If there is any one cliché about Americans that applies 100 percent to Glass, it’s her marked preference for junk food. She brings home doughy white bread with the same enthusiasm as skim milk. She regards highly sugary cornflakes or fat-free ham pumped full of preservatives as staple foods, and Glass is possibly the only woman in the world ever to have seriously considered the question whether potatoes are harvested ready-powdered.
As a child I used to hate going shopping with Glass, and invariably suffered stomach cramps when I did so. I was bothered by the naked curiosity we were shown in public by the Little People—as if we were some kind of exotic creatures escaped from the zoo. Although the looks thrown at Glass glanced off her as though she were an armored vehicle, I had the impression that I needed to protect her. Not knowing how to do so as a child filled me with frustrating helplessness. Despite this dilemma, the decision taken years ago never to let my mother go shopping on her own if at all possible arose from sheer self-preservation. At some stage I suddenly felt the longing for unadulterated fruit and fresh vegetables, but both of these were items that Glass would buy only if I was there to nag her. In the end it amounted to a straight exchange—I put up with the undisguised piercing curiosity of the Little People for the pleasure of pure yogurt that didn’t exude a gale of artificial strawberry aroma when you opened it.
The one thing Glass never brings back from the supermarket is alcohol, which—apart from a glass of sparkling wine on birthdays or at New Year’s—she rejects with near religious fervor. The fact that on this particular afternoon she immediately dumps four bottles of Italian white wine in the shopping cart can therefore mean only one thing.
“Soave?” I say when I’ve taken a look at the labels. “Who’s coming to visit?”
“Michael.”
It takes a moment for me to catch on. “The fraud case?”
“The very same.”
“I didn’t know you were still seeing him.”
“You’re not my secretary, darling. I can manage my calendar without your help.”
It occurs to me that in the last four weeks she’s been staying out rather longer than usual on some evenings. I hadn’t given it much thought, just as I hadn’t been thinking about whether Dianne had been out on any more nocturnal expeditions and with whom and what for. My thoughts have been too preoccupied with Nicholas.
“I’m going to the meat counter,” says Glass. “Go and get some rice, will you? You know which kind.”
I push the shopping cart ahead, put in a packet of rice that has been liberated with industrial precision of all vitamin and mineral content, and sneak in a pound of whole-meal pasta alongside. Glass returns from the meat counter bringing arrestingly pale filet strips packed in Saran Wrap.
“That’s not fish, is it?”
“No. They’ve slaughtered a herd of swine with pigmentation deficit.” Absently she flings the filets into the cart. “It’s fish, stupid.”
“But we’ve never eaten fish. Since when—”
“Since today.”
Four bottles of wine are one thing. But an entire meal is something else. “You’re going to cook for him?”
Glass raises both hands as if to ward off a blow. “Take it easy, OK? Why shouldn’t I cook for him?”
“Because you’ve never done that for any man before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Her nervousness is almost palpable. She scoops a can of sweet corn at random from the nearest shelf. I would never have dreamed that my mother would inform me, in a supermarket of all places, that she was at all serious about a man. At any rate, more serious than usual. To avoid looking at me, Glass studies the label on the can as intently as if her survival depended on it. In different circumstances I would have guessed that she was just wondering how it was possible to pack whole corncobs into such small cans.
“Glass?”
“Hm?”
“Don’t get me wrong, but …”
At this she looks up. “Yes?”
“You haven’t the faintest idea how to cook! If you want to impress this Michael, you’d do better to get something ready-frozen and spend money on a new lipstick instead.”
“What d’you need a new lipstick for?”
“Very funny, Mom!”
“Don’t Mom me, you know how I hate that.” She grins and, visibly relieved, puts the corn back on the shelf. “God, you’re right. I’ll take something from the chiller cabinet. Do me a favor, take that ridiculous fish back, OK?”
