The Tenant and The Motive by Javier Cercas

in his stomach. ‘Ask Berkowickz.’
    â€˜Who?’ asked Scanlan, wrinkling his brow slightly.
    â€˜Berkowickz,’ Mario repeated. ‘He’s in charge of those two sections.’
    â€˜Have you gone crazy, or what?’ bellowed Scanlan, beside himself, standing up and pounding on the desk. ‘Who the hell is Berkowickz, might I ask?’
    Confused, not knowing what to answer, almost asking, Mario declared, ‘The new phonology professor.’
    Scanlan stared at him incredulously.
    â€˜Look, Mario,’ he said at last, containing the rage that was making his hands tremble, ‘I assure you that I can understand your attempts to shift the responsibility to someone else: it’s petty, but I can understand it. What I can’t get through my head is you taking me for an idiot. You really think I am, or what?’ He paused, took a deep breath, pointed at the door with an admonishing finger and added, ‘And now listen closely: if you don’t get out of my office this instant and go and teach those two classes, or if I receive one single further complaint about you, I swear I’ll tear up your contract right here and now andthrow you out on the street. I hope I’ve made myself clear.’
    Mario stood up and left the office. Scanlan stood staring at the door, visibly shaken. Then he sat down, stroked his beard gently, looked at the papers he had on his desk, signed a few of them. After a few minutes he raised his eyes and blinked. ‘Berkowickz,’ he murmured, staring off into space, abstracted. ‘Berkowickz.’

XX
    Mario walked quickly down the corridor, without saying hello to anybody. He got to the office; with trembling hands he took out a bunch of keys, chose one, tried to open the door but couldn’t. He tried to stay calm; he looked for the key engraved with the number 4024, which corresponded to the number of the office, in vain: the key did not appear. He immediately noticed the door opening from within. Olalde’s hunchbacked silhouette stood out against the insufficient light of the office; he smiled with a grimace that ploughed his forehead with lines and allowed a glimpse of his nicotine-stained teeth.
    â€˜This time you were lucky, young man,’ he said, still sneering. ‘But watch out: next time you might not be.’
    â€˜I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Mario said hastily, without thinking what he was saying, almost in fear.
    â€˜You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,’ said Olalde. ‘But that’s your problem: you’re old enough to know what suits you. At least you’ll have realized thatsometimes life gets complicated by the silliest little things.’
    Mario didn’t say anything; he walked back up the corridor. When he passed in front of Berkowickz’s office he stopped, scanned the corridor left and right, examined the bunch of keys, found the one engraved with the number 4043. He opened the door: he recognized the open books squashed on the desk and the shelves, the portable fridge, the cardboard boxes crammed with papers, the dirty ashtrays, the general disorder and closed-up smell; he understood that all his things were there.
    He gave three lectures.
    When he got home he dialled a telephone number.
    â€˜Mrs Workman?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜This is Mario Rota,’ said Mario. ‘I’m calling about a delicate situation.’
    â€˜Tell me.’
    â€˜It’s about the new tenant.’
    â€˜The new tenant,’ Mrs Workman repeated with a tired voice.
    â€˜Mr Berkowickz, I mean.’
    â€˜Mr Who?’
    â€˜Berkowickz,’ repeated Mario. ‘Daniel Berkowickz. The linguistics professor, my colleague, the tenant who moved into Nancy’s old apartment.’
    There was a silence.
    â€˜I’m going to be frank with you, Mr Rota. I hope youwon’t take it the wrong way,’ Mrs Workman said at last.