The Bewildering Effect Of Cabbages - Chapter 3

Vincent Koch learned his mother had died on a cloudy day: it had been a rainy summer. He received the phone call at work, took the rest of the day off and walked home, his face sticky from the thin, sour-tasting drizzle – it had started to rain again the moment he left the office.

“I’m so sorry,” Koch’s superior, Werner Fass, had said. Werner Fass was forty one and still occasionally sucked his thumb, and when his own mother had died two years earlier he had felt it deeply.

“Not at all, not at all,” said Koch, and meant it. News of his mother’s death had been preceded by many years of no news at all. He had never really known his mother, and the fact she had died wasn’t the reason behind his wanting the day off. The reason were the news that came with the news. His caller – a Mr. Blofeld who rather smartly identified himself as Blofeld of Blofeld & Blofeld – the Blofeld told Koch that his mother had left him an inheritance: a million American dollars.

Koch liked his steak done medium well, his vodka iced, his bed nicely made, and his toilet seat warm. He lived in a world of comforting certainties: the morning newspaper on the way to work; the box of tissues on the desk of Judy, who occupied a neighbouring desk (four days out of five, the pantyhose she wore had a run up one of the legs. It was comforting too, and made Koch look at her legs far more often than their shape warranted it). Then there was the certainty of five o’clock, the trip home, the evening TV programme. Once, there was also the certainty of his wife nagging him about something when he returned home from the office, and of his son, Tommy, being a perfect pest when all he wanted was to watch a show in peace. But that ended with his divorce, which was thus a troubling occurrence – this was what had been most painful, the loss of an established point of reference in his life’s direction – he hurt, even though he had not been affectionate with his wife for many years, and occasionally, when drunk, entertained the fantasy of murdering her. But he found compensation in the fact that he could now have a drink while watching TV without exciting any comment, and it quickly became the new certainty, the new point of reference as the TV screen glowed in the encroaching darkness.

After he had gotten home and hung up his raincoat, Koch stood at a window, shaking his head, for a good minute or so. He tried to imagine mountains of juicy steaks, tubs of iced vodka, an endless line of inviting beds, and a plethora of toilet seats that would clasp his buttocks as warmly and tenderly as his mother would when changing his diapers. But Koch wasn’t sure whether his mother ever changed his diapers, and in any event somehow even a vodka iceberg didn’t quite do justice to the possibilities created through inheriting a million dollars. He needed time to think. It had been three hours since he had received the news, but as he liked to say he could never think at the office – something he had in common with all office workers.

The people at Koch’s office attributed their instant and constant mental fatigue upon arriving at work to the restaurant two floors below. Somehow, the kitchen fumes found their way into the air-conditioning.

“They are boiling this bloody cabbage again today,” people at Koch’s office would say whenever they’d made a particularly embarrassing mistake.

Now Koch stood at the window, stroking his damp, thin hair and staring into the misty greyness beyond. His telephone rang and he counted the rings: six. Then he went to the kitchen, opened his refrigerator and looked at the bottle of vodka in there, shut the refrigerator with an unnecessary bang and made himself a cup of coffee. The phone rang again just as he raised the cup to his lips and this time, he half-answered it – picked the receiver up and held it to his ear without speaking. His caller didn’t speak either. They hung onto two ends of the fizzing, humming line for quite a while; then Koch heard his caller replace the receiver slowly, reluctantly. He was instantly sorry that he hadn’t spoken, and had no idea of why he had kept quiet.

“Hello,” Koch said to bookshelf beside his telephone table. “Hello, hello,” he said, addressing in turn the telephone table and the window, turning round on his heel in an graceful manner, rather like a visiting dignitary greeting an admiring crowd.

“This is Vincent Koch speaking,” he said, to the room in general. It sounded good and he decided he should do some telephoning himself. He made himself comfortable, bringing himself a fresh cup of coffee, the telephone notebook, even the pack of cigarettes he kept at home for special celebrations. He had successfully given up smoking the previous year and now only smoked other people’s cigarettes in social situations, and the odd cigarette at home when something truly special had happened.

He tried to think of people to call. His ex-wife immediately came to his mind and he dismissed her just as quickly: he would tell her last. He started dialing the number of a friend, a man he knew from school days he had kept in touch with, and still met twice a year. But these semi-annual trysts invariably consisted of getting drunk, partly because they both liked to drink and partly because drink made it possible for them to enjoy saying and hearing the same things for the hundredth time. Koch knew telling the school friend of his sudden good fortune would have to end with his funding a monumental binge that very evening, and it made him put away the receiver and sip his coffee. Could he afford a big binge? Of course – he was a millionaire! Yes, but could he afford to spend a lot of money? He had money in his wallet together with his credit cards. He also had a couple of thousand banked. He could afford more than a drunken revel – he could afford an orgy.

That decided it. The very least he could do was go out to a good restaurant, and spend an enjoyable evening, savouring his new status. He could call everyone the next day. He finished his cigarette and coffee hurriedly, looked in on his vodka, and then took a refreshing shower. While soaping his left armpit, he came to the conclusion that his bathroom was far from a millionaire’s bathroom – in fact, it seemed shabby. Later, when he opened his wardrobe, it struck him his clothes were quite shabby too. Suddenly he realized he hadn’t bought any new attire since his divorce. Somehow, it felt like a stunning revelation and Koch had to sit down on the bed for a minute to digest it, a black sock dangling from his hand.

