The Tenant and The Motive

by Javier Cercas

  With a mixture of pity and scorn, Mario thought: He’s crazy.

  ‘And tell me,’ Olalde enquired, ‘why have they sent you here?’

  ‘I requested it.’

  ‘I see, I see,’ nodded Olalde, twisting his mouth into a grimace that might have been a smile. He clicked his tongue against his palate. ‘You feel hard done by. I don’t blame you: it’s normal not to trust anyone any more. I confess I don’t trust anyone either. And nevertheless I’ll tell you something: this country is full of fantastic people. Yes, sir: enterprising, healthy people, bursting with optimism, a little dull, perhaps boring, I’ll grant you that. But let me tell you something else, the great advantage of this country, something that makes me feel a bit at home, because in Spain the same thing goes on, you don’t have to listen to anyone here, the only thing you have to do is talk. People talk and talk and talk, but no one listens. You’ll realize that for someone like me that’s a delight.’ He paused pensively and added, ‘Otherwise, I understand, young man, Europeans never get entirely acclimatised: the old civilisation, the experience of centuries and all that. Have you read Henry James?’

  ‘I don’t have time to read philosophy.’

  ‘Henry James wrote novels; the philosopher was his brother.’

  ‘I don’t have time to read novels either.’

  ‘You don’t have to read them all, man. One’s enough: in reality all James’s novels say the same thing.’

  Mario was glad when Joyce walked in just then with Sue, a typist who worked in the main office. Olalde retreated to his desk and turned his attention back to the papers on it.

  In half an hour they’d completed the transfer of Mario’s things from one office to the other. Olalde, enclosed in a gruff silence, didn’t move from his chair in all of this time. Mario thanked Joyce and Sue, then went over to Ginger’s office, which was on the other side of the hall. He knocked on the door: no one answered. He returned to his office and called a taxi. When he passed Berkowickz’s office, as he was leaving the department, he noticed the door was shut. He stopped for a moment, stuck his ear to the door, held his breath but heard nothing.

  When he got home he phoned Ginger.

  ‘Brenda? It’s Mario.’

  ‘Oh. How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Is Ginger there?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her all morning. Do you want me to give her a message when she gets home?’

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ Mario hesitated. ‘Just tell her I called.’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ said Brenda. ‘How was your vacation?’

  ‘Really good,’ Mario lied, to avoid explanations. ‘And yours?’

  Brenda spoke passionately about California.

  XI

  At five o’clock on the dot a taxi dropped Mario off in front of Scanlan’s house. It was a one-storey, rectangular building, long and low, with an expanse of cream-coloured walls, interrupted only by the pale wooden front door, and a big picture window on the right. In front of the house were clumps of hydrangeas and chrysanthemums and an ample lawn watered by constant sprinklers. Two slate pathways cut across it: one led directly to the front door, the other, parallel to the first, ended at a shed or garage made of dark wood, with a red door, in front of which were parked two cars of European design.

  Scanlan’s wife came out to meet him on the path. She was wearing a very tight black dress. Ash-grey highlights lightened her short, straight hair here and there. Her hands had more rings than fingers. Whenever he saw Joan, Mario reflected that years of shared life eventually conferred on couples a similarity that had something depraved about it: Joan moved her hands with the same quick, almost nervous precision with which Scanlan moved his. They also shared that sort of resignation that softens the faces of people who’ve given up the struggle to camouflage the ravages of time and taken refuge in the consolation of a dignified old age.

  ‘How are you, Mario?’ Joan greeted him, taking his arm. ‘David just told me about your ankle. If he’d told me earlier I would have come and picked you up at home.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mario. ‘I’m starting to get used to it. To taxis and to the ankle.’

  Joan laughed deafeningly and said without irony, ‘The best people get the worst luck.’

  They went inside. In the living room there were two tables covered with canapés and drinks. Beyond them was a glass door giving on to a garden with flowerbeds, potted plants and hammocks. Scanlan was standing in the middle of the living room serving punch and talking to a group of graduate students. Mario raised his eyebrows in greeting, and forced an awkward smile. Joan offered him a glass of wine and asked, ‘How was your vacation?’

