Ten

For supper that evening they had the cold remains of yesterday’s stew, which made Berg indignant. It wasn’t as if he was a charity case living off the widow’s good intentions, in which circumstances cold stew might have been justifiable. He was paying money to live and eat in the house and he expected to get what he paid for; and he certainly hadn’t paid for cold leftovers. Besides, the bread was stale and his coffee cup cracked. He was about to say something about this when Monika spoke.

‘There’s a film in the cinema you might like to see.’

Berg wondered if she was recommending the film for its own sake, or whether she wanted to accompany him.

‘I’m sure Mr Berg has already seen it,’ the widow said. ‘They take such a long time to reach us up here.’

‘It’s about the war,’ Monika said.

The widow asked: ‘Which war? The last one?’

‘What does it matter?’ Monika said. ‘I think it’s nice just to sit in the dark, regardless of what film’s showing.’

‘I don’t know if war films have any lasting benefits.’ The widow dipped her fingers in a glass of water and dried them on her apron. She began to crack the bones, just as someone might smack his lips appreciatively after a good meal.

‘Benefits,’ Monika said. ‘It’s the chance to be transported for a few hours, that’s all. It’s got nothing to do with benefits.’ She turned to look at Berg. ‘Would you like to see the film?’

Berg experienced a sour taste in his mouth as the meal returned to him. There was a moment of nausea, during which he felt he would be forced to rush from the room and vomit. He glanced at his plate, at the black lumps of beef, thick with hard fat.

‘Well?’ Monika asked. ‘Would you like to go?’

The sickness rising in him, Berg could only blink. To open his mouth would be disastrous. He pushed the plate away and raised a hand to his lips.

‘Can’t you see he doesn’t want to go?’ the widow said. ‘Who wants to see war films anyway?’

Berg wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He noticed that Monika was leaning on her elbows, the tips of her breasts touching the surface of the table. For a moment, he saw what they would be like naked.

‘I don’t feel very well,’ he said.

‘Then an evening at the cinema will cure you,’ Monika said.

The thought of sitting beside her in the dark did not appeal to him: in the darkness, he would have no protection against her. What if she seized his hand? if she placed her head on his shoulder? if she tried to kiss him? He could hardly object without causing a scene.

‘Perhaps some other evening,’ he said. ‘I don’t think sitting in a stuffy cinema will make me feel any better.’

‘Tomorrow then, if you’re feeling better,’ Monika said, and Berg thought he detected a note of disappointment in her voice. She was staring at him, accusingly, reproaching him for refusing her. He looked down at the table. Again, he found himself looking at the remains of his supper, a sight so disgusting that he felt obliged to speak. He cleared his throat, not knowing what he was going to say.

‘I’d like to say something, but I want to assure you, Mrs Jacobitz, that I don’t mean to give offence. Tonight’s meal was … well, perfectly disgusting. In fact, I’ve never tasted anything so bad in my whole life. It might be the custom in this part of the country to serve the remains of the previous day’s supper, but I’m not used to it. And since I’m paying money to live here, I think I’m entitled to better.’

Berg paused to see how the widow was taking it. Cracking her fingers, and staring into space, she gave the impression that she was not altogether listening. He had been prepared for some sort of outraged reaction, because he knew what her temperament was like. But she sat in silence and said nothing. Monika, on the other hand, was staring at him intently, but whether she was interested in his speech he couldn’t tell.

He continued. ‘I’m within my rights to speak in this direct way. After all, the money I pay for my lodgings is money I have to earn. And why should I squander hard-earned money on the garbage I’ve been served tonight? When I say garbage I mean it. If there isn’t an improvement, and if I don’t get value for money, then I’ll just have to look for other accommodation. I’m not a difficult person, but I like fresh food freshly cooked. That’s all I ask for.’

He sat down and waited for the widow to say something. From the corner of his eye he noticed that Monika was laughing into her hand. Suddenly, in the silence, he felt a rush of blood to his head: why didn’t the widow speak? Why was Monika sniggering? Had they both misunderstood his speech?

Mrs Jacobitz rose after a moment and began to gather the dirty dishes.

‘In the old days, you know, we used to say grace before and after meals. But these are godless times. Totally godless.’ She took the heap of dishes to the kitchen, leaving Berg and Monika alone.

‘Why didn’t she say something?’ Berg asked at once. ‘Why?’

‘I’m sorry I laughed at you,’ Monika said. ‘You looked so absurd giving your little speech that I couldn’t help it——’

She raised her hand to her mouth and laughed again—and Berg, who felt that his direct question demanded a direct answer, was irritated.

‘I feel sick,’ he said. ‘Sick.’

He went out of the room and climbed the stairs. He was positive that the widow had heard him and had understood—unless she was totally insane, in which case she had no right to manage a lodging house. But if she had understood, why had she just ignored it? Had she made up her mind to ignore things she just didn’t want to hear? And why had Monika robbed his speech of any dignity, by sniggering so childishly into her hand?

In his own room he felt a recurrence of the nausea and although he wrapped his head in a wet towel and stuck a finger down his throat, he brought nothing up. He lay down: beyond his closed eyes, the room was spinning. Behind his eyes he experienced continual images of the cold stew—black lumps, thick and dreadful, congealed in their own grease.