Fires in the Dark

by Louise Doughty

  His blanket felt clammy. He flung it back and let the soft air play on his skin, pull him from sleep.

  In this state of nearly dreaming, with all motionless outside but for the gentle chatter of the dawn birds, he heard a sound – tiny but definite, weak but demanding.

  In the barn, a few yards away, Josef’s baby son had also woken. He was beginning to cry.

  Josef lay still and listened, a smile of such warmth spreading through him that it seemed absurd that a smile should occupy no more than the limits of his mouth. His son’s cry: what a minute, unimpressive sound against the roars of the world, how small and animal-like it came – there, again – more of a cough than a cry, how helpless and reedy – how perfect. I am the happiest man alive.

  *

  Josef’s smile lasted until Thursday. In that time, he and Václav had been to visit the farmer Myclík, a small mean man who had required two hundred crowns and the promise of complete anonymity to allow than to stay in his fallow field. If they spoke to anyone in the village, they were not to say they had received permission from him. They were to dig pits for the ashes of the fires. They were to spade over the furrows left by the wagons.

  ‘I am surprised,’ Václav remarked as they left, ‘that he did not insist we replace the grass the horses eat, blade by blade.’

  Even the mean Myclík did not dispel Josef’s good humour – but on Thursday morning he woke and groaned before he had even opened his eyes.

  Anna and the baby must be left alone in the barn today, with nobody but the old dog Biri for protection. The rest of them had to pay a visit to the village. Officer Slavíček would be waiting.

  *

  As they approached the top of the main street, they saw that it was a different village. The deathly hamlet of three days ago had been transformed into a place of life and purpose. There were people.

  The first they saw was a small group of men gathered around the Calvary at the crossroads, talking to each other and nodding. They looked up as the Gypsies approached and stared. Josef inclined his head slowly as they passed.

  At the top of the street, there were more. Two old men were sitting on the step of the first cottage wearing identical felt hats and plaited string braces, chewing on pipes and muttering to each other out of the corners of their mouths. As Josef and the others passed, they spat on the ground. Justin Zelinka, nearest to them, turned and bowed, smiling, while murmuring under his breath in Romani, may you wake up one morning to find your chickens stiff in the yard with their legs in the air.

  Further on, four women stood in a row, arms folded, eyes screwed up against the glare of the sun. Others were walking from cottage to cottage, laughing and chatting. The men were mostly stationary, trying to look more serious. The entire village had come out to watch the Gypsies being fingerprinted.

  ‘Don’t they have work to do?’ Václav muttered to Josef as they walked down the street.

  ‘They’ve declared a holiday,’ Josef replied.

  Children ran alongside them as they walked, getting as close as their bravado would allow, Little Eva Winterová had dropped behind and was chatting to the two shy girls in Czech – she was a noisy child and always made friends easily. Too dumbfounded to respond, the shy girls were holding hands and grinning from ear to ear. Eva’s mother Božena turned when they were halfway down the street and shouted loudly, ‘Eva! Eva! Come away from those little girls, they’re filthy!’ She spoke Romani but her meaning was unmistakable. The village women glared at Božena and Božena glared back.

  As they approached the shop in procession, the villagers fell in behind. Realising that an audience would be in attendance, Officer Slavíček had thoughtfully brought his table out on to the porch, neatly piling his official papers and inkwell in front of him, with the large, rectangular inkpad for fingerprinting on the side. He was perspiring heavily in his uniform. His thick brown hair was matted on to his forehead and his cheeks were shiny. He glanced at Josef as he approached – Josef had dressed properly for the occasion in his high boots, green trousers and leather waistcoat with huge silver buttons. He had even waxed his moustache.

  The women were wearing all their skirts and their best red blouses. The gold coins in their braids had been polished so hard they outshone the sun. The tails of their patterned headscarves hung down their backs. Even the children had been forced into shoes for the event.

  Josef mounted the wooden step and stood before the desk. Officer Slavíček greeted him with a broad grin, as if they were old friends.