Koch carefully dressed in his best evening-out clothes. Knotting the blue silk tie he saved for weddings and New Year parties, he observed how cunning the tie was, as a male ornament – it was like an arrow pointing towards the crotch. He had to sit down again, and think whether he wanted to wear a tie at all: he was wary of doing anything that could get him involved with a woman; women were unpredictable. Eventually, he went to the bathroom and put more aftershave on his cheeks. He was at his front door, one hand preparing the keys, the other touching the door handle, when he suddenly thought: what if he was mugged? Muggings were commonplace. Newspapers were full of the gory details every day. What was more, a mugger who felt annoyed by his victim – because the victim didn’t carry much money, or had made some imprudent remark, or perhaps simply dressed in a way that offended the mugger’s taste – such a mugger sometimes knifed or shot his victim dead. For instance, a mugger could have a virulent dislike of blue silk ties – who could tell, with muggers?

Koch retreated from the door and walked several circles around his living room, wondering whether he should take the tie off. What if the mugger disliked the cut of his suit, his old black socks, or perhaps simply his face? And why was he so afraid of a mugging all of a sudden? He used to be able to shrug it off as one of life’s uglier possibilities. Getting mugged seemed an abstract; like death, it happened only to other people. But wasn’t inheriting large sums of money something that happened only to other people, too? Now that he was rich, Koch had every intention of living as long as possible.

For the first time since the morning, he thought about his dead mother. He felt a brief sentimental tweak inside; for a moment he regretted that she had disappeared from his life so early, leaving him to fend for himself in an orphanage; then he was trying to calculate how rich she must have been, to have left him a million dollars. A million dollars! Koch’s heart skipped. He reached for the telephone and dialed his ex-wife’s number. The phone on the other end was picked up before it could complete its first ring.

“This is Vincent Koch speaking,” Koch said importantly. His ex-wife asked him whether he had dialed the right number. Then, while he was thinking of how to apologize for his mistake and hang up, she informed him that his son had very nearly been expelled from school. It appeared he had set fire to the physics teacher with a Bunsen burner. Koch’s ex-wife concluded her short speech with a statement that the boy needed a father. As usual, Koch rose to the bait and pointed out that it had been her who had wanted the divorce. As usual, his ex-wife told him – somewhat mystically – that she had wanted the divorce precisely because Koch wasn’t a father or a husband.

These preliminary courtesies over, there was a short silence during which Koch fingered his silk tie. Then he said:

“I was told today that my mother has died, and that she had left me a million dollars.”

His ex-wife wasn’t impressed. He was reminded that he had lied to her many, many times, usually when he wanted something, and that he didn’t even know his mother. He was asked where could his mother have gotten a million dollars from, which he couldn’t answer. He was also admonished to remember he was supposed to take Tommy to the zoo the coming Sunday. Koch squeezed his eyes shut and agreed to be there on Sunday. There weren’t any Bunsen burners at the zoo, but the combination of Tommy and dangerous animals, although appropriate, was pregnant with unpleasant possibilities.

After his ex-wife had hung up without saying goodbye, Koch tried to remember who it was that he originally intended to call. He couldn’t; it was also quite possible he had intended to call no one else but his ex-wife after all, which was very irritating. He went to the kitchen with a decisive step, deposited his coffee cup in the sink, and opened the refrigerator, then thought the better of it and reached into the cupboard for his special brandy. As Koch poured himself a snifter half full, he was reminded that he originally had wanted to go out. He quickly decided he would have two brandies, to get rid of the absurd fear of getting mugged.

He was starting on his second, full snifter when he thought that his ex-wife could have been right after all. What did he know about his mother? What did he know about the firm of Blofeld & Blofeld, for that matter? Maybe it had just been someone playing a nasty practical joke! He gasped when he realized he hadn’t even asked the Blofeld for a telephone number. He scrabbled for the phone book under his rickety telephone table by the sofa – the book was heavy, his fingers slipped on the dust-coated cover, and he rimmed the cuffs of his best white shirt with greyish, greasy dirt before he got it out. He laid it on the floor and gingerly turned the pages.

There were two Blofelds in the phone book. He called both. One was a veterinarian who thought Koch was a client of his complaining that the cow he had treated the other night had died. The other Blofeld was out. A shrill, drunk female voice told Koch that this particular Blofeld was a piece of shit, and that both he and Koch were as thick as the bricks they laid for a living.

Koch thought carefully about his momentous morning call. He seemed to recall the Blofeld had said he would be in touch. He had sounded so professional, so law-abiding, this Blofeld; it was impossible he should be a confidence trickster, a prankster. Still, Koch was determined to check Blofeld’s status with the Law Society first thing in the morning. In the meantime… Koch put down his empty snifter so firmly he made the crystal sing. There would be no more of this mugger nonsense; he was going out for his private celebration.

He adjusted his tie, stepped to the window, and surveyed the street below. Darkness was falling; the streetlights were fuzzy orange orbs suspended in the mist; he saw a lone yellow car travelling down the wet black road, he saw it gather speed, heard its exhaust bark joyfully as the driver changed gears. Koch had the thought that maybe, given his new affluence, he should call for a taxi. He was standing at the window, passing a finger back and forth over his freshly shaved chin, when he heard a faint scratching noise come from behind his front door.

He let his hand drop to his side and listened intently. After maybe a minute, when he was starting to doubt his having heard it at all, he heard it again: a soft rasp, repeated rhythmically three or four times. Moving on tiptoe, Koch picked up the brandy bottle and had a quick swig before capping it firmly and grasping it by the neck rather like a club. There was another single soft rasp from behind the front door.

