Seven

He saw her first from the top of the stairs. Hands on her hips she was staring up at him her head cocked to the one side, her eyes—even from that distance—cold and glassy. For a moment he hesitated and then there was a gentle pressure from Sbodin against his shoulder and he continued down the stairs. The widow turned and went through the door that led to the kitchen. When Berg entered she was at the sink, her back to him. Staring at her shape he wondered why he was suddenly so afraid of speaking to her and realised that he was reacting and behaving as though he were truly guilty of the crime. He was the criminal, the man who had gone to Monika’s bedroom and raped her—all of which was preposterous. Only a few moments ago hadn’t he even offered to sign the incriminating document?

Clearing his throat he said in a dry voice, ‘I’ll be glad when this misunderstanding is settled.’

Without turning, the widow muttered something that he could not catch. Her voice was partially lost in the clatter of wet dishes, the rattle of running water. Steam, belching from the sink, enshrouded her. Sbodin sat at the table and scraped the prongs of his fork along the wooden surface. These various noises seemed inordinately loud to Berg who moved towards the window and saw, to his acute horror, that a large part of the crowd had invaded the back garden. They stood outside, some hidden by the tangled shrubbery, some reclining on branches of the trees, others standing only a few feet away from the window itself. He was about to draw the curtains when he realised that there were none. He sat at the table and looked imploringly at Sbodin who was deeply engrossed in the movements of his fork.

The widow said, ‘Breakfast will be ready in a moment.’

Berg said, ‘They’re in the garden as well. I can’t stand it. Can’t you do something?’

Sbodin shrugged: ‘What can I do?’

The widow laid plates on the table and glanced quickly at Berg. He saw that her face was pale and thin; the ordeal had left its scars. She seemed about to say something to him and then changed her mind, turning to go to the stove. When she came back a moment later she was carrying a large frying pan. Seeing this, Berg had the momentary illusion that nothing had changed, that everything was as it had been a few days ago, that at any moment Monika would come in and sit down beside him. The widow silently began to dish out some slices of fried pork. Sbodin cut a piece and swallowed it quickly.

‘It’s delicious,’ he said.

The widow sat down but ate nothing herself. Her head supported by her hands she looked at Berg as though examining him in great detail. Sometimes she turned her face to the left, sometimes to the right, like someone trying to get a painting into its proper perspective. He felt nervous beneath her scrutiny. He stared at the slices of pork but his appetite was gone. He watched Sbodin eat hungrily and was revolted by the sight.

‘Your prisoner isn’t hungry,’ Mrs Jacobitz said.

His mouth stuffed with food, Sbodin said, ‘He’s a worried man. I wouldn’t like to be in his position.’

‘He never enjoyed my cooking, you know. It isn’t grand enough for him.’ The widow began to crack the joints in her hands. ‘He’s used to better things, you know. He’s used to—what do you call it?—refinement. That’s why he was never really happy here.’

The widow stopped speaking. She made a small choking noise and looked out into the garden. If she saw the crowd gathered there she said nothing about it. Suddenly she began to weep; huge tears slid down her cheeks and she produced a ragged handkerchief that she used to smother her face in. Her thick shoulders vibrated and her breasts heaved. Berg thought she looked like a whale that is suddenly dragged out of the sea to expire on a dry beach.

Sbodin said, ‘There, there. It won’t do any good to cry.’

Encouraged by this, the widow wept louder. She banged her fists on the table and from beneath her closed eyes large, and still larger tears fell. When finally she stopped she twisted her handkerchief in her fingers and said, ‘I can’t bear to think what this man has done to my niece. I keep asking myself: Why did it have to happen to us? Why? Did I do something wrong somewhere? Is God punishing me for some sin? Is that what it is?’

Sbodin said, ‘There’s no question of God punishing you, Mrs Jacobitz.’

‘I know it’s old-fashioned to believe in God, but I’m an old-fashioned person. I put my trust in Him. I thought He’d look after me. I say my prayers. Now He’s let us down—oh, what’s to become of us?’

Sbodin patted the back of her hand and Berg saw her bulbous fingers coil around Sbodin’s wrist. There was something horrific in this conjunction of flesh and tentacles.

‘Why was this man sent here? I keep asking myself that. If he hadn’t come my niece wouldn’t have been so cruelly—I can’t even bring myself to say the word. Why did this man cause us all so much pain?’

Berg wanted to say something, but all the words at his disposal had already been used and ignored. He remained silent: he was as silent as the crowd in the garden. He stared at the widow. She looked at him with a cold fury and then, opening her mouth, dropping her head back and pushing it suddenly forward, spat at him. The trickle of saliva ran down his forehead and into his eyes.

Sbodin said, ‘I don’t blame you for that, Mrs Jacobitz. I know how despicable you find this man.’

The widow sighed. She got up from the table. Those in the garden close enough to get a view of what she had done made low noises of approval. Someone clapped his hands and there was a brief outbreak of applause. Berg rubbed his eyes: it wasn’t the humiliation of what had happened that angered him, it was the realisation that no matter how badly he was treated the crowd outside would approve. He felt totally isolated.

The widow stopped before the broken window. ‘Who did this?’

Sbodin said, ‘Berg. He was trying to escape. I stopped him in time.’

‘Trying to escape, eh?’ The widow approached Berg and looked as if she were going to spit on him again, but she didn’t. She said, ‘You bastard. You bastard. If you hang, I hope they let me do the job myself.’ Then, as though horrified by the depths of hatred she had discovered in herself, she went weeping from the room. Berg heard the door of her bedroom slam shut.

‘An unfortunate incident,’ Sbodin said.

Berg sat with his head bowed. ‘She loathes me,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t surprise you, does it?’

Berg said nothing. He looked upwards through the window. In the branches of the trees several people were precariously seated. They were staring into the room; one, he noticed, had a pair of binoculars.

‘I want to go back to my room,’ he said.