Unlike Lispeth, Petra didn’t hate Marek. She was an easygoing girl with no ambition. Lispeth was still prickly and mean. When Marek and Villiam played chess or danced together, she always set down Marek’s food and drink carelessly, spilling things, just to let him know she hated him as much as ever. But Villiam’s attention overpowered Lispeth’s disdain. Marek felt lucky for that. The wine did help him to relax. And he was curious what would happen on Christmas, relieved that the baby was still months away.
For the entire day, he remained in a drunken stupor.
* * *
*
As he had done every Christmas past, the priest had directed the servant girls to create a crèche in the stable, this time in the hay of the stall that had been empty since Luka’s disappearance. Marek had never seen a crèche before and was anxious to go look. It gave him a reason to spy on Jude. Marek hoped Jude would see him with Villiam, feel enraged with jealousy, and do something to embarrass himself. He imagined that a ghost would do something insane when it got angry, such as run into a wall or melt into a puddle. To Marek’s disappointment, Jude was out with the horses when Lispeth brought Villiam and Marek to inspect the crèche in the afternoon.
‘This is where the manger is, and here is the Jesus doll,’ Lispeth said, pointing to a pile of hay covered with a soiled horse blanket. Wrapped inside was a wooden doll that Clod had carved and painted. It was not much to look at.
‘Who will play Joseph and Mary?’ Villiam asked, trying to control his disappointment.
‘We thought you and your lady would want to do that,’ Lispeth said. She was being cruel. She knew Agata couldn’t leave her bed.
‘You play Mary, Lispeth. My lady can’t be bothered.’
Lispeth’s head jerked in revulsion at the idea. ‘You and your guests can come see it after the feast,’ was all she said.
On Christmas Eve and Day, two different families from the village were selected to join Villiam for celebratory feasts. The selection of each family was purportedly alphabetical, according to names on the census, but there were rumors among the villagers that the priest chose the most pious and venerable citizens each year. So, qualities of the first family picked would be analyzed, and the villagers placed bets on who would likely get picked next. If the first family was strong willed and confident, the next would be, too. But there was no real reasoning behind the selections. Klarek simply knocked on the door of a house he’d never knocked on before, and announced to them in the morning that they were expected at the manor that afternoon. On Christmas Eve, Klarek had woken late, dreading the day, and had taken a horse down to the village. He knocked on the first door by the farms, just past Jude’s old pasture. Inside was a young couple, a northern man, his wife, who was descended from old Lapvona, and their two young children, half dressed. The place stank of burning potatoes. The man was bashful and apologetic for the mess, but invited Klarek inside, bowing and smiling, unsure of what to do.
‘No need,’ Klarek said, already getting back up on his horse. ‘Come up to the manor as soon as you are dressed. It’s your lucky day.’
Once the news reached the villagers, they would say that the choice of family was made based on mixed breeding. There were dozens of families of different backgrounds in Lapvona. But these lucky ones lived too far from the center of the village to run out and spread their joy. Anyway, they were too busy digging through their rags for something decent to wear, rubbing the mud and chicken shit off their shoes. By chance, some neighbors passed by and looked through the windows, saw them putting on their red clothes, and the rumor spread.
Villiam had never cared for the Christmas visitors. They always seemed too stupefied by the circumstances to be entertaining. But this year was different. Villiam was different. He was feeling insecure, and he wanted the visiting families to give a good report to the villagers. Gossip was important now. So on the walk back from the stables to see the crèche, Villiam told Marek that they must both be on their best behavior. Marek burped and staggered. Villiam didn’t notice.
‘If you see me scowling at dinner, Marek,’ Villiam said, ‘pound on the table with your fist, and I’ll laugh.’
Marek agreed.
The rest of the day passed stiffly, the servant girls scurrying and cooking, Marek and Villiam lying on the floor in the light through the window of the sunroom.
‘Who is the baby’s father?’ Marek asked, sipping from another bottle. ‘Is there one?’
‘I am the baby’s father.’