Koch tiptoed up the door, trying to keep the brandy from making sloshing noises. The big clock in the main room struck seven, sounding each hour with a drawn-out boom that Koch found exasperating. He was a millionaire! Why was he skulking behind his own front door as if guilty? He set the bottle down, put one hand on the handle and the other on the lock, turned them simultaneously, and opened the door in one swift movement.

There was an old man behind his front door – he was bending down, as if to retrieve something from the floor. When Koch opened the door in his abrupt manner, the man tried to straighten up and look at him while taking a step back: he stumbled and fell over. Koch realized that the man was indeed very old, and very frail; he was also elegantly dressed, in a black coat that was open to reveal an expensive suit. His hat looked expensive too, although it was at least two sizes too big: it sat so far down on the man’s head that it made the tips of his ears bend outwards.

“I beg your pardon!” Koch exclaimed, rushing forward to help the poor fellow get up. But the old man pushed him away, and even though his push was extremely feeble, it carried such vitriolic hostility that Koch staggered back. The old man swept his hands around the floor, gathering up a flat black briefcase and, incongruously, a large metal comb trailing a long hair from the fluff trapped between its teeth. He slipped the comb into the pocket of his expensive-looking black coat, straightened up to his full height (it wasn’t much), tilted his head back and glared at Koch, which caused Koch to take another step backwards and trip on the doormat.

Koch glanced down involuntarily while regaining his balance, and saw the doormat’s pile bristled stiffly in places, as if freshly brushed. He looked at his visitor’s face closely, and felt mild distress – it somehow seemed familiar, and yet he was sure he had never seen that face before. As pale and flat as a puddle of spilt milk, it featured a pair of pebble-black eyes needlelike in their glitter and swiftness. As Koch stared into this face, the old man’s gaze seemed to soften, and then dropped abruptly. “Brandy, I see,” he said in a voice that was no more than a throaty whisper. “Good distillers, these.” And with those words, he pushed himself past Koch, or rather took an impetuous step forward, which made Koch move aside – and walked into Koch’s home.

“Nice, so nice,” he hissed, looking around as if he were a prospective owner; he walked a little circle around Koch’s main room, tapping the wall with his black-gloved knuckles. “Double brick,” he hissed admiringly. “Nice, so nice. Frugal, but in good taste. Plenty of books. Very nice.”

“I beg your pardon!” said Koch again. The old man stopped suddenly.

“I beg your pardon!” he said, walked up to Koch and put out his hand. “Blofeld, of Blofeld and Blofeld.” Koch’s knees suddenly turned soft; he had to lean against the wall. “Blofeld and Blofeld?” he said weakly. “I have been trying to find you in the telephone book.” “We are not in the telephone book,” Blofeld said categorically. Koch pushed himself away from the wall and shook the black-gloved hand; as his fingers touched the cold, moist leather, he felt a small shiver run down his spine. His eyes fell on the brandy bottle, still standing by the open door. He shut the door and picked the bottle up.

“May I offer you a drink? Or a cup of coffee, perhaps?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly. “Both would be nice,’ whispered Blofeld. “A small brandy and a cup of black coffee, no sugar, if you would be so kind.” “Certainly,” said Koch. He was aware of a light springing feeling in his feet when he walked to the kitchen. It was true; he was a millionaire! He was filled with a sudden warmth for Blofeld, a feeling that lasted throughout his kitchen preparations and that made him include a plate of relatively fresh tea cakes with the drinks.

He reentered his main room walking rather uncertainly – he had put everything on a tray, and he wasn’t used to carrying trays. Blofeld had disappeared. Koch set down the tray on the coffee table and quickly walked into the short hallway leading to the other rooms. The door to the bathroom was ajar, the light inside – on.

“Mister Blofeld! Sir?” Koch called out.

He heard the soft thud of a drawer being hurriedly slid shut in his bedroom. He started towards it, but before he reached the door it opened, and Blofeld emerged. “I’m so sorry,” Blofeld said, “I was looking for your lavatory.” “It’s in the bathroom,” Koch said, rather sharply. “Oh! Those modern apartment buildings,” whispered Blofeld. “In my time, bathrooms weren’t quite so utilitarian.” He disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly. Koch lingered for a while, and was reassured by the sound of a zipper being worked. He returned to the big room and was standing by the coffee table with a host’s inviting smile when Blofeld reappeared.

“Please, take a seat. Can I take your coat and your hat?”

“Thank you, thank you, I am quite comfortable.” Blofeld sat down, pulling his coat around him tighter as if he was cold. He looked at the tray Koch had brought and pursed his lips.

“A tea cake?” Koch said quickly.

“Thank you very much, but my doctor tells me I have to adhere to a diet.”

“They are very light.”

“Thank you all the same.” There was a short silence during which Koch and Blofeld tasted their brandies. Then Blofeld opened his flat black briefcase and extracted a single thick page densely covered with print so small Koch couldn’t make out a single word. He only saw that the text was neatly divided into long paragraphs, and that several spaces were filled in by hand. His heart started beating heavily. “Do you mind if I have a cigarette?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“Perhaps you would like one yourself?”

“Oh no, thank you.” Koch lit his cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply. He realized this was the first time he had offered a cigarette to anyone in at least six years – and it had been turned down. He felt mildly disturbed, as if this were an inauspicious omen of some sort.

