Authors: Peter Stamm
I couldn’t get to sleep for a long time, and I was sure Ivona wasn’t asleep either, even though she lay there very still. I was drifting between dreaming and waking. From above I could see Ivona and me in bed, like on those old medieval tombstones I’d sometimes seen in churches, a man and a woman lying there side by side for hundreds of years, with their hands folded across their chests, eyes open, and smiling serenely. Ivona looked very beautiful. I wanted to put my arm around her, but I couldn’t move.
When I woke, I felt right away that Ivona was awake too. She lay there as though she hadn’t stirred all night. I was ashamed of what I’d done, but for the first time I didn’t feel the impulse to run away. I pressed myself against her heavy body, and buried my face in her breast, like a child in its mother’s bosom. She stroked my hair, and so we rested for a long time in bed, neither of us saying anything.
Eventually Ivona got up. She slid gently away from under me, picked her clothes off a chair, and left the room. I drifted off again, and didn’t wake till she softly touched me on the shoulder. I went into the bathroom, and she to the kitchen. I looked at my watch. It was seven o’clock.
It was quiet in the apartment. I showered and went into the kitchen, where Ivona had already started the coffee. She put out bread, margarine, sausage, and sliced cheese. There was something shy about her movements, it was as though she didn’t finish any of them. I sat down at the table. Ivona sat facing me and got up when the coffee was ready. Milk?, she asked. I think it was her first word since I arrived the night before.
I didn’t feel like eating, but Ivona had an astonishing appetite, and prepared herself a few sandwiches as well, which she wrapped in clingwrap and stowed in a plastic bag. I thought we looked like an old couple who know each other so well, no one has to say anything. Ivona said she had to go to work, and I followed her out of the apartment and out of the building. The sky was clear, but it wasn’t cold. The bus stop wasn’t far. Ivona joined the line. You can go, she said, but I stayed standing next to her. After some minutes I saw the bus turn the corner at the end of the street, and it pulled up in front us. Ivona seemed to be waiting for me to say something, and for a moment I was tempted to hold her back. I said I had to get my car, I’d parked it somewhere yesterday. Before Ivona got on the bus, she kissed me on the lips and hurriedly turned away. She found a window seat, and we looked at each other through the glass. All at once I was pretty sure that Eva was right, and that Ivona’s life—poor and arduous and unspectacular as it was—had been happier than mine.
The bus had to stop a moment before it was able to enter the traffic. When it finally drove off, Ivona quickly raised her hand, waved and smiled, and then she was gone.
That afternoon was the meeting with the creditors. Sonia couldn’t be there, she had too much to do in Marseilles, and anyway she said it wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome. The administrator had worked out a plan. She promised to pay the creditors fifteen percent of what they were owed. If I close down the company, you’ll get less than five. There was something infectious about her optimism. Even so, the whole business was pretty humiliating. Whether I was to blame or not, I had cost these people an awful lot of money, and they let me feel their anger. One paper dealer was especially vociferous in his opposition to the plan. It was a relatively small sum in his case, but he got on his high horse and lit into me. I flew into a rage, and was about to reply when the administrator put her hand on my arm and whispered, don’t say anything, he just needs to let off steam. Finally there was the vote, and the plan was unanimously adopted.
I called Marseilles from in front of the court building. Sonia had been waiting. Well, she said, how did it go? We can carry on, I said. There was silence for a moment, then Sonia said she had spoken to Albert, she was coming home in December. Are you pleased? Yes, I said, I couldn’t have stuck it out much longer. I’m terribly tired.
Sonia came back a week before Christmas. I met her at the airport with a bunch of flowers. We sat down in a café in Arrivals. Do you remember meeting me here the first time?, asked Sonia. I was astonished by how beautiful you were. Sonia looked down. When she raised her eyes again, I saw that they were shining. Are you crying?, I asked. She said she had lit a candle for us in the cathedral in Marseilles. In that hideous cathedral down by the water? Sonia smiled and nodded. She had gone there many times in the last few months, just to sit and think. Are you going to find God in your old age? Come on, said Sonia, we’ll collect Sophie.
She laughed when she saw the car. I suppose the years of plenty are over. It’s not so bad, I said, it even has air-conditioning. Sonia said she had never liked the color of the Mercedes anyway. We didn’t talk much on the drive. I just looked across at Sonia from time to time, and then she would look at me, and smile.
