Саманта Швеблин - Mouthful of Birds

He went back to the kitchen, and we saw his head bobbing up and down in the window above the counter as his small figure passed by. I looked at Oliver and he was smiling; I was too thirsty to laugh. Some time passed, much longer than it should take to choose two cold bottles of whatever and bring them to the table, and finally the man appeared again. He wasn’t carrying anything, not even an empty glass. I felt awful. I thought that if I didn’t drink something right away I was going to go crazy. What was wrong with this guy, anyway? What question could he have? He stopped at the table. There were drops of sweat on his forehead, and his shirt was stained under his arms. He made a confused motion with his hand as if he was going to give some kind of explanation, but then stopped short.

I asked what was going on, I guess in a somewhat violent tone. He turned back toward the kitchen, and then, shuffling, he said:

“It’s just, I can’t reach the fridge.”

I looked over at Oliver. Oliver couldn’t hold back his laughter, and that put me in an even worse mood.

“What do you mean, you can’t reach the fridge? How the hell do you wait on customers?”

“It’s just…” He wiped his forehead with the rag. The guy was a disaster. “My wife is the one who gets things from the fridge,” he said.

“And…?” I felt like punching him.

“She’s on the floor. She fell and she’s—”

“What do you mean, ‘on the floor’?” interrupted Oliver.

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t know…” he repeated, shrugging his shoulders, the palms of his hands turned upward.

“Where is she?” asked Oliver.

The guy pointed to the kitchen. The only thing I wanted was to drink something cool, and when I saw Oliver stand up, all my hopes were dashed.

“Where?” Oliver asked again.

The guy pointed to the kitchen once more and Oliver moved off in that direction, turning back to look at us a few times, as though distrustful. It was strange when he disappeared behind the curtain and left me alone, face-to-face, with an idiot like that.

I had to sidestep around him when Oliver called me into the kitchen. I walked slowly because I could tell something was wrong. I opened the curtain and peeked in. The kitchen was small and overflowing with casserole dishes, saucepans, plates, and things piled up on shelves or hanging from hooks.

Lying on the floor a few feet from the wall, the woman looked like a marine beast washed up by the tide. She was huge, and she clutched a big plastic spoon in her left hand. The fridge hung above her, flush with the cupboards. It was one of those kiosk refrigerators with a transparent lid, the kind that stands on the floor and slides open on top, only this one had ridiculously been tacked to the wall with brackets, following the line of the cupboards, its doors facing outward. Oliver was looking at me.

“Well,” I told him, “you came back here, now do something.”

I heard the plastic curtain move, and the man came and stood next to me. He was much shorter than he’d looked before, now that we were both standing. I think I had almost three heads on him. Oliver knelt down next to the fat woman, but couldn’t seem to bring himself to touch her. I thought she could wake up at any moment and start shouting. He brushed the hair from her face. Her eyes were closed.

“Help me turn her over,” said Oliver.

The guy didn’t even blink. I went over and knelt down on the other side, but between the two of us, we could barely move her.

“Aren’t you going to help?” I asked the man.

“I’m… ahhh… suspect…” babbled the moron, “she’s dead.”

We immediately let go of the fat woman and sat there looking at her.

“What do you mean, dead? Why didn’t you say she was dead?”

“I’m not sure, it’s just a suspicion.”

“He said he’s a suspect,” said Oliver, “not that he suspects.”

“I also suspect my suspicion.”

Oliver looked at me; his face was saying something like Any second now I’ll beat the shit out of this guy.

I lifted the hand with the spoon to check for a pulse. When Oliver got tired of waiting for me, he put two fingers under the woman’s nose and mouth and said:

“She’s a goner. Let’s get out of here.”

And then the damned little guy got desperate.

“What do you mean, ‘get out of here’? No, please. I can’t deal with her alone.”

Oliver opened the fridge, took out two sodas and handed one to me, and took a few steps away, cursing. I followed him. I opened my bottle and I thought its mouth would never meet mine. I had forgotten how thirsty I was.

“So? What do you think?” asked Oliver. I breathed in relief. Suddenly I felt ten years younger and in a better mood. “Did she fall or did he take her out?” he asked. We were still pretty close to the short guy and Oliver didn’t lower his voice.

“I don’t think it was him,” I said in a low voice. “He needs her to reach the fridge, doesn’t he?”

“He could reach…”

“You really think he killed her?”

“He could use a ladder, get up on the table, he’s got fifty bar stools…” he said, motioning around us. It seemed to me he was talking loudly on purpose, so I lowered my voice even more:

“Maybe he really is just a poor guy. Maybe he really is that stupid, and now he’s all alone with his fat wife dead in the kitchen.”

“You want to adopt him? Put him in the back of the truck and set him free when we get there?”

I took a few more sips. The idiot was standing over the fat woman and holding a stool in the air, seeming not to know where to put it. Oliver signaled to me, and we left the kitchen. In the dining room, we went behind the counter, and, through the window that looked into the kitchen, we watched him put the stool aside, take hold of the fat woman’s arm, and start to pull. He couldn’t move her an inch. He rested a few seconds and pulled again. He tried putting the chair over her, one of its legs against her knee. He clambered up on it and reached as far as he could toward the fridge, but now that he had the height, the stool was too far away. When he turned toward us to get down, we ducked and hid, sitting on the floor with our backs to the wall. I was surprised to see there was nothing under the counter. There were things up on the shelves, and above those, the cupboards and racks were also full, but there was nothing down at our level. We heard him move the stool. Sigh. There was silence and we waited. Suddenly he burst out from behind the curtain brandishing a knife. He saw us sitting on the floor, and far from being annoyed, he breathed in relief.

“I can’t reach the fridge,” he said.

We didn’t even stand up.

“You can’t reach anything,” said Oliver.

The guy stood looking at Oliver as if God himself had come down to earth and told him the meaning of life. He dropped the knife and his eyes took in the empty expanse under the counter. Oliver was satisfied: the guy seemed to go beyond any horizon of stupidity.

“Let’s see, make us an omelet,” said Oliver.

The man turned back toward the kitchen. His imbecilic face took in the utensils, the casserole dishes, almost the entire kitchen hanging from the walls or the shelves. He looked astonished.

“Okay, so not that,” said Oliver. “Make some simple sandwiches, surely you can do that.”

“No,” said the guy. “I can’t reach the sandwich maker.”

“Don’t toast it. Just bring ham, cheese, and some bread.”

“No,” he said. “No.” He shook his head; he seemed ashamed.

“Okay. A glass of water, then.”

He shook his head again.

“How the hell did you serve this army?” asked Oliver, indicating the dirty tables.