  ‘By the second week I didn’t know what to do with myself,’ answered Mario, feeling immediately, almost physically, that he’d been there before and given the very same reply. He thought: Everything repeats itself.

  ‘The same thing happens to me,’ Joan assured him. ‘That’s why I never like going away from home for more than two weeks in a row. And then only when there’s something definite to do. Luckily, David shares that opinion. This summer, in fact . . .’ She stopped for a moment to look out the window in front of them, which gave a view of the entrance: several guests were getting out of a car. Setting her glass on a shelf, she said, ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ and went out to greet the recent arrivals.

  Mario went to the library. Wojcik, a Polish semantics professor, tall, bony and impersonal, was talking to a young man with olive-coloured skin and exaggeratedly thick lips. They were sitting in two armchairs, face to face, and each had a glass of wine in his hand. They stood up when they saw Mario come in; he had no choice but to approach them. Wojcik introduced him to the young man, who seemed to have arrived in the department with a grant from the Indian government. His English sounded to Mario like Russian at first. While they were talking the library kept filling up with guests. At some point, Mario excused himself from Wojcik and the Indian. He went to the living room, said hello to a few familiar faces, and looked around for Ginger: he didn’t see her. He felt uncomfortable among so many people. He opened the sliding door that opened on to the garden and went outside to smoke.

  Olalde was stretched out in a hammock, at the bottom of the garden, with his gaze lost in a bed of gladioli. From his lips hung a disparaging cigarette. Mario lit a cigarette and went over to him.

  ‘Excellent bibliography,’ Olalde was muttering, ‘excellent bibliography.’

  Sensing Mario’s presence, he stood up. ‘And what do you think of these parties, young man?’ he asked without looking at him. ‘I’ve spent God knows how many years in this country and I have yet to find a better pastime.’ Gesturing and projecting his voice, he began, ‘I’ve just read your latest book, Professor So-and-so. Excellent bibliography, excellent bibliography. I’ll not deny it, Professor Something-or-other, and I’ll tell you something else: Professor What’s-his-name copied it unashamedly in his latest tome, which is otherwise filled with errors. Indeed, Professor Something-or-other, I also read your last article and I must admit I was impressed by the scientific honesty with which you refuted the ridiculous hypothesis of that lamentably slapdash Professor What-have-you, according to which the progenitor of Pitarra was twenty-seven years old at the moment of the writer’s conception, when it is quite obvious, as revealed by the data you contribute with your habitual modesty, that she was twenty-five.’ Olalde took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled the smoke through his nose, smothered a giggle and went on. ‘Mass of mediocrity: they find merit in reading what no one wants to read, they puff up like turkeys when they speak, and think they have the right to express their opinions on everything because they know how to distinguish a thirteenth-century manuscript from a fourteenth-century one. What I don’t understand is why this country insists on isolating them in these paradisical concentration camps called universities, hundreds of miles from anywhere, in the middle of the desert, as they say. I imagine that it used to have a certain rationale: you know, the danger of
infecting society with pernicious ideas and all that. But now, tell me, how the hell are they going to infect society now when they haven’t an idea in their heads, not a single one; they’ve got dates and facts and statistics, but not a single idea. And don’t go thinking I consider myself any different, no, sir. I’ve passed the stage of self-indulgence; when you get to my age only idiots and those with a calling for slavery condescend to indulgence.’ Olalde paused, as if an idea had just crossed his mind, then smiled in a way meant to look meaningful. ‘Yes, sir, I’m just like them, except in one detail: while they’re blinded by drunken vanity and completely unaware of the insufficient, petty lives they lead, I realize that we are the real barbarians.’

