around his neck was in fact a thin, silver-plated case, like one you might use for cigarettes, except his held a small notepad. He had opened it, torn off a page, written the note with a tiny pen, and slipped it into my hand without a sound.
“I’ve never heard it before,” I said.
“It’s wonderful, don’t you think?”
“I do. I love it.” In fact, I was much more interested in our strange conversation, and I had hardly heard the music, but I was anxious to agree with him.
The click of the case as he popped it open; the sparkling white of the paper; the tip of the pen as it traced the characters; the casual way he passed me the note—it was almost like he had a voice.
Then he put away the pen and closed the lid of the case. I coughed quietly and drew a meaningless pattern on the carpet with the toe of my shoe. We fell silent again. The sound of the waves seemed closer than usual.
He stood up abruptly and went into the kitchen to adjust the radio. It was clearly a very old model, and though it was large and impressive, the sound was poor. The antenna was rusted and one of the knobs was missing, but eventually he managed to improve the reception.
Apparently, he had visited his uncle here more than once in the past, and he didn’t seem the least bit affected by the obsessive orderliness in the house. Whether he was opening a door or adjusting the radio, his manner was utterly natural, as if he had been doing it just that way for many years.
I, on the other hand, felt as though I was seeing the house for the first time and realizing that there were aspects of the translator’s life he’d kept hidden from me—to begin with, the fact that he owned a radio. He hadn’t kept it in the wardrobe, that much was certain. Perhaps he’d had it in the drawer of his desk? Or in the back of the dish cupboard? Butwhy had the radio—not to mention the flowers—suddenly appeared on the occasion of his nephew’s visit? Why for him and not for me? Questions came to me one after the other, like the sound of the surf.
“We’re ready at last! You must be famished. We’ll eat here in the kitchen.” The translator was oblivious to all my questions. “Would you show her where to sit?”
Those were the first words he had addressed to his nephew since I’d arrived, a simple, harmless request.
The nephew obediently pulled out my chair and signaled that I should be seated. I crumpled up the two notes he had given me and slipped them in my pocket.
When I first saw the dishes on the table, I had trouble believing that it was all for us to eat. I wondered, in fact, whether the display wasn’t simply another part of the translator’s new décor, like the hibiscus or the Chopin concerto.
There was no solid food. Everything was pulped or mashed or liquefied, as if for a baby just being weaned. There were no knives or forks at our places, only spoons. We didn’t need anything else.
But these soups and liquids were all beautiful colors. A deep green, slightly gritty mixture in the salad bowls that tasted of spinach and butter. Blood red in the soup bowls that I immediately identified as tomato, but with a complicated blend of spices. And on the large dinner plates, pools of bright yellow. It looked so much like paint that I hesitated before taking the first bite. My spoon made little eddies on the surface and released a puff of steam. I couldn’t imagine what itwas or how he’d made it. It smelled like a cross between damp leaves on the forest floor and washed-up seaweed.
“Do you come here every year?” I asked.
“No, not necessarily,” the translator replied for him. “I think it’s been three years since he was here. He’s quite busy, even during the summer holidays. He’s been doing study tours for his seminar, assisting one of his professors, and working on his thesis.”
“What is he studying?”
“Architecture. He’s an expert on the Gothic style. From the time he was a small child, he loved
“I’ve never heard it before,” I said.
“It’s wonderful, don’t you think?”
“I do. I love it.” In fact, I was much more interested in our strange conversation, and I had hardly heard the music, but I was anxious to agree with him.
The click of the case as he popped it open; the sparkling white of the paper; the tip of the pen as it traced the characters; the casual way he passed me the note—it was almost like he had a voice.
Then he put away the pen and closed the lid of the case. I coughed quietly and drew a meaningless pattern on the carpet with the toe of my shoe. We fell silent again. The sound of the waves seemed closer than usual.
He stood up abruptly and went into the kitchen to adjust the radio. It was clearly a very old model, and though it was large and impressive, the sound was poor. The antenna was rusted and one of the knobs was missing, but eventually he managed to improve the reception.
Apparently, he had visited his uncle here more than once in the past, and he didn’t seem the least bit affected by the obsessive orderliness in the house. Whether he was opening a door or adjusting the radio, his manner was utterly natural, as if he had been doing it just that way for many years.
I, on the other hand, felt as though I was seeing the house for the first time and realizing that there were aspects of the translator’s life he’d kept hidden from me—to begin with, the fact that he owned a radio. He hadn’t kept it in the wardrobe, that much was certain. Perhaps he’d had it in the drawer of his desk? Or in the back of the dish cupboard? Butwhy had the radio—not to mention the flowers—suddenly appeared on the occasion of his nephew’s visit? Why for him and not for me? Questions came to me one after the other, like the sound of the surf.
“We’re ready at last! You must be famished. We’ll eat here in the kitchen.” The translator was oblivious to all my questions. “Would you show her where to sit?”
Those were the first words he had addressed to his nephew since I’d arrived, a simple, harmless request.
The nephew obediently pulled out my chair and signaled that I should be seated. I crumpled up the two notes he had given me and slipped them in my pocket.
When I first saw the dishes on the table, I had trouble believing that it was all for us to eat. I wondered, in fact, whether the display wasn’t simply another part of the translator’s new décor, like the hibiscus or the Chopin concerto.
There was no solid food. Everything was pulped or mashed or liquefied, as if for a baby just being weaned. There were no knives or forks at our places, only spoons. We didn’t need anything else.
But these soups and liquids were all beautiful colors. A deep green, slightly gritty mixture in the salad bowls that tasted of spinach and butter. Blood red in the soup bowls that I immediately identified as tomato, but with a complicated blend of spices. And on the large dinner plates, pools of bright yellow. It looked so much like paint that I hesitated before taking the first bite. My spoon made little eddies on the surface and released a puff of steam. I couldn’t imagine what itwas or how he’d made it. It smelled like a cross between damp leaves on the forest floor and washed-up seaweed.
“Do you come here every year?” I asked.
“No, not necessarily,” the translator replied for him. “I think it’s been three years since he was here. He’s quite busy, even during the summer holidays. He’s been doing study tours for his seminar, assisting one of his professors, and working on his thesis.”
“What is he studying?”
“Architecture. He’s an expert on the Gothic style. From the time he was a small child, he loved
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