Jakub turned around to go back to his car. Just then he became aware of a little boy standing behind a window. Barely five years old, he was looking out the window toward the pond. Perhaps he was watching the geese, perhaps he was watching the boy flailing at the geese with his switch. He was behind the window, and Jakub could not take his eyes off him. What fascinated Jakub about the child’s face were the eyeglasses. They were large eyeglasses, probably with thick lenses. The child’s head was little and the eyeglasses were big. He was wearing them like a burden. He was wearing them like a fate. He was looking through the frames of his eyeglasses as if through a wire fence. Yes, he was wearing the frames as if they were a wire fence he would have to drag along with him all his life. And Jakub looked through the wire fence of the eyeglasses at the little boy’s eyes, and he was suddenly filled with great sadness.
It was as sudden as the spread of water over countryside when riverbanks give way. It had been a long time since Jakub had been sad. Many years. He had known only sourness, bitterness, but not sadness. And now it had assailed him, and he could not move.
He saw in front of him the child dressed in his wire fence, and he pitied that child and his whole country, reflecting that he had loved this country little and badly, and he was sad because of that bad and failed love.
And all at once the thought came to him that it was pride that had kept him from loving this country, pride in nobility, pride in high-mindedness, pride in scrupulousness; an insane pride that made him dislike his kind and detest them because he saw them as murderers. And once again he remembered that he had slipped poison into a stranger’s medicine tube, and that he himself was a murderer. He was a murderer, and his pride was reduced to dust. He had become one of them. He was a brother of those distressing murderers.
The little boy with the big eyeglasses stood at the window as if petrified, his eyes still fixed on the pond. And Jakub realized that this child had done no harm, that he was not guilty of anything, and yet he had been born with bad eyes and would have them forever. And he reflected further that what he had held against others was something given, something they came into the world with and carried with them like a heavy wire fence. He reflected that he had no privileged right to high-mindedness and that the highest degree of high-mindedness is to love people even though they are murderers.
He thought once again of the pale-blue tablet, and he told himself that he had slipped it into the disagreeable nurse’s medicine tube as an apology; as an application to be admitted into their ranks; as a plea to be accepted by them even though he had always refused to be counted as one of them.
He quickly headed back to the car, opened the door, took the wheel, and set out again for the border. The day before he had thought that this would be a moment of relief. That he would be glad to be going away. That he would be leaving a place where he had been born by mistake, and where, in fact, he did not feel at home. But now he knew that he was leaving his only homeland and that he had no other.
23
“Don’t be thrilled,” said the inspector. “The glorious prison gates won’t be opening for you to go through like Jesus Christ climbing Calvary. It never occurred to me that you could kill that young woman. I only accused you so you’d stop insisting so stubbornly that she was murdered.”
“I am glad you were not serious about the accusation,” said Bertlef in a conciliatory tone. “And you are right, it was not reasonable for me to try to obtain justice for Ruzena through you.”
“I’m pleased to see you settle your differences,” said Dr. Skreta. “There’s one thing at least we can take comfort from. However Ruzena died, her last night was a beautiful night.”
“Look at the moon,” said Bertlef. “It is just as it was yesterday, and it is turning this room into a garden. Barely twenty-four hours ago Ruzena was the fairy queen of this garden.”
“And we shouldn’t be so interested in justice,” Dr. Skreta said. “Justice is not a human thing. There’s the justice of blind, cruel laws, and maybe there’s also another justice, a higher justice, but that one I don’t understand. I’ve always felt that I was living here in this world beyond justice.”
“What do you mean?” asked Olga, amazed.
“Justice doesn’t concern me,” said Dr. Skreta. “It’s something outside and above me. In any case it’s something inhuman. I’ll never cooperate with this repellent power.”
“Are you trying to say,” Olga asked, “that you don’t recognize any universal values?”
“The values I recognize have nothing in common with justice.”
“For example?” Olga asked.
“For example, friendship,” Dr. Skreta replied softly.
Everyone remained silent, and the inspector rose to go. Just then, Olga had a sudden thought: “What color were the tablets Ruzena was taking?”
“Pale blue,” said the inspector, and then added with renewed interest: “But why do you ask?”
Olga was afraid that the inspector had read her mind, and quickly backtracked: “I saw her once with a medicine tube. I was wondering if it was the tube I saw …”
The inspector had not read her mind, he was tired and bade everyone good evening.
After he had left, Bertlef said to the doctor: “Our