  The appearance of Branstyne and Tina, and Swinczyc and his wife Phyllis, interrupted Olalde’s speech. They arrived with cheerful greetings and glasses of wine in their hands. Mario felt a bit dazed; his temples were buzzing slightly. He thought: It’s the wine. Olalde put out his cigarette on a patio stone, threw it into a flowerbed and sat back in the hammock with laboured slowness. As he did so Swinczyc cast Mario a sidelong glance. ‘I bet Professor Olalde has been saying nasty things about us,’ he said with irony but not spite, since Olalde was listening. ‘Or about the department, the university, the country, whatever. I’ve always wondered,’ Swinczyc went on in an almost joyful, almost affectionate tone, ‘why Professor Olalde doesn’t leave this country that treats him so badly once and for all and go back to live in Spain.’

  ‘Spain’s no place to live,’ said Olalde, very slowly, turning towards them and looking at Swinczyc with his one good eye. ‘Spain’s a place to die.’

  There was a silence too long not to be uncomfortable. Other guests wandered into the garden: Wojcik and the young man from India, Deans, Sarah Soughton and her husband, a few graduate students. The group divided into several circles of animated conversation. Tina and Mario talked about their vacations. Then Tina asked, ‘When are you coming over for dinner?’

  ‘That depends on the chef,’ Mario joked.

  ‘The chef will outdo herself.’

  ‘In that case, name the day.’

  ‘Thursday?’

  ‘Thursday.’

  Mario claimed he needed more wine and went back inside. He looked for Ginger: she wasn’t in the living room or the library. Only then did he notice that Berkowickz hadn’t arrived either.

  He went into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror; he barely recognized himself: his skin was pallid, his lips and cheeks gaunt, his chin tense. Although it didn’t reach that far, the echo of the conversations in the garden still hummed in his head. Without meaning to he thought: I’m going to end up like Olalde. He immediately regretted having thought such a thing. He relieved himself, washed his hands, splashed water on his face and wrists, dried off with a towel. When he came out of the bathroom, feeling slightly more at ease, he noticed most of the guests had moved from the garden to the living room. Blatantly absorbing the attention of the most numerous group, who’d gathered round the fireplace, Berkowickz was speaking energetically, explaining something, gesturing. The group exploded in unanimous laughter as Mario approached. When the laughs died down, Berkowickz carried on speaking in a calmer tone. Mario saw Ginger at one side of the circle, beside Branstyne. He smiled affectionately at her and wondered if she’d arrived at the party with Berkowickz. He thought: She looks lovely. The group broke up. Mario noticed that Ginger stayed talking to Berkowickz, Scanlan and Tina. Branstyne, Swinczyc, Wojcik and Deans chatted and laughed by the drinks table.

  Mario went back out to the garden; he didn’t see Olalde. While he lit a cigarette he wondered if he’d gone out with the intention of talking to the Spanish professor. He couldn’t answer himself because Branstyne interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘What’s the matter, man?’ he said in a tone of light-hearted disapproval. ‘You’re not being too sociable.’

  ‘No,’ Mario admitted, smiling weakly, then added by way of an excuse, indicating the garden with the hand holding the cigarette, ‘I came out to get some air and smoke. The truth is my head aches a bit.’

  ‘You’re not worrying about the courses.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘No one had to tell me,’ said Branstyne. ‘I only had to sum up and subtract. There’s no two ways about it.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried until you reminded me that I should be,’ said Mario. ‘I wonder how you’d be in my place.’

  As soon as he said it he thought he’d been unfair to Branstyne, who’d undoubtedly not meant to irritate him. As he began to apologize, Scanlan, Ginger and Berkowickz came out to the garden. There were jokes and greetings. Mario reflected: I can’t stop talking, I can’t stop thinking: it’s like a nightmare. Now Berkowickz was talking again slowly, enunciating carefully. Scanlan, Ginger and Branstyne were listening to him wide-eyed. Looking at Ginger, Mario thought he was in love with her. He thought: I’ve always been in love with her. Then he heard: ‘You must know that Mario and I are neighbours.’

  Scanlan and Branstyne made comments on the coincidence; Ginger looked at Mario through narrowed eyes. After a moment Branstyne returned to the living room; Scanlan and Berkowickz walked to the back of the garden, where the hammocks were.