I run back to the fish counter, where I hand the fish back to an assistant who is not best pleased. I’m beginning to get edgy. Glass promised to drive me to the town library after shopping, to return a pile of novels I read during the summer holidays. They are just overdue, and I’m going to have to pay a fine.
In the freezer section Glass is thrashing around in one of the cabinets. After a minute or so I’m beginning to get seriously worried about her hands.
“You’re going to end up with frostbite if you don’t make up your mind soon.”
“How about cannelloni—what d’you reckon?”
“Not bad—that’ll go with the wine. You need to make a salad to go with that—you can get ready-made dressing in a bottle, and …”
Glass shoots upright like a jack-in-the-box. A cloud of frozen, steaming air surges up after her. “Phil, I really appreciate your concern. But whether or not I’m a good cook is hardly likely to alter the fact that Michael likes me, OK?” “Why are you telling me this? You’re the one who was set on cooking. It’s only because you’re nervous—”
“I am not nervous! It’s going to be cannelloni without any other nonsense, and that’ll be it, basta!”
“Doesn’t exactly sound like a banquet.”
“Michael is supposed to appreciate me, not the food! If he’s that keen on pasta, he should either invite me out to eat or go to the devil.”
Which is where all her previous lovers have gone till now. That’s how I prefer Glass—not because I have anything against her meeting Michael or any other man, but because I can’t bear seeing her insecure on account of a man, even if it’s just a matter of whether she should cook for him or not. It doesn’t suit her—or to be more precise, it doesn’t suit my image of her.
“Would you mind,” she says a little more gently, “sticking around tonight? Take a look at Michael, you know?”
“You want to know what I think of him?”
“Exactly.”
I shrug. “If you want.”
“I do.” Glass bends down over the chiller cabinet again and almost falls in. “What’s in real cannelloni, vegetables or meat? They’ve got both here.”
“Meat, chopped meat.” I look at her back, chewing my lower lip. “Can’t wait to see what Dianne will say about your inviting Michael.”
“Frankly, I don’t give a shit.”
Her voice rises out of the freezer cabinet. The coldness enveloping that last sentence strikes me as entirely appropriate.
“You haven’t forgotten that you’re taking me to the library?”
“I’m thinking of nothing else, darling,” comes booming out of the freezer. “These little white things, are they broccoli or what?”
Glass drops me in front of the town hall. The library is in a wing to one side of the building. In actual fact it consists of just one large room that for some reason is never aired and really doesn’t merit being called a library. The contents consist exclusively of well-worn novels, nonfiction volumes, and coffee-table art books, with pages that must have been yellowed with age even before I was born. The sovereign ruler of the library ever since I can remember is Mrs. Hebeler. A curiously transparent creature with high cheekbones, Mrs. Hebeler is almost as faded as the spines of the books that crowd the wobbly shelves. She wears her raven-black hair (dyed, I assume) scraped back and knotted at the neck in an ancient style. She’s responsible for my not believing in the existence of hormones that release happiness and contentment; if
ever her pinched mouth has managed to produce a smile, it’s escaped me. Mostly her thin lips open just to inform the rare
new reader who has wandered in by mistake that his visit is tolerated only on condition that he places returned books back on the shelves himself and that in the event of books being overdue this will be met with instant and excruciating execution. Hebeler is the self-appointed patron saint of prose and verse; this alone is her essence.
I don’t know anyone else as convinced of his own unimportance as she is.
As I enter the library there is someone moving among the shelves. This alone is unusual enough. Hebeler’s work consists to a large extent in waiting patiently for customers—as a child I often used to watch her carefully to see if she was already gathering dust. Even more unusual is her failure—despite my books being overdue—to bawl me out. I begin to trot out an excuse as she casts a sharp look at my index card, but she waves me away before I can complete my sentence.
“It’s not as if anyone’s really going to miss the books, is it?” she says kindly.