Sonia’s parents were waiting for us. In the hallway was the little suitcase with Sophie’s things, and beside it a new kid’s bike, and two or three bags full of cuddly toys and other stuff that Sonia’s parents had bought Sophie in the last few weeks. Sophie was sitting in the living room watching a cartoon. When we went in, she looked up briefly, and then, without a word of greeting to either of us, said she wanted to watch the end of her film. Come on then, said Sonia’s father, and took us into his office. He adopted a formal expression, and announced he was going to buy back our house from the receivers. He had spoken to the bank and settled on a price. Carla and Sonia’s mother were in agreement. What does that mean?, asked Sonia. That the mortgage is redeemed and the house won’t form part of any auction. You can continue to live there. Sooner or later you’ll come into my money anyway. He got up and said he was doing it for Sophie. And had we noticed how musical she was, we should definitely let her learn an instrument.
On the way home, Sophie told us that Grandma had promised her a kitten. If it was all right with us. Sonia said that wasn’t so easily decided, an animal wasn’t a toy, if you had one, you had to be sure to look after it every day. Could Sophie see herself doing that? I know all that, said Sophie with an irritated voice, Felicitas has a cat. And you’ll have to clean its litterbox, said Sonia. She looked over to me. I said I didn’t think it was such a good idea. No one was home during the day, and the kitten would be alone. She can always go outside, said Sophie. Let’s wait a bit, said Sonia. We’ll just go home, and then we’ll see. Sophie was offended, and wouldn’t speak till we had arrived in Tutzing.
I had cleaned the house and carted the bottles off to be recycled. When we got home, it was as though we were in a strange house. Sonia seemed to feel similarly alien. She walked through all the rooms, opening a blind here and a closet there. I was reminded of cleanser commercials, where the woman comes home unexpectedly from a trip and the man has to clean the house in a jiffy with some miracle product. Then they both walk through the rooms together, and the woman looks around in admiration and kisses the man with a knowing smile—because all that cleanliness is just due to her Mr. Clean. Looks good, said Sonia, and kissed me.
It took Sophie a few days to adjust to us. To begin with she retreated to her room and didn’t come when we called her down for mealtimes, and complained about all sorts of things. She kept whining about her cat, and when we put it off, she would burst into tears. We explained the situation to her as well as we could, but she didn’t listen, and ran back to her room where she did nothing but brood and sulk. Slowly things got better, we went on little trips, she started to talk about school, where she was very happy. Thus far, we’d always gone to our parents’ for the holidays, but this time we canceled all arrangements and stayed at home.
When Sophie was in bed, we talked about the future of the company. We were still doing sums continually, wondering where we could save more, looking at competition guidelines. It’s not going to be easy, I said. We’ll get there, said Sonia, we’ve got no choice.
The first year was a struggle. We had to bid for every little order, and work for terms we’d have scoffed at a couple of years back, but we managed to stick to the insolvency plan and make the installments. We entered contests, and by and by a few orders came in, little projects to begin with, a restoration job, a vacation home for friends of Sonia’s parents. We were working with a much smaller team, and with part-timers. I felt reminded a little of the early years after our wedding, when we were young and inexperienced, and were doing everything for the very first time. Sonia and I worked more closely together than in the years before the crisis, and our relationship acquired an intimacy it hadn’t had in a long while. We would often talk about architecture, questions of principle, and what we hoped to achieve in our own work. Everything seemed to be going well, only sometimes I had the feeling I wasn’t good enough for Sonia. She had such lofty ideals and goals that I was bound to disappoint her. She treated me with kid gloves, but at odd moments I caught her looking critically in my direction. When I asked her what she was thinking about, she laughed and shook her head.
We set aside more time for Sophie too. We joined the Parent-Teacher Association of the Waldorf school, Sonia worked for the festival committee and helped organize the twice-yearly festivities, and I drew up a plan for a new central heating system.
I stopped drinking, and for the first time in years I designed buildings again. I was much bolder than before, it was as though I had nothing left to lose. When I looked through a volume of Aldo Rossi’s designs again, I saw a sentence of his that seemed appropriate.
Seek to change the world, even if only in little pieces, in order to forget what we may not have
.
None of my designs was executed, but that didn’t matter, on the contrary, it kept me from having to make compromises, and allowed me to work freely and follow my own tune. I actually felt like an architect again, and that affected my work on building sites.
Sonia’s style changed, she had finally broken free of her mentors and found her own language. It sounds cynical, perhaps, but it seemed that the crisis had opened our eyes to new ways of doing things, whereas in the years of success we had barely evolved at all, and just imitated ourselves.
Sonia wrote articles for architectural journals, and was invited to conferences and finally was given a teaching job at Dessau. Then we won a contest for a social housing project in Linz. We’re back in business, said Sonia, when she broke the good news to me.
That evening we celebrated. We left Sophie with her grandparents and went to a good restaurant. Do you think we can expense this?, asked Sonia. In six months our probationary period is over, I said, then we’ll be clear of debt and we can do whatever we want. I’m amazed we’ve managed this fresh start. You know the feeling of not being able to turn around, but having to go on and on in the same direction? And the awful thing about that is it has something tempting about it.