  ‘Good day to you, Josef,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘It is good of you all to turn out on such a warm day. I am sure relaxing in the shade would be a great deal more congenial.’ He glanced around the villagers to see if his little joke had been appreciated. ‘Now, to business. You are the Chief, I presume. The Sheró Rom.’

  ‘The Gypsies you have dealt with before have been Polish,’ Josef stated flatly. ‘We are Kalderash.’ Sheró Rom was a term used by the Polska Roma. Josef was the Rom Baró, the Big Man. He had met gadje like Slavíček before. One word of Romani and they considered themselves experts.

  Officer Slavíček raised his eyebrows coolly. ‘Kalderash. From the East?’

  ‘Originally, yes. I was born in Wallachia but we settled in Slovakia for some time. My father was a wealthy horse dealer. Until our horses were stolen, that is, by Kaiserlich und Königlich. He had hoped I would follow him into the business but I trained as a smith like my uncles so that we could …’

  ‘Yes, well, I get the point …’ Officer Slavíček said. ‘You are Coppersmith Gypsies, good, good. We don’t get many Coppersmith Gypsies in these parts.’ He was fidgeting with his papers.

  He withdrew a form from the pile, clattered the pen from side-to-side in the inkwell, shook it once, and then held it poised above the paper.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Josef Růžička.’

  ‘A Czech name?’

  ‘Yes,’ Josef only just restrained a sigh. They had all used their Czech names for years. Only Anna’s unmarried sisters still used their Vlach surname sometimes. Why was it necessary to explain these things all the time? Why did the gadje always have to write everything down?

  Fortunately, Slavíček seemed happy not to press the point.

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Let’s try your age, shall we?’

  Josef shrugged.

  Slavíček flicked him a derisive glance. The villagers tittered.

  ‘Occupation.’

  ‘I have already told you.’

  Officer Slavíček frowned and shook his head.

  ‘Distinguishing features …’

  Josef remained silent.

  Slavíček pulled a sympathetic face, downturning the corners of his mouth. ‘I noticed as you came down the street, you have a limp. Is that permanent?’

  Josef nodded.

  Slavíček spoke out loud as he wrote. ‘Medium height and build, limp to left leg. I think that will do.’

  He opened the inkpad and pushed it forward. ‘Place your fingers and then the thumb here, please, right hand first, then left. Firmly.’

  At this, the villagers who had gathered on the step and on the grass below craned their necks forward.

  Josef winced with distaste as Slavíček took his fingers from the pad and pressed them down on to the form he had just completed. He lifted his hands and glanced at them. The ink had left blackish-purple stains on his fingertips, ripe like bruises. As Slavíček folded the form into quarters, Josef asked, ‘Is there a pump nearby where I may wash my hands?’

  ‘Oh come, man, a bit of ink doesn’t hurt.’ Slavíček paused as he folded the paper. ‘Your wife. Is she here?’

  ‘My son is but three days old.’

  Slavíček sighed heavily. ‘I’m supposed to see all the adults in person, but I suppose we can put her on your form anyway.’ He unfolded the form laboriously.

  ‘Name …’

  The proc
ess was repeated for Anna. When it came to distinguishing features, Josef drew himself up and said, ‘My wife is of such indescribable beauty that she is impossible to imagine unless you have had the pleasure of setting eyes on her. A pleasure which I sincerely hope you will never enjoy.’

  Slavíček looked up at him, narrowing his eyes to indicate that his patience was exhausted. ‘You have other women there. Send them up. Don’t go anywhere yourself. I’m going to need you to go through your route. I hope you’ve brought some papers with you.’

  Josef nodded smartly and turned. Before he reached the step, Slavíček called him back.

  ‘Josef, Josef! Your son. How can a man forget his own son?’

  Josef had not forgotten his son. He was hoping that Slavíček had. He turned wearily. ‘His name is František. He has no trade as yet and his distinguishing features are two arms, two legs and a body with a head on top.’

  He turned back and descended the step.