And she smiles. Hebeler smiles! Expertly, but with verve, she brings the return stamp down on my card and unconcernedly shoves the pile of books to the edge of the counter. Then she glances furtively past me.
Curiosity makes me turn round, and I see Nicholas stepping out from between the shelves. Every drop of blood that I possess seems to rush directly into my heart. Whatever’s happening to my face besides turning deathly pale makes the Runner laugh.
“Hi, Phil.”
“Hello,” I reply.
Purgatory of about ten seconds’ duration while I debate all I’d like to say. I don’t know whether to look straight past him, shake his hand by way of greeting, or simply run off screaming. He, on the other hand, looks perfectly serene—why shouldn’t he?—a picture of composure with disturbingly lively dark eyes.
“Hey,” he says at last, “do I come here often?”
In retrospect I regard this as the greatest offensive since General Custer and the Battle of Little Big Horn. All the same I have to laugh. For a moment I feel better and decide to play his game.
“Well, do you?”
“Do I?” Now Nicholas turns his smile on Mrs. Hebeler. “At least for the next three weeks, when I stand in for this beautiful young lady while she’s off on vacation—where was it again, Mrs. Hebeler?”
Fiery pink flushes shoot across the librarian’s cheeks like shifting sands fleeing from a surging storm tide. She mumbles something that sounds like Ananarea.
“Lovely,” replies Nicholas. “Very nice, I’ve been there once. You’ll love it.”
Hebeler nods. Nods, swallows, and probably unconsciously pulls back her shoulders, as if to provide Nicholas with an improved view of her breasts, which, although I’ve known Hebeler for years, I notice for the first time, and furthermore I become aware that for a woman of such slight build they are disproportionately ample. Her helpless embarrassment makes me feel almost sorry for her. But now, with the Runners next words, I suddenly have to switch all my empathy toward myself.
“Where were you last week?”
“Last week?”
“And the week before. Thursdays. At the sports field.” Nicholas eagerly reaches for one of the books I’ve returned, opens it, and leafs through it at random. “Missed you.”
Now all the blood that had previously drained from my face shoots back into my head as if a flame thrower is being shoved under my heart. Nicholas must notice how I’m blushing. Missed?
“I was … just sitting there,” I say in a pathetic attempt at an answer.
“Oh. Okey-dokey.”
He smiles and looks me straight in the eyes. I manage to return his gaze, but of course the whole thing takes no more than a second. If it hadn’t struck Nicholas before that it was because of him I stayed behind on the sports field, it must do so now. It’s with difficulty that I suppress the urge to back away and rush out of the library screaming—I find the whole thing so embarrassing. And it’s not over yet.
“The day after tomorrow, wait for me, OK?”
“What?”
“Wait. The day after tomorrow. You for me.” The grin hadn’t left his face. He must be taking me for a complete idiot.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
Bingo! My brain simply switches off—both halves. I feel numb. It’s not much comfort to realize at this moment that I’m not the only one that Nicholas has such an effect on. While we’ve been talking Hebeler has been hanging on his words, absorbing them like parched earth soaking up long-awaited rain.
The reason is not just curiosity. For the first time it strikes me that Nicholas possibly doesn’t owe his popularity just to the fact that he’s good at sports, but that he exerts a magnetic attraction over everyone. It must be his general darkness— dark hair, dark eyes, dark laughter. More than anything it’s the smile that gets you.
“Well, I’ll just go and put the books back, then,” I say, turning to Hebeler. She reminds me of a wretched bird flapping helplessly, stuck to a birdlime-covered branch. Her reply is an incomprehensible chirrup. She’s totally under his spell.
I make a grab for the pile of books. Briefly, as if unintentionally, the Runner places his hand on mine. “I’ll do that,” I hear him say. “Got to get in some practice.”
I just can’t take any more. I nod and somehow reclaim my hand and in the same instant angrily ask myself how long he would have let his hand rest on mine if I hadn’t snatched it away.
