A Flurry of Snow

Chantal Schaul, 2006

There was a loud noise of heavy machinery and then metal creaking. When Vaporette saw the heavy lid on top of the village well gradually move out of place, she knew there was light at the end of the tunnel. She held her breath and watched. The lid ground its way across the mouth of the well and finally landed on the outside ground with a dull clunk that made the earth shake for a moment. A ray of blinding sunlight etched its way into her stale and mouldy sub world.

“I’m free!” she thought and got very excited. Of course she would have to wait until midnight before she could actually venture outside, but compared to the locked up decades that had eluded her, she felt like she could fly. How long exactly she had spent in this corked up place, she could not remember. Neither did she know why the well had been blocked off. Tonight, she would explore!

As Vaporette (a name she had given herself because she had forgotten her real name in all that time) was rhythmically kicking her legs to stay on the furry water surface and pondering about the possibilities that stood open to her, she heard voices from above. An old lady said: “Oh, Ferdinand, what are you doing there? Opening up the old well? Why? I thought it was dangerous?” – “Dangerous?” – “Yes! When it was closed off, oh, but you were not even born then, the mayor said children could fall in and drown. Why are you opening it again?” – “It’s part of the old village core renovation programme. It’s being restored.” – “Hmm. Now I would call that rather foolish, but who would listen to an old lady like me.”

“Aha”, thought Vaporette, “village restoration.” That suited her very well. She wondered what year it was. In principle, it didn’t really matter much, but there was one niggling factor that made her want to know. Just before she was buried alive inside the well, she had taken a romantic interest in one of the village men. He was young then and had moved to the village to get married. As Vaporette’s well was right next to the church, she had watched the ceremony from a distance, and fallen head over heels in love with the young man.

During the nights that followed, she had used her single hour of freedom, between midnight and one o’clock, to peek through the windows of this young man’s house. His name was Mil, derived from Emil, and he lived there with his new wife (nothing much to look at) and his in-laws. There was also an old uncle, and a few aunts living on top of each other. The presence of so many relatives in one medium-sized house made it rather difficult for the new couple to consummate their marriage, but that fitted in very well with Vaporette’s plans.

One night, as the midnight bells tolled, Vaporette discovered Mil as he slurped home from the village pub. That was her chance. Although she had already spent over a hundred years in the well, she still looked the same as on the day when she was cursed and thrown in. Fresh and beautiful, but wet and soggy in her old-fashioned clothes, she got into position behind the cemetery wall, ready to intercept him.

“Olala”, she fluttered with her eyelids as she unexpectedly crossed his path and brushed against him rather forcefully. She grabbed his arm to steady him, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you coming at all!” For the first time Vaporette could delight in his handsome features from a close by perspective. She gasped. She had always liked men that looked up at you mysteriously from under their eyebrows.

Mil’s reaction took a while. When he had registered all that had happened, he smiled and said: “What could such a pretty young lady like you be doing here, all alone, in the middle of the night?” – “I was praying at my grandfather’s grave,” she said innocently, and he didn’t protest. “But now I’m very cold,” she added. “Has it been raining?” he asked. And that was the last bit of reasoning he could summon up before melting into Vaporette’s seductive arms and reciprocating her kisses.

She led him into the heart of the cemetery, where they could spend an hour undetected by other drunken villagers dripping out of the pub occasionally. Thankfully the weather was pleasant enough, so she dried quickly, and her long blond hair was floating around the two of them, tossed by the strong midnight winds.

Came one o’clock, Vaporette had to hurry back to her well and disappear. By then, Mil was dozing off his alcoholic vapours and post-coital fatigue between two crooked gravestones. By the time he would wake up, he might not even remember what had happened. Vaporette, of course, hoped that he would not forget her. She had plans for him. If only he could fall in love with her enough to say the magic words to lift her curse. Then they could elope somewhere nice and live happily ever after.

But Vaporette’s plans were thwarted when, the next morning, a small group of workers arrived and placed the iron lid on the well. She had to dive deep down to scream and rage, so they wouldn’t hear her. To have someone hear her outside of her allocated nightly hour would mean a certain horrible drowning death for her.

For decades she didn’t understand why the heavy lid had been placed upon her. She stormed and fumed for a long time, but eventually she resigned herself and slept as much as she could, waiting, hoping for her freedom to return, or what was left of it. Centuries could have gone by when, today, her prayers were finally answered. But it seemed to be no more than a lifetime. Was Mil still alive? And if so, was he old and grey now?

