Aftermath

by Carl Frode Tiller

  “Hi,” I say, smiling at them, not too brightly, though, nothing that could be mistaken for anything but a perfectly ordinary smile—I mustn’t seem too cheerful, have to act normal.

  “Hi,” Rita says. She’s sitting there with her legs crossed and a cigarette in her hand.

  “Did you get the saffron?” Ingrid asks quickly, not even taking the time to say hi, she’s told her parents that I had to run down to the store to pick up saffron for the risotto for tomorrow or something like that, she’s come up with an excuse for me walking out as soon as they arrived and now she’s desperately trying to put me in the picture before I give the game away by mentioning where I’ve actually been. I look at her, all set to betray her little charade and show her up in front of her mother by pretending not to know what she’s talking about, but I don’t.

  “Sold out, I’m afraid,” I say.

  “Oh, bother,” she says, smiling at me, grateful to me for going along with her little lie, I can tell.

  I come up onto the veranda, sit down with them.

  “But Mom, why can’t you drive me over to the party?” Sara asks. She picks up the tea bag from the saucer in front of her, twines the white string around the bag, squeezing it in the middle, and a trickle of tea runs onto the table. I open my mouth, about to ask her what she means by making such a mess, but I don’t get the chance.

  “Sara, I’ve had some wine,” Ingrid says. “We’ve all had some wine.”

  “Okay, well, you’ll just have to pay for a taxi for me!” Sara announces. She drops the tea bag onto the table with a little splat and sits back in her chair, arms crossed, pouting sulkily, she’s so fucking spoiled it’s unbelievable, it’s downright sickening sometimes, I don’t know why Ingrid lets her get away with it.

  “I’ll pay for a taxi, Sara,” Rita pipes up. She tilts her head back, opens her mouth wide, and blows a smoke ring. I look at her, feel like saying something about it maybe not being such a good idea to reward Sara for talking and acting the way she’s doing. Had it been Henrik, I would have, but not when it’s Sara.

  “You can come and sit down,” I hear Alfred say. I turn around and look at him, standing there with his coat-hanger shoulders, hands on his hips and his upper half kind of stooping forward. The resemblance to a bird of prey is incredible, he looks like an eagle or a vulture hunching its wings.

  “What are we having again—was it bouillabaisse?” I ask, pretending not to know what he wound up making, to make it sound even less likely that I’ve been in the kitchen.

  “I had to improvise a bit with what I could find in the fridge, but yes, it’s a sort of bouillabaisse,” he says, making himself out to be something of an artist in the kitchen. It’s a habit he’s acquired over the past few years, presenting himself as a freewheeling cook, tasting and trying rather than relying on books and recipes in order to produce good food.

  “Mm, I can’t wait,” I say brightly, to let everyone know I’m looking forward to dinner. I glance at Ingrid as I get up, she looks pleased and thankful that I’ve pulled myself together and am in such a good mood now, she looks at me and smiles as she picks up her wine glass and gets to her feet.

  We go in and sit down at the table.

  “It smells wonderful,” I say.

  “Mm, really good,” Sara says.

  “Now, there’s bread there,” Alfred says, “and rouille here.” He nods to a little bowl of thick deep-yellow sauce.

  “Lovely,” I say.

  “Right, well, help yourselves,” Alfred says as he sits down, talking and acting for all the world as if he’s the host and we’re his guests and not the other way around, he’s got some fucking nerve, American to the core. I study him, feel a little thrill of anticipation at the thought of what’s about to happen, but I smile happily and smack my lips as if I’m looking forward to digging in.

  “Thank you,” we chorus.

  I hear the faint scrape of chair legs being pulled in.

  “By the way,” Alfred says, “I noticed that you used a garlic press earlier on when you were making osso buco.”

  I eye him as I ladle soup into my plate. He’s about to come out with some critical comment disguised as well-meaning advice or something of the sort, I know he is, that’s him all over.

