Who Is Martha? (12 page)

Up until now Levadski has not made a present of cut flowers to any living person; he has never had any in his apartment either. Now they close in on him and shamelessly exude their fragrant life in the middle of the table, looming above the exotic fruits, which Levadski wouldn’t willingly purchase either, out of protest, and in loyalty to local produce. The flowers are dying, that is perfectly obvious.

Levadski rests his stick against the half open mirrored door to the bedroom and lowers himself into an armchair with a groan. “You too will die,” Levadski whispers to the banana in his hand, “not tomorrow, but now. I am going to eat you, not because you taste particularly good to me, but because you are soft, you old banana.” As if this weren’t enough of a threat, Levadski removes the ball retained dentures from his mouth. Toothless, he devours the fruit. Bite by bite, if that’s how you can describe it. For a split second the gloomy premonition of what perversion is, stirs in Levadski.

When, still chewing, he puts the banana peel back on the plate, something causes his drinking stick to lose its composure. It falls to the floor with a dull cry, but Levadski does not move, does not rush to its aid. “I am too old, child,” he says to the drinking stick. Once more, Levadski is overcome by violent palpitations – he has just realized that he is spending more time talking to bananas and walking sticks than he is to people. Not a new revelation, Levadski thinks, getting up and going towards the bed on weak knees, without picking up the stick. He disappears beneath the gold embroidered bedspread in his suit, bow tie and shoes.

It’s nothing new, he persuades himself half asleep, to be conversing with your walking stick, it is no big deal, after all, you’re all it’s got. This isn’t merely capricious behavior. You communicated enough with people, even if you were never very talkative. Your posture spoke for you, your gestures and countenance, your behavior, your vivacity. You always reacted appropriately to other people’s signals and remained respectfully silent. Was that not communicating? What are you whining about? Levadski snaps at himself. But he is barely listening, the dreamer.

Levadski falls asleep and dreams he is still sitting in the café and waiting for his order. Evening approaches. There are candles burning everywhere. Bored, he watches a couple of lovers kissing and throws up. He tries to throw up as discreetly as possible, into each of the sleeves of his new suit. Without a sound, timorously, considerately, he spews his soul out of his body, until his suit sleeves catch fire. Horrified, Levadski jumps onto the small table in front of him and starts to dance like mad. The lovers are annoyed, voice their outrage and spew the contents of their romantic dinner in the direction of the trouble-maker. The waiter, who has visibly aged, races past the rows of tables with Levadski’s order on a silver tray. Too late, Levadski waves him away, the waiter can’t believe it. He looks at the floor and then at Levadski, at the floor and then again at Levadski. The lovers grow hoarse from retching, but still they remain in a tight embrace, like two people drowning. Levadski is in flames and dancing, and the waiter, being obstinate, dares to step out onto the ice which a moment ago was still carpet, stumbles and falls and falls and falls …

The memory of the dance in his dream and the fact that he went to bed without getting undressed warm Levadski’s heart on waking. He feels like a powerful ruler. Peter the Great is said to have spent the night wearing his riding boots in snow-white featherbeds, which every royal family in Europe considered an honor to furnish him with. This is how Levadski is lying there. Under other circumstances he would not have compared himself to a grand duke, but to a corpse in a coffin. However, in this midnight blue suite, filled with the rotting scent of exquisite flowers, he is what he is not. A booted Infante. It almost gives him physical pleasure to feel shame for his escapades and improprieties.

Levadski sits up in bed. The mirrored door, beneath a battle picture, presents a bald sleepy old man, a hint of despair in his dull eyes, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat.

Suddenly Levadski feels a strong desire for a juicy blood-red carnation. Without a carnation in his button-hole he is half a man. “Habib,” he pleads in a whiney voice down the receiver, “come.”

“Please,” he adds, after Habib has already hung up. A few minutes later the butler gently knocks on the door and enters.

“Please be so kind,” Levadski asks him from the bed, “and see if you can find a carnation among the bouquet of flowers over there on the table.” Habib blinks several times before daring to admit he doesn’t know what a carnation is. “A carnation,” Levadski laughs, “is a flower. You make a present of it to your teacher after the summer vacation and you scatter it behind a funeral procession.”

“Oh, I see!” Habib scratches his neck incredulously.

