31. A dinner date

I spent all Thursday evening cleaning up my flat. I couldn’t believe just how much junk I had accumulated in such a short time: club flyers, magazines which I had kept, sure I would use them to learn German, deposit bottles and jars I needed to take back to the supermarket. I took bag after bag of rubbish down to the recycling bins in the courtyard, making sure to put each kind of rubbish in the appropriate bin; once an elderly neighbor had shouted at me when she caught me putting glass bottles in the metal and plastic bin.

I vacuumed the rooms as best as I could with the feeble GDR-era hoover that had come with the flat, tidied up my books and magazines, and scrubbed the surfaces in the kitchen. I even cleaned the toilet on the stairs. I did not, however, change the sheets on the bed — for luck (clean sheets being a sure way to jinx a date).

On Friday afternoon I left the office as early as I could and went to the supermarket. As soon as I got home I started cooking. I was making Cullen skink, a Scottish fish soup, followed by a goat’s cheese quiche. I had never felt so grateful to my mother for having taught me to cook.

Just after seven there was a knock at the door. I quickly washed my hands and rushed through.

“Jasmilla,” I cried, opening the door and seeing her. Was it my imagination, or had she put a special effort into her appearance? She looked more radiant than ever, in a tweed suit over a green shirt. Her hair looked sleek and she was wearing mauve lipstick. I felt a tingling sensation rise up my back.

“I brought you some wine,” she said, holding up a bottle. “It’s Bulgarian.”

Normally I asked visitors to take off their shoes — a German custom I had picked up — but not her. As far as I was concerned, nothing that had touched her could ever be considered dirt.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, stuck for anything more inspired to say.

“Ravenous,” she said, saying the English word and rolling the “r” in a way I found most appealing.

I opened the bottle of wine, lit the candles on the kitchen table, and served up the soup. I had tasted it and knew, without being immodest, that it was good. For once I felt in my element with Jasmilla, knowing that I was on strong ground. Again, I thanked the Lord that I knew how to cook.

“This is really delicious,” she said, trying the soup. I watched her mouth as she spooned the liquid into it. “Mmm,” she added. “I like a man who can cook.”

Had I heard correctly? I like a man who can cook — she was practically declaring her love for me right there!

I thought about saying something along the lines of, I like a woman who appreciates good food, but didn’t have the courage. Instead, I settled for a feeble, “I’m glad you like it,” and took a slug of my wine. A bit of alcohol wouldn’t go amiss.

I asked her about her exhibition. She had already sold a few prints, and I congratulated her on being so talented.

“I wish I were as talented as you when it comes to cooking,” she said.

This was going well. All I had to do was not make a mess of things and I was in with a chance. Don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up, I repeated to myself as I served up the main course.

But everything went fine with the main course too. We chatted away and seemed to be getting on very well. It was nice to be alone with her somewhere that wasn’t a noisy bar or a crowded gallery, to have the chance to really talk.

For dessert I made a chocolate fondue, by melting squares of dark chocolate in a bain marie. I had bought strawberries, even though they were out of season and had been imported from Spain — something that Germans, who hated eating food out of season, heartily disapproved of. I had left them whole, partly because I hadn’t had time to wash them, but mainly because I was looking forward to watching Jasmilla popping whole chocolate-covered strawberries into her luscious mouth — a spectacle which did not disappoint.

As Jasmilla munched the last strawberry, I noticed her eyeing my bottle of malt. “Is that Lagavulin?” she asked. “That’s my favourite whisky.”

“Mine too. Care for a dram?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I poured two glasses. “Why don’t we sit somewhere more comfortable?”

“Sounds good.”

We went through to the living-room, where I suggested we sit on the sofa. I had planned this all out earlier as I had prepared my strategy for the evening, and had found the least unattractive blanket in the flat to use as a throw over the ratty sofa.

We settled down on the couch, close enough to each other that our legs were almost touching, and in fact could be made to touch with a bit of judicious — but seemingly natural — manouvering on my part as we talked.

“Cheers,” I said, toasting Jasmilla. “To new friendships.”

“To new friendships,” she said, and took a sip of her whisky. I watched her moist lips press attractively against the rim of the glass.

“That reminds me,” she said, setting her glass down with a contented sigh. “I saw your professor the other night.”

“He’s not really my professor,” I said with a laugh. Then I felt curious. “Where did you seem him exactly?”

“Oh, he had me over for dinner at his apartment,” she said casually. “My, this whisky really is excellent.”

Suddenly I was insanely jealous. “He had you over for dinner?”

“Sure. He wanted to discuss this new project that he wants me to help with.”

Why hadn’t I ever been invited over for dinner to discuss projects, I wondered, feeling jealousy grip my stomach. I had already done so much work for him, with barely a word of thanks in return. “Why did you need to go to his flat?” I asked. “Couldn’t you have met him in his office?”

Jasmilla gave a little laugh. “He said it was top secret. No one in the company is allowed to know about it.”

“So what is it?” I asked, somewhat sourly. My mood was now completely soiled.

Jasmilla raised an eyebrow playfully. “Sorry. I can’t tell you. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone. And I’m already doing so much work for him. He trusts me completely.”

“I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone. So I have to stick to that promise.”

I drank some more of my whisky and fumed for a few moments. “What did he cook, then?” I asked eventually.

“Oh, it was wonderful,” she said with an enthusiam that annoyed me intensely. “Home-made gnocci with a chanterelle cream sauce, with home-made tiramasu for dessert. He’s a fabulous cook.”

I felt this was the height of bad manners, to compliment another man’s cooking when I had just made her a — very nice — meal. But I knew it was churlish to say this out loud, and kept quiet.

“And he’s really very charming,” said Jasmilla, warming to her theme as she recollected what had obviously been a very pleasant evening. “He’s a wonderful conversationalist. And so funny!”

“Funny?” This was not a word I expected to hear in connection with the Professor, who had always struck me as a very serious individual.

“And he’s very attractive for a man of his age. You know, I bet a lot of women would fall for him.”

I sat there in silence, my mood completely spoiled. Things had been going so well and now I felt grumpy and jealous.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jasmilla asked, noticing my change in mood. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

“I’m not jealous.”

“I was only saying what a special man he is,” she said, making a very Russian gesture with her hands, which seemed to convey she had better things to worry about than my small-mindedness, and leaning back on the couch — significantly far away from me.

In the ensuing silence, I tried to think of a way to salvage the evening. The only thing that could work was my answer to every problem: alcohol. “Can I get you another Lagavulin?” I asked eventually, trying to adopt a cheery tone.

“Actually I should probably get going,” said Jasmilla, chillily. “I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

Great, I thought. Now I’ve ruined the evening. I tried to persuade her to stay, offering a selection of drinks including herbal tea, wine and beer as well as the whisky, but it was no use. We said a desultory goodbye at the door. I said I would call her. She didn’t seem that bothered either way.

When I went to bed, all I could think about was Jasmilla and the Professor having dinner together. I had never thought of him as a rival for Jasmilla’s affections. If he was, I wasn’t convinced I could compete with him. He was suave, handsome, charming, well-dressed, and quite possibly well-off. The worse thing was, it was all my fault. I wished I had never introduced them to each other.