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “You don’t think that makes it a mite bitter?”

  “Bitter?”

  “Well, when you use a press, you release the juice, you see, and that can give a rather bitter taste. Or I think so anyway,” he says, trying to make it sound as if this is a conclusion he has arrived at all on his own, although it’s bound to be something he’s picked up from a fancy cookbook by some celebrity TV chef, but it bolsters the gourmet image he’s endeavoring to create. I bet he could never tell the difference, though.

  “Oh, really? I didn’t know that,” I say. Usually it makes my blood boil when he carries on like this, but now I just grin cheerfully.

  “It can be all right for cold sauces, but even with them it’s better to chop the garlic,” he says, continuing to lecture me, and I nod and smile and say, “Oh, really.” I know what’s going to happen as soon as we start to eat, so allowing myself to be lectured like this only serves to make my little performance all the more credible, and his downfall will be all the greater if he has first had the chance to present himself as the master chef and me as his apprentice. The prospect sends a gleeful shiver down my spine.

  We start on the soup.

  I glance at Alfred as he takes his first spoonful. He promptly removes the spoon again and sits there, mouth working. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a face change color so quickly: a couple of seconds is all it takes for his mug to turn bright red. A great bubble of laughter wells up inside me at the sight, but I don’t let it show, try to keep my face as straight as I possibly can as I taste the soup. It’s absolutely inedible, so salty that it hurts my mouth, but I smile and try to look like I’m enjoying it, so the others will think I’m just being a polite son-in-law who would never complain about the food.

  Utter silence.

  “Ingrid, could you pass me the water?” I ask, although the carafe is as close to me as it is to her and I could easily reach it myself, but I want to alert everyone else to the fact that I need more water, thereby making them aware that they’re not alone in feeling the soup is way too salty. I smile innocently at Ingrid as she fills my glass.

  “Thanks,” I say and take a big gulp.

  Silence.

  The veranda door is open. From farther down the street comes a loud bang, it sounds like something else being thrown into the dumpster from the second floor of the green house.

  Silence again.

  “Yes, well, we’re all going to be nicely cured at this rate,” Rita suddenly declares.

  I look at her, almost burst out laughing, but manage to hold it in. Alfred doesn’t appear to find this at all funny, he sits there, red-faced and fuming, staring at the soup.

  “I don’t understand it,” he says, setting his spoon down in the plate. He crosses his arms and shakes his head in vexation. “I tasted that soup just before I made the rouille, goddammit, and it wasn’t particularly salty then.”

  “That’s odd,” I say, pretending to be equally mystified. Ingrid and Rita are both sure that Alfred has simply added too much salt and if I talk as though he can’t possibly be to blame for the soup being inedible they’ll think I’m just trying to be a loyal son-in-law.

  “Well, in any case, we can’t eat it,” Alfred says. He picks up his napkin, dabs his lips with it, and drops it into the soup. I watch as the paper immediately starts to soak up the liquid, a dark stain begins to spread, and the napkin is gradually drawn under as it gets heavier and heavier.

  “Yes, it was rather, er … salty,” Ingrid says.

  I pick up my water glass. If we’re to have dinner today, then clearly the simplest and most obvious solution is for me to finish making the osso buco, but it’s not my place to suggest it, they’re all goi
ng to have to come crawling back and ask me please to carry on where I left off when Alfred turned up with his damn fish, it may be childish of me but, hey, I’m not that big a man, I revel in the moment as I drink the last of my water and set the glass down again.

  Pause.

  “What about the osso buco?” Rita asks at long last. “That’s ready, isn’t it?”

  I raise my eyebrows slightly and try to look as though it hadn’t even crossed my mind that we could have the osso buco instead.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, with a wag of my head. “But … well, would you like to have that?”

  “Oh, yes, I love osso buco,” Rita chirps.

  Ingrid nods.

  “Okay, but it’ll take a little time, because I have to make the risotto and the gremolata first,” I say, sounding almost as if I’m apologizing for the fact that they’ll have to wait.

