head hanging down, drawing circles in the dirt with the toe of one shoe. He had both hands tucked underneath his armpits and was bareheaded, as though he had just been dragged out of bed and could scarcely be bothered to dress. He felt a rush of sympathy for the unknown Myclík, followed by an inner glow as he realised he had been thinking, children, what can you do with them? A drop of sweat ran down his forehead. He blinked. Anna, Anna, Anna …

  The Officer had paused to gain everybody’s attention. He glanced at Josef.

  ‘The implementation of Law 117 is today announced, being a Law to curb the nuisance caused by so-called Gypsies and other Travelling Persons and Vagabonds.’

  Josef stared fiercely at the Officer, immediately aware that the stare of every other inhabitant of the village was now rested upon himself.

  The Officer continued amiably. ‘All persons who have no fixed abode or who are of a nomadic inclination must present themselves immediately to the nearest authority of the state for the issuing of detailed identification. Each member of the family over the age of fifteen must attend, although all family members may be registered upon the identification papers of the head of the family. Prints of all five fingers on each hand will be required along with a physical description of each individual. This paper will then supersede the previous identification papers upon which only the thumb-print of the right hand was required. In addition, each individual must provide evidence of means of income, along with a full account of the route their nomadising habits require them to take. Failure to comply with these regulations will result in an immediate fine of one hundred crowns, to be increased with each subsequent breach of regulations by a further one hundred. Prison sentences will be levied upon defaulters. This law is applicable immediately and all nomads must herewith present themselves to the relevant authorities without further hesitation or delay.’

  At the end of this announcement, the Officer allowed a dramatic pause before rising, adjusting his cap and retrieving his drum and drumsticks. He gave a final, staccato roll on the drum to indicate to the assembled company that Law 117 was the final piece of news he had to impart that day.

  The crowd broke into loud, spontaneous applause. One of the women gave a forced laugh. Two of the men whistled. The small boy rushed up to Josef and jumped up and down in front of him making derisive noises with his tongue between his teeth, eyes bulging, until his mother rushed over, grabbed him by his arm and dragged him away. The villagers broke into loud chatter as they turned to their homes. Several glanced back at Josef, to observe his reaction.

  The Officer removed his cap, lifted the drum strap over his head and put the drum down beside him. He wrinkled his nose at the sun and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then twisted his arm to frown at the row of silver buttons at the cuff. He shrugged without looking at Josef. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he said.

  He rummaged in a trouser pocket and retrieved a voluminous cotton handkerchief with which he proceeded to wipe his buttons. ‘I come here on Monday afternoons to do the news,’ he said, ‘but I don’t stop. They expect me to cover eight villages in one day and my superintendent doesn’t believe in bicycles. Imagine. My counterpart in the next district has a brand new Orion motorcycle and I’m not allowed so much as a pair of pedals. I’m here on Thursday mornings for other business. Old Jirout sets up a desk in his shop.’ Satisfied with the state of his buttons, he rose and replaced his cap. It was only then he met Josef’s gaze.

  ‘You’ll all have to turn up, men, women, everyone over the age of fifteen. Bring your papers with you, or any other proof of identity. Receipts for any purchases you’ve made in the last year would be useful, if you keep such things, although you probably don’t, anything that will prove your route. I needn’t explain that you’ll all be liable for arrest if you don’t show up. You look like a sensible man.’ He nodded. ‘My name is Slavíček. Good day to you.’ He turned, smartly.

  As Josef walked back along the main street, the villagers came to their doorways and windows to observe him silently. As he approached the well, he remembered that he had neglected to enquire after the farmer Myclík’s son.

  The others were standing, gathered round the well, watching his approach.

  Josef stopped in front of them. He felt old. ‘We must go back at once,’ he said, and the others nodded, acknowledging the seriousness of his tone. Young Miroslav gathered up the clay mugs to deposit them in front of the shop. Václav shouldered the block of salt. They turned to walk back down the road.

  The sun was more yellow now. As he descended the slope, Josef felt a rush of longing for the honest noon-day heat, the white noon when he had known nothing of the gadje’s latest Law. It is a bad omen, he thought, and he found himself hastening his step. It is a bad omen for my child. It became imperative that he return to the barn as quickly as possible.

  In his anxiety, he forgot the stares of the villagers and almost ran back down the street. The others hurried behind him. The small boy leaned out of his window as they passed and called after them in a victorious treble, ‘Run, gypsies, run!’

  CHAPTER 2

  The old dog Biri was a clever dog who acted stupidly, which was either stupid or clever, depending on your point of view. When the wagons were pulled up, he had been tied to the spoke of a wheel but with characteristic ingenuity had worked his way loose. Having failed to gain entry to the barn, he had then occupied himself by jumping around the field looking for mice or rabbits, a task he performed by bounding about almost vertically, as if on a spring.

  At the sound of Josef and the other men returning, Biri abandoned his hunt and began to run excitedly towards them, across the field. The grasses were higher than he – all that betrayed his swift presence was an invisible finger drawing a waving line through the wheat, a line which snaked from left to right in a haphazard but inexorable route towards the men.

