The Tenant and The Motive by Javier Cercas Page A

‘You know better than anyone that when Nancy spoke to me about your . . . eccentricities, shall we call them, I chose to be tolerant. She acted like a good tenant should, and I’m not going to consent to you bothering her, not her or any of the rest of the tenants, as you certainly did me the other day calling me at an unreasonable hour, probably drunk.’
    â€˜Mrs Workman –’
    â€˜Don’t interrupt me,’ Mrs Workman interrupted him. ‘You were lucky I was half asleep and don’t really remember what you said. Or I probably don’t want to remember. Anyway, let me tell you something: I accept that you and Nancy don’t get along, you’ve had problems, but although I don’t blame you entirely, Nancy has been a tenant here longer than any other and has more right than you to stay here; furthermore, she’s never given me any reason to worry. I’d rather my tenants got along, but I assure you if I have one single further complaint about you or you start behaving strangely again I won’t have the slightest reservation about throwing you out.’
    â€˜But Mrs Workman,’ Mario complained weakly. ‘It was you yourself who introduced me to Mr Berkowickz and –’
    â€˜Look, Mr Rota,’ said Mrs Workman in a final-sounding tone of voice. ‘Stop talking nonsense. I don’t know who Mr Berkowickz is, nor do I care. I don’t want to discuss the matter further; it’s all been said. But I repeatfor the last time: I hope I don’t have another complaint about you. And my advice to you is to give up drinking.’
    Mrs Workman hung up. She went to the bathroom, washed her face and hands, looked in the mirror, put a bit of colour on her cheeks and lips, brushed her hair, then she dabbed a bit of perfume behind each earlobe. She returned to the room and picked up a beige handbag and a linen jacket that she put on in the kitchen as she took a last look around the house.
    She drove out of the garage and took Ellis Avenue up to Green. At the intersection she stopped at the traffic lights. Then, as she waited abstractedly for the lights to change, she murmured, ‘Berkowickz.’

XXI
    Sitting on the sofa in the dining room, Mario lit a cigarette; he inhaled the smoke contentedly. Then he dialled a telephone number.
    â€˜Ginger?’ he said when a feminine voice answered. ‘It’s Mario.’
    â€˜How are you, Mario?’ said Brenda. ‘Ginger hasn’t come home yet. Do you want me to give her a message?’
    Mario hesitated, then he said, ‘Tell her I called and that . . .’
    â€˜Oh, you’re in luck,’ said Brenda. ‘Ginger’s just coming in. I’ll put her on, Mario. See you.’
    Mario heard an indistinct murmur down the line.
    â€˜Mario?’ said Ginger a moment later. ‘How are you?’
    â€˜Fine,’ said Mario. ‘I was just wondering if you were doing anything this evening.’
    â€˜Nothing special,’ said Ginger. ‘Why?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ said Mario. ‘I thought you might like to come over here for a bite to eat.’
    â€˜Sounds like a great idea,’ said Ginger. ‘What time do you want me to come over?’
    â€˜Whenever suits you,’ said Mario. ‘Right now, if you want.’
    â€˜I’ll be right over,’ said Ginger. And hung up.
    Mario took a last puff of his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. He looked at all the books and papers in a disorderly pile on the arm of the sofa; he thought about sorting them out, taking them through to the study to fill the time till Ginger arrived.
    Then he got an idea. He stood up and stealthily opened the apartment door; he crossed the landing. Pressing his ear to the door opposite, he held his breath, listened in silence.
    â€˜I’ve had it up to here with you, you Italian pig!’ he heard thundering behind his back. ‘Up to