  “Can you be bothered, David?” Ingrid asks.

  “Yes, of course,” I say, yawning and stretching a little: I’m tired, but I guess I could just about manage to spend a half hour or so in the kitchen, that’s the message I’m trying to send, that I’ll do it for them.

  “Wonderful,” Ingrid says.

  “Would you like me to help you with it?” Alfred asks.

  “No, stay where you are,” I say, planting my hands on the table and pushing my chair back a little more, hear the scrape of chair legs again.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “And they all breathed a sigh of relief,” Rita murmurs as she picks up her soup plate and pours her helping back into the pot. You can say a lot of things about Rita, but she does have a sense of humor and again I nearly burst out laughing, but I don’t—Alfred really isn’t in the mood for this, he gives Rita an astonishingly dirty look. My best plan is to carry on playing the well-mannered son-in-law.

  “Oh, come on, Alfred!” Rita cries. “Can’t you take a joke?”

  And Alfred pulls himself together. He sniffs loudly and stares at the table, shaking his head.

  “I simply don’t understand how it can be so salty.”

  “Well, you obviously forgot that you’d already added salt and you’ve salted it again,” Rita says.

  I look at Alfred as I get up, he shakes his head again, but he doesn’t seem to have a better explanation so he doesn’t say anything.

  “Okay, then I’ll just take the chance to pop into the bathroom and get myself ready,” Sara says. “I’ve got to be going soon!”

  “In that case I would advise anyone with a normal bladder to get in there first,” I say.

  “Asshole,” Sara says, glaring at me.

  I give a little chuckle.

  “Let me pour this soup down the toilet before you lock yourself in there, Sara,” Ingrid says.

  I take a sip of wine, then go out to the kitchen and make a start on the risotto. I take the bowls of sliced mushrooms, Parmesan, and onion from the fridge, get out a pan, and begin to fry the onions in a little olive oil, stirring them until they’re soft and translucent and sweet smelling, then I get the garlic press out of the drawer, place two cloves in it, and hold it over the pan. I’m all set to squeeze the press when I hear Alfred’s and Ingrid’s voices, they’re coming this way and if Alfred sees me using the press rather than chopping the garlic he’s sure to say he detects a slight bitterness when he tastes it, I know he will, even if he doesn’t notice any difference at all, and I won’t give him that satisfaction. I draw the pan off the heat, winkle the garlic cloves out of the press, and drop it into the cutlery drawer, then I place the garlic on the chopping board and take out a knife.

  I glance around casually as they come in.

  “Just put the pot down there, Ingrid,” Alfred says as he turns on the faucet and starts to rinse the dishes; globules of grease and the reddish remains of the soup slide off the plates and into the sink where they swirl and eddy a few times before disappearing down the drain. “I’ll see to this,” he adds.

  “Okay, well, if you do that, I’ll go and bring in Henrik,” Ingrid says. “He’s slept almost an hour more than he usually does.”

  Silence.

  “Ah … so you don’t use stock in your risotto?” Alfred suddenly pipes up.

  “Huh?” I say, turning to him. He motions toward the pack of chicken-stock cubes lying next to the chopping board. He’s just made a fool of himself by serving bouillabaisse that’s been salted to death and yet he has the nerve to tell me how to cook. I know I ought to use proper stock instead of a stock cube, I usually do and I like to think that it tastes better, but still, it would befit him to be a little humbler, to say the least.

  “Yeah, I forgot to buy things for stock, I’m afraid,” I say.

  He nods as he picks up another plate and holds it under the running water.

  “Oh, a stock cube will do just as well, I’m sure,” he says, giving me to understand that it’s not ideal, but that he’s magnanimous enough not to make a big thing of it, the risotto won’t be as good with a stock cube, but it should be just about edible, that’s what he’s implying. He looks at me, smiles, then turns and exits the kitchen.

