The Dinner by Herman Koch Page A

she knew where things were going from here.
    ‘In order to understand what this lady was saying about her upstairs neighbours,’ I went on, because no one else was saying anything, ‘you have to turn the situation around. If the two sweet homosexuals hadn’t fed the cats at all, but instead had pelted them with stones or tossed poisoned pork chops down to them from their balcony, then they would have been just plain dirty faggots. I think that’s what Claire meant about Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? : that the friendly Sidney Poitier was a sweet boy too. That the person who made that movie was absolutely no better than the lady in that programme. In fact, Sidney Poitier was supposed to serve as a role model. An example for all those other, nasty Negroes, the uppity Negroes. The dangerous Negroes, the muggers and the rapists and the crack dealers. When you people put on a good-looking suit like Sidney’s and start behaving like the perfect son-in-law, we white folks will be your friends.’

 
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    The man with the beard was drying his hands. I pulled up my zipper, as a sign that I was finished peeing, even though it had produced no sound, and made straight for the exit. My hand was already on the stainless-steel door handle when I heard the man with the beard say: ‘Isn’t it difficult for that friend of yours sometimes, going to a restaurant when he has such a familiar face?’
    I stopped. Without letting go of the handle, I turned and looked at him. The man with the beard was still drying his hands with a clump of paper towels. Within the abundant growth of his beard, his mouth had once again twisted itself into a grin – but not a triumphant grin this time, more like a cowardly baring of the teeth. I have no bad intentions, the grin was saying.
    ‘He’s not my friend,’ I said.
    The grin vanished. The hands stopped their drying as well. ‘Oh, excuse me,’ he said. ‘I just saw you sitting there. We, my daughter and I, we figured: just keep acting normal, let’s not gawk at him.’
    I said nothing. The revelation about the daughter had done me more good that I cared to admit. The beard, despite his unabashed jet, had not succeeded in hooking a woman thirty years his junior. He tossed the wet clump of paper into a stainless-steel trash bin; it was one of those bins with a spring-loaded lid, which made it hard for him to get it all in in one shot.
    ‘I was wondering,’ he said. ‘I was wondering whether perhaps it was possible, my daughter and I, we both feel that our country is in need of a change. She’s studying political science, I was wondering whether maybe she could have her picture taken with Mr Lohman, later on?’
    He had pulled a flat, shiny camera from the pocket of his jacket.
    ‘It would take only a second,’ he said. ‘I realize that it’s a private dinner for you and everything, and I don’t want to bother him. My daughter … my daughter would never forgive me if she knew I’d even dared to ask this. She was the one who said it wasn’t right to stare at a famous politician in a restaurant. That you should leave him alone, during his few private moments. And that you absolutely shouldn’t try to have your picture taken with him. But on the other hand, I know how wonderful it would be for her. To have her picture taken with Serge Lohman, I mean.’
    I looked at him. I wondered what it would be like to have a father whose face you couldn’t see. Whether a day would finally come when, as the daughter of a father like that, you simply lost patience – or whether you got used to it, like a bad carpet.
    ‘No problem at all,’ I said. ‘Mr Lohman is always pleased to come in contact with his supporters. We’re in the middle of an important discussion right now, but just keep your eye on me. When I give you the sign, that will be the right moment for a photo.

 
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    The first thing I noticed when I came back from the men’s room was the silence at our table: the kind of