5
The Secret Life of Insects
Translated by: Norma Comrada
That evening Mr. Tomsa, chief clerk in a government office,
had just settled down with his earphones and, with a gratified smile, was listening to a pleasant performance of some
Dvorak dances on the radio — now that’s what I call music,
he said to himself contentedly — when suddenly two sharp
reports sounded outside, and the glass from the window
above his head shattered with a crash. Mr. Tomsa’s apartment, it should be said, was on the ground floor.
And then he did what no doubt each of us would do.
First of all, he waited for a moment to see what might
happen next, then he snatched off his earphones and looked
around rather sternly to see what had happened, and only
then did he become frightened: for he saw that somebody
had fired two shots at him through the window next to
which he was sitting. Right over there, in the door he was
facing, a splinter of wood had been ripped away and beneath it a bullet was embedded. His first impulse was to
rush out into the street and seize the villain by the collar
with his bare hands. But when a man is getting on in years
and has a certain dignity to maintain, he generally lets his
first impulse pass and opts instead for the second. And that
is why Mr. Tomsa raced for the telephone and called the
police. “Hello? Send somebody here at once; someone’s just
tried to murder me.”
“Send somebody where?” said a sleepy and indifferent
voice.
“Here, to my apartment,” Mr. Tomsa flared in sudden
anger, as if the police should have known. “It’s perfectly outrageous that someone, for no reason at all, would shoot at a law-abiding citizen sitting quietly at home! This calls for a
most thorough and immediate investigation, sir! It’s a fine
state of affairs when . . . ”
“Right,” the sleepy voice interrupted him. “I’ll send
someone over.”
Mr. Tomsa fumed with impatience. It seemed to him
that an eternity passed before the someone came trudging
along, but in reality it was only twenty minutes before an
even-tempered police inspector had arrived and was examining the bullet holes in the window with interest.
“Someone’s been shooting at you, sir,” he said matterof-factly.
“I could have told you that,” Mr. Tomsa burst out. “I
was sitting right here by the window!”
“Thirty-two caliber,” announced the inspector, extricating a bullet from the door with his knife. “Looks as if it’s
been fired from an old army revolver. See? Whoever it is
must have been standing on the fence. If he’d been standing
on the sidewalk, the bullet would have gone in higher up.
That means he must have been aiming right at you, sir.”
“That’s odd,” Mr. Tomsa observed caustically. “And
here I thought he was aiming at the door.”
“And who did it?” asked the inspector, ignoring the
interruption.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you his address,” said Mr.
Tomsa. “I didn’t see the gentleman and I didn’t think to
invite him in.”
“That makes things difficult,” remarked the inspector,
unperturbed. “So who do you suspect?”
Mr. Tomsa’s patience was close to an end. “What do
you mean, suspect?” he launched out irritably. “Look,
Officer, I never saw the scoundrel, and even if he’d kindly
waited until I could blow him a kiss through the window, I
couldn’t have recognized him in the dark. My dear sir, if I
knew who it was, do you think I’d have put you to all this
trouble?”
“Well, yes, there’s something to that, sir,” the inspector
consoled him. “But maybe you can think of someone who’d
profit from your death, or who might want to get back at
you for something . . . . You see, sir, this wasn’t an attempt
at burglary; a burglar won’t shoot unless he has to. But
maybe somebody’s got a grudge against you. You tell us
who, sir, and we’ll look into it.”
Mr. Tomsa was taken aback: until that moment he
hadn’t thought about the matter in that light. “I haven’t the
faintest idea,” he said slowly, thinking back over the peaceful life he had led as a government clerk and a bachelor.
“But who, for heaven’s sake, would have that kind of a
grudge against me?” he said in bewilderment. “As far as I
know, I haven’t a single enemy in the world! It’s completely
out of the question,” he added, shaking his head. “I simply
don’t have anything to do with other people. I keep almost
entirely to myself, I never go anywhere, I don’t meddle in
anyone’s affairs . . . What, for heaven’s sake, would somebody want to get back at me for?”
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, sir,
but maybe you’ll think of something by tomorrow. You
won’t be worried staying here by yourself?”
“No,” Mr. Tomsa said reflectively. That’s odd, he said
to himself uneasily when he was alone, why, yes why would
somebody want to shoot at me, of all people? I’m practically
a hermit, for heaven’s sake. I do my work at the office and I
go home — why, I hardly have anything to do with anyone
else! Then why would they want to shoot me? he wondered
with growing bitterness at such ingratitude; little by little he
began to feel sorry for himself. I slave away like a horse, he
said to himself, I even take work home with me, I’m never
extravagant, I never take time out for little pleasures, I live
like a snail in his shell, and bang! somebody comes along
and fires a bullet at me. My Lord, what incredible hatred
there is in people, marveled Mr. Tomsa, aghast. What have I
ever done to anyone? How could someone have such an appalling, such an insane hatred for me?
Perhaps there’s some mistake, he reassured himself,
sitting on the bed and holding the boot he had just removed.
Of course! It’s a case of mistaken identity! The man simply
thought that I was someone else, someone he had a grudge
against! That must be it, he said to himself with relief,
because why, why would anyone hate me like that?