At the toll of midnight, Vaporette crawled out of her fusty shaft. Her clothes smelt of interred bodies and were mildewed through and through. She would have to find a new wardrobe, somewhere. For the moment, though, all she wanted was to watch from the outside. Away from the core of the village, with its restored church, morgue and well, she prowled along the smooth pavements towards Mil’s house. It hadn’t changed, apart from a new, yellow coat of paint. Unfortunately, all was dark.

Vaporette collected a few stones from the garden and threw them at what used to be Mil’s bedroom window. It didn’t take long for the light to go on. She vanished behind a bush before the window opened. It was Mil, with greying hair and saggy skin, but, nevertheless, it was Mil. “Who is it?” He sounded angry and aggressive. Then he sniffed the nocturnal air. “Stinks out here!” He slammed the window shut.

Seconds later, a light went on downstairs in the kitchen. Mil appeared in the kitchen. That was new, too. Carved oak, old-fashioned style. Like the rest of the village, the house seemed to have acquired a brand-new air of ancientness. What the early seventies had tried to wipe out and cover up with ill thought-out colours and patterns had come back for some reason, polished and proud. Vaporette felt more at home now than she did then.

Mil looked into the fridge and pulled out a sausage, which he bit in to, raw. He then opened a kitchen table drawer and took a letter from it. Vaporette got as close as she could and almost glued her ear to the window. She heard him read out a name: “Deniska Valentova.” Then a laugh. The light was switched off and Mil’s steps creaked up the wooden stairs.

Vaporette stood still. She had caught a glimpse of Mil as he brushed past the window, and seen his aged skin. His hair was half-grey. He must be about 50 or 60 now, she thought. But her heart was still beating for him. He was still alive!

Her next thought was about the foreign-sounding female name. What could that be all about? And where was his wife? She had an idea and dashed to the graveyard. Her last memory here was of Mil and their romantic night, so long ago. It must have been about thirty years. She remembered the exact spot where she had guided him, a cosy mossy groove between the hedge and the last grave. It had hardly changed.

For lack of more time, she scanned the gravestones for names. And there it was: Mil’s family grave. And right there, in the bottom row, fresh and crisp, his wife’s name: Mathilda. She’d died in July 2006. Then the church bells sounded one o’clock, and Vaporette plunged back into her watery shaft.

The next day was evidently a Sunday, as the village people flocked to church. Vaporette knew the routine. Even while the curse constrained her to the well, she sometimes climbed up as close as she could get to the iron lid so she could hear the faintest vibrations of the church bells. She rose up to the surface now, to hear the gossip. Various voices delivered snippets of vital information.

“Have you heard? Mil is getting a Polish housekeeper.” – “What? Already? His wife’s hardly under the ground!” – “ He says he can’t cope without a woman around the house. Doesn’t know how to cook or do anything.” – “ Despicable sod! Men are so poorly adaptable.” Some male voices came later, chuckling: “Mil is getting himself a new woman. He showed her photo around in the pub the other night. Not too old, pretty blonde.” – “ Maybe he’ll rent her out by the hour.” Dirty, guttural laughter followed.

Vaporette had to act. She needed some decent, fresh-smelling clothes and pen and paper. She twiddled her thumbs until midnight, but her brain had worked out a master plan in the meantime. She dashed across the road at the stroke of midnight and entered the house by the back door, which she knew was unlocked. An old dotty lady lived there, the same one as thirty years ago. At that time, she lived there with her six sisters, but they must have all died in the past years.

Although the only clothes that Vaporette could lay her hands on were old and mended, they were still far more pleasant than her own rancid rags. In a drawer she found some yellowed paper and a blunt pencil. She tiptoed out and made her way to the graveyard to compose the lines that would change her life. She remembered the formula as if she’d only heard it yesterday. The priest had cursed her thus:

“Rotting water, fusty stench
Now and for all times
Thy bloody thirst shall quench,
And plague thee for thy crimes.”

When Vaporette reached Mil’s house it was already twenty to one. She did not have much time. She quickly looked at her reflection in one of the windows. Not bad. She was still in her late twenties, her skin was smooth, though exceedingly pale, and her hair was an appealing flaxen colour, though somewhat straggly. She rang the doorbell.

