moment, then nodded slowly as he pulled back his fork. Chewing, he said, “She likes it when I finish quickly.”
Hoffner said, “She likes it when you don’t choke.”
This seemed to make sense. Mendy nodded again and, continuing to chew, said, “Did Papi have a quiet place when he was little?”
It was always questions about Georg these days—badges, forks, trips away: did Opa go away quite so often when Papi was little? This happened to be a particularly reasonable one. The trouble was, Hoffner had never spent much time with Georg at this age—at any age, truth to tell. It made the past a place of reinvention.
“Yes,” said Hoffner, “I think he did. Right under the stairs, as a matter of fact.” There had been no stairs in the old two-bedroom flat.
Mendy swallowed and whispered, “Did it have monsters?”
Hoffner leaned in. “Not after we got rid of them.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Hoffner nodded quietly. “Maybe you and I can do that sometime.” Before Mendy could answer, Hoffner plucked a piece of chicken from the plate and popped it into his own mouth.
Mendy said loudly, “Opa is eating my food.” Hoffner put on a look of mock panic as Elena, without turning, said, “Opa can go to the quiet place, too, if he’s not careful.”
Mendy stabbed at a clump of spinach, studied it, and shoved it in. “If she sends you, I’ll go with you,” he whispered. “That’d be good for both of us.”
Hoffner brought his hand to the boy’s face and drew his thumb across the chewing cheek. Mendy continued unaware and drove in another piece of meat.
It was all possible here, thought Hoffner. His only hope was to find his way to dying before he learned to disappoint this one.
* * *
Hoffner’s suggestion that he have dinner out was met with little resistance. Lotte’s parents—the Herr Doktor Edelbaums—had called to say how concerned they were with Georg still out of the country: wouldn’t it be best if they all dined together, Friday night after all? They would be over in half an hour.
Together, of course, meant just the family. There was always that moment of feigned surprise from the Herr Doktor when the “lodger”—Edelbaum’s infinitely clever title for Hoffner—put in an appearance: “No murders to be solved tonight, Herr Sheriff? So you’ll be joining us?”
Frau Edelbaum was a good deal more pleasant, though without any of the tools necessary to inject some tact into the proceedings. She would smile embarrassedly, say how lovely it was to see him again, and sit quietly with her glass of Pernod while her husband—perched at the edge of Georg’s favorite chair—played trains with Mendy. Hoffner would look on from the sofa and try desperately to time the sips of his beer with any attempts to engage him. And while this was perfectly unbearable, it was Mendy’s departure for bed, and the subsequent dinner conversation, that took them over the edge. In the end, Hoffner was doing them all a favor.
He stood with Lotte in the foyer as he slipped on his coat.
She said, “They won’t be here much past ten,” smoothing off one of his shoulders. “I’ll make sure.”
“Not to worry. Gives me a chance to see a few friends.” He pulled his umbrella from the stand. “It’s not as horrible as you think.”
“Yes, it is. You detest him.”
Hoffner fought back a smile. “Tell him they let me go for being a Jew. That should cause some confusion.”
“He’s more frightened by all this than you know.”
Hoffner shook the excess water from the umbrella. “He has good reason to be.” He buttoned the last of his buttons. “I’ll be sorry to miss the chicken. You’ll save me a piece?”
“It’s already in the icebox.”
He leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “They won’t treat me nearly as well in Spain, you know.” He saw her wanting to find the charm in this, but it was no good. “I shouldn’t tell them about any of that,” he said.
Hoffner said, “She likes it when you don’t choke.”
This seemed to make sense. Mendy nodded again and, continuing to chew, said, “Did Papi have a quiet place when he was little?”
It was always questions about Georg these days—badges, forks, trips away: did Opa go away quite so often when Papi was little? This happened to be a particularly reasonable one. The trouble was, Hoffner had never spent much time with Georg at this age—at any age, truth to tell. It made the past a place of reinvention.
“Yes,” said Hoffner, “I think he did. Right under the stairs, as a matter of fact.” There had been no stairs in the old two-bedroom flat.
Mendy swallowed and whispered, “Did it have monsters?”
Hoffner leaned in. “Not after we got rid of them.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Hoffner nodded quietly. “Maybe you and I can do that sometime.” Before Mendy could answer, Hoffner plucked a piece of chicken from the plate and popped it into his own mouth.
Mendy said loudly, “Opa is eating my food.” Hoffner put on a look of mock panic as Elena, without turning, said, “Opa can go to the quiet place, too, if he’s not careful.”
Mendy stabbed at a clump of spinach, studied it, and shoved it in. “If she sends you, I’ll go with you,” he whispered. “That’d be good for both of us.”
Hoffner brought his hand to the boy’s face and drew his thumb across the chewing cheek. Mendy continued unaware and drove in another piece of meat.
It was all possible here, thought Hoffner. His only hope was to find his way to dying before he learned to disappoint this one.
* * *
Hoffner’s suggestion that he have dinner out was met with little resistance. Lotte’s parents—the Herr Doktor Edelbaums—had called to say how concerned they were with Georg still out of the country: wouldn’t it be best if they all dined together, Friday night after all? They would be over in half an hour.
Together, of course, meant just the family. There was always that moment of feigned surprise from the Herr Doktor when the “lodger”—Edelbaum’s infinitely clever title for Hoffner—put in an appearance: “No murders to be solved tonight, Herr Sheriff? So you’ll be joining us?”
Frau Edelbaum was a good deal more pleasant, though without any of the tools necessary to inject some tact into the proceedings. She would smile embarrassedly, say how lovely it was to see him again, and sit quietly with her glass of Pernod while her husband—perched at the edge of Georg’s favorite chair—played trains with Mendy. Hoffner would look on from the sofa and try desperately to time the sips of his beer with any attempts to engage him. And while this was perfectly unbearable, it was Mendy’s departure for bed, and the subsequent dinner conversation, that took them over the edge. In the end, Hoffner was doing them all a favor.
He stood with Lotte in the foyer as he slipped on his coat.
She said, “They won’t be here much past ten,” smoothing off one of his shoulders. “I’ll make sure.”
“Not to worry. Gives me a chance to see a few friends.” He pulled his umbrella from the stand. “It’s not as horrible as you think.”
“Yes, it is. You detest him.”
Hoffner fought back a smile. “Tell him they let me go for being a Jew. That should cause some confusion.”
“He’s more frightened by all this than you know.”
Hoffner shook the excess water from the umbrella. “He has good reason to be.” He buttoned the last of his buttons. “I’ll be sorry to miss the chicken. You’ll save me a piece?”
“It’s already in the icebox.”
He leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “They won’t treat me nearly as well in Spain, you know.” He saw her wanting to find the charm in this, but it was no good. “I shouldn’t tell them about any of that,” he said.
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