Judge On Trial

by Ivan Klíma

  ‘Your neighbour is sure she saw you.’

  ‘That woman’s almost blind, your honour.’

  ‘They found the murdered woman’s savings book on you, Kozlík.’

  ‘She gave it me herself, your honour. She asked me to take some cash out for her. She had trouble walking.’

  ‘It’s rather a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘If I’d stolen the savings book there’s no way I’d have kept it on me, is there? I had plenty of time to hide it somewhere, if I’d known about what’d happened.’

  ‘Did she often send you to withdraw cash for her?’

  ‘I don’t think she often touched her savings. She had her pension and my rent money.’

  ‘She seems to have trusted you, if she sent you to the savings bank for her.’

  ‘She liked me, your honour.’

  ‘You said something entirely different in your earlier statement.’

  ‘I want to withdraw the whole of my original statement. I made it all up.’

  ‘You made it up very convincingly.’

  ‘If it’d been unconvincing, they wouldn’t have accepted it.’

  ‘Save your insolence, Kozlík! Why didn’t you bring your landlady the cash, if she’d given you the book?’

  ‘She only gave it to me that day, your honour.’

  ‘So you were there that evening, then?’

  ‘In the afternoon. When I got home from work.’

  ‘And then you went off to the cinema with your fiancée?’

  ‘That’s right, your honour.’

  ‘Your landlady gave you the savings book when you were going off to the cinema?’

  ‘I was supposed to draw the cash the next day and bring it to her.’

  ‘You knew you wouldn’t be coming back that evening?’

  ‘I was meaning to stay at my fiancée’s, your honour. Her folks were supposed to be on night-shift.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘One of them changed their shift, I can’t remember which one.’

  ‘What time did you actually go to the cinema?’

  ‘At eight o’clock, your honour.’

  ‘What were they showing?’

  ‘Some American film. About some woman who told several men that they had given her a baby. She was an Italian and they went on paying her for years like idiots.’

  ‘What did you do after the film?’

  ‘I walked my fiancée home.’

  ‘What time did you part from your fiancée?’

  ‘Around midnight. We stood for a while outside the house.’

  It was at least an hour before midnight that she had suddenly wriggled out of his arms. I’ve got to go. Your friend Ruml might beat me up otherwise.

  She was standing in front of the now darkened window, lit only by the dim light of a table-lamp. Her naked, tanned body seemed so strange to him, so unlikely, so unfamiliar, that he wondered if he was dreaming. Then she leaned over him and gave him a peck. Get up, darling!

  They left together in a taxi; she laid her head on his shoulder and he was aware of that unfamiliar perfume. They stopped the taxi at the corner of her street. When shall we see each other again? He knew it was up to him to ask, even though he was not sure at that moment whether he really did want to see her again. She just said: Call me! Then he saw her run along the narrow alley between the villas: a stranger, yet close; desired, yet feared. She turned round just once and waved. But by then the car had already done a U-turn and was moving away from her. The astonishing realisation sank in that no car could now take him away entirely from what had just happened.

  ‘Is that something you often did: stay out all night?’

  ‘Fairly often, your honour.’

  ‘All right, so you used to spend nights at your fiancée’s. But why didn’t you go home, when you couldn’t stay with her?’

  ‘I didn’t feel like it, your honour. It was too far to go. I’d just missed a tram, and there wasn’t another for an hour. I got fed up waiting for it.’

  ‘So where did you go?’

  ‘I just walked about.’

  ‘You didn’t even go to a pub?’

  ‘It was too late, they were all closed.’

  ‘Or to some friend’s?’

  ‘No, your honour.’

  ‘So you just walked the streets?’

  ‘I sat on a bench for a while.’

  ‘Weren’t you cold, out all night?’

  ‘I’m used to the cold, your honour.’

  ‘So you spent the whole night walking the streets for no good reason?’

  ‘Yes, your honour. I’d done it many times before. Nobody ever noticed because no old ladies got poisoned those nights.’

  ‘Don’t be insolent, Kozlík!’

  ‘I’m only telling the truth, your honour.’

  He had returned to his empty flat where everything was exactly as he’d left it that morning, but where everything seemed unfamiliar, as if he had returned as an old man to his childhood home.

  I knew you were like that, darling.

  Like what?

  You know very well. You just want to hear me say it.

  I didn’t know until now.

  You didn’t know who you were till now.

  The bathroom shelf was full of his wife’s bits and pieces. Creams, powders, the mascara pencil she used on her rather ill-defined eyebrows. He felt regret as he looked at it all.

  He had run a bath and immersed himself up to his chin in the hot water: heat and regret permeated him.

  With his wife he had never felt the ecstasy he had felt tonight, his wife was not endowed with the gift of total abandonment, but on the other hand she was pure and incapable of deceit, and he had no wish to hurt or deceive her. And he never had deceived her before; something like that would have broken the code he lived by. But what was that code?

