JANKO POLle KAMOV
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Pepper is still near her. The cross is standing. My sister has given in. Red
Pepper is now weeping, too, although I know she does not feel like weep–
ing. She is angry because she didn't see my sister die and because she did
not have the chance to close the eyes of the deceased! She too thinks she
is "something"!
I go to the bed. I cannot stand Red Pepper being there. She wants
everything her way. She wants to be right about everything. Now she even
wants to kiss my sister. But I am already there, kissing my sister's eyes, her
lips, her hair. I am kissing her although I have a bad taste in my mouth. I
am weeping even though I do not feel like weeping. Red Pepper begins
kissing her too, only so she can push me away. She is weeping although she
would much rather curse. She pushes me away pretending to comfort me.
She pinches my arm furiously. But I am holding my own. I am yelling. I
am stomping my feet . I am screaming. She pinches me, I scratch her. Even
now she reeks of petroleum and brandy, although she is trying to pass it
off as the smell of the candle. She must be drunk. And that she would kiss
my sister in that condition! I'll tell Mother. ...
The candle turns over and burns her arm. I calm down. My mother is
kissing my forehead now, caressing my hair, and I am weeping at her
breast; I know Mother is pleased with me now. I am not a cad, I am not
stupid. I behaved so well! I am my mother's pride and joy and she is
pleased with me.
We hold our embrace. We understand each other. Mother kissed my
sister as if she were kissing me; I kissed my sister as if I were kissing my
mother.
Red Pepper is trying to cool her elbow. The burn must be pretty bad.
How pleasant it is at my mother's breast. I am pleased with myself,
with my mother, with Red Pepper, and with my dead sister....
I am so happy!
I wait for my father with great curiosity. Will he cry? Father is quite
old, gray-haired and solemn. He never makes jokes. When we play, he asks:
"Why aren't you studying?" He has told us so many times that we are no
longer children and that we should really be more serious. "When I was
your age," he said to me, "I already worked in the office, and you complain
if I so much as give you a short letter to copy." Our father is generally strict
and decent, he punishes with his look and his silence.
But Mother said to him several times: "You don't love them," (mean–
ing us) "and they don't love you."
How will he act now?
He enters with the priest. He is sullen and gloomy, his eyebrows
bristling, his chin trembling, his lips pursed, his mouth wide. I always