“And you try not to step on it, just as you try not to step on any other funeral procession flower, otherwise you believe it is your turn to die or that you will lose a close relative.”

“A carnation,” Habib repeats dreamily.

“Lenin’s favorite flower.”

“Lenin …” Habib gushes.

“There must be a carnation among the flowers!” Levadski sighs.

“Was he the first man to fly to the moon?” Habib asks, sniffing the bouquet.

“That was Gagarin, he was first in space.” Levadski doesn’t feel like laughing. “A carnation, carnation …” He is dying of thirst. Bleeding to death. “It’s probably best if you give me the vase, young man,” he says coolly. With one leap Habib is at the bedside. “Damn it! No carnation! Oh well, none then.” Levadski shrugs his shoulders and hands the vase back to Habib. “Where were we?” Habib, eyes lowered, remains silent. “Never mind, please help me out of bed. The sun is shining.”

“Not anymore,” Habib adds, placing the vase of flowers back on the table and helping the capricious hotel guest out of bed.

A little while later and one floor down, Levadski is browsing the hotel restaurant menu, surrounded by the buzzing of two waiters and the humming of nostalgic music. Habib probably thinks I am a lazy and moody capitalist pig. Carnation or no carnation. If he only knew I can’t afford this luxury, that I am squandering my fortune because I am ill and that’s the only reason I am not counting the cost of the minutes I am staying here, as time is too precious to count. If he only knew that although I keep up my cracked façade, I am essentially on the run from my heart, am in a panic, which incidentally, is alleviated when I look at the appetizers. Levadski inspects the menu through his magnifying glass.

Duet of red king crab with mango and peas in the pod
, 25 euros. Levadski imagines the red king crabs singing a duet in a hot frying pan, growing more and more hushed, until only a death rattle is audible, a death rattle that suddenly rises and dies away for a last time. He wipes a tear of laughter from his eye and carries on reading.

Praline of quail with goose liver, young chicory and apple and chervil confit
, 24 euros. Confit sounds a bit like conflagration, he informs the waiter, who is busy pouring water into a glass the size of a child’s head. With a pained smile he displays his snow-white porcelain ivories to Levadski: Sir, you are pulling my leg. He has never been so serious in his life, confesses Levadski, suppressing a fit of laughter. For a second the waiter’s eyes rest on Levadski’s magnifying glass. “Give yourself time,” he says, rolling his eyes, and flutters from table to table in the direction of the kitchen. Meanwhile Levadski’s magnifying glass continues perusing.

Goat’s cheese tartlets with smoked catfish and crayfish
, 26 euros. A catfish and a crayfish meet. Both dead. Levadski bursts into a fit of laughter. I am ill, thuds in his head, It is a symptom I am forced to tackle like a schoolboy, breaking out into unprovoked fits of laughter, embarrassing myself in front of people, besmirching these magnificent vaulted chambers with my unseemly behavior. An unmistakable sign of my decay. Giggling, he reads on.

Fillet of Iberico pork with roasted bell peppers and runner bean dumplings
, 32 euros. “Cheers,” two women at the opposite table toast each other. “To you, my dear,” says the woman from the lower pecking order, in a nasal voice. Engrossed in the menu, they compress their pearl-laden concertina necks in an unappetizing way. Both seem familiar to Levadski. Aren’t they the friends from the café this morning? How rapidly they’ve aged.

“Excuse me,” he says, detaining the waiter with the porcelain ivories who is sneaking around, “may I ask what the Iberico is?”

“A breed of pig native to Spain and Portugal,” the waiter replies, “half-wild, fed on acorns,” he adds, topping up his water. “A wild boar!” he whispers into Levadski’s wide eyes. Levadski asks for a little more time.

“Such a gorgeous blouse, darling. Well chosen.”

“The ladies have decided?”

“We are not talking about you.” The waiter disappears. Levadski grins and carries on reading.

Lamb fillet poached in milk of sage and curry
, 36 euros. “Have you got horse meat?” Levadski wants to know from the waiter, who has crept up to the table in the hope of finally learning what the guest has decided on. Levadski’s question wipes the smile off the waiter’s face. The sheen on his pearly whites fades.

