Javier Cercas - The Tenant and The Motive

Mario had arrived in the United States in August 1981. He’d been given a grant from the Italian government that would allow him to complete a doctorate in linguistics at the University of Texas in Austin.

The first months in the new country were not pleasant. He couldn’t or didn’t want to begin any friendships. With Americans, mostly young southerners, he found it difficult to get past the limits of simple utilitarian relationships. As for the Europeans he chanced to meet, they all struck him as bland, entirely lacking in charm. Although he had ample time and resources, he barely worked; he spent his time in the city’s cinemas, reading newspapers, watching television, waiting for the Christmas holidays. When they arrived, Mario returned to Turin.

He’d always believed that no special link bound him to his country; back in Italy he understood that no special link bound him to any place other than his country. He felt happy.

By the time he returned to Austin after the holidays, he’d decided to give up the grant in the summer and go back to Italy for good.

That was when he met Lisa.

Lisa was then a twenty-seven-year-old woman with straight, black, shiny hair, gentle eyes and sharp features, as if chiselled on to her face. She walked with short, very quick steps, and her every gesture revealed an iron will. But the thing that really attracted attention, in the midst of the sloppy attire that reigned on campus, was the extreme care, almost luxury, with which she dressed. She applied her lipstick time and again, meticulously, and her eyebrows were always a perfect line.

Although no one had introduced them, Mario and Lisa smiled at each other whenever they passed in a corridor, on the stairs, or at the entrance to the humanities building. From there they quickly struck up a conversation at a party to which Enzo Bonali, a history professor Mario had met by chance and who was supervising Lisa’s doctoral thesis, had invited them both. Hiding behind cocktails and canapés since entering the house, knowing none of the other guests, Mario was pleased to see Lisa arrive at the party: he immediately approached her.

They spent the whole evening talking. Lisa told him she’d been born in New York, although she’d spent most of her life in San Diego. Now she was working with Bonali on her thesis, whicn dealt with some aspect of the process of Italian unification. Mario told her he intended to return to Italy in the summer, and laughingly confessed to not liking the United States. Lisa admitted she didn’t like it much either, but insinuated that she considered it an error not to take advantage of the opportunities the country offered. At the end of the party Lisa offered to drive him home.

Two days later they went out for dinner.

Mario didn’t go back to Italy in the summer. Spurred on by Lisa, he’d begun to work on his thesis, and thought that a vacation in Italy would unnecessarily interrupt the rhythm of his work. He only allowed himself a week off to go to New Orleans with Lisa.

A year and a half later he defended his thesis; Lisa had done so a few months earlier. They both applied for teaching positions in various North American universities. Mario had several interested replies, but nothing definite. Lisa, on the other hand, received three offers. After discussing it with Mario, she accepted a position at Brown University: it wasn’t the best, but the university agreed to employ the contracted professor’s spouse.

They were married in July, travelled around Italy for all of August, and returned to the United States just in time to begin the new semester.

Before a year was up Mario had realized his marriage was a failure. One night, after two weeks of fights and uncomfortable silences, Mario and Lisa went out for dinner, then they went to a movie. When they got home they sat in the back yard and smoked in silence. It was a clear spring night, but the smell of summer was on the breeze, the sky was strewn with stars. At some point, Lisa said, ‘Mario, it’s over.’

They divorced that summer.

The next day Mario woke up at eight, had a shower with his left foot wrapped up in a plastic bag and had breakfast. Then he called a taxi.

At nine-thirty he arrived at the foreign languages building: in his left hand he carried a leather briefcase, in the right, a crutch. When he crossed the foyer of the building he noticed that his bandaged foot and precarious gait attracted more attention than he’d expected: he felt uncomfortable.

He went up in the elevator alone. When he got to the fourth floor, instead of going to the central office of the department, he walked towards his office. He was happy not to bump into anyone in the corridor: although he knew he was going to have to explain about his ankle, the mere thought of it made him feel sick. After poking the key about in the lock for a moment he opened the office door. He instinctively closed it again, because the light was on and someone was inside. He apologized as he pulled the door closed. ‘Sorry.’

How strange, he said to himself. I’ve never gone to the wrong office. Immediately he reasoned logically: the key to his office could only open the door to his office. He looked at the number on the key and the number on the door. They were the same: 4043. He was about to put the key back into the lock when the door was opened from inside: the silhouette of Berkowickz filled the frame.

‘What a coincidence,’ Berkowickz exclaimed with a smile. ‘We seem to be condemned to meet in the most unexpected ways.’ Then, pointing at the white bandage around Mario’s foot and the crutch tucked under his right arm, he asked, ‘But hey, what’s happened with your ankle?’

‘There must be some mistake,’ Mario stuttered clumsily, immediately noticing the incoherence of his observation.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Berkowickz went on, as if he hadn’t heard what Mario had just said. ‘Though with things like that, you can never tell.’

Mario thought: Now he’s going to say that sometimes the silliest little things can complicate our lives. He repeated, ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Berkowickz, perhaps understanding. He turned around and left the office door open. ‘Of course, there’s been some mistake. This is a complete pigsty. I understand that before I arrived it was occupied by one of those Spaniards who shower once a week and leave a trail of filth wherever they go. There’s a bit of everything here,’ he said, sweeping his arms around the office, ‘beer cans, empty yogurt tubs, ashtrays full of cigarette butts, even a little fridge with a piece of mouldy cheese in it, and papers in a mess all over the place. I’m going to have to find someone to help me clean all this up. I can’t do it on my own.’

‘I’m going to speak to the secretary,’ said Mario.

‘Thanks so much, Mario,’ said Berkowickz. ‘But I don’t think it’s worth your trouble. I don’t think the secretary will be able to come and help me: she looked very busy.’

When he got to the main office of the department, Branstyne and Swinczyc were speaking in low tones. They stopped talking as soon as they noticed Mario’s presence; they turned towards him and said hello. Mario thought they’d been talking about him.

Branstyne was younger than Mario, short with a fragile complexion, receding hairline, indistinct features. He had very intense blue eyes, which revealed a vigorous intelligence: he was without doubt, despite his youth, the most brilliant member of the department. To all that, Branstyne added an unfailing congeniality and an Italian wife, Tina, young and lovely, who made absolutely divine fettuccini al pesto. Tina had managed to turn the friendliness they felt towards one another into a closer bond. As for Swinczyc, Mario barely had anything more to do with him than the routines of work imposed, but at the same time had little enthusiasm for his sidelong glances, at once servile and haughty, his nervous little laughs and the annoying jokes he frequently enjoyed. He knew, however, that Branstyne had a link with Swinczyc, though he was unaware how strong it was, and this caused him to treat the latter with a certain deference, which could at times be mistaken for affection.