“Now then,” whispered Blofeld, “As you know I am a partner in the firm of Blofeld and Blofeld, which has been named the executors of your mother’s Last Will and Testament.” He glanced at Koch, who maintained a respectful silence. “Is there anything you would like to know about the circumstances of her death?” Koch started at this rather unexpected question – he had been tensing himself for an announcement about his inheritance.

“I don’t know,” he said. “In fact, I don’t know what she had been doing over the past few years, and generally I know very little else – I have never really met my mother.” He hesitated. “There were rumors at the… orphanage that she was a little odd.”

“I see, I see,” whispered Blofeld, closing his eyes. He opened them to look at the densely printed page in his hand as if surprised, then thrust it at Koch.

“This is your summons for the official reading of the Will, at our temporary office in this city.” He broke off and looked around him, as if evaluating Koch’s apartment for office suitability. Koch took the proffered piece of paper and saw that indeed it was a formal Notice. The Blofeld & Blofeld name was written into blank space in a delicate, old-fashioned hand. Koch raised his eyes.

“Could I have a card of yours?” he asked.

“A card? Of course, of course,” whispered Blofeld, patting the pockets of his coat, rummaging in his briefcase, and eventually sifting through the contents of a big, zippered wallet. “Of course, of course.” He got up from his seat and dropped the wallet. Koch, very conscious of his manners, instantly sprang forward to pick it up, the old man stooped to get it himself, and their heads struck each other with a soft thump. It made Blofeld sit down again, his eyes watering, his hat askew.

“I’m so sorry, ” stammered Koch. He picked up the wallet and held it out awkwardly. Blofeld ignored him; his hat still crooked, he was bent double over Koch’s low coffee table, laboriously writing something on a small rectangle of paper with a thin, silver pen. He slid the card to the centre of the table, capped the pen, looked at the offered wallet, and snatched it out of Koch’s hand as if Koch had been trying to steal it. He straightened his hat and got up.

“You have my card,” he whispered. “Now please be present at the address and time written on the back.” Koch flapped over him like a distressed bird all the way to the door, but Blofeld seemed not to hear his repeated apologies. He left without another word.

Koch shut the door with relief. He quickly poured himself a double brandy and sat down to examine Blofeld’s card. There was just the company name on the front; but the back bore the address of Hotel Savoy – a small but smart hotel downtown, and an hour – 11 a. m. – written in the same handwriting as on the official Notice. Koch was surprised to see that under this, Blofeld had also written, his noughts trembling: $1,000,000.

“Yes,” breathed Koch.

He couldn’t sit. He got up and walked around the room, sipping the brandy. Then he set the snifter down and drew himself erect in front of his reflection in the window.

“I am a millionaire,” whispered Koch.

***

The front of the Hotel Savoy features a large clock, gracing the main entrance like a medallion. Surrounded by a profusion of of gilded iron leaves and twisted vines, it serves as a reminder of the days when long distance coaches drew up in front of the Savoy, horses neighing, to discharge travelers for the night. City wits have it that this is why the Savoy clock has always been late, making the newly arrived feel they had traveled at record speed.

The Savoy clock was striking eleven on yet another misty, overcast day when a hungover but elegant Vincent Koch (he had put on his best suit) ran up the hotel’s stone front steps, slightly out of breath. A middle-aged woman was questioning the receptionist about the best way to get to the city hospital, and Koch fumed silently as the receptionist – an older gentleman – drew a detailed plan.
for visiting.

“Excuse me,” he said finally, unable to wait any longer. “I am late for a very important appointment with one of your guests.” The receptionist ignored him, and went on discussing the merits of taking the streetcar versus the bus on the proposed route. Feeling strangely humiliated, Koch waited in silence. He stared at the woman’s hair: it was a dull brown streaked with grey, and was pulled into a chignon at the back with a narrow pink ribbon. How he hated pink! It was an absurd colour, a watered-down red without any character – with a jolt, he realized that the nightgown his ex-wife wore habitually when she was still a wife and not an ex had been pink. Most probably, it was one of the main reasons behind the divorce. This was absurd – he had to stop thinking like that – he squeezed his eyes shut –

“Good morning, sir. How can I help you?” said the receptionist. Koch came to with a start.

“Yes, I, I have an appointment with a Mister Blofeld, staying here.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Koch, Vincent Koch.” The receptionist consulted a ledger that was hidden from Koch’s view by the high counter; he could hear pages being turned. “Vincent Koch,” said the receptionist slowly, “Yes…Oh yes.” He looked into Koch’s face with sudden intensity. Koch felt his lips twist in an ingratiating smile.

“Room two hundred and fourteen,” said the receptionist. “Please go up these stairs and turn left on the landing. We discourage use of elevators unless someone is going to the third floor or higher, or has a physical handicap.” Koch was astonished; he wanted to remark this was the first time in his life he had ever heard such a silly hotel rule. The receptionist was smiling at him and suddenly Koch realized that hungover and overexcited as he was, he had to be hallucinating – he was hearing things. “Room two hundred and fourteen?” he asked, just to make sure.

“Yes,” said the receptionist. Koch nodded and walked towards the wide staircase at the end of the lobby. His knees felt very weak as he started to climb up the steps; he gripped the balustrade tightly, pulling himself up step after step.