“I am afraid not,” says the waiter apologetically. “What I can recommend, sir, is a soufflé of turbot on a bed of truffled eggs and green asparagus, very soft and palatable. Or a fillet of veal baked in an herb-pistachio bisque with Pommery mustard puree and Madeira jus. Also very soft.” To spite the waiter, Levadski orders the Iberico. The ladies opposite have decided on a four-course menu. “Such a gorgeous blouse, modest, very modest and yet so smart. Not that flowery stuff for housewives and East Bloc grannies that the shops are filled with …”

“By the way, my nephew,” the lady wearing the blouse interjects, “imagine, my nephew recently said to me, ‘Granny, you stink.’ I cried with laughter, ‘Why darling, Granny doesn’t stink, that’s perfume.’ ‘Granny, you stink,’ just imagine!”

“Enjoy your meal,” the waiter arrives, deposits a plate and immediately disappears again.

“The Iberico is going to be a challenge,” thinks Levadski, admiring the dramatic composition of slices of meat and circles of smudged sauce through his magnifying glass.

“It’s still steaming,” the ladies at the opposite table remark, an acknowledgement without envy.

“If only my dentures would live up to the task,” Levadski whines, “they are not made for such delicacies.”

“What kind of dentures do you have?”

“A discontinued line.”

“Porcelain is no good,” one of the friends remarks, “it clatters so terribly.”

“And often cracks,” the other sighs. Levadski nods and turns to his Iberico, pure madness to order, a definite sign of his illness. While chewing, he can sense the concerned glances from the neighboring table.

“Can you manage?” Yes, it’s manageable, the pig isn’t being too hard on him.

“Soft as butter,” Levadski confirms. The ladies express their genuine delight and with a sense of relief continue calmly chatting about all the trivialities that seem to make them happy.

Mollified by the tender Iberico, Levadski grants everyone their happiness. Over coffee his gaze travels from the ladies’ table to the bustling waiters, to the intently chewing restaurant guests, to the slender glass vases filled with anthuriums that remind him of polished water lily leaves with a jutting large-pored phallus. Levadski closes one eye.

“A nice man, but the way he treats her, it’s atrocious,” the friends warble. “Today this, tomorrow that, money for everything, but she had to clean the house herself when she was in an advanced stage of pregnancy … Perhaps her obsession with shopping … What could she possibly need, she has money … Something nice to wear, makeup, the things you need as a young woman … But in an advanced stage of pregnancy, please. You just want your peace and quiet. Atrocious, I’m telling you, her husband … The crust is the best … The salt crust is melting … On your blouse, darling …”

Levadski’s other eye falls shut. “… Not given to everyone, our luck, a little cream soup,” his nose hair antennae inform him, then giving a little grunt, he slumps in on himself like a house of cards. The shifting of chairs revives him again. And again the house of cards falls. Again and again, until the waiter with the porcelain dentures announces into Levadski’s left ear that the restaurant is closing.

1

Zimmer / Room 101–128

“Y
OU KNOW
,” L
EVADSKI SAYS, PLACING HIS HAND ON
Habib’s glove, “only yesterday I was shocked to discover that I talk to my walking stick and other inanimate objects more than to animate human beings. During the night I found myself overwhelmed by another observation.” Habib peels his eyes wide open. “Yes, yes, during the night I sat up in bed and said to myself: in the few days you have been here in this hotel, you have listened to more people talking and have talked more yourself than you have in the past twenty years. Then I wanted to drink some water, but didn’t dare get up. And you know, Habib, nobody was there to help me. I am not saying this as a reproach, I realize you don’t work at night, in all my years nobody has ever brought a glass of water to my bedside, I am used to it. And yet, something like pleasure stole over me when I sat there in bed, so helpless. Pleasure at my being among people. Do you understand?” Habib nods, hesitantly withdrawing his hand. “I can now talk to my walking stick with a good conscience, you understand, Habib?”

“You are allowed to do anything,” Habib says. There is nothing sarcastic or serious in his voice. Only clarity, lightness, goodwill.

Levadski imagines the butler’s kid glove pressing his hand for a second, amicably, sympathetically, perhaps even with a touch of compassion. That is precisely what he is not allowed to do as a hotel butler and child of the Orient. Who knows how close a young person is allowed to get to an older person in their native land.

“Would you like a sip of water?” Habib enquires.