  I pick up the chopping board and take it over to the stove, am about to brush the garlic into the pan, but stop halfway, no, fuck it, I’m going to press some more garlic and put that in, and Alfred will never know. I’m going to chuck the chopped stuff and use pressed garlic in both the risotto and the gremolata, and then we’ll see whether he detects that blasted bitterness he keeps harping on about. I open the door of the cabinet under the sink, dump the chopped garlic into the trash can, then turn back to the counter, peel some fresh garlic cloves, press them over the pan, and scrape the pulp into the translucent onions, grin to myself as I do so. I pick up my wine glass, but it’s empty so I open a bottle of Ripasso and fill it to the point where Alfred, Rita, and Ingrid would consider it vulgar—a feeble protest against all of their absurd middle-class conventions, but a protest nonetheless and I grin smugly to myself, almost tempted not to take a drink just so that the glass will still be as full when they come back into the kitchen, but I’m too thirsty for that. I take a big drink, put the glass down, and carry on with the cooking, put the osso buco on a low heat and make the risotto and the gremolata, I’m mildly tipsy already, I can tell, I’d better go easy on the alcohol, I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’ve hardly eaten all day, so it’ll go straight to my head. I open the drawer, take out the bag of nuts—I need to eat something, nuts may not help that much, but they’ll at least take the edge off my hunger, because I’m starting to feel really hungry now. I take a handful of nuts and toss the whole lot into my mouth, dust the salt off my hands as I munch them.

  Quiet for a while.

  Then Ingrid appears.

  “Will dinner be long?” she asks.

  I quickly lean forward and hide the pack of nuts behind the granite mortar.

  “It’s ready,” I say, turning to her and smiling, endeavoring to seem as relaxed as I can. “I’m just waiting for the hot water to run out, then we can eat.”

  She unwinds the white hair tie from her wrist and pulls her hair up into a ponytail, frowning at me as she does so, not sure what I mean.

  “Sara is eating with us, isn’t she?” I ask.

  Ah, now she gets it, she closes her eyes and sighs.

  “Oh, David, don’t start all that again,” she says as she pinches the hair on either side of the hair tie, lifting it closer to the top of her head and tightening and lengthening the ponytail. “And besides, Sara’s out of the shower, she just has to put on her makeup and finish getting ready and then she’ll join us,” she adds.

  “Yeah, well, she’s already emptied the tank once today, so there might not have been that much hot water in it anyway.”

  “Da-vid!” she sighs, her shoulders slumping and her hands dropping to her sides.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m only teasing you!” I say, in a slightly offended voice.
>
  “Okay, okay,” she says, blinking. “But I was wondering whether we shouldn’t just start. Mom and Dad have hardly eaten anything all day, they’re both starving. And I don’t think Sara would mind.”

  “Okay, well, if you take the risotto and the gremolata, I’ll bring in the osso buco,” I say.

  And we go through.

  “Dinner is served,” I say, setting the pan of osso buco on the table. “At last!” I add, with a little dig at Alfred, hinting that we’ve been left to go hungry for so long because of his inedible bouillabaisse, but he doesn’t seem to catch it, he’s too taken up with Henrik. Rita is on her feet, holding Henrik and stroking his back and Alfred is standing behind her, acting silly, lifting the baby’s chubby cheek slightly, then letting it go so that it flops and quivers gently. He laughs and murmurs something about what a lovely little boy he is, then does it all over again. I go through to the kitchen to fetch my wine glass and come back.

  “All right, people, come and get it!”

  “Thank you,” says Alfred.

  “Thank you,” says Rita. She sets Henrik down gently on his blanket, places the baby gym over him and he promptly reaches up, groping for the little plastic figures.

  “I hope it’s okay,” I say. I almost add: “Even if I did have to use a stock cube instead of the homemade variety,” but I manage to restrain myself.

  And then we all dig in.

  “Delicious, David,” Rita says.

  “Glad you like it,” I say.

  “Very nice,” says Alfred.