The boot fell from Mr. Tomsa’s hand. But of course, he
suddenly recalled with some embarrassment, it was a silly
thing for me to do, but it was really nothing more than a
slip of the tongue. I was talking with Roubal and, without
meaning to, I made an awkward remark about his wife. Of
course, everyone knows that woman’s cheating on him right
and left, and he knows it, too, but he doesn’t want people to
know that he does. And I, ass that I am, went and stupidly
let the cat out of the bag . . . . Mr. Tomsa remembered how
Roubal had merely swallowed hard and dug his nails into
his hands. Good heavens, he said to himself in horror, the
man was crushed! Obviously he’s madly in love with that
woman! Naturally, I tried to smooth things over afterwards,
but the man was biting his lips in anger! He’s got good
reason to hate me, Mr. Tomsa reflected sadly. I know he
wasn’t the one who shot at me, that’s nonsense; but I certainly wouldn’t be surprised if . . .
Mr. Tomsa stared at the floor in confusion. Or what
about that tailor, he reminded himself uncomfortably. For
fifteen years I ordered my clothes from him, and then one
day I was told that he had a bad case of consumption. Of
course, a man’s apprehensive about wearing clothes that a
consumptive tailor has been coughing on, so I stopped
getting my suits from him . . . And then he came to see me
and pleaded that he hadn’t a stitch of work, his wife was
sick and he needed to send his children away, and could he
have the honor of my confidence in him again — Good
heavens, how pale the poor man looked, and from the way
he was sweating I could see how ill he was! “Mr. Kolinsky,” I said to him, “look, it’s no use, I need a better tailor; I’ve
not been satisfied with your work.” “I do my very best, sir,”
he stammered, sweating with fear and bewilderment, and it’s
a wonder he didn’t burst out crying. And I, Mr. Tomsa
reminded himself, I just sent him away saying, “I’ll see,” the
sort of remark poor wretches like that hear only too often.
The man might well hate me, Mr. Tomsa shuddered; it’s
horrible to go and beg someone for your very life and be
sent away with such indifference. But what could I have
done for him? I know he couldn’t have been the one who
did it, but . . .
Mr. Tomsa began to feel more and more distressed. But
what’s just as painful, he remembered, is the way I bawled
out our file clerk. I couldn’t find a certain file, so I sent for
the old fellow and and yelled at him as if he’d been a
schoolboy, and in front of other people, too! “I suppose this
is what you call keeping things in order, you idiot, the place
looks like a pigsty; I ought to throw you out on your ear —
” And then I found the file in my own drawer! And the old
man never said a word, only stood there trembling and
blinking his eyes — Mr. Tomsa felt a hot surge of shame
welling over him. A man can’t very well apologize to a
subordinate, he told himself without conviction, even if he
has been a little hard on him. But how those subordinates
must hate their supervisors! Wait, I’ll give the poor devil
some of my old clothes; on second thought, that would be
humiliating for him, too —
Mr. Tomsa now found it unbearable to go on lying in
bed; the blankets were stifling him. He sat up, wrapped his
arms around his knees, and stared into the darkness. Or that
business with young Moravek at the office, he thought, sick
at heart. He’s such a sensitive young man, writes poems and
all. And when he blundered so badly in dealing with those
papers, I told him, “Young man, you’ll have to do these all
over again,” and I meant to throw the papers down on the
table; but they landed at his feet, and when he bent down to pick them up his face grew red, his ears were red — I could
have bitten off my tongue, Mr. Tomsa muttered. I really like
that lad, and to humiliate him like that, however unintended
—
Another face floated before Mr. Tomsa’s eyes: the pale
and swollen face of his colleague Wankl. Poor Wankl, he
said to himself, he wanted to be chief clerk, and I got the
promotion instead. It would have meant a few hundred more
a year, and he’s got six children — I’ve heard he’d like to
have his eldest daughter trained as a singer, but he can’t
afford it; and I was promoted over him because he’s such a
slow-witted plodder, a real drudge — His wife has a terrible
temper, but the reason she’s so scraggy and bad-tempered is
that she’s always having to pinch pennies; he chews away on
dry rolls for lunch — Mr. Tomsa lapsed into gloomy
thought. Poor Wankl, he must have all kinds of bad feelings
when he sees me, with no family at all, making more than
he does; but I can’t help that, can I? It makes me uneasy,
though, when he looks at me in that injured, reproachful
way . . .
Mr. Tomsa rubbed his forehead, which had broken out
in an agonizing sweat. Yes, he said to himself, and then
there’s that waiter who cheated me on my bill; and I called
for the owner, and he fired the waiter on the spot. “You
thief,” he snarled at him, “I’ll see that you don’t find another job anywhere in Prague!” And the man never said a
word, just left . . . I could see his shoulder blades sticking
out under his jacket.
Mr. Tomsa now found it unbearable to stay on the bed;
he sat down by his radio and slipped on his earphones, but
the radio was mute in the still, mute hours of the night. Mr.
Tomsa covered his face with his hands and recalled all the
people he had ever met, the odd and inconsequential people
with whom he had never really gotten along and to whom
he had never really given a second thought.
In the morning he stopped by the police station; he was somewhat pale and distracted. “So,” the inspector asked,
“have you thought of anyone who might have a grudge
against you?”
Mr. Tomsa shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said
hesitantly. “What I mean is, the people who might hold a
grudge against me, there are so many that . . . ” He waved
his hand, baffled. “The fact of the matter is, a man never
knows how many people he’s wronged. You know, I’m just
not going to sit by that window anymore. And I’ve come to
ask you to forget the whole thing.”
The Secret Life of Insects
Harvest
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