The Gloaming by Melanie Finn

very mediocre.’ I saw him pat his breast pocket, then turn to me. ‘Can you tell me what it says, the day’s specials. I’ve forgotten my glasses.’
    â€˜Consommé,’ I began. ‘That comes with a side salad.’
    â€˜So you read German?’
    â€˜Strictly menus.’
    â€˜No to the consommé.’
    â€˜
Blumenkohl?
Cauliflower?’
    â€˜Yes, cauliflower.’
    â€˜And chicken with vegetables.’
    â€˜What about you?’ he said.
    â€˜The cauliflower.’
    â€˜It’s excellent here, they add a bit of Appenzeller.’
    While we waited for the soup, he said, ‘How is it for you? Sometimes people can be cruel.’
    I did not meet his eyes. A cup. A chair. I hope cancer eats your face.
    â€˜It’s fine,’ I said.
    â€˜Even so,’ Strebel said. ‘People want to blame. They want there to be bad so they can believe in good. So they can be good.’
    â€˜Isn’t there bad? Isn’t there good?’
    â€˜Only degrees. But that’s my experience. I’m not a philosopher or a priest.’
    He seemed to me a little of both.
    The food came. It was the first meal I had eaten with another person since Tom left.
    â€˜You’re right,’ I said of the soup.
    â€˜I think Swiss cooking is like Scottish cooking. We praise blandness.’
    â€˜Except for cheese.’
    â€˜Well, cheese is not food. It’s sacrament.’
    I almost smiled. He noted this struggle. He put his spoon down. ‘Why did you come today?’
    The question cornered me, and he spoke in the gentlest voice, so I had to lean forward to hear. ‘What I’m asking, really, is do you have anyone to talk to?’
    I looked away.
    â€˜Miss Jones—’
    â€˜Pilgrim, it should be Pilgrim.’
    â€˜Well, I’m Paul, then.’
    â€˜Paul.’
    â€˜You’re very isolated,’ he said. ‘I’m worried for you.’
    â€˜For me?’
    â€˜That you should have someone to talk to.’
    â€˜Tom suggested his girlfriend’s shrink.’
    Strebel laughed out loud. ‘Really! What a sensitive guy!’ He chuckled on, and then stopped abruptly. ‘I’m sorry. I know that even if you could find it funny, there’s no room in you for laughter now. But, really, I hope you find it funny one day.’
    He reached out to touch my arm. ‘You can talk to me, okay? Look, try. Ask me something. You’ll see, I’ll answer as Paul not Inspector Strebel.’
    â€˜How do they—’ I stopped myself. Again, I felt the conundrum of honesty. Did I really want to know, or was I just asking what I thought he expected me to ask? I was so tangled in words, in what I should think versus what I did.
    â€˜How do they get through the day?’ he finished for me.
    â€˜Yes. How do they get through the day?’
    He took a moment to realign his side plate and butter knife in front of him. ‘They brush their teeth,’ he said. ‘They do the laundry.’
    I thought of the cup: the ritual of making coffee, the kettle, the cafetière, the measuring of grinds. The rigid sequence.
    â€˜And they breathe their loss. Bitter air. And it takes a long time. But life is persistent. For you, too.’
    â€˜And you?’
    â€˜Me?’ he raised his eyebrows. ‘This is my work.’
    â€˜But when you’re not a policeman, when you’re Paul.’
    â€˜Yes, I see. Because I’m always a policeman, an investigator, aren’t I? It’s a state of being.’
    â€˜A suit of armor?’
    He tilted his head to consider me. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Because you can take that off.’
    We sat for an odd moment in silence, as if too much had been revealed and we didn’t know how to return to the mundane. The waiter came with the bill. Strebel paid. ‘We should get back before the rain.’
    â€˜You said that last time.’
    â€˜Ah. Next time