The Tenant and The Motive Read Free Page A

telephone dulls people. Ginger’s voice sounded neutral, colourless. Mario said, ‘If you like, we could have lunch together.’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    â€˜At Timpone’s,’ Mario insisted. ‘We’ll celebrate our reunion.’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ Ginger said again.
    Mario insisted again.
    There was a silence. The murmur of another conversation crossed the line. Mario heard, ‘OK.’
    â€˜I’ll meet you at Timpone’s in an hour then.’
    He hung up. He looked at his watch: it was noon.
    At five to one he arrived at the restaurant. Ginger wassitting at one of the tables at the back, in front of the big windows that gave the room so much light. She was wearing a light-blue dress; her hair was bunched in an imperfect bun at the nape of her neck. As he pulled out a chair to sit down, Mario thought: She looks lovely.
    â€˜What happened?’ asked Ginger. ‘You’re limping.’
    â€˜Well,’ said Mario, smiling as if in apology, ‘this morning I twisted my ankle. Jogging.’
    â€˜I hope it’s nothing serious.’
    â€˜It’s not.’
    Ginger ordered a cold steak with rice, Mario, a salad and curried chicken. They drank burgundy.
    â€˜You don’t seem too happy that I’m back.’
    â€˜I don’t know if I am,’ admitted Ginger. Then she asked, ‘How did it go?’
    â€˜I got bored,’ said Mario with his gaze buried in the chicken. ‘By the second week I didn’t know what to do with myself.’
    They ate in silence. The waiter came over twice to see if they needed anything and make sure they liked the food; they both nodded without enthusiasm.
    Though he already knew the answer, Mario enquired, ‘How have things been going around here?’
    â€˜Same as ever,’ said Ginger. ‘All very quiet; too quiet really: there was hardly anyone left to talk to.’
    â€˜You must’ve got a lot of work done,’ Mario ventured.
    Ginger had stayed at the university all summer to keep working on her thesis. To Mario’s question she replied with a shrug of her shoulders and a gesture of fatigue. Shesaid, ‘I suppose, quite a bit, and in lots of different directions, but I’m still not sure which is the right one.’
    Mario thought Ginger’s expression now was opaque and inexpressive, like her voice had been a little while ago on the phone. They talked about the details Mario had suggested she examine during his absence. Ginger answered Mario’s questions in monosyllables. At one point the girl’s features seemed to brighten up.
    â€˜It doesn’t matter,’ she said, as if leaving something behind. ‘Tomorrow I’ll talk to Berkowickz.’
    â€˜To whom?’
    â€˜Berkowickz,’ Ginger repeated, looking Mario in the eye. ‘They finally managed to hire him. Apparently he made all sorts of demands; you know how those people are. Anyway, Scanlan managed it; he was very determined and he did it. Branstyne told me he’s very pleased.’
    The waiter took the plates away and asked if they wanted dessert. Ginger ordered apple pie; Mario declined the offer and lit a cigarette.
    â€˜But I thought you already knew about Berkowickz,’ said Ginger.
    â€˜I didn’t know,’ said Mario, puffing out a smoke ring.
    â€˜I’m sure it had already been mentioned before you went on holiday.’
    â€˜I didn’t know,’ Mario repeated.
    â€˜It doesn’t matter,’ Ginger said. ‘The thing is, we all stand to benefit. Especially me.’
    Ginger said that Berkowickz’s latest article, ‘The Syntax of the Word-Initial Consonant in Italian’, publishedin the April issue of
Language,
left the investigation open at precisely the point where she had begun. She said she was sure Berkowickz must have continued working in that very direction and, even if that was not the case, he would