Ignorance by Milan Kundera

Author:Milan Kundera [Kundera, Milan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-08-06T16:54:41.474000+00:00

Jeanne

Just before the war broke out, soon after my eighteenth birthday, I found new employment; in a house in nearby Ste-Madeleine.

News of the vacancy zigzagged towards me like a paper dart. Neighbours picked up the dart, read its message, sailed it on. The fact of a job becoming available pleated itself into the way we learned of it. Madame Fauchon heard about it from her husband who heard about it from the man who had married the young maidservant in Ste-Madeleine. The newly-wed couple had moved to lodgings in Ste-Marie, where the husband had found temporary work at the forge. The husband brought his boots into the cobbler’s soon afterwards, and fell into conversation with Monsieur Fauchon. Monsieur Fauchon mentioned to his wife that the young woman had left her housemaid’s job. Madame Fauchon told Maman the job was going. Maman told me.

She shook silvery raindrops from her hair, stamped on the mat. She unbelted her coat, fished in her pocket. She unscrewed a scrap of paper. Here’s the address. Near the railway station, I think.

I took the paper from her, and her coat. I hung the sodden coat on the peg near the door, put down a wad of newspaper to catch the drips. The kitchen filled with the smell of damp wool. The cold came inside with the thick wet smell, muffling my mouth. I laid the draught-extinguisher against the bottom of the door. A patched bolster-cover stuffed with stockings past repair. Only just wide enough. You felt the wind trying to lift it aside at either end; whistle in.

Maman said: sounds like a lodging house. She bent, pulled on her slippers. Her dark hair showed grey threads. Write this evening.

I wrote on a leaf of paper torn out of an old school exercise book. My prospective employer wrote back on pink notepaper with deckled edges. A small hand, with neat loops and flourishes. Pale blue ink. The patronne suggested a week’s trial. She offered me my meals, a bed, my servant’s uniform. Maman said: you’ll be able to save your wages every week. She tied on her apron, began scrubbing a celeriac root at the sink. She spoke to the basin of water: I wish you didn’t have to go away from home. My mouth felt crowded with spikes. Bite down on thorns, on blood.

We didn’t own a suitcase, so I packed my clothes, books and art things in the old basket we used for collecting firewood. I mended the handle with string, and salvaged a box from the Fauchons to hold our kindling. I waited in their shop while Madame Fauchon emptied out a stream of silver nails. Monsieur Fauchon said: I wouldn’t like one of my little ones to go so far. Such times we live in! He handed me the box. But your mother’s always had her own way of doing things. His wife folded her arms. Just you watch out for yourself, that’s all.

The day before I left was a Sunday. In the afternoon we got dressed up and went to the dance hall near the factory.

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