If you give in, you don’t have to struggle, said Sonia. Maybe, I said. I just couldn’t see any way out. Sonia shook her head. Giving up was always cowardly. Even if you lose in the end, it’s still better not to lose without a fight. That’s what I love you for, I said, your eternal optimism. Sonia seemed not to detect the irony in my voice. That’s not optimism, she said, as though offended by my remark, that’s attitude.
A
nd they lived happily ever after, said Antje. Come on, I said, we’d better get back. Sonia will wonder what’s kept us. On the way home, Antje asked me what plans I had. No plans, I said. And the affair with Ivona is finished, for good? It’s over, I said. Antje looked at me skeptically. Well, let’s hope it’s over for her too, she said.
We’re back, I called out, and shut the door behind me. It was a little after twelve. Antje said she would go and pack. I went into the living room and noticed right away that there was something wrong. Sonia was standing by the window. When she turned toward me, I saw her eyes were reddened. I asked her if she was hungry, did she want me to make her something to eat? No reply. What’s the matter?, I asked. Sonia’s expression had something desperate about it. She went to the sofa, and then back to the window again. With her back to me, she started speaking so softly that I could hardly make out what she said. I pretended I didn’t understand, I wanted not to understand.
What do you mean, you’re going to Marseilles? I sat down on the sofa, and Sonia came beside me, with her head in her hands. I’m not happy here, she said.
We sat side by side in silence. Once I tried to put my arm around her, but she was so stiff that I aborted my embrace and pulled my arm back. I thought about ridiculous things, that we’d have to divide up our property, that the house belonged to Sonia’s parents, what our employees would say. I thought about it all, but I felt nothing beyond confusion and a kind of terror that was neither positive nor negative. Was it Antje’s idea? Sonia seemed relieved to be able to speak at last. She said Antje knew nothing about this. It was her decision, made long ago. When she was in Marseilles, she’d realized how many possibilities she still had in her. Is it to do with Albert? Sonia shook her head. She had never felt at ease here, it wasn’t her world. But you wanted the house by the lake, I said, you wanted to live near your parents, I’d much rather have stayed in the city. Sonia laughed, but it sounded more like crying. We could have talked about all that sometime. I had the feeling we were getting along particularly well recently. That’s not what it’s about, said Sonia. You don’t need me anymore.
Antje came upstairs and said she was packed and ready. Was anyone else hungry besides her? Sonia jumped up and ran to her, and led her out of the room by the arm. After about ten minutes, she came back and sat down beside me again.
We talked, though there was no point. Sonia had given up on our relationship long ago, it was just a matter of getting me to understand her reasons and limiting the damage. The discussion went around and around in circles. I contradicted her, maybe out of cowardice, even though I knew she was right. I was reconciled to the situation, I wasn’t discontented. But contentment wasn’t what Sonia was after. Maybe things will go wrong, she said, but at least I’ll have given it a go.
After some time Antje came back upstairs and said she was hungry, and should she fix some spaghetti for us. When she got no reply, she left and came back with Sophie, who was carrying her cat in her arms and looking apprehensively at us. The two of us are going out for lunch, said Antje with a show of jolly determination. Only when the front door closed did Sonia and I continue talking.
What about Sophie?, I asked. There’s always a solution, Sonia said. You must think I’m a selfish bitch. No, I said, I don’t at all. She doesn’t want to go to Marseilles. Sonia nodded, I know, maybe it’s better if she stays with you. She hesitated. We’re going to have to tell her I’m not her mother. I looked at her doubtfully. She has a right to know, said Sonia. And what if she wants to meet her mother?, I asked. Well, perhaps it doesn’t have to be right away, said Sonia. She said she had felt from the start that what we were doing was wrong. Why didn’t you say anything?, I asked. I was afraid to lose you, said Sonia. And now I’m losing you, I said. Sonia shook her head. She said we would stay friends. Not much would change. She hesitated. Then she asked whether I intended to move in with Ivona. I think it was the first time she said the name. No, I said, that’s over. I wanted to add that I’d never loved Ivona, that she was never any competition for Sonia, but I wasn’t sure if it was true, so I didn’t say it. Who knows, said Sonia, smiling, as if she didn’t believe me. I asked her when she wanted to leave. She said there was no hurry. We hadn’t quarreled, and there was no other man in the picture, and she had to organize everything anyway, an apartment, a job. Are we having Christmas together?, I asked, and with that I suddenly broke down and wept. I didn’t know you could do that, said Sonia, and put her arm around me, and held me close. There, there, she said.
