He went quickly into the next room, then came back. He knelt down to look under the bed, stood on a chair, but no, the suitcase was missing. His hands were covered in dust, large and soft, powerless. I felt a mixture of pity and disgust. I took him by the shoulders and pushed him toward the door. We went into the street. The sky was blue. People were walking with a light step, floating around us — tall.
The Specialist
I live in a quiet area near the edge of town, in a traditional house that’s not too cramped but very old. It belongs to a distant relative, who rents a room out to me by the kitchen; it used to be a maid’s room and, more recently, was just kept empty. It’s small, damp, and full of spiders. But I like it — perhaps because it looks onto a deep garden with plenty of shade. True, the part you can see from my room is more of a walnut grove, since the flowerbeds appear only at the first windows. I forgot to say that the rooms are strung out in a line like railway compartments, which makes the house seem very long. Seen from the street, the garden is a verdant corridor, with flowers up to the middle and real forest at the back. The walls, including the stone one that separates us from the neighbors’ yard, are covered with ivy. That’s obviously why there’s so much damp in my room. Only one thing I find hard to bear: the smell of burnt fat from the kitchen. I always leave the house in the morning while lunch is being prepared, but the smell lingers well into the afternoon, especially in winter when you can’t keep the window open for long. A week ago they began preparing for their daughter’s big wedding feast. They got a chef to come from a restaurant, and the wood-burning stove never stopped smoking for a couple of days. Cleaver blows, the squeaking meat-grinder, thudding pestle and mortar, sizzling roasts — there was no end to the racket. As for the smells. . It wouldn’t have mattered so much if I’d been able to go out as usual, but unfortunately my shoes were at the cobbler’s and no amount of pleading could get him to repair them in less than two days. I sat on my bed with the window wide open — duvet, blanket, and two pillows squeezed tight around my ears. I was choking, stifling in the heat. At nightfall I crept into the garden and came back with an armful of roses and lilies. I hoped their scent would subdue the other odors. I spread them around everywhere: on the bed, over the floor, on the table. I don’t know what made me stumble over the suitcase in which I kept my clothes. I lost balance, and only by propping myself against the wall did I manage to stay on my feet. Quite a large piece of plaster fell and shattered, leaving a dark-colored patch behind on the wall. This wasn’t too much of an eyesore, because a large part of the damp-eaten wall already looked like the map of an unexplored continent. That evening I didn’t pay much attention to it. I swept up the bits of plaster on the floor and went to bed.
The next morning, the preparations for the feast were still at fever pitch. The lady of the house was constantly pestering a girl who was meant to be helping her. The noise they made irritated the specialist in the culinary arts, who said that he couldn’t work under such conditions; the time had come to make the cake and he needed to concentrate. He spoke with the authority of a real professional, so the women felt intimidated and stopped talking. My eyes fell on the spot where the new patch had appeared. It was a little above the bedpost — what a strange old-fashioned bed I have! — and it seemed to have grown. In fact, what attracted my attention was something else, hard to explain. I didn’t remember exactly what it looked like the previous evening, but it now had a dark-violet hue, visible only at certain moments. The rest of the time it was black and — even stranger — perfectly round. Despite the lilies, a smell of garlic penetrated the room. The voices on the other side became strident again; the mistress wasn’t at all pleased with her servant’s work. I stretched out wearily on the bed. I really wished I knew what the chef looked like. Such men should be fat, greasy, good-humored — in short, comforting. With some difficulty I raised myself on an elbow to shut the window. In the garden, a light breeze was rustling the walnut leaves. Of course, the mititei sausages and the roasts must be cooked just before the meal. “You see, madam,” the specialist explained, “the key to good mititei is how much you use of each ingredient.” To be frank, I like mititei too. The chef’s full, winning voice made my mouth water. I stuck my nose into the petals of a rose and swallowed hard. Then I finally took the plunge. I opened the kitchen door and signaled to the maid. I must have looked unwell. Pitying me, the mistress asked in a gentle voice whether I’d eaten anything that day. Sure I had. But I’d like the maid to pay a quick call on the cobbler; how much longer am I supposed to stay here in my socks! I slammed the door shut out of pique. To tell the truth, I’d mainly opened it to catch a glimpse of that specialist in the culinary arts, vaguely hoping that the mistress wouldn’t be there. But the chef had just then taken a break and gone off somewhere. My eyes fell again on the patch. It now shone more brightly, with a greenish luster. Puzzled, I touched it with my fingertips, then shrugged and climbed into bed. I simply couldn’t get to sleep. But I must have been dozing a little when the maid came in. She’d brought me some food, so I could scarcely shout at her for banishing my sleep. I turned over and asked her about the cobbler. Of course, he hadn’t even started on my shoes.
“He told me you’ll have to be patient. They’ll be ready tomorrow.”
The maid smelled terribly of sweat. She looked idiotically at the rumpled bed, the filthy bedding, the lifeless flowers on the floor. She didn’t see the patch. Or maybe she did but thought nothing of it. Anyway, why was she smiling at me so stupidly? I asked her:
“So where’s the chef gone?”
“He went out, but he’s back now.”
That was all she knew.
“Does he have a mustache?”
She looked at me and laughed. I think she’s taken a liking to me. She’d brought me a slice of roast with a green pepper. But she got on my nerves. I sat there in my socks, not knowing what to say. I felt relieved when she left. I looked at the patch again and began to study it closely. Its perfect roundness frightened me. And it was no larger than the lens of a spyglass. A spider came down to its level, then hurried back to the web it had spun in a corner.
Toward evening the rumpus in the kitchen died down. The only sound was of the specialist sharpening his knives. The wedding was scheduled for the next day. Feeling a little better, I threw away the flowers and managed to sleep for two or three hours. My head was clear. A cool, perfumed breath of wind entered from outside. I jumped out of bed and began hunting for my shoes.
Then the specialist came in.
The door opened slowly, with a squeak. The man who appeared in the room was short, thin, and red-haired; he was wearing clothes that were too big for him. He looked at me gravely and, it being quite dark, flicked the light switch to the right of the door, as if he already knew exactly where it was. Something told me it was he, the specialist. But I immediately asked:
“What do you want? Who are you?”
His thick nose glistened beneath the lightbulb. He had a long, lean, bony face; little eyes almost hidden behind the narrow slits of his eyelids. He pointed at the patch and asked me in a professional tone:
“Has that been here a long time?”
I said it had appeared the day before, just as it was getting dark. He took a quick look around. I was a little ashamed of the untidiness in the room, and of the leftover meat I’d dropped on the table. I asked him again who he was. He gave a bored shrug and sat down on the bed. His feet didn’t even reach the floor.