  Tekla and Anna’s sisters came slowly forward. Josef watched as they answered Slavíček, each in turn, in quiet monosyllables.

  When it came to the fingerprinting, Tekla snatched her hand away when Slavíček reached for it and indicated with a sharp, jutting motion of her chin that he should not touch her fingers. Slavíček lifted both his palms upwards and gave a grimace, a half-sarcastic apology. Tekla did not smile.

  As the women descended, Václav mounted the step.

  The villagers began to wander off, losing interest in the spectacle. A couple of the men made noises about having work to do. Many of the women were sitting now, perched on the edge of the porch, fanning themselves with their hands. Josef’s people were still standing under the sun, all but naughty little Eva who was sitting cross-legged underneath the porch and had coaxed a small dog with a dirty white coat to join her. She was asking the dog questions. Where did it come from? What did it do for a living? Why did it talk so strangely? Was it stupid?

  When each of the families had given their details in turn and received their folded identification papers, Officer Slavíček rose and tossed his pen on to the table. He seemed weary. He packed up his papers and tucked them under one arm, beckoning Josef to return.

  As Josef mounted the step, Slavíček turned to Jirout the shopkeeper and asked him to lift the table inside.

  The villagers dispersed slowly, sighing.

  ‘Tell your people to go and sit down by the well,’ Slavíček said to Josef. ‘This will take a bit of time.’

  *

  Inside the shop, Slavíček led Josef past the counter and the shelves of goods and through to a small back room where Jirout had placed the table and added two large mugs of beer with huge, light-brown heads of foam. Slavíček gestured Josef to sit opposite him. Jirout re-entered from the back door with a tin plate on which were balanced several large chunks of bread and a small glass bowl of salt. He put the plate down and left without looking at either of them.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Slavíček gestured towards the plate and mug. ‘Jirout has a licence to brew his own, much to the irritation of the brewery at Smečno who seem to think that nobody west of Prague should drink anything but theirs. Drink. It’s good.’

  They raised their mugs and met each other’s gazes as they wished each other na zdraví. Josef apologised silently to the Ancestors for not offering them a libation, pointing out that it was filthy gadje beer and probably tasted like the water left over after Anna had washed turnips.

  The beer was delicious. It was only then that Josef remembered he had drunk it when they had first arrived in the village three days ago. He felt he could hardly remember anything of that time. He had become a father since then.

  Slavíček had removed his cap and was unbuttoning his collar with some difficulty. When he had extricated himself, he slung the jacket over the back of his chair, took another swig of beer, then wiped the foam from his overgrown moustache with the back of his hand. His shirt was dark with sweat and sticking to his chest. His braces dug into his shoulders. What an uncomfortable way to earn a living, thought Josef.

  Slavíček saw Josef observing him and gave a small ironic nod. ‘Lucky is the man who never wears a uniform.’

  Josef was tiring of Slavíček’s insistence on his good fortune. ‘Jirout is a man of many abilities,’ he said, gesturing behind Slavíček, where a dozen iron lasts were heaped against the wall.

  Slavíček turned, saw the lasts and chuckled. ‘Old Jirout hasn’t cobbled for years. I suppose he can’t bear to throw them away. Maybe they make him feel nostalgic. We could use a decent cobbler round here. None of your group I suppose?’

  Josef shook his head. They all knew how to make clogs for their families but he didn’t know of any Rom that cobbled. It had never struck him as a particularly dignified profession, caressing strangers’ feet.

  Slavíček had reminded himself of the business in hand. ‘So are you the only smith then?’

  ‘The others assist me sometimes,’ said Josef, ‘Sometimes I work alone.’ So far, he thought. One day my son will help. At the thought of Emil, he gave an involuntary smile. Emil. He was still getting used to using the word. It gave him such pleasure to fantasise about the boy. What would he look like now? He felt he would burst if he didn’t see his son soon. Tonight would be Emil’s third night on earth. Anna would lay him on the ground and place three pieces of bread and three cups of wine in a circle around him, for the Three Spirits. In four more days, Anna and the boy would be able to join him in the wagon, although she wouldn’t be allowed to handle food or dishes for another week. ‘There isn’t much copper any more,’ he said mechanically to Slavíček. ‘We work the orchards in the summer. I shoe horses sometimes – in the winter I make barrel hoops for the pickle factory. All the others help then. There is more work than we can handle. Our winter quarters are in Moravia.’

