of her hand, taking it in both of his. She looked at him carefully, her own hazel eyes darting back and forth across his own.
“What is it, Hannah? Tell me. Please.”
“No,” she said, and covered her mouth. “No, just go away.”
Pepin’s other neighbor was an elderly man whose doorbell read BAGDASARIAN. He greeted Hastroll distractedly, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. “If you don’t mind,” Hastroll said, showing him his badge, “I’d like to ask you some questions.” But Bagdasarian had already turned to leave him standing in the hallway. Hastroll stuck his foot in the jamb and followed him inside. The living room was taken up by a large piano, the instrument so ship-in-a-bottle big that Hastroll was tempted to ask how he got it in here. Bagdasarian stood with his back to him, facing a mirror and a mantel lined with pictures. When Hastroll tapped him on the shoulder, Bagdasarian turned and looked at him like he’d never seen him before. Then he pointed at a photograph of a woman thirty years his junior. She wore a green dress and a small black toque. She had candy-apple red hair. The picture, Hastroll could tell by the cars in the street and the skyline behind her, was decades old.
“Das Judif,” he said, his speech mauled, the syllables blunted and deformed.
“Judith?”
The man gave him a crooked smile. “Das my wife.” He looked at the picture and pointed again, then touched the same finger to his lips. “Das Judif?” he asked.
Hastroll left, closing the door behind him quietly, reminding himself that no matter how much pain he felt, he must be careful what he wished for.Hannah let Hastroll feed her. It wasn’t like she was on a hunger strike. In fact, when he brought her dinner in on a tray she became as chatty as she ever was. “How are things at the station?” she’d say, or “It sure looks hot out there,” or “You’ve seemed pretty busy lately.” In fact, it was almost galling, because for those brief moments before she tucked her napkin in her slip, she was acting like a woman who hadn’t been in bed for five months but instead was on the upswing after an illness, the flu, say, was a lot better, thanks, just a day away from feeling strong enough to go back to work.
Hastroll stood there, amazed and obliterated. But he said nothing. He asked if she needed anything else—“I’m great,” she said—and went back into the kitchen, since eating in bed was one of his pet peeves; and then he cleaned up, since another bugbear was waking up to a mess. Though now, standing over the full sink, Hastroll thought about how what he’d cooked her tonight—butterflied chicken over couscous with lemon butter sauce and Italian parsley—had become his favorite dish to make of late; and as he thought over their years together, he realized their relationship could be described as an ever-changing menu, or a sort of
bistro à deux
, Hastroll the chef and Hannah his only customer. And if he were asked to make a final tasting menu, one that charted significant dates in their history course by course, from the beginning to now, they’d end with that dish after working through Tuscan ribollita with kale, carrots, and cannellini beans, filling and blessedly cheap; cold sesame noodles with grilled pork belly (this during Hastroll’s Chinese phase) and delicious morning, noon, or night, but especially after sex; shrimp and black bean enchiladas, a Friday evening tradition ever since traditions had suddenly started to occupy Hastroll; salmon steaks poached with lemon and black peppercorns finished with a cucumber yogurt sauce (they began eating more fish once they had some dough); and finally his fettuccine with spinach in a cream sauce with mascarpone and a dash of nutmeg, a fistful of parmesan added at the end, because it was easy to make and stuffed his empty belly, and since it was just him and Hannah, after all, did it really matter anymore if either of them got fat?
He returned to their
“What is it, Hannah? Tell me. Please.”
“No,” she said, and covered her mouth. “No, just go away.”
Pepin’s other neighbor was an elderly man whose doorbell read BAGDASARIAN. He greeted Hastroll distractedly, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. “If you don’t mind,” Hastroll said, showing him his badge, “I’d like to ask you some questions.” But Bagdasarian had already turned to leave him standing in the hallway. Hastroll stuck his foot in the jamb and followed him inside. The living room was taken up by a large piano, the instrument so ship-in-a-bottle big that Hastroll was tempted to ask how he got it in here. Bagdasarian stood with his back to him, facing a mirror and a mantel lined with pictures. When Hastroll tapped him on the shoulder, Bagdasarian turned and looked at him like he’d never seen him before. Then he pointed at a photograph of a woman thirty years his junior. She wore a green dress and a small black toque. She had candy-apple red hair. The picture, Hastroll could tell by the cars in the street and the skyline behind her, was decades old.
“Das Judif,” he said, his speech mauled, the syllables blunted and deformed.
“Judith?”
The man gave him a crooked smile. “Das my wife.” He looked at the picture and pointed again, then touched the same finger to his lips. “Das Judif?” he asked.
Hastroll left, closing the door behind him quietly, reminding himself that no matter how much pain he felt, he must be careful what he wished for.Hannah let Hastroll feed her. It wasn’t like she was on a hunger strike. In fact, when he brought her dinner in on a tray she became as chatty as she ever was. “How are things at the station?” she’d say, or “It sure looks hot out there,” or “You’ve seemed pretty busy lately.” In fact, it was almost galling, because for those brief moments before she tucked her napkin in her slip, she was acting like a woman who hadn’t been in bed for five months but instead was on the upswing after an illness, the flu, say, was a lot better, thanks, just a day away from feeling strong enough to go back to work.
Hastroll stood there, amazed and obliterated. But he said nothing. He asked if she needed anything else—“I’m great,” she said—and went back into the kitchen, since eating in bed was one of his pet peeves; and then he cleaned up, since another bugbear was waking up to a mess. Though now, standing over the full sink, Hastroll thought about how what he’d cooked her tonight—butterflied chicken over couscous with lemon butter sauce and Italian parsley—had become his favorite dish to make of late; and as he thought over their years together, he realized their relationship could be described as an ever-changing menu, or a sort of
bistro à deux
, Hastroll the chef and Hannah his only customer. And if he were asked to make a final tasting menu, one that charted significant dates in their history course by course, from the beginning to now, they’d end with that dish after working through Tuscan ribollita with kale, carrots, and cannellini beans, filling and blessedly cheap; cold sesame noodles with grilled pork belly (this during Hastroll’s Chinese phase) and delicious morning, noon, or night, but especially after sex; shrimp and black bean enchiladas, a Friday evening tradition ever since traditions had suddenly started to occupy Hastroll; salmon steaks poached with lemon and black peppercorns finished with a cucumber yogurt sauce (they began eating more fish once they had some dough); and finally his fettuccine with spinach in a cream sauce with mascarpone and a dash of nutmeg, a fistful of parmesan added at the end, because it was easy to make and stuffed his empty belly, and since it was just him and Hannah, after all, did it really matter anymore if either of them got fat?
He returned to their
Similar Books