After some muffled cursing, the bedroom window opened up and Mil’s irritated face appeared. “Who is this?” he grunted. “Deniska,” Vaporette replied, in her best Polish accent. “Deniska? Already? But you were meant to arrive next week!” – “I am early. I got the late night bus from Poland.” The window was closed and moments later Mil arrived at the front door, in a crumpled dressing gown. “Well, come in, then.” He scrutinised her. “You have no luggage?” Instead of answering his question, Vaporette gave him the yellowed piece of paper on which she had written the curse in reverse. Time was pressing. “Could you read this, please? Aloud.” Mil, perplexed, took the letter and read:

“Semirc yht rof eeht eugalp dna
hcneuq llahs tsriht ydoolb yht
semit lla rof dna won
hcnets ytsuf, retaw gnittor.”

Vaporette felt a surge of blood course through her body and warm her up through and through. She was alive again! Her plan had worked! “And what does this nonsense mean?” asked Mil condescendingly, tossing the letter on the kitchen table. “Is Polish letter from my family to say hello and thank you,” she explained. “Ah. So where is your luggage?” –“I lost it all. On the bus. Someone stole it.” – “That’s bad. I hope you don’t expect me to buy you a whole lot of new clothes?” he said in a gruff voice. “Oh no, master, I will make clothes with my own hands.”

He ignored her attempt to please and lead the way upstairs. She followed him into his bedroom. Without looking at her, he clumsily gesticulated towards the left of the bed, and murmured: “That’s your side.” Vaporette was slightly taken aback. In her days, housekeepers would not have slept in their masters’ beds. Not at first, anyway. But, then again, wasn’t this why she was here in the first place? She nodded with a smile on her now burning red lips and sat down. Before either of them could reveal a patch of naked skin, the light was off. This made things easier. She undressed and lay still on her side. She wouldn’t make a move yet. In such long-term matters, she knew, men needed the illusion of free choice.

She didn’t have to wait long. In the early hours of the morning, a hand slowly crept towards her breast and landed on top of it, like a fat spider. So romanticism wasn’t Mil’s forte, but never mind. He would surely improve, over time. His next move was across to the other breast. She turned her head and looked over at him. He was staring at the ceiling, as if the hand was someone else’s. “Mil,” she said. The hand retreated abruptly and Mil shot a reproachful glance at her: “You don’t make it easy for a man!” – “What would you like me to do?” she asked. “Do what women do,” he replied in an exasperated tone.

She suddenly wished he was young again, and inexperienced and innocent. She could have eaten him for breakfast. But now he seemed rather too gristly for that. Nevertheless, she performed her duties and put her hands in all the right places. Thus cajoled, he sprang into action like clockwork, and, after expending himself, disappeared into the bathroom. “I want breakfast in half an hour,” he growled from the inside.

Vaporette put her clothes back on and went downstairs. She didn’t like this treatment, but perhaps he was just having a bad day. Men were like that sometimes. She would handle it in due time.

When Mil came down, she had beaten the eggs that she’s found in the fridge, but got stuck with the hob. She wasn’t even sure where the cooker was. “Mil,” she trilled, “how shall I heat this?” He seemed vexed. “You’re the woman here.” He pointed towards the electric hob. “There.” – “How do you turn it on?” she asked innocently. “Why did I get myself a housekeeper if I have to do all the work?” he groused and turned the knob. “Dearest Mil,” she said, “I have never seen a machine like this before.” He lightened up a bit. “Ah, yes, I guess over in Poland you are behind the times. Well, get used to it.”

He ate his omelette without a word and then went off to the living room. “Bring the paper in. It’s in the post box.” She obeyed and sat down next to him. “Get busy cleaning,” he ordered. She did this as well, all the while pondering about what to do to remedy the situation. She hated taking orders from a man. He was lucky that she had spent the last thirty years fantasising about him, idealising him, casting him in a myriad of heroic roles. She couldn’t abandon him with a flicker of the eye. On the other hand, if she kept playing his slave, there was no telling what she might do. She’d had sudden and unforeseen reactions before.

When he finally emerged from the living room she rested on the mop and looked him in the eye. “There’s no food in the fridge for lunch. We need to go shopping.” He peeked out of the window. “It’s raining. I can’t drive anywhere in this weather.” Her puzzled look prompted him to add: “ My car will get dirty.” Vaporette threw the dripping mop on the floor. “I’ll walk!” She stormed out of the house with no immediate plan, boiling with anger.

Mil wavered for a moment. When he realised that he was on the brink of abandonment, he sprang into motion. “Deniska! Come back! Don’t leave me so soon. I’ll drive you to the supermarket. I’ll get mud on my car for you.” He caught up with her and grabbed her arm. He pleaded and whimpered and looked so genuinely needy that she agreed to stay. “Under one condition,” she said, “that you stop bossing me around.” – “Yes, yes, yes,” he panted.