  Slavíček picked up a piece of bread, dipped it in the salt and took a bite, leaning back in his chair. ‘So what was all this about work in Teplice? Jirout tells me you’re on your way to Kladno.’

  Josef paused. He had forgotten what Václav had said on Monday.

  Slavíček spared him the strain of further invention. ‘Look, Josef, I’m sorry but you’re going to have to be more detailed. I need the full route, including dates, and details of what you do at each stopping place. It all has to be listed here, than a copy of the list has to be attached to each individual’s form …’

  Josef remained silent.

  Slavíček opened his hands to appeal to him. ‘It has to be right, Josef. Once it’s on this form, it’s set in stone. You’ll have to apply if you want to deviate from the route, register with the local police if you turn up anywhere that isn’t on the list. If you are found deviating from it without permission you’ll be liable for a pretty hefty fine, and this time they’re really serious up there in Prague. Look, I’m not one of those who think that you’re out to steal the hens from my backyard but you have to understand that there are plenty of people out there with very nimble fingers. They’re not all real nomads like you. Alcoholics, people who’ve lost their farms gambling. They’re all on the road these days. Something has to be done. If you don’t co-operate then you’ll just be put in the same bracket as all the others. Not every municipal officer is going to be as tolerant as I am, I can tell you that.’

  Josef sighed heavily. The pile of lasts against the wall was bothering him. It was like a heap of human feet. The Ancestors had survived a thousand laws like this new one. Once upon a time they cut the left ear off Roma in Moravia and the right in Bohemia – or was it the other way round? At least Slavíček was not requiring body parts. Not yet.

  ‘We spend August and September in Kladno …’ Josef began.

  *

  As he emerged from the shop, the Winterová girls ran excitedly across the street towards him.

  ‘Look, look!’ Pavla was calling, waving something in the air.

  They all ran up the step and jumped around Josef. ‘A gadji went into the shop
while you were in there,’ shrieked Pavla excitedly, ‘and we were all staring in the window at the sweets and our mouths were watering and she brought toffees for Eva and me and an apple-flavoured whistle for Zdenka because she is the oldest. It made a real whistling sound.’

  Zdenka nodded in confirmation. ‘I let the other two have a go,’ she added hastily.

  ‘Really?’ said Josef. ‘It really whistled? Can I try it?’

  The girls looked at each other. ‘We ate it,’ Eva admitted sadly.

  ‘But look, look …’ said Pavla, perking up as she remembered what was in her hand. ‘The gadji asked if there were any other children back at the camp and we said no but there was a new baby and she said was it a boy or a girl and we said a boy, and she gave us a crown.’

  Pavla held the crown up on the palm of her hand, where it lay flat, displayed it like a precious jewel.

  Josef was furious. Did these gadje think he needed their loose change to provide for his son? Add together his horses and his wife’s jewellery and he was worth five of these peasants.

  ‘Take it!’ he snapped at the girls. ‘Go on, go in the shop.’ He pushed roughly at Pavla’s shoulder. She gave him a brief, round-mouthed stare before turning.

  ‘But it’s for Emil,’ squeaked Eva, although her sisters were already running into the shop, not about to query their unexpected fortune.

  ‘He’s too little to have sweets,’ Josef said, more kindly. ‘He’d like you to spend it. Go.’

  *

  Nobody spoke as they all processed back down the street, ignored by the villagers. Nobody said anything as they traversed the fields back up towards the copse, the girls still dancing excitedly at the rear. It was only as they strode down through the wheatfields that Josef spoke. Václav was immediately behind him.