headwife, and Narana, his subwife—and he watched with a stony expression and without feeling as the fire ate its way through the ancient house, as it shattered the windowpanes and then flickered through them as though offering a derisive greeting, and as the roof suddenly began to glow, became more and more translucent, and finally collapsed, sending a cloud of sparks spiraling toward the sky. They hung there in the darkness like gently dancing stars and went out one after another while the fuel for the fire ran out below; in the end, there were hardly enough embers to send a bit of light into the night.
“How could that happen?” he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t. He could only stare at the walls, charred black, and his mind refused to grasp the enormity of the event.
He would have stood there, motionless, until dawn, not knowing what to do. It was Karvita who found the charred remains of the money chest and put the sooty coins into her scarf, and it was Karvita who led the three of them along the difficult footpath through the bitter cold night to the house of her parents on the edge of the city.
* * *
“It’s my fault.” He said it without looking at anyone, his tortured eyes staring off into an uncertain distance. A nameless pain swirled inside his chest, and something within him hoped to bring just punishment more quickly and painlessly down on his head by indicting himself and declaring his own guilt.
“Nonsense,” his wife responded firmly. “Nobody knows whose fault it is. And you should finally have something to eat.”
The sound of her voice pained him. He took a quick, sidelong glance at her and tried to find in her again that girl with the breathtakingly long, black hair he had fallen in love with. She was always so cool, so unapproachable, and in all the years, he had never succeeded in melting the ice. It was his own heart that had been frostbitten.
Without a word, Narana pushed a plate of grain mush across the table to him. Then, almost frightened that she had overstepped her bounds, she retreated to her chair. The delicate, blond subwife, who could have been the daughter of the other two, ate silently and quietly, bent over her plate as though she wanted to make herself invisible.
Borlon knew that Narana believed Karvita hated her, and she was probably right. Whenever the three of them were in a room together, there was tension in the air. Karvita never let it be seen in her cool mien, but Borlon was sure that she was jealous of the young subwife, because he slept with her.
Should he have forgone the pleasure? Narana was the only woman from whose bed he ever rose with a happy heart. She was young and shy and troubled, and originally he had only taken her to wife because of her glorious white-blond hair, which formed an unbelievably effective contrast to Karvita’s hair. And she had lived untouched in their household for several years before he slept with her for the first time … at Karvita’s suggestion.
When he was alone with her, she could be wonderfully relaxed, passionate, and filled with grateful tenderness. She was the ray of light in his life. But since that time, Karvita’s heart had become inaccessible to him—permanently, it seemed—and he felt responsible for that.
He watched from the corner of his eye as Karvita ran her fingers through her hair, and out of pure habit, he extended his hand to receive the hairs that had come out in her fingers. In the middle of this gesture, he realized what he was doing, and he stopped himself. There was no carpet anymore on which he could continue his work. He sensed the memory of it like a burning ache in his chest.
“It does no good to blame yourself,” Karvita said when she noticed the movement of his hand. “It won’t bring back the carpet … or the house. There could be any number of causes: a spark from the cooking fire, embers in the ashes, anything.”
“But what should I do now?” Borlon asked
“How could that happen?” he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t. He could only stare at the walls, charred black, and his mind refused to grasp the enormity of the event.
He would have stood there, motionless, until dawn, not knowing what to do. It was Karvita who found the charred remains of the money chest and put the sooty coins into her scarf, and it was Karvita who led the three of them along the difficult footpath through the bitter cold night to the house of her parents on the edge of the city.
* * *
“It’s my fault.” He said it without looking at anyone, his tortured eyes staring off into an uncertain distance. A nameless pain swirled inside his chest, and something within him hoped to bring just punishment more quickly and painlessly down on his head by indicting himself and declaring his own guilt.
“Nonsense,” his wife responded firmly. “Nobody knows whose fault it is. And you should finally have something to eat.”
The sound of her voice pained him. He took a quick, sidelong glance at her and tried to find in her again that girl with the breathtakingly long, black hair he had fallen in love with. She was always so cool, so unapproachable, and in all the years, he had never succeeded in melting the ice. It was his own heart that had been frostbitten.
Without a word, Narana pushed a plate of grain mush across the table to him. Then, almost frightened that she had overstepped her bounds, she retreated to her chair. The delicate, blond subwife, who could have been the daughter of the other two, ate silently and quietly, bent over her plate as though she wanted to make herself invisible.
Borlon knew that Narana believed Karvita hated her, and she was probably right. Whenever the three of them were in a room together, there was tension in the air. Karvita never let it be seen in her cool mien, but Borlon was sure that she was jealous of the young subwife, because he slept with her.
Should he have forgone the pleasure? Narana was the only woman from whose bed he ever rose with a happy heart. She was young and shy and troubled, and originally he had only taken her to wife because of her glorious white-blond hair, which formed an unbelievably effective contrast to Karvita’s hair. And she had lived untouched in their household for several years before he slept with her for the first time … at Karvita’s suggestion.
When he was alone with her, she could be wonderfully relaxed, passionate, and filled with grateful tenderness. She was the ray of light in his life. But since that time, Karvita’s heart had become inaccessible to him—permanently, it seemed—and he felt responsible for that.
He watched from the corner of his eye as Karvita ran her fingers through her hair, and out of pure habit, he extended his hand to receive the hairs that had come out in her fingers. In the middle of this gesture, he realized what he was doing, and he stopped himself. There was no carpet anymore on which he could continue his work. He sensed the memory of it like a burning ache in his chest.
“It does no good to blame yourself,” Karvita said when she noticed the movement of his hand. “It won’t bring back the carpet … or the house. There could be any number of causes: a spark from the cooking fire, embers in the ashes, anything.”
“But what should I do now?” Borlon asked
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