  He went to bed; a cool night-time breeze blew in through the window but waves of perspiration washed over him again and again. A voice which previously he had never accepted as his own started to speak to him, asking him questions and demanding answers. He tried to drive it away but it remained stuck in him like a splinter or a pin, and went on goading him. What reply should he give? Was it possible he had been mistaken up to now about who he was and what he wanted? Was he a strolling rabbi or, more likely, a schnorrer wandering a strange country, in search of – what? A hot supper, a good companion, freedom or even God’s grace, maybe?

  In a few days’ time he was to go and pick up his wife. What would he tell her? The truth, of course; he wasn’t going to tarnish her or himself by lying into the bargain.

  From the twilight of the bedroom a harlequin leered at him while outside an eagle flew softly and silently past the window on its journey to freedom; he felt a pin-prick and the blood trickling slowly and uselessly from his finger into the void, while she stood naked on the roof of the house opposite. Her unfamiliar, fondled body was bathed in moonlight so that the minutest details were visible to him.

  ‘You went back to your fiancée in the morning?’

  ‘Yes, as soon as her old man left for morning shift.’

  ‘You didn’t have to go to work?’

  ‘I would still have made it, your honour.’

  ‘Weren’t you surprised that they came for you that morning, seeing that you knew nothing about it?’

  ‘You get used to all sorts of things, your honour. They were always after me. Even at the place I work.’

  ‘What did you say to them when they charged you with this crime?’

  ‘I told them I didn’t know anything about it.’

  ‘But then you admitted it. Why did you admit to it, if you hadn’t done anything, Kozlík?’

  ‘I already answered that, your honour. There’s no point in not admitting it, once they start working on you.’

  ‘You’ve already stated that you have no complaints about the way you were questioned.’

  ‘I haven’t, your honour!’

  ‘So yo
u can keep such comments to yourself, Kozlík. You know very well there is no sense in someone confessing if they are innocent. If they really are innocent.’

  ‘I am, your honour!’

  ‘Some splinters from broken perfume bottles and some spilt face powder were found in the entrance hall.’

  ‘That’s possible, your honour.’

  ‘So there was some truth in your original statement?’

  ‘That was an unfortunate accident. I’d bumped into that shelf on the way in.’

  ‘I see. And what was your landlady’s reaction?’

  ‘I can’t remember, your honour.’

  ‘Try to remember! Wasn’t she cross with you?’

  ‘She might have been. I don’t remember any more.’

  ‘Was she often cross with you?’

  ‘No, your honour. She liked me.’

  ‘Surely you can recall whether she was cross with you on the evening she died.’

  ‘She might have been a bit cross.’

  ‘How soon afterwards did you go out?’

  ‘Soon!’

  ‘What does “soon” mean? How much later?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘And during that half-hour she handed you her savings book. You made her cross and immediately afterwards she entrusted you with her savings. All right, have it your own way! When you came home from work was your landlady’s granddaughter already there?’

  ‘I didn’t notice. I was only home for a short while.’

  ‘Half an hour!’

  ‘I was in my room!’

  ‘Who swept up the broken glass?’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘When a shelf full of glass falls it makes a racket, doesn’t it? If the child had already been in the flat she would probably have rushed out to see what had fallen. Did she come out, or not? You can’t remember anything because you didn’t come home at all that afternoon. That’s why you can’t say who was there and who wasn’t.’

  ‘I came home straight from work!’

  ‘Do you have any witnesses?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But no one has come forward.’

  ‘Witnesses like that don’t come forward.’

  ‘Witnesses like what?’

  ‘The sort that might help you.’

  ‘What makes you think that they wouldn’t come forward?’

  ‘They might make problems for themselves.’

  ‘I think you might be overestimating your importance slightly.’

  ‘No one looks for the sort of witnesses that might spoil the prosecution case.’

  ‘So you are sticking to the statement you’ve just made?’

  ‘Yes, your honour!’ He had a sudden devastating intuition: right now everything that had seemed significant to him in his life was disintegrating. But what was disintegrating in fact: his life or, on the contrary, his delusions about his life . . . ?

  So far for him time had taken an orderly course – not a torrent rushing along a river bed or carving out a course between rocks. His wartime experience had actually increased his self-confidence; it had seemed to him that he had been faced with an obstacle such as none of his peers had known, and he had coped with it and stood the test. But what sort of test had it actually been? He had been caught in a trap by one set of people and stayed there incarcerated until another set of people released him. While it was happening, he had neither shaped his own destiny nor had any opportunity of influencing it. And since then, life had had no further trials in store for him, or more accurately, he had managed to avoid them. When others got caught in traps he had always skirted them deftly and pretended not to see them. He had sat in judgement when to others the very word justice was anathema. And here he was still in the same situation, still with the power of life or death over someone else.

  But how long would he be able to keep it up? Or: if he did keep it up his whole life, what would he gain by it?

  Now there was no skirting the traps, too many had been laid. He would either have to decide on what action to take, or become bogged down. But he was not accustomed to taking any decisive action; not on his own behalf, anyway. Even the thing that had just happened had not been of his doing.

  ‘Think carefully again about all you’ve told me.’