The last thing I see before I turn round to leave the library at top speed is Mrs. Hubeler. She has stopped squirming and now sits enthroned on her swivel chair like a sunken Buddha, a delicate smile playing around the corners of her normally pursed mouth. Her prominent cheekbones glow, and for the first time she appears to me to have a physical presence instead of being transparent. Maybe Hubeler is wondering whether to loosen the knot at her neck and, with a toss of her head, let her raven-black hair fall forward with a laugh.
I leave the town hall, run down the high street, and storm into the nearest telephone booth.
“Tereza?”
“No, Pascal.”
“Oh, it’s Phil. Is Tereza there?”
“Phil, what’s the matter with you?” Pascal’s Dutch accent comes down the line at me. “It’s the middle of the afternoon, and Tereza’s at work.”
Of course she is. But as Glass is free today, I’d mistakenly assumed that Tereza wasn’t working either. Whereas Pascal is practically always at home. Before she moved in with Tereza, she lived somewhere on the Dutch coast, working as a shipbuilder. Nowadays she makes quite a successful living selling hand-carved wooden necklaces and bracelets dotted with amber chips at weekend flea markets.
I hear her breathing on the other end of the line. She’s waiting for me to go on and say something else; it’s my turn.
Tereza once claimed that her hefty friend was a woman who regarded life as just one enormous trade-off. My heart for yours, Pascal had written her on an otherwise blank snow-white postcard at the beginning of their relationship; it hangs to this day on the pin board in Tereza’s kitchen. A life for a life.
“Would you tell Tereza that I rang? That I need to speak to her?”
“Why don’t you jump on the next bus, come here, and wait for her?”
“I can’t. Glass is expecting visitors. She’s cooking supper, and I promised her I’d be there. Not for the meal, I mean, but …”
I bite my lip. Glass will tar and feather me if she finds out that I’ve been giving away details of her private life. The two women are in a state of uneasy cease-fire, all the more delicate because it was never preceded by open warfare. Pascal knows that for a long time Tereza was in love with my mother. It is a matter of secondary importance to her that many years have passed since then. From what I’ve gathered from Tereza about her partner, Pascal’s jealousy does not acknowledge the passing of time.
“I know about the meal,” she replies to my
surprise. “Glass asked me for a recipe for a fish dish.”
“She asked you … ? Hey, was that supposed to take my breath away, or what?”
“Better watch out that it doesn’t take your appetite away. Glass can’t cook. Just as she can’t go in for a firm commitment,” Pascal continues earnestly. “If I were you, I wouldn’t expect too much of the whole business.”
“I believe that Glass has never been as serious as this.”
“False comparison, Phil—your mother could only be more serious about this affair if she’d ever been serious about anything.”
Tereza once explained that honesty and openness were qualities she rarely encountered in her profession as a lawyer. For four years Pascal has been giving her both. It is one of the thousand reasons why Tereza loves her so much. Unlike Glass, who once supposedly said that Tereza’ friend wouldn’t open her mouth until she’d considered how much harm her words could do, I like Pascal’s directness. For the most part, at least. “Take care, Phil,” she now says.
“About what?”
“The dinner.”
“Glass has switched to frozen food. So there’s no danger of choking on a fish bone.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What, then?”
“What I’m trying to say is you shouldn’t let your longing for a father substitute cloud your judgment.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
I feel like throttling her—her, or better still Tereza, who at some time must have told Pascal the heartrending story of two fatherless children born in the dead of night in the snow and ice.
“If you still want to speak to Tereza, call her half an hour from now. She’s leaving early this evening for some conference and is passing by for a moment to collect her bags. She’ll be back Friday.”
“It’s not that important.” Actually I’d just wanted to talk to somebody to share my elation. “If she wants to, she could—” “And disturb the dinner with a phone call? Glass will think she’s being spied on.”
“It’s not Glass she should call, it’s me.”
The Center of the World Page 11
