Jáchym had an inkling Stinker would arrive, even though it didn’t usually happen on Sunday afternoons. Hemp day was traditionally a Saturday, sometimes a Friday, as well as all the holidays. People didn’t just want grass at New Year, but also at Easter and on the first of May. In Kladensko, Jáchym made sure there was a good mood for every season of the year and all weathers, and insiders knew it. Unfortunately Stinker knew it too.

He removed his surgical mask, cleaned the sprinkler and took off his gloves. It hadn’t rained in a while and the pests in the orchard had multiplied over the past few days. They were also in the vegetables. Caterpillars, gall midges and flea beetles. However, the greenhouses where the hemp was grown maintained a high humidity, which was the best prevention against mites. In May some spider mites would show up and they could be gotten rid of easily with neem oil before they started to form colonies. Now the plants appeared healthy and were growing quickly.

A green van turned into the entrance. Milan came twice a week for fresh lettuce, which he then distributed to restaurants. He also used to take carnations, but after his mother moved to Nymburk Jáchym stopped growing them. He wanted time to do the things he enjoyed the most.

“So you’ve caught up with me again,” said Milan as soon as he got out of the van. “Happy birthday! When are you going to celebrate?”

“I might give it a miss this year. It’s not a special birthday.”

They were the same age. Milan had celebrated his 32nd birthday at the start of spring, and Jáchym was used to combining his birthday celebrations with the solstice. He enjoyed having a party under the stars. He’d invite his friends over and they’d sit in the garden, have a barbecue, sing and play the guitar. Quite often they’d stay up till morning and Jáchym would have the feeling that they were connected by something bigger than their little lives. He and his friends never talked about God, but those nights spent together under the stars were filled with love. This year there was no thought of having a party. Because of Stinker.

“How’s your dad?” he asked as he was passing Milan a tray of lettuce.

“He’s holding on.”

Jáchym had known old Stašek since he was a child, when he took them to football training. Now he was seventy with advanced Parkinson’s, and in the autumn Jáchym would send him some hemp roots. Milan’s father made a syrup from them, which helped him fight the illness through the winter. During the growing season he chewed the fresh leaves. Jáchym had them all ready for Milan. They were freshly picked.

“Dad’s really grateful to you,” said Milan when he was paying for the lettuces.

“He can only cope because of the hemp. Nothing else helps him.”

Jáchym nodded. He knew the power of hemp, though he never took money for the roots and leaves he gave to Mr Stašek. Occasionally, though, Milan would bring him a small treat. Today he brought a cake box out of the van.

“There was a wedding in the family, so here’s a little something for you.”

Jáchym opened the lid. The box was full of small cakes and pastries. He thanked him and put one in his mouth.

“And what about you? When are you going to take the plunge with Hedvika?” asked Milan.

“Soon. Maybe in the autumn.”

“Tell her I’m asking for her.” Milan got into the van, reversed onto the road, waved goodbye to Jáchym and drove round the wall of the farm towards Kladno. Jáchym watched him go. The mention of Hedvika had quickened his pulse. He started thinking about Stinker again. I can’t have him behaving that way. He would have to take him down a peg or two. But how? Stinker was dangerous. And intelligent. He had managed to hide his dark side as cleverly as everything else. He had the right face for it: manly, well chiselled, honest, with blue eyes and crow’s feet, giving the impression that he smiled a lot. But he almost never smiled. His eyes followed you like a cobra’s.

Jáchym wondered how many people realized what a low life lurked behind that mask of honesty. Stinker. He went into the house, walked along the hallway and stuck his head into the room. Hedvika was lying on the sofa. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn’t sleeping.

He sat down beside her, cake box in hand.

“Milan sends his best,” he said. “Fancy some wedding cake?”

She turned her head sharply to the other side. The ear that she had been lying on was bright red. He stroked it with his fingertips.

She flinched.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“What do you want me to do?” he replied.

“Kill him.”

His father had always said that good should overcome evil. But sometimes there is no choice.

“All right.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him hard. Then she grimaced.

“You don’t mean it.”

(Translated by Graeme Dibble)