The supermarket was all festive and sparkly. Vaporette had wondered about the time of year. She thought it would be too suspicious to ask, and now she was glad she hadn’t. It was blatant that Christmas was on the doorstep. She loved Christmas. In her days, Christmas had been mostly religious, without presents or light chains or toys. What she remembered most was the old cracked wooden nativity scene in church. And the chiselled torso of the black boy, who nodded when you put a coin in the slot on his spine.

She had witnesses the gradual process of Christmas street lights building up in the seventies, the postman delivering Christmas cards, the sparkling trees in every house. But this was something else entirely! So many baubles and twinkley decorations were on offer here, so many sweets wrapped in all kinds of shimmery papers and foils. She even saw stacks of Christmas scented cat litter, whatever that was. “Christmas is soon?” she said as casually as possible. “In a month,” he replied. She was taken aback at the prematurity of the festive display, but not displeased. At last she would have the opportunity to revel at length in all these wonders.

“Have you made any preparations yet?” she asked. “Preparations, why? I couldn’t give a hoot about Christmas,” he said disenchantingly. “We need to get decorations and presents,” she commanded and started loading the trolley. He nearly butted in, but complied in the end. He couldn’t afford to scare this new woman away. She was young and pretty, and he’d filled up with pride at the jealous looks of the shoppers around him.

Vaporette went overboard. She piled the shopping trolley high with rich foods and sparkling decorations; wreaths and light chains, tinsel and Christmas gnomes, cinnamon chocolate balls and almonds. Mil gritted his teeth and swallowed his miserly tendencies. At least Christmas only happened once a year.

But, alas, when the tree finally went up in Mil’s house, and all the decorations gradually emerged from their boxes, he couldn’t help but feel a warmth around his heart that he hadn’t felt in all those years with his wife. She had always obeyed him and not bothered with any Christmas celebrations or decorations. He only had the faintest childhood memories of Christmas; his mother baking spicy cakes, the smell of oranges and nuts around the house, the aroma of pine tree needles. Vaporette unwittingly conjured up all those lost sensations in the space of one afternoon and was surprised, that evening, to see Mil’s more agreeable side. He even put his arm around her, warmly, on the sofa.

But, woe, the next morning a letter arrived. “It’s from you”, said Mil, reading it carefully. You’re telling me that you’re arriving tonight, on the Polish express coach from Warsaw.” He looked at her questioningly. “Oh,” she smiled, “I wrote that ages ago, before I decided to come earlier. I just couldn’t wait to see you.” He nodded and tossed the letter into the kitchen table drawer, with the others.

That night, Vaporette sneaked out of the house under the pretence of going for a walk. It had started to snow and she told Mil she loved the first snow of the year, especially in the dark. She looked up and felt the thick wet flakes tumble down on to her cheeks, her eyes and nose. The light by the bus stop attracted a whole whirlwind of the white scraps and tossed them around like dry goose feathers.

The coach arrived like a ghost train, imperceptibly at first, the engine stifled to a bumblebee by the tumbling snow. The yellow lights were half covered by a gauzy layer and couldn’t have blinded a rabbit. As the coach came to a halt next to Vaporette, the breaks squealed. The heavy carcass skidded on for a few inches before the door puffed and opened and a woman with long blond hair stepped out. She was the only passenger. Without a word, the driver bore down on the pedal and crept out of sight.

“Hello, you must be Deniska?” The woman nodded. “I’m here to pick you up and take you to Emil.” Vaporette offered her arm to the stranger and guided her through the thickening blanket of snow. She saw the well from a distance, with its newly constructed little wooden rooftop, from where a bucket dangled down on a spindle. “This way,” she nudged the Polish woman towards the well. This time it wouldn’t be so easy. This lady would try and resist.

As they passed the low wall of the well, Vaporette hurled herself against her companion with all her might and threw her off balance. Still, Deniska reacted fast enough to hold on to one of the wooden poles that supported the roof. But before she could gather her senses and shout for help, Vaporette gave her the final blow. A hollow splash and the deed was done, a second time.

Vaporette made the sign of the cross and furtively glanced around herself. No, there wasn’t anyone in sight. She stayed by the well until the commotion down there had stopped. The falling snow would soon cover up their traces; the water surface inside the well would freeze, and Vaporette would be left in peace.

As she stepped back inside Mil’s house, wet and cold, he was circling the kitchen nervously. “I thought you’d gone back to Poland, on the coach. Where have you been for so long?” She looked at the clock. Three hours had passed. It was half past midnight. “Oh, I didn’t notice it was so late. I’m sorry. I will never leave you.” She melted into his arms. She had made the right decision.