I was surprised that Sonia didn’t insist on taking Antje to the airport. Maybe she wanted to talk to Sophie while I was away, or she hoped Antje would be able to explain it to me, where she had failed. But Antje stayed off the subject and talked about other things. Only when I brought it up, she unwillingly gave me information. She said she had had no idea that Sonia wanted to leave me. On the contrary, she had the feeling that things with us were going better. That’s what I thought too, I said. Maybe she stopped fighting it, said Antje.
I asked her about Sonia’s time in Marseilles. No, said Antje, Sonia hadn’t gone out much. The evening I couldn’t catch her on the phone, she’d gone to the cinema, by herself. If there’d been an affair, she, Antje, would have known. That would make it easier, wouldn’t it? That would have been a reason at least. I asked Antje what she would do in my shoes. Let her go. You mean, she might come back to me sometime, when she’s ready? Antje said nothing. And what if I agreed to go to Marseilles? It’s too late, said Antje.
I had to think of the Frenchman I’d met when I was down in the dumps. He too had kept saying, it’s too late. It’s too late, he said, just as well. Three years ago Sonia had decided to leave me, three years she had stuck it out with me, she had gotten through the probationary period with me, always knowing she would escape me, that she would start afresh when the worst was over. I racked my memory for clues, I asked myself if there wasn’t something that would have told me. But Sonia had remained discreet. She must have been terribly lonely during that whole time.
I dropped Antje outside the departure hall. Do you mind if I don’t come in with you?, I asked. She shook her head and picked up her bag off the back seat. I watched her go, striding into the terminal building. I imagined her taking a taxi in Marseilles, and coming home to an empty apartment, how she would look in the fridge, and then go and eat something in a bistro. Back home, she would switch on the TV and open a bottle of wine, or look through her mail from the last few days, maybe she had messages on her answering machine.
I imagined Sonia in a small apartment in Marseilles. She was working late, and got home tired but somehow still buzzing. Then she went out again, and met a man. I imagined the photographer that Antje had brought home with her. He sat next to Sonia in a club, she put her hand on his thigh and shouted something in his ear. The two of them laughed, it seemed to me they were making fun of me. I’m sure you’ll find someone else soon, Sonia said, you’re not a bad match. But I didn’t want to find anyone. The thought of hanging around in bars and restaurants and going on dates with women, and starting over, was pretty repugnant to me.
I thought about Ivona. I hadn’t seen her since that last night three years before, the only night we’d really spent together. I’d never called Eva, and she’d never gotten in touch with me either.
Presumably they were still both living in the same apartment. I was free to go there and see them, but what would have been the point? Sometimes I would suddenly think about Ivona, something would remind me of her, a smell, a woman on the street, sometimes I wouldn’t even know what the precise trigger was. Then I would get out Sonia’s photo album at home and look at the picture where I could just see her in the background, her out-of-focus, fingernail-sized face, the only picture I had of her. Then I would wish to possess her again, as I had never possessed a human being before or since.
I drove to the parking lot and walked across to the check-in building. Since the opening of the new airport, I’d flown from here a couple of times, but for the first time the ugliness of the building struck me, the way it was erected without the least sense of human proportions. The handful of passengers who were around at this hour seemed to disappear in the cavernous spaces. They darted nervously about, like cockroaches intimidated by the light. It was as though the building was its be-all and end-all, there only to celebrate its own size.
I sat down in a café from where you could look across the hall. At the next table were two young women with little children who hopped around on the leather seats and were fed cookies by their mothers. I listened to their conversation. They were obviously regulars here, and seemed to feel at ease in this sterile place that could have been just about anywhere in the world. Maybe they thought nothing would happen to them here.
I went to the spectators’ gallery. I had once been there with Sophie, but the airplanes hadn’t interested her, and as soon as we got there, she wanted to go home again. The only other people besides me on the terrace were a man with two children, who eyed me suspiciously. Then he turned to his children and said, she’s gone now, and one of the children, a boy of ten or so, asked, where did she go? I don’t see her. There, said the father, pointing into the air, that’s where she is. But there was nothing to be seen where he was pointing except the overcast sky. Come on, he said, and then something else that I didn’t hear.
Way below, a couple of men in blue overalls and yellow luminous vests were loading baggage into a plane. I looked at my watch. Antje’s plane was leaving in half an hour. Slowly it started getting dark, and the colored lights on the runways began to flicker in the cold air. It smelled of jet fuel. Everything, the smell, the noise, the dimming light, gave me an overpowering wanderlust, a desire to leave and never come back, to begin again somewhere, in Berlin or Austria or Switzerland. It was that mixture of trepidation and liberation that I’d only otherwise known with Ivona, and then only for moments at a time. I wasn’t happy exactly, but for the first time in a long while, I felt very light and alert, as though I’d come around after a long period of unconsciousness. I rested my back against the glass and tipped my head back and looked up at the empty sky overhead, that seemed so inexplicably beautiful.