  ‘Are you advising me to confess, your honour?’

  ‘It’s not my function to give you advice. That’s the job of your defence counsel.’

  ‘It’s the truth I’ve been telling you, your honour.’

  ‘Do you have a child, Kozlík?’

  ‘I’ve been paying her maintenance regularly, your honour!’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. What sort of feeling do you have for your child?’

  ‘She’s not my child, your honour.’

  ‘So why do you pay maintenance for her?’

  ‘The court ordered me to!’

  ‘The court ordered you to, even though it isn’t your child?’

  ‘That sometimes happens, your honour!’

  ‘So you have no feeling for the child?’

  ‘No, your honour.’

  ‘And haven’t you ever seen her?’

  ‘I’ve seen a photo of her.’

  ‘Why did her mother name you as the father?’

  ‘She had to name someone. She went with lots of men.’

  ‘But why did she choose you in particular? Do you think you’re such an ideal father?’

  ‘I don’t know, your honour.’

  ‘And you have no feeling for the child’s mother?’

  ‘Not any more, your honour.’

  ‘But she has a feeling for you. She would like you to come back to her.’

  ‘You mustn’t believe her, your honour. She’s a liar. She was always making things up.’

  ‘And you have never made anything up?’

  ‘No, your honour! I’ve always told people the truth. Everyone could believe me.’

  ‘One would think you were a saint to listen to you.’

  ‘I mean it sincerely, your honour. If one could trust people more, everything would be different.’

  5

  Whenever the telephone rang or someone grasped the handle of her office door she held her breath. She was frightened it might be him, but also pleased when it was. He called her several times a day. As soon as they removed the plaster he started dropping in. He had only to cross the courtyard. He would sit on a chair and gaze at her, talking to her or saying nothing. He wanted nothing and asked for nothing. He just waited.

  This time, she picked up the receiver to hear an unknown male voice. ‘Vlastimil Pravda here. My name won’t mean anything to you, Dr Kindlová, but I would be grateful if you could spare me a few moments. It’s a personal matter.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said in alarm, ‘but where are you calling from?’

  ‘I happened to be passing the library.’ The voice was sweet with almost a wheedling tone. ‘I’m downstairs in the entrance hall. I wouldn’t want to put any pressure on you if you’re busy.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind coming upstairs.’

  It was not clear to her how someone whose name she had never heard before could speak to her about some personal matter. ‘Vlastimil Pravda’ sounded rather like a pen-name from the period of national revival. Then it suddenly dawned on her who this was coming to see her: a blackmailer. Someone had found out about her scandalous relationship, realised that she had managed so far to keep it dark, and was hurrying here to make a deal with her.

  She got up from her desk. She did not know what to do. She’d never had to deal with a blackmailer. When Adam talked to her about such people they always seemed unreal to her: both the people and the business they were involved in. Maybe she oughtn’t to receive him at all. But if the man was intending to blackmail her he would track her down. Next time he would come unannounced or would go to the flat and she would only live in a constant state of apprehension.

  The only thing that would save her wou
ld be to call Adam straight away. But she wouldn’t have the time to tell him anything. She’d call him as soon as the man left. She should have done it long ago. In fact she had wanted to but had not yet found the time or the opportunity.

  Finally a knock at the door.

  It was an elderly man with a gaunt, sallow face and thinning grey hair. And he also wore spectacles with thick lenses – his vision could not have been good. Although it was a hot day he was wearing a black jacket and beneath it a knitted jumper.

  ‘Dr Pravda.’ He announced himself with a bow. ‘Dr Kindlová?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘May I be sure I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘I have no idea what it is about,’ she said. ‘Take a seat, please!’

  ‘You have a lovely office,’ he said, looking out of the window. ‘Peace and quiet, and a grapevine. In one of the places whence Czech learning first emerged. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say: learning in the Czech lands. Because the first Dominican schools used Latin. But then, any other learning was out of the question in those days.’

  She couldn’t follow him. She had the impression that when he talked, he opened his mouth wider than was the custom. As if he were on the point of singing.

  ‘I don’t really know where to start. I should really have gone to see your husband and not you, of course.’

  ‘Yes, I see that.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be proper. You husband probably wouldn’t receive me anyway, when he’d heard what it concerns. He is legally bound, whereas you are not. Perhaps you might be able to let him know something of what I will try to tell you. Should you think it seemly, of course.’

  She was still confused, but nodded.

  ‘It concerns Karel Kozlík. I don’t know whether you have heard about him.’

  ‘No,’ she said with sudden relief. ‘Do sit down, I beg you. May I make you a coffee?’

  ‘No thank you. In that place I completely lost the habit of drinking coffee and I never acquired it again.’ He sat down. ‘Your husband is due to try Karel Kozlík for a murder which the fellow may have committed. I know nothing about the offence, of course, but I do know something about Karel.’

  ‘But it might be better for you to go and see my husband, all the same,’ she said. ‘I don’t know much about his affairs.’

  ‘Do you think he would see me?’