Someone Else's Kitchen

On Thursday, Felix and Emil repaired Lena's window while disagreeing about almost every part of it.

Felix found the loose fitting. Emil fetched a screwdriver of a different size and then admitted the first one had been suitable. Lena made coffee, kept the paste-covered brushes away from their elbows and watched the curtain settle into stillness.

“There,” Felix said.

They waited for a gust of wind.

Nothing whistled.

“I shall miss it,” Lena said.

“We can put it back,” Emil offered.

She had meant to use the rest of the afternoon for work, but once they had gone, the quiet workshop felt unexpectedly complete. She put away her tools, swept the floor and went upstairs before she could find another reason to stay.

On Saturday she did the same thing again, although it required considerably more effort. There was a stack of unfinished bindings on the bench. They would still be unfinished on Monday. She left them neatly arranged, as though that might reassure them.

Marta had asked her to come early for the fifth dinner. The message was specific: *Would you help with the strudel? Four o'clock. No need to bring anything.*

Lena liked the clarity of it. She could say yes to making a strudel. It was much harder to know what she was agreeing to when someone said they could use an extra pair of hands.

Upstairs, she changed her jumper, brushed her hair and reached for the bottle of KILIAN Angels' Share on the shelf by the mirror. A little perfume, her small earrings, the coat with the deep pockets. She was going out, even if the first part of the evening involved an apron.

Her dark-green Hunter boots stood beside the door. The thaw had left puddles at the lower end of the lane, so she put them on and took dry shoes in a bag.

The walk to Pension Linden was bright enough for her to see the hills beyond the roofs. Snow still lay beneath the pines, but the branches themselves were clear. Outside Café Vesper, the chair had been removed from the steps and the freshly painted rail shone in a brief patch of sun.

Marta opened the back door before Lena knocked a second time.

“You're exactly on time.”

“I thought I'd try it.”

Lena left her boots on the mat and changed her shoes. Otto approached the bag, inspected it and placed one paw inside.

“He likes to know what people have brought,” Marta said.

“An empty carrier and one receipt.”

“He'll still need a moment.”

In the kitchen, the pastry was ready to work with. There were apples, crumbs and a bowl of sugar and cinnamon on the counter. A clean cloth had been spread across the table. Beside it lay Marta's notebook, open at a page whose corner had become translucent from years of kitchen use.

“What would you like me to do?” Lena asked.

Marta handed her a knife and showed her the apples.

It was an excellent beginning. One task, the right bowl, a clear place to put the peel. Lena worked while Marta dealt with the main course. They talked about the repaired window and Emil's belief that a screwdriver became more useful if he was the one holding it.

When the apples were ready, Marta came over to look.

“A little thinner, perhaps.”

Lena looked at the slices. “All of them?”

Marta hesitated.

“No. Those will do.”

They moved on. Lena spread the filling where Marta showed her. The next moment Marta reached across to redistribute a spoonful.

Then another.

Lena put down the spoon.

“Would you rather do this?”

Marta looked up. “No, no. You're doing it perfectly well.”

“I'm having difficulty telling.”

For a moment neither spoke. Outside, something dripped from the gutter onto the metal lid of a bin with a steady, irritating precision.

Marta drew her hand back.

“I'm sorry. I know.”

Lena could see that she did. It made it easier to stay kind.

“Tell me if it matters,” she said. “If it doesn't, let me have a go.”

“All right.”

They rolled the pastry together using the cloth, slowly enough that neither needed to take over. At one end it folded a little differently from the other. Marta opened her mouth, looked at the roll and closed it again.

“That end can be mine,” Lena said.

Marta laughed. They lifted it onto the tray.

While it baked, they cleaned the table and put the remaining ingredients away. The room began to smell of warm apple and cinnamon. Lena picked up the notebook to keep it clear of a damp patch and noticed a line in the margin.

*Use the cloth. You will not become more competent by refusing it.*

“Who wrote that?” she asked.

“I did.”

“Recently?”

“Not recently enough to explain why I still have to remind myself.”

The front bell rang. Marta wiped her hands and went to answer it. Lena carried the jug into the winter garden. There were five places, the little vase of branches and an open space in the centre for the main dish.

She straightened one fork, caught herself doing it and left the others alone.

Dinner moved easily. Emil had brought the bread Marta requested. Ruth filled the water glasses. Felix carried dishes through without needing to be told twice where they belonged. Marta still noticed everything, but more and more of it happened before she had to get up.

When the strudel arrived, she said, “Lena made this.”

“We made it,” Lena said.

Emil bent to inspect the slightly irregular end.

“That one's mine,” Lena told him.

“I wasn't going to criticise.”

“You were leaning quite critically.”

Ruth laughed so suddenly that she had to put down the jug of vanilla sauce.

Afterwards, Lena took a few plates into the kitchen. Felix was already at the sink. Emil was searching for the bread cloth he had managed to lose in the same room for the third time that winter.

“I'll just help finish,” she began.

Then she looked at the clock. She had been there since four. She had enjoyed herself, and she wanted to walk home while there was still some evening left to enjoy alone.

“Actually, I think I'll go.”

Marta glanced at the remaining plates, then back at her.

“Take some strudel.”

There was no disappointed pause and no list of things still to do. Marta found a container. Felix continued washing. Emil located the cloth on his own shoulder.

At the door, Lena exchanged her shoes for the green boots. Otto had finally abandoned the bag, leaving it flattened and faintly warm.

She carried the strudel home along the wet lane. Her workshop window was dark and quiet. Upstairs, she put the container in the kitchen, hung up her coat and switched on the lamp beside her chair.

For once, she had left a good evening before she had used all of it.