The stairs swept up in a wide semicircle, ending on a wide landing that was shadowed by enormous potted palms. A crystal chandelier glittered discreetly in between the gently swaying fronds: Koch came to a stop directly underneath it, struck by sudden panic. This was preposterous – what was he doing – why should his mother leave him a million dollars – it had to be an elaborate, cruel joke – why would his mother die rich? But there was Blofeld, there was the reality of his business card, and after taking out the card and examining it Koch commenced looking for room two fourteen.

He found the room at the very end of the hall that led off the elegant landing. Koch hesitated before its white door, so long that he had managed to notice (with a faint, malevolent satisfaction) that the paint was lightly chipped here and there, and that the horizontal bar on the 4 in the painted room number was crooked, slanting off downwards where it should be straight. Koch stared at the door number. Should he knock, or should he just press the elegant wrought metal handle, and brazenly walk in?

Koch knocked on the door twice, then pressed the handle and attempted to open the door. It was locked. His hand on the handle, he listened intently. He knocked again. There was no answer, no sound of any sort from behind the white door.

Koch released the handle and took a step back. He felt sudden warmth flow into his cheeks, a tightening in his throat. Of course! It was a sick joke. And he fell for it like a child, he spent a week’s pay celebrating his newfound wealth! Koch felt a prickling sensation under his eyelids, and as soon as he realized what it was, he became very angry.

He took out his pen, which he had brought in the anticipation of signing documents that would make him a rich man. It was a modern writing instrument, a fine marker full of black, indelible ink that could write on anything, including glass. Koch uncapped it. There was only one thing he had to say to Blofeld and whoever else was mixed up in this. The message he intended to print on this pristine white door was a heartfelt, if ungrammatical, Your miserable bastard, but subconsciously he wanted his script to be as elegant as the black room number, and he hadn’t even finished the Y when a noise from his left made him straighten up abruptly and slide the pen up his sleeve.

It was Blofeld. He shuffled towards Koch down the long corridor, his head bowed low. He was wearing no coat, but he had the oversized hat on; the brim obscured his view, and he did’t notice Koch until just a few steps away. His pale, wrinkled face briefly tightened in surprise; then the black eyes twinkled wickedly.

‘You’re late,” whispered Blofeld. After a pause, he added: “You’re too late.”

“Too late for what?” enquired Koch. His heart had started to hammer wildly.

“Too late.” Sounding quite final, Blofeld turned to the white door, but Koch blocked his way.

“I was kept waiting for at least ten minutes by the hotel receptionist,” he said very quickly. “My apologies, but it really wasn’t my fault. At any rate, what has being late a few minutes have to do with hearing my mother’s Last Will?” Blofeld looked at him very sternly, and Koch had the absurd, but nonetheless totally terrifying thought that his mother’s Will might have contained a codicil specifying that should he, Koch, be late for the appointment, he would be denied the inheritance. “Besides,” cried Koch desperately, “I have spent a sleepless night – yes, I didn’t sleep a wink, wondering about my mother’s last moments. You can’t deny me – I have to know –” he broke off, realizing how silly he had sounded just then.

Blofeld’s look seemed to soften. He stared silently at Koch’s anxious face; then he nodded very slightly.

“Very well,” he whispered, turning to the door once again. He seemed not to notice the black Y Koch had written. He inserted a large key into the lock and twisted it. “Come in,” he said, without looking at Koch.

The room was full of the faded finery that had made the Savoy the epitome of luxury in long bygone days. The parquet floor still gleamed richly and redly in spite of thousands of minute scratches and dents that pitted its surface; the white chairs with faded gold trim and striped seat cushions still looked as inviting as they must have seemed to any traveler after twelve bone-rattling hours spent in a stagecoach; the lace curtains lining the huge window were frayed here and there, and slightly yellowed, but Koch felt an urge to touch them, to sense their softness.

“Please draw up a chair.” Blofeld seated himself at a large white bureau next to the window, his flat briefcase on his knees. He did not take his hat off. Koch took the chair standing by the bed and carried it over – it was amazingly heavy. He set it down as softly as he could manage by the side of the desk, sat down, and waited patiently while Blofeld rummaged in his briefcase through a thick wad of rustling papers. Finally, he extracted a large sheet, peered at it, and put the briefcase away. He cleared his throat as if to start reading, glanced at Koch, and lowered the document.

“You’re sitting too close,” he whispered. “Move your chair away. I think your manners, sir, leave something to be desired.” Koch blushed and moved his chair a couple of paces, thus wedging it into the corner of the room. It made him feel as if he were back at school, where the teacher had instructed him to sit in the corner as penance for a wrongdoing of some sort, with the rest of the class staring at him in a jeering manner.

“Very well.’ Blofeld’s scratchy whisper brought Koch back to reality. ‘This is the last will of Magdalene Danzburg…. yes…. yes…. she appears to have left you the sum of …. yes…. there is a banker’s order attached…. four hundred and eighty six thousand American dollars.”

Koch’s face felt hot.

“Four hundred and eighty six thousand?’ he repeated incredulously. “You told me earlier it was a million.” Blofeld looked at him sternly.

“There were various taxes to be considered,” he whispered. “And various expenses. Finding you has not been easy. Also, I have been authorized to adjust the amount you receive in accordance with my judgement of your circumstances. Your mother presumed, but was by no means sure, that you were destitute when she stipulated the sum of one million dollars. I have found that your circumstances are quite comfortable, and the balance of the money shall go to a charity of your mother’s choice.”

“How can you – how dare you!” Rage gathered in Koch’s chest like a ball of hot bile; he coughed twice.

