He tried to reflect in an orderly fashion.
Should he show up? He guessed that Berkowickz wanted to talk to him about Ginger, or about the relationship that, to judge from the scene he’d witnessed that morning, linked them or was beginning to link him to her, or about what Ginger had told Berkowickz about him, or about all those things at once. He discarded the idea: he hadn’t noticed the slightest sign of concern or vexation in Berkowickz’s attitude when surprised with Ginger this morning on the landing, nor when saying goodbye to him. Furthermore, if he had any knowledge of the bond that up till then had linked Mario to Ginger — which seemed fairly improbable — it was almost certain he’d prefer to forget it or, more reasonably, that it held no interest for him. At other moments (walking into Lincoln Hall, during class, while crossing the Quad) he envisioned the possibility that Branstyne might have told Berkowickz or insinuated that he, Mario, absurdly attributed the whirlwind of misfortunes that had befallen him to Berkowickz’s presence. Berkowickz would have felt somehow responsible, and perhaps wanted to give him some explanation, or simply make it up to him, gain his sympathy. He also discarded this hypothesis: Either I don’t know how the world works, he thought, or guys like Berkowickz don’t know the meaning of guilt. On the other hand, what interest could the new tenant have in winning his friendship, if he can’t even imagine him as a potential enemy. .? Later he thought that Berkowickz wanted to crush him definitively, humiliating him with an exhibition of curriculum vitae and amiability, intellectual energy and exuberant vitality.
After his nap he tried once again to put his ideas in order. He reconsidered the hypotheses he’d formulated, ventured some more. They all led to a curious operation: each of the motives he managed to ascribe to Berkowickz’s thinking in arranging the meeting metamorphosed into another set of reasons not to go. This led him not to discard the possibility, which at one point had seemed remote, that Berkowickz, just as he’d declared on the porch, wanted to get to know him, to talk to him: after all, it was true they had not yet had a chance to exchange opinions. In any case, he concluded, with a resolution not exempt from satisfaction at the implacable logical rigour with which he’d linked his ideas, what’s sure is that, if I don’t show up, Berkowickz is going to think I don’t dare confront him alone.
Just after eight he knocked on the door of the apartment across the hall. Berkowickz took a while to open. When he did (wearing dun-coloured drill trousers, a T-shirt scribbled with signatures of famous artists and an anagram of the Art Institute of Chicago, canvas espadrilles, in his left hand a folded newspaper), Mario realized from the look in his eyes that he’d forgotten the arrangement. Perhaps to hide this fact, or just as a greeting, Berkowickz smiled excessively.
‘Come in, Mario, come in,’ he said, making room for him to pass through. He admitted straight away, ‘The truth is I’d forgotten we were getting together. With so many things to do my head gets muddled. But it doesn’t matter. .’
Berkowickz kept talking. Mario wasn’t listening to him: as soon as he entered the apartment he was overtaken by a visceral discomfort that translated into a kind of vertigo, something like a hollow in his stomach. He sat down on a sofa leaving the crutch on one side. Berkowickz handed him a glass of whisky he didn’t remember asking for; he held it weakly and squirmed on the sofa. He saw his host gesticulating, smiling and arching his brows, but he was unable to concentrate on what he was saying: Berkowickz’s words slid through his ears without leaving any trace whatsoever. He rubbed his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his forehead. Only then did he begin to recognize the pale wood, the metal chairs, the vaguely cubist paintings, the advertisement for a Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition in a gallery in Turin; he recognized the television beside him, the record player, the double-decker transparent table, the Hockney reproduction hanging from a hook on the wall, the cream-coloured sofa he was sitting on, the two armchairs of the same colour. He recognized the minute cluster of things that packed the glass cabinet: the Algerian pipe, the antique pistols and the hourglass, the frigate imprisoned in the Chianti bottle, the clay figures, the marble elephant.
A chill shot up his back.
Bewildered, abruptly gullible, he realised that Berkowickz’s apartment was an exact, though inverted, replica of his own: the perverse reflection of it in an atrocious mirror. He was frightened: he felt his hands drenched in sweat; his heart pounded wildly in his throat. He tried to control his nerves, to pull himself together. To tackle the situation, he constructed a phrase: ‘Bravery does not consist in not being afraid: that’s called temerity. Bravery consists in being afraid, struggling against it and winning.’ Comforted and strengthened by this reflection, he forced himself to listen to the monologue that Berkowickz, sitting in the armchair in front of him, continued delivering amid gesticulations. At some moment, hazily, he thought he understood that Berkowickz was setting out a problem related to the configuration of the syllable in Italian. Mario nodded in agreement. After a while he realized he couldn’t take any more: with the excuse of a sudden headache, he stood up from the sofa without looking at Berkowickz (on the table, the glass of whisky remained untouched) and headed for the door.
‘Here: read this when you have a moment,’ he heard Berkowickz say with an impeccable smile, thrusting a sheaf of photocopied pages into his hand. ‘If you like, we can talk it over some other time.’ Then, resting a fraternal hand on Mario’s shoulder, he added, ‘And take care of that headache: sometimes life gets complicated by the silliest little things.’
When he lifted the telephone receiver he noticed his hands were trembling; it took him several attempts to dial the number.
‘Mrs Workman? This is Mario Rota.’
‘What do you want?’ Mrs Workman’s voice sounded deep, drenched in sleep.
‘I’m calling about the new tenant.’
‘What about the new tenant?’
Mario answered with a thread of a voice: ‘He has the same furniture as me.’
There was a silence.
‘Mrs Workman?’ Mario enquired. ‘Are you there?’
‘Wouldn’t you be embarrassed to call me at this hour to tell me such a thing?’ mumbled Mrs Workman as if talking to herself.
‘Pardon?’
‘Don’t you think it’s a little late to be phoning me?’ said Mrs Workman in a friendly tone. She continued in a tone of gentle scolding: ‘I believe I’ve told you many times that I go to bed very early, to try to call me at reasonable times. Or have you been drinking?’
‘No, Mrs Workman, I assure you I haven’t,’ Mario hurriedly swore, his voice shrunken with anguish. ‘But it’s horrible, can’t you see? Berkowickz has the same pictures as I do, the same sofa, the same armchairs, everything the same.’
‘And what do you want me to tell you?’ the old woman croaked in annoyance. ‘He must have the same taste as you, which would be a shame. Or you bought them at the same place. What do I know, man, how should I know?’