Free Care of Wooden Floors by Will Wiles Page B

Valley-speak manner of Californians, but in a more philosophical, European manner, as if preceding the quasi-query with the unspoken words
We can of course both take it as read that...
This, however, was a straightforward question.
    ‘Oh, yes. I went sightseeing yesterday – saw the National Museum...’
    ‘While you are there, you really should go to see the Philharmonic. You will go?’
    ‘Yes, maybe, if I have the time...’
    ‘Time? What else are you doing? The Philharmonic is in its summer season, and I helped set the programme. It is very good. Will you go tomorrow?’
    ‘Tomorrow?’ I wanted to say that I had made plans for tomorrow, but that would have been an obvious lie. While thinking of a better lie (I almost had one), I let too long a pause bleed into the conversation.
    ‘Tomorrow, then,’ Oskar said, decisive and clearly cheerful at the thought of inflicting classical music on me. ‘I will call them and make arrangements for a ticket in your name.’
    ‘Oskar, you don’t have to...’
    ‘Yes, I can always get free tickets, so I will call them. Seven-thirty. It is Schubert, “The Trout” and “Death and the Maiden”. Very good. Very popular. You will like it.’
    I squeezed the cork hard. Apathy and boredom fought within me. Going out seemed like such a chore, but at the very least, it was something to do. Another silence was emptying into the conversation. ‘Isn’t “Death and the Maiden” a film?’
    This time, the silence unfolded on Oskar’s end of the line. ‘Ariel Dorfman wrote a play called
Death and the Maiden
,’ Oskar said, with the air of someone explaining a point to a slow child. ‘It is about this piece of music.’
    ‘But there was a film as well,’ I protested, somewhat wretchedly. A bubble of memory floated up. ‘With Sigourney Weaver.’
    ‘I remember it. I will make the arrangements. Goodbye for now.’
    ‘Um, goodbye Oskar. Thanks for calling.’
    The ‘ling’ of my last word was transmitted nowhere. The call had ended.
    I put the phone down, and flicked the cork into the air, trying to catch it with my other hand. It evaded my grasp and skittered and bounced across the floor, startling one of the cats, which froze for a split second and then pounced, stopping the errant stopper. Ha! I don’t know what it thought it was – a vole in a tiny barrel, perhaps. The discovery that it had captured a cylinder of soft bark didn’t seem to disappoint the cat, though. Instead, it held itsprize in outstretched front paws, hindquarters hunched and tensed; then it freed the cork, batted it to one side, and pounced again. Pow!
    The bottle emptied, I set down my recharged glass and tapped the cork across the floor with my foot. The cat was on top of it like a furry slingshot. It was impossible not to laugh. I hooked the cork back with the side of my foot, the cat tensed like a sprinter, and I kicked again – a tailed comet streaked across the floor. (The other cat was on the sofa, ignoring all this. What fills a cat’s mind in those idle hours of reverie? Where do they go?)
    An idea occurred to me. For the third time, I retrieved the now slightly dog-eared (cat-eared?) cork – the moggie put up more of a fight this time – then punted it into the room’s most remote corner. Then, I opened one of the kitchen drawers, an out-of-the-way one that looked as if it might contain string.
    Inside the drawer was a note from Oskar.
    Corkscrew – in drawer by sink. Torch, batteries – in bottom drawer under sink. 1st aid box, aspirin – in bathroom. Cleaning things, candles – in pantry.
    This drawer: spices.
    Indeed, the drawer contained spices, and that distinctive spice-rack melange of smells. And Oskar’s note, another note. Did all the drawers contain notes like this? I had taken cutlery from a drawer, and there had been no note. Curious, I tried the next drawer along, and there was another little note, identical to the first one except for:
    This drawer: Place mats.