  Ginger spoke. ‘You didn’t tell me Berkowickz was your neighbour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t tell me Berkowickz was your neighbour,’ Ginger repeated.

  ‘I forgot.’

  Ginger spoke again. ‘He’s offered to supervise my thesis.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Berkowickz.’

  ‘I’m delighted for you,’ Mario lied, feeling all his bitterness towards Berkowickz, towards Scanlan, towards Ginger, towards Branstyne, towards everything and everyone welling up in his throat. As if trying to free himself of something, he said in a rush, ‘Why don’t we see each other later at my place? I’d like to talk to you on our own.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Ginger hurried to answer. ‘I still have to prepare tomorrow’s classes.’

  Back in the living room, he looked for Joan.

  ‘Could I use the telephone?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Joan.

  She took him into an interior room. Mario dialled a number and asked for a taxi. Then he went back to the library with Branstyne and Tina.

  ‘I’m going,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want us to give you a lift?’ asked Tina.

  ‘That’s OK,’ Mario said. ‘I’ve already called a taxi.’

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll come and pick you up before ten,’ said Branstyne. ‘You don’t want to spend your whole salary on taxis.’

  ‘The way things are going, it wouldn’t be too difficult,’ Mario admitted.

  There was a silence.

  ‘Sorry about what I said earlier,’ Branstyne apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to annoy you.’

  ‘You didn’t annoy me.’

  ‘We’ll see you on Thursday,’ said Tina.

  ‘See you on Thursday,’ repeated Mario.

  Joan accompanied him to the door. Before he left, Mario looked for Olalde among the swarm of guests, but didn’t find him. Scanlan’s wife said, ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’

  Mario didn’t recall having said he’d enjoyed himself.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, nevertheless, ‘great party.’

  When he was installed in the back seat of the taxi, waving goodbye to Joan, who was standing in the doorway of the house, Scanlan appeared at his wife’s side, waved his hand and rushed down the slate path, shouting something that Mario didn’t hear because the car windows were all wound up tight.

  He unenthusiastically prepared Tuesday’s classes when he got home. Then he opened a bottle of Chablis, sprawled out on the sofa and drank and smoked and watched television for a while. At eleven he got into bed.

  He slept fitfully. Towards dawn a nightmare woke him. He tried to retain it, not to let it be dissolved by wakefulness, but he couldn’t. The only thing he managed to recall was Ber
kowickz’s voice. ‘Excellent bibliography,’ he was muttering. ‘Excellent bibliography.’

  XII

  Immediately after his divorce from Lisa, Mario felt as though he’d been freed from a crushing burden. Soon this initial relief turned to unease. At first he felt inconvenienced at having to assume all the responsibilities he’d left to Lisa; later he realised he’d got used to trusting her and loving her in his way, and that her absence left a hole, not in his feelings but in his affections, which he had nothing to cover with. Solitary living became unbearable: he came to detest the house he’d shared with Lisa (they agreed when they separated that he would stay there; she chose to move to an apartment on the outskirts of the city). To all that was added the increasing agitation of seeing Lisa almost daily in the university, since the history and linguistics departments were located in the same building. The peaceful course her life seemed to take, her fabulous appearance and the infinite vitality she radiated and that hadn’t been diminished, but perhaps the opposite, by the shock of the separation, the news of her constant professional successes, which Mario always heard from someone else, never Lisa, and the growing academic prestige she derived from them: this series of circumstances, along with his own state of moral neglect, contributed to convincing him he’d fallen back in love with Lisa.

  He decided to speak to her. He arranged a date. At length he explained his point of view. He asked Lisa to move back in with him. She smiled sweetly.

  ‘Mario,’ she said slowly, as if caressing the words, ‘your problem is you confuse love with weakness.’

  Two months later Lisa married one of her students, who was five years younger than her. By then Mario had decided to leave Brown University. He again thought of returning to Italy. In the meantime he applied for jobs at various North American universities. When he received the offer from the University of Illinois he didn’t doubt for a second before accepting it.