When Christmas finally arrived, Mil’s house had turned into a sparkling haven of Christmas festivity. A pot of mulled wine was brewing on the hob, a lump of meat sizzling in the oven, red cabbage and Brussels sprouts steaming in big pots. A big Christmas cake was spreading its delicious aroma around the entire house. Chocolate, oranges and nuts filled every nook and cranny in the living room. And, most importantly, Mil seemed to have reformed into a new man. She had him eating out of her hand.

But Vaporette was nervous. Mil’s three sons and their wives and children were due to arrive. Mil had mentioned their existence only a few days previously. And when they finally bulldozered in, Vaporette’s worst fears were confirmed. They didn’t know about her either. Mil introduced her to a crowd of dropped jaws. The eldest son took his father aside whilst the wives cast vicious looks upon her. “You should have told us about this woman. Who is she?” – “She’s my housekeeper. Did you expect me to live on my own, without your mother? How would I have coped?” – “Where did you find her?” – “Advert in the newspaper. She’s from Poland.”

The day passed slowly, while Vaporette felt increasingly segregated from the entire family. Mil just didn’t seem to have the courage to defend her status. They feasted on her lovingly prepared Christmas dinner and condescendingly turned their noses up at her. She escaped into the kitchen and gave her watering eyes the chance to overflow temporarily. This was more than she could take.

Mil started to remind her of her father. Could she have been so wrong about him? Had he just put on a show to exploit her work force and her womanly shell? Had she invested all her yearlong dreams in a man so repulsive and vile that all he deserved was to drown in his own bitterness and die of his own venom? “We’ve run out of red cabbage,” Mil shouted from the dinner table into the kitchen. “You have three seconds to prepare another bowl,” one of his sons added, and produced a guttural laugh. Two of the children burst into the kitchen and dipped their fingers into the creamy icing of Vaporette’s Christmas log. They laughed like sirens and yapped off again.

Vaporette threw her apron on the floor and announced to the family: “Make your own cabbage.” She grabbed the lovely warm winter coat that Mil had bought her two weeks before, threw it on and left the house. “Oooh,” said one of the wives, “she’s peeved.” Roaring laughter shook the house, followed by some more chomping and gnawing and nibbling and scoffing.

The garden shed was dark and cold, but from there Vaporette could oversee the front of the house with the lit up living room windows. She saw Mil’s clan polish off her delicacies and sweets, guzzle the mulled wine, and finally slouch down on their chairs. It was after one o’clock in the morning when the intruders finally left. She saw Mil sitting at the messy table for a while, rubbing his bursting belly. He finally got up and opened the front door. “Vaporette? Are you out there? Come back, please. I need you.”

Vaporette rejoined him in the darkness, through the tumbling snow. When he saw her, he drew a breath of relief. “Come and clear up the mess they left. It’s too much for an old man.” She stood still for a moment. “Later,” she said. Let’s go for a walk first.” – “A walk? But it’s too cold for that.” She started to walk away from the house. “Ok, I’ll come, but just for five minutes.” He put on his old coat and followed her through the swelling snow.

Wordlessly, she guided him down to the well. It wasn’t far. He was sufficiently drunk to handle. “Sit down here with me,” she commanded, and he did. She tipped him over backwards within a split second. The ice at the bottom of the well was thin enough to crash on impact. It would seal him up safely by the morning.

Vaporette strolled off casually. There was no hurry now. She was free of everything and everyone. She went back to the house and packed some clothes and food. Before she left, she feasted on what was left of the Christmas log. She found Mil’s purse under his pillow. There wasn’t much, but enough to get a train in the morning and some food along the way. This time it was safe to escape. No one would miss her.

As she wandered through the lurid landscape, along the trees heavily laden with frozen snow, she pondered about the past. When the priest had cursed her for throwing her newly born twins in the well over a century ago, he’d thought that he had imprisoned her for eternity. Her own father had partaken in the condemnation process, never mind that he had fathered the twins in the first place. And here she was, with two more bodies down the well, free. She felt an uneasy regret about having killed the innocent Polish housekeeper, but swept it off her mind as best she could.

The last that Vaporette heard about her little village was three months later, in the newspaper. The bodies had been found after the thaw. Mil had been identified, and his Polish housekeeper. It was assumed that either the housekeeper had pushed Mil into the well, and then jumped in herself, or the other way round. But no one could understand why.

Around the same time, Vaporette discovered that she was pregnant again, with twins.