“I don’t believe what you’re saying,” cried Koch, thinking feverishly of how to make his point without appearing greedy. “My poor mother. Cheated after her death out of the chance to make amends for the fact that she had abandoned me. Dying alone in a faraway land, hoping that this last gesture would make her remembered – ” Blofeld had looked shocked at Koch’s first despairing cry; he leaned forward in his chair as Koch went on, as if making sure he heard every word correctly; a faint smile appeared on his lips. This was the first time Koch had seen him smile – it changed Blofeld’s face altogether, making him a different person. Something was odd about his lips – there was a fleck of red near the corner of his mouth –

“My darling,” said Blofeld, rising. Koch gaped at him, openmouthed. “My poor darling.” He took a step towards Koch, who cringed back in his chair. “Don’t you realize who I am?” cried Blofeld, for once raising his voice above its habitual whisper. “I am your mother!”

Koch was paralyzed. He stared at the wrinkled features of the face before him, saw the thin lips part to reveal small sharp teeth, one of which was also stained red – just as his wife’s teeth had sometimes been when she had carelessly applied too much lipstick. He felt Blofeld’s foul, decayed breath on his cheeks; with a rapid gesture, Blofeld tore the hat off his head. Long grey tresses cascaded down to his shoulders. Koch jerked his body off the chair, but Blofeld was blocking the way – Koch was cornered.

Blofeld took a step closer.

“My little darling,” he whispered. Then his arms were suddenly around Koch’s shoulders, sharp fingernails digging into the back of his neck, wrinkled dry skin against his cheek. “Kiss me, kiss me,” Blofeld breathed. “I am your Mummy, your poor lonely Mummy – ”

“Wait!” cried Koch, struggling to free himself of Blofeld’s embrace. “Stop! Explain – ”

“Kiss me, kiss me, my poor lonely boy – ” Blofeld’s words rushed in a scratchy stream, he was pressing himself against Koch – and indeed, Koch felt what might have been a pair of withered breasts, a suggestion of softness under the black suit. A pair of cold, wet lips was pressed to his, and then, shockingly and terrifyingly, a clawlike hand was fumbling at his crotch, squeezing his testicles –

Koch cried out, a cry of terror and despair, and shoved Blofeld away from himself with great force. Blofeld staggered back and fell, grey hair flying, clawing at the air – his head struck the edge of the bureau with a soft thud – he slumped onto the floor. Koch stood tensed, his breath rasping, watching him. There was no movement of any kind, not even a twitch –

“Please, no,” said Koch, his voice shaking. “Please.” It took a great effort of will to bend himself over Blofeld’s body, his muscles tense, legs ready to spring in case the old man suddenly flung himself at him yet again. Old man, because Koch did not believe for an instant that this repulsive, wrinkled body could have moulded his. He forced himself to move closer to Blofeld, and bent over.

Blofeld was still. Koch reached out to touch him, but his hand froze in mid-air; he stared, horrified, as a thin trickle of blood appeared, weaving its way down the wrinkled neck.

“Oh God,” said Koch, although he did not believe in God, and hadn’t prayed or been to church in very many years.

He got up and circled the room nervously, looking at Blofeld’s body from time to time and shaking his head. Twice, he went up to the old-fashioned telephone on the night table by the big, old fashioned bed; twice, his hand hung suspended over the receiver just as it had over Blofeld’s neck, then retreated. “It is simple,” said Koch aloud, circling the room. “He was an old man. He slipped on the floor – they should have carpets, all the hotels have carpets nowadays. He hit his head on the desk – oh my God.” He broke off, because no matter how he rationalized, the police would be suspicious. There would be questions. And the Last Will lying on the desk, with the banker’s draft –

Koch stooped over the desk, looking at the papers with narrowed eyes. He couldn’t read – the letters danced on the page, the words did not make sense – but he could recognize a banker’s draft when he saw one. For a moment, he was very still; then he slid the multicolored rectangle of stiff paper from under the clip that held it to the Will, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

He crept up to the door and stood there, listening. No one moved in the hall outside, and after a while, holding his breath in as if it could give him away, Koch opened the door just a little and peered out. Nothing moved, no one stirred, there were no sounds from behind the white doors lining the walls; the Savoy was not very popular these days, perhaps on account of its odd rules concerning the use of the elevator.

The receptionist! Koch felt sweat break out on his forehead: he had completely forgotten about the man at the reception desk, and it was unlikely that the receptionist had forgotten about Koch. But almost at once he had a brilliant idea: he would go downstairs, announce he had waited in front of the door to room two fourteen for quite some time, knocking at intervals, and that no one answered. He walked down the wide staircase, stepping softly, just in case. He hesitated yet again before taking the step that would bring him into view of the reception; but eventually he stepped forward, and was rewarded for his courage, for the reception was empty.

He held his breath again as he crossed the lobby. Then he was out on the street, walking briskly. A streetcar passed him, bell clanging; its stop was just half a block ahead, Koch could see the signpost; he broke into a run, managing to jump onto the steps at the last possible moment. He paid the fare, and moved down the car – he had the feeling that some of the passengers were looking at him oddly. The streetcar jerked forward. Koch staggered, and raised his hand to grasp the rail, and saw a long grey hair hanging from the sleeve of his jacket. There were three or four other hairs on his clothes, Koch noticed; one had attached itself to his left lapel, where it caught the light and glinted alarmingly. He moved to the door, standing with his back to the other passengers, and got off at the very next stop.

It happened to be right in the front of the railway station, and he crossed the pavement and walked in between the massive stone pillars that flanked the station entrance, picking at his clothes in a discreet manner. Without pausing, he went to the nearest ticket window and asked about the very next train to leave. The clerk gave him the information without deigning to look at him: it was a local train to a small town nearby; it was leaving in seven minutes from platform three. Koch bought a one way ticket.

It took him five minutes to find platform three, and he had barely sat down in an empty compartment when the conductor’s whistle shrilled and doors slammed along the length of the train, sounding very final. Koch felt a sudden surge of panic. What was he doing here, on this train to a nearby town? He had driven through it several times; he remembered how ugly it had seemed, row upon row of similar, crumbling, turn-of-the-century houses, the soot from the nearby steel mill clogging the air, hazing the sunlight. Could the police be looking for him already? And if they were, wasn’t he making matters worse? He wasn’t even prepared to run from anything – he had left everything he owned at home – and then he thought about the banker’s draft in his pocket, the colored piece of paper that was worth ten times more than everything else he owned.

The door to the compartment was suddenly jerked open, sliding to slam sharply, making Koch jerk upright like a badly manipulated puppet.

“Tickets, please,” said the conductor from force of habit – Koch was the only passenger in his compartment. Koch silently reached into his pocket and offered his ticket, staring at the bright metal buttons of the conductor’s uniform.

“Your ticket please, sir,” said the conductor sternly and Koch realized he was holding out the folded banker’s draft. He stammered an apology and retrieved the ticket from his other side pocket. The conductor punched it and left without the word, slamming the door shut. What a lout, thought Koch, not even a thank you, and did all conductors always have to slam the sliding doors shut like that – he felt a surge of hopelessness, and turned to the window.

The train was travelling through a tunnel, and there was nothing but a ghostly reflection of his own pale face. Then watery daylight flooded the compartment, and Koch stared at the stubby little chimneys on sharp-angled, red-shingled rooftops passing by his window, dropping lower and lower until they were out of sight below the viaduct. In the distance, he could see the rectangular slabs of the skyscrapers of the city centre, their outlines blurred by the haze; a flock of small black birds was flying towards them, an untidy pattern of black specks falling and rising, rising and falling again like an airborne wave – it made Koch think of the heads of the morning commuters he sometimes watched from the window of his apartment before he left for the office himself, hundreds of little heads bobbing up and down as they hurried to work. He wondered whether he would be ever going to work again in the morning. Four hundred and eighty six thousand dollars! Not a million, no, but at five per cent he would be able to live frugally off the interest without touching the capital – but then he would have to rent a place to live, perhaps even buy a small house somewhere inexpensive, buy new furniture, and – but he could be arrested as soon as he got off the train – Koch looked at the city as it streamed past his window without seeing anything, alone and frightened in his compartment.

The city came to an end. A row of sleek poplars ran along the tracks, thousands of little leaves fluttering in the breeze created by the rushing train, their silvery undersides twinkling like coins at the bottom of a wishing well; a crossing flew past, a bell clanging loudly, the striped red and white barriers lowered, a single green car waiting patiently, puffing grey smoke from its exhaust – worn out piston rings, thought Koch, watching the smoke being seized and shredded by the rushing air. The rapid, rhythmic tick-tock, tick-tock of the metal wheels was relaxing; he sat a little easier, and now regretted he hadn’t brought his cigarettes. Still looking out of the window, he frowned – the haze had condensed into a fine fog; he should have taken his umbrella. Suddenly, he realized just how stupid he had been. There was no way he could leave like that, start a new life somewhere; for one, cashing the banker’s draft would mean showing his documents at the bank, and that was as good as announcing where he was. Running like that was as good as saying he was guilty of something – and he wasn’t guilty of anything, it had been an accident… Why had he left like that? It was not because of the accident, because of the thin red thread glistening on the old, wrinkled neck. It was because of his mother. Hadn’t she left, too?

He didn’t want to think about it. He opened his eyes as wide as he could, stared at the countryside streaming past his window until his eyes were streaming tears; it was no help. He kept seeing the sallow-skinned face, searching for similarities – weren’t his own eyes very dark? He remembered his wife-to-be commenting on that during their first evening together. She’d also told him his lips were thin –

“No,” whispered Koch. His hands, lying on his knees, clenched into fists.

The train was slowing down. The beat of the wheels lost its urgency; brakes squeaked. Koch opened his eyes and saw that they were drawing into a small station in the middle of nowhere – he had no idea why someone would put a station in a place like that, nothing but fields and a narrow road, cut off at the tracks by the striped barrier. It didn’t make sense –

Koch got up abruptly and, swaying slightly as the train shuddered to a stop, made his way down the corridor. He got off the train, slamming the carriage door shut with a clang that would be envied by any conductor. He stood undecided; behind him, the whistle blew, the train groaned, metal squealed; he didn’t move until it left the station, the echo of the wheels fading in the fog.

