“There weren’t many animals left in town at the end of the war,” says the owner when he returns, nodding towards the kitten. And then adds: “The meat is not unlike rabbit meat.”
He places the dish in front of me and even though it’s quite dark inside the restaurant, I see from the shape and bone structure of the roast that it’s the meat of some small animal. He makes a separate trip to fetch a knife and turns the handle of the razor-sharp blade towards me as he passes it.
A knife can be used to slice bread just as easily as a man’s throat, I think to myself.
I’m a man who is not fussy about food and eats anything that is put in front of me when I’m hungry. I occasionally used to buy a hot dog on my way home from work and don’t cook elaborate meals, but rather buy chops in breadcrumbs and fry them with Season-All and eat them straight off the pan as soon as they’re ready, standing over the stove.
It occurs to me that the meal might be a bird and I try to remember what migrant birds stop in these parts before setting across the turbulent grey ocean to build a nest on a heath between two tussocks on a bright spring island. The owner, who has positioned himself by the edge of the table to watch me debone the meat, confirms my suspicions.
“Pigeon,” he says.
It all makes sense, he got the contents of the menu from the street.
“Not a white one, actually,” he adds. “We don’t have all the ingredients that we want.”
The dish comes as a surprise and turns out to be tasty.
I ask about the spice and the owner lights up with interest.
“Cumin” is the answer. “Very good?” he says, simultaneously nodding his head to indicate that this is both a question and an affirmation. The recipe was supposed to include mushrooms, but they have been removed from the menu since it is too dangerous to pick them.
The owner stands over me and waits for me to put my cutlery down beside the carcass of the bird, so that he can take the plate away. He scurries into the kitchen and swiftly returns, coffee is on its way. He places two cups on the table and two tumblers, drags over a chair from the next table, and sits opposite me to chat some more. The coffee is strong, as is the schnapps, but both are good. Despite being alone in the establishment, he quickly glances over his shoulder, lowers his voice, and says he’s heard I travel with a drill.
“Yes, and we heard that you checked out the pipes at Hotel Silence.”
I don’t ask who’s “we.”
“No, the fact is,” he says, finishing his coffee and downing his tumbler in one gulp, “that I wanted to ask if you might be able to help me make a door.”
I tell him I’m on vacation—it’s the third time I mention it.
The man continues regardless and says he wants to change the entrance into the restaurant, to have a door on hinges that will open both in and out.
“And so that it will be possible to see who is coming in,” he adds.
Before I manage to protest any further, he has pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket, which he unfolds and smoothes out with the palms of his hands. He lays it out on the table in front of me.
“With wings. Swinging doors,” he says, pointing at his amateurish pencil drawing.
Judging by the sketch, the doors are to be on hinges and curved in shape. He has put a lot of work into the curves and used an eraser unsparingly.
“Yes, like in the Wild West,” I say.
The man sitting opposite me has the expression of one who has finally met a person who understands him. He nods.
“You got it. John Wayne. The invincible one.”
I tell him I’m no carpenter and that, apart from anything else, I don’t have the right tools and prepare to stand.
“No problem,” he answers. “You’re a handyman and I’ll get the tools for you.”
He shakes his head when I pull out my wallet with the intention of paying. Instead he wants to know if I’ll take a look at his pipes for him. In the kitchen.
“Later,” I say.
“Yes, next time,” he says.
He follows me to the door, as does the cat who stands up when I do. It is then that I realise that one of the cat’s eyes is shut, that it’s a one-eyed cat. I bend over to stroke its fur.
“Cats have always outlived man,” he says. “If not your cat, then someone else’s.”
The man stands in the doorway and points at a sign in a dark window across the road. I’d noticed similar signs all over town: “Room for Rent.”
“Most houses rent rooms to tourists. We hope things are picking up again. Yesterday the other foreigner in the hotel came to eat and today you, so we have every reason to be optimistic.”
An urge
to touch
a woman
When I get back to the hotel, the movie star is standing at the reception desk talking to the young man. They both suddenly fall silent as I enter.
She turns and greets me.
I find this difficult to explain, but I’m suddenly overcome by an urge to touch the woman, to caress her lower back, a feeling somewhere between stroking a cat and a newly smoothened wall. It is immediately followed by another feeling, like looking forward to calm weather or a spring that doesn’t arrive—not at the time or in the manner one expects.
“I’m still trying to find out about that mosaic mural,” says the young man hurriedly and turns his attention back to the woman