  As they neared the barn, Josef watched Biri’s hidden approach. What news would the old dog bring? He felt he would know what had happened as soon as he bent to scratch his ear.

  Biri gave a single bark of pleasure as he ran up to them. He described a figure of eight around Josef and Václav, then returned to Josef for a scratch, panting happily. Stupid dog, thought Josef as he bent down. What would he know?

  He stood upright and looked across the field. He saw Tekla emerge from round the side of the barn. She stopped and leant against the wall, then bent double, as if she was weeping, or being sick. He started to run, crashing through the wheat, Biri jumping excitedly alongside. He was twenty metres from Tekla when she straightened and saw him. He stopped and stared at her.

  She gazed back at him for a moment, an admonitory gaze, then her look softened a little. He blinked and realised that his eyes were full of tears. He had run a few metres but his heart was thumping as if he had sprinted from Bratislava.

  ‘It was bad‚’ Tekla called out to him. ‘But they will live.’

  Biri was jumpin
g in the air, again and again, letting out mock snarls to entice his master to play.

  Josef looked back. The other men were striding across the field towards him, following the path he had cut through the wheat.

  ‘Josef,’ called Tekla, and he turned to her. It was only then that he saw she was clutching a bloodied knife. ‘Return to the others. Go to the wagons and build a fire, open the flasks. Give praise to O Del. You have a son. Tell the others their women will not lie with them tonight. We all had to help. It was bad. It was a bloodbath. You have a son.’

  *

  It seemed extraordinary to Anna that Tekla insisted she lie still. She felt as if she could lift her son into her arms and whirl about the barn, but she felt it in her mind, her body somehow aware that such activity was impossible. This is what it means, she thought, to be a mother at last – to have a body that knows it cannot do things but a mind which tells you to fly to the skies if you wish, sit in the trees like a sparrow and sing to the world. There has never been a better baby. There has never been a baby at all, before now. I have the first, the only one. I have invented the baby. All the babies that come after this one will be as shadows, ghosts. Hang banners, dance and sing, line the highways with cheering hordes of peasants – here is my child.

  He was suckling now, her boy, his tiny mouth fixed around her huge brown nipple, his head smaller than her tight, marbled breast. Cradled in her arm, his body was warm and still covered with fine white fluid, his face wrinkled tight with the effort of existing. You will learn how to do it, she thought amusedly. It will come naturally soon.

  The other women had left, weeping and exhausted, but Tekla was still with her. She had propped Anna’s legs in the air and had jammed clean cloth between her thighs. Every now and then, she lifted the outer layer of cloth to examine the blood-soaked bundles underneath.

  Anna knew that Tekla was worried about the bleeding but she could not bring herself to be concerned. She had not even felt the cut, for by then her whole body had become one muscle, every cell of her being channelled into the vast effort of pushing down. In the midst of it, she had heard a distant voice, Tekla’s voice, shouting, ‘Don’t push, don’t push …’ but by then the barn was full of the wild yelling that came from deep inside her and Eva and Ludmila sobbing in unison and the laboured breathing of Božena, a breath which became bellow as Anna bore down, a guttural cry on her behalf.

  Then, suddenly, everybody was crying. A small red wet thing was flopped on to her chest and Tekla was calling out in hoarse desperation. Anna was only vaguely aware of the crying and busyness of the others, for every part of her was flooded with joy.

  It was good the others had been there, Anna thought. The boy would belong to the whole kumpánia now. It would bind them. It was unusual for all the women to stay for the delivery but at no stage had Tekla given the others permission to leave. Anna had seen their faces as Tekla had shoved them towards the door afterwards; their shared joy in their achievement, the radiance.

  Ludmila had returned briefly with lime blossom tea and unleavened bread, peering joyously at the baby before being shooed away by Tekla. Now, Anna and Tekla and the baby were alone, and this was the best of times. Now all was quiet and warm and the white sunlight burst jealously through the cracks in the barn’s ceiling.

  ‘Are the men back yet?’ Anna asked Tekla, speaking without raising her head, unable to tear her gaze from where it was examining the deep crease of skin at the top of her baby’s nose. ‘Has Josef been told?’

  Tekla looked round. ‘I told him,’ she said. ‘They were just coming back when I took the cloths outside. I told him to build the fires. We will hear them singing tonight, no doubt.’

  ‘He knows to choose a boy’s name?’ The father chose the daily name for each child, but the mother had the privilege of whispering the baby’s real name into its ear. The mother did not even have to tell the father what it was. The fewer people who knew a child’s real name the better. A real name was power.

  Tekla nodded, and gave a small, twisted smile.

  *

  As Tekla turned away, busying herself by clearing more of the soiled garments into a bundle for burning, she realised she was feeling a raw pang of envy, like stomach-ache. She would never name a child. How strange, she thought, that I should be the one in pain, while she over there lies beaming and glowing. She was feeling the old, gnawing sensation, the dull unhappiness that she thought she had put behind her eight years ago on a night when she had foresworn any emotion at all. In all those years, she had not allowed herself the luxury of misery, not once.

