Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

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.