The Sweet Indifference of the World

by Peter Stamm

  Lena stopped and pulled out her cellphone. I just need to message Chris, she said, typing out a text. I’m writing to tell him I’ve gone to the theater. That evening with those scriptwriters was so deadly. He won’t believe you, I said, he’ll be jealous. Is that what happened then? she asked, putting away her cellphone. We didn’t have those back then. Magdalena wasn’t there when I got back to the hotel. We had had an argument in the morning, and when she was angry with me, she would often withdraw. Then she would reappear, as though nothing had happened.

  It’s true, said Lena, I played Miss Julie, and he helped me learn the part, and that was when we kissed for the first time. I turned to face her. She avoided looking at me, but in spite of the feeble light of the streetlamps, I could see that her face was flushed. It’s just occurred to me how much you must know about me if your story is true. I mean…not just where we went on holiday, what we talked about, what happened to us. But really personal, intimate things. The fact that you don’t squeeze the toothpaste out of the tube to the end. More personal than that, said Lena.

  I didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to embarrass her further. I was remembering how we had made love the first time, that afternoon. Magdalena was strangely awkward. Her lips were dry, perhaps on account of the fever, and she barely responded to my kisses, though she didn’t turn away either. When I pulled off her nightgown, she seemed indifferent, letting it happen as though it was a necessity. After a while, she said, let’s go on the bed, it’ll be easier.

  After that we sometimes made love all night. It wasn’t so much about sex, it was more like a kind of unappeasable hunger, a need for proximity, a desire to merge into one another. We lay quite exhausted on the bed, Magdalena propped her head up on her hand and eyed me in bemusement. I drew her closer to me and kissed her, and we began all over again, till at some point one or other of us drifted off.

  NINETEEN

  And you had the feeling the whole time there was someone on your tracks? Lena interrupted my thoughts. To begin with, it drove me crazy, I was furious with him, maybe I was jealous. But after a while I began to feel sorry for him. Because he didn’t have any choice, the whole course of his life was set, pre-lived by me. I felt responsible for him. If everything you do happens twice over, and each decision you take affects not only you but someone else as well, who is helpless to do anything about it, then it’s better to think twice before you act.

  A strange notion, said Lena, that somewhere there might be another person like me. Not just someone who looks like me and is living the same life, but who thinks and feels like me as well. I think I like the idea. It’s like having a best friend who knows all there is to know about you and who you know all about, without your needing to talk about it at all. No, I said, it’s as though you’re not a whole person anymore, as though you were dissolving. It’s an awful thing. Perhaps everyone has a doppelgänger somewhere, said Lena. You were just unlucky enough to meet yours. I don’t know why, I said, but I sometimes have the feeling he only exists on account of me. If I hadn’t happened to meet him, he wouldn’t exist now. As though he’s a child of my memory, a memory that became reality.

  Were you never tempted to take a hand in our life together? asked Lena, to correct mistakes you made, to give our life a different turn? Or simply out of curiosity, to see what happens? I’m scared of doing that, I said. Who knows what would happen?

  TWENTY

  After the second meeting, it took me a while to recover my bearings. I tried not to think about my younger self, but I was addicted to observing him, to check that he really was living my life. And maybe to remember everything too, and experience it all again, though this time as an observer. It wasn’t hard to find him, I could look up my old diaries, and wherever I was sixteen years earlier, he would be now. The world had changed, university syllabuses and train timetables were different, he wore different clothes and had a cellphone instead of a landline, but none of it seemed to affect the course of his life particularly.

  My book was almost forgotten by now, the invitations were down to a trickle, and my publisher was no longer asking me about the follow-up, because I’d given him too many reassurances. Since I wasn’t in any new relationship either, I had endless time. So I followed the man almost incessantly, sat in the lectures he attended, caught up with him outside his house, and followed him on his errands through the city. I shopped where he shopped, drank in bars where he and his friends drank. From time to time our eyes might meet, but it seemed he wasn’t aware of it, as though I was invisible or at least of no significance for him.

  It felt strange to observe my younger self. I realized how much I had forgotten or misremembered. Often I was dismayed by my younