She opens the door for me. We are met by the sound of voices and the smell of coffee. The café is warm and stretches back a long way, through an archway into a second room. The walls are covered with posters – scenes of city life and reproductions of old masterpieces. There is one of a nude man, covering his genitals with his hands, wearing a donkey mask. The booths are red velvet. The tables and chairs are dark brown wood. There are immense chandeliers, and the waiters are dressed in tuxedos. There aren’t any free tables in the front room. Saskia tells me to wait while she checks the back. She takes off her hat and gloves and unbuttons her coat. She stuffs her gloves and hat into her coat pocket and, on the way to the back room, hangs the coat on a rack. I unzip my coat and take off my hat. I wait where Saskia told me to wait. She disappears into the second room. Through the archway I see that the second room, the back room, is much larger than the front, but not as nice. The tables are fold-out tables, covered in oilcloth, and the chairs are cheap. It looks just as packed as the front room. A minute passes, maybe more. A waiter begs my pardon, not apologetically but as a warning that I could be trampled, as he goes to a table with drinks and again on the way back, with an armful of plates. I am in his way.
I put my hat in my coat pocket and take my coat off and hang it on the coat rack, then I walk through the archway. Saskia is standing by a table, talking to a guy. He looks about her age around the eyes, but he has a huge scruffy beard that makes him seem older. He sees me looking at Saskia, and she turns and waves me over. I don’t really like the idea of having to meet somebody, especially a young man with an old beard, but she seems happy to see him. I walk over, she introduces me to him – his name is Janos – and we shake hands. American? he says. That’s right, I say. Where in America? he asks. Delaware, I say. That’s what I say to everybody. He nods. Saskia asks if I mind joining him while we phone around for apartments. Not at all, I say. Janos gets the attention of the waiter. Saskia orders a tea and a bun. I order a coffee and a piece of cake. You learn to say some things quickly in a foreign language. You learn what to call your favourite types of food. You learn to say please and thank you. You learn to place orders – that is, you learn to say, I would like instead of I want. Janos is small, with round, drooping shoulders, but handsome eyes and nose. He is having a small beer and some soup. He takes a drink and froth gets stuck in his moustache. There’s some soup in the bottom of his beard. Saskia speaks to Janos in English, but he doesn’t answer her in English. She’s telling him about the apartment. Then he says something, something obviously about her relationship to me. I can see immediately this is a kind of jealousy that is based on national propriety rather than love. I say, So, Janos, what’s happening? He looks at Saskia. I say, What are you doing today? Shopping for Christmas presents, he says. That’s nice, I say. Then he says something to Saskia. She answers sharply, and then there is silence.
I’d prefer, if such a thing were possible, or perhaps I mean if I were patient enough, to teach myself the language: get some books, go read them in dark, quiet libraries, listen to some CDs, eavesdrop on streetcars, in cafés, and so on. I’d prefer to stay out of classrooms, avoid learning by exercises, chapters, and tests. But I need to make haste. I create an alarming foreignness wherever I go. In a year I’d like to be invisible. I’d like to sit down at tables with strangers and not be an interruption, or a curiosity. I want to walk into a barbershop and get a haircut and speak two or three sentences about the weather and pay and leave, and be so inconspicuous that the barber immediately forgets I was there. For this I will need not only language but accent, so I am studying the sounds of people, even if I don’t understand what they’re saying, and on my walks I repeat them to myself. If I know I am completely alone, I say them out loud. You are looking for a place to live? asks Janos. That’s right, I say. For how long? he asks. I don’t know, I say. Probably for a while. Saskia puts the newspaper in front of Janos so he can read the ads she has circled. He looks them over. He shakes his head at some, but is impressed by the look of others. You must be rich, he says. I’ve saved, I say. What did you do? he asks. I was in the Navy, I say, partly because I figure Saskia may already have told him, and I don’t want to be caught in a lie, and partly because I want to obliterate the possibility that Janos and I will become friends. He smiles because he thinks I am joking. Then he stops smiling. It’s too early for cake, he says. I say nothing. I never had a taste for sweet things before, but now I do. Now I really like to eat rich, sweet, fruity, creamy cakes, and it doesn’t matter what time of day it is. Janos finishes his soup and takes another drink of his beer. He wants to say something. I can see it in his eyes. He leans forward. He almost speaks. Then he leans back.