There was small green shelter with a pointed roof for the waiting passengers, but there were no passengers waiting there, no one on the platform but him. He went into it all the same and examined the schedule displayed on the wall behind thick, dusty glass; there was a dead fly lying on the bottom of the display case, its legs curled against the furry black belly; he looked at it for a long time before he turned to the confusing, thick columns of names and numbers. He established there would be a train going back to the city in another half an hour and sat down on the wooden bench inside the shelter, the narrow slats digging into his buttocks. His feet, clad in his best dress shoes – the ones he had worn to his wedding – were damp; it was such an awful day. He would have to cross the tracks to the other platform to get on his train, but there was no shelter there, not even a bench. Just a small yellow-haired mongrel that appeared out of the fog, trotting down the platform, nails clicking on the concrete; it glanced at Koch suspiciously and trotted on, departing as unobtrusively as it had arrived. Koch sat with his elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees, head down. Why had she come to see him, why did she pretend to be someone else – why the ridiculous charade? Why had she left, to start with –

A single drop smacked softly onto the concrete, leaving a dark round stain. Startled, Koch brushed at his eyes with the back of his hand, then looked up at the sky; the fog had thickened, the sun was a ghostly pale roundel without any warmth. Reflexively, he turned up the collar of his jacket. He felt a light tremor pass through the concrete under his feet; he raised his head, listening; through the fog, he heard the beat of an approaching train.

It wasn’t his train – it was coming from the direction of the city. Koch sat still; from time to time, he turned his head and looked down the tracks; gradually, the sound grew louder; then two miniature pale suns appeared, where the shiny steel ribbons of the tracks dissolved in the grey haze. He stood up and moved to the edge of the platform, waiting.

The train was coming. For a moment, he had the insane impulse to jump off the platform and lie down on the shiny tracks; but there was a crushed cigarette packet on the rust-stained gravel under the track sleepers, that and something that could equally well be a used condom or a piece of translucent, wet tissue, and the impulse went as soon as it had come. He stood still and watched the train approach.

The train was coming. It started squealing horribly as it entered the station, as if slowing down, stopping, caused it immense pain; the engine passed Koch, enveloping him in a thick smell of metal and hot oil. He watched the windows of the carriages as they went past; most of them were empty, it was that time of day. No wonder the railway was running a deficit ; there was a story about that in last week’s newspaper.

There was a face coming closer, a face in the window of one of the cars: a pale oval. It seemed to stare at Koch as only anonymous, passing faces can. He felt uncomfortable and looked down at his shoes, noting how old fashioned they were.

The train rattled to a complete halt. Koch raised his head. The face was right above him, in the carriage window –

She was staring at him; her red mouth was open in a silent scream, showing teeth stained with lipstick; she was still wearing Blofeld’s black clothes and his black hat Then she seemed to realise that Koch was standing stock still, standing in his best suit as if he had been waiting to greet her after a long journey, and she smiled and gave him a little, reassuring wave. She got up from her seat and turned, reaching for the familiar briefcase on the overhead shelf –

Koch ran, the leather soles of his dress shoes slapping loudly on the concrete platform. The exit seemed very far away, so he suddenly swerved to the right and vaulted over the wooden station fence, into the thick bushes that grew along it on the other side. He tumbled through them, twigs snapping, one branch poking him painfully in his shoulder – there was a steep escarpment on the other side – a loud, ripping sound as his best suit tore – he came to a stop lying in moist mud. He scrambled to his feet so quickly he nearly lost a shoe; then he was running again, as hard as he could, running through a plowed field whose edges dissolved in the mist. The mud squelched and smacked, pulling at his feet; there was something planted in orderly rows in the field, and he ran between the rows by instinct, there was no time to think – he heard a thin, despairing scream (the engine’s whistle?) pierce the fog behind him. He ran until his breath came in gasps that hurt like knife stabs, until his thighs became heavy and painful as if they held molten lead in place of blood; he ran until the thought that he might have been mistaken about the train passenger’s identity entered his head. Still running at full speed, he weaved to the side, stumbled, fell, hands outstretched blindly – one of them struck something hard, there was a sharp crack –

He came to a few minutes later – or was it seconds? He was sprawled on damp, soft earth. His cheek was pressed into it, and he could feel the moisture soaking into his shirt. There was a familiar, tart smell in his nostrils. Although he was afraid to look, he did.

He was lying in the middle of a cabbage field. Next to his outflung arm a cabbage head broken off its stalk lolled in the mud; that was the source of the smell. He touched it with his fingers, marveling at the satiny feel of the purple skin, at the hardness of the thick veins ribbing its surface.

Slowly – his side hurt – he raised himself to a sitting position. No one was chasing him. The pale sun hung motionless, shrouded by the mist. He raised his arm to it, but could feel no warmth on his outheld palm.

His hands were filthy from the mud, with gritty soil packed tight in dark semicircles under his fingernails. Koch reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and took out the banker’s draft.

He unfolded the draft and examined it. It was drawn on the Central Bank, a much respected financial institution; the same bank that issued his biweekly paycheck. It was made out to Vincent Koch, instructing the receiver to pay the sum of four hundred and eighty six thousand American dollars. That number was written out twice: once in digits, the noughts quivering slightly, as if the writer was awed by the immense sum; below it, in words. The space under that, the space reserved for a signature of the issuing bank officer – it was empty.

Koch looked at the draft for a long time, marveling at the way hundreds of fine, multicolored lines were woven together to create a portrait of an Important Man. Then he folded it carefully and put it back in his pocket.

He stood up, brushing some of the soil off his clothes and smearing the rest all over them. The cabbage field stretched out all around him, the round, purple heads dotting the earth at precise intervals; he could lay a straight line between the heads in whatever direction he chose.

He took a step forward, and hesitated, looking at the broken-off cabbage he had fallen onto.

He picked it up –

THE END

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