  It was bad to feel this way, a bad omen for the boy. Did she want to put the Evil Eye on him? What was she thinking of? She tried to direct the feeling away from Anna and her baby, to channel it into a generalised resentment against all the women who had taken her services for granted over the years. Mothers have it easy, she thought. They never see what goes on between their legs. It’s me who has to do the work. It was me who dealt with this baby emerging shoulder first, the cord wrapped twice around its neck and the placenta bouncing out behind like a raft on a river of blood. All she did was push.

  ‘How will the men eat?’ Anna asked without lifting her gaze from her child. ‘Zdenka will have to make soup, I suppose. There’s barley. Božena can direct her. Will that be acceptable?’

  ‘It is up to you,’ Tekla replied, still busying herself.

  Anna looked at her at last. They had always shared the management of the food for the kumpánia but Tekla was ten years Anna’s senior and in the absence of Josef’s parents had always assumed a certain seniority.

  ‘You have a child,’ Tekla said quietly. ‘You are a proper Romni now. The decision is yours.’

  ‘Tekla …’ Anna said softly, her voice gentle and amused. ‘You will always be half of any decision I make. Child or no child. I have no title that I do not owe to you.’

  Anna’s kindness irritated Tekla, with its implied graciousness, but she tried to quell her bitterness. She did not trust her own emotions on this matter. She should be grateful, after all. Few unmarried women were ever accorded the status she had within Josef’s family.

  ‘We are not through this yet,’ she said roughly, to hide her feelings.

  Anna gave a small laugh. ‘Don’t fear for me, Tekla. I have a boy to care for now. No ill will befall him or me. I will see to it.’

  Tekla shook her head. She had seen this many times. For the first couple of days, the new mothers always thought themselves immortal. Then the weeping and the tiredness would come. Anna would find out soon enough.

  *

  When Tekla had left, Anna realised that there was one thing better than being alone with Tekla and her baby – it was being alone with the baby, just the two of them, her arm around him creating the perfect circumference.

  He was sleeping now. Tekla had warned her to rest, she would need every minute, she said, but Anna could not bear to close her eyes: not when her son was there to gaze upon.

  She gazed as it grew dark outside and she heard the crackle and leap of the fires. They would need two, dug into holes on separate sides of the field; one for Tekla to burn the bloodied things and another for Zdenka to warm soup for the men. They would be gathering in a circle at the far end of the field. In the stillness, their voices would carry, floating and mingling with the demented swooping of the bats and the exhausted chuckles from the women’s circle. The women would be reliving the birth, swapping stories. Tekla would get to talk about how she had felt at each stage and at last receive her reward; the unqualified praise and admiration of the other women. The young Winterová girls would fall asleep gradually, grumpily, having been refused permission to come and see the baby. A boy for them all to spoil – what a perfect thing. What a little prince he would turn out to be.

  A son, Anna thought, with all her new and sudden wisdom: a son is a blessing and a curse, a treasure and an agony. A girl would be a part of me, like a limb. But a boy, how long will he be mine? Before I
know it, he will join the men. He will run from me without so much as a backward glance.

  Little Stranger, she thought, exhaling softly over his head, to encourage him. Tiny thing, of me, but far from me.

  He will have to have a name to give the gadje, Anna sighed: probably František. She and Josef had discussed it. Perhaps the kumpánia could call him Emil. She liked Emil. It was a name to linger over. Emeel …

  His breathing was so slight she could scarcely detect it, even when she lowered her face to his. The smell of him, like new bread, or was it her smell? She could not tell. He and I smell identical, she thought, smiling in the darkness. The barn was softly warm, and the warmth and softness wrapped around mother and child as they curled together in the gloom, breathed together, smelled the same.

  ‘Yenko,’ Anna whispered in her son’s ear. ‘Your real name is Yenko.’

  *

  In the morning, Josef awoke with his mouth stuck solid. He had been snoring all night and the heat and closeness inside the wagon had baked his exposed tongue. He had drunk too much last night – it would have been impolite not to raise his glass with the others, even though they all knew he never normally took more than a single beer. Then he had reached a point when he had no longer noticed how much he was drinking. He had stood and sang a song about his love for his son. They had all become maudlin. He had gone to the wagon to sleep instead of lying in the grass with the others, sobbing all the way because the beauty of the stars was more than he could bear.

  He rolled over and was suddenly aware of an urgent need to urinate – so urgent that he lay still with his eyes closed, knowing that further movement would be uncomfortable. After a while, he turned slowly, lifting an arm in expectation of Anna, before remembering that none of the women were in the wagon with him. He opened his eyes. The dawn had drawn grey squares in the wagon’s interior. A glimmer of light through the shutters was striking the tin frame of a picture of the Virgin and her Holy Child on the opposite wall, lighting a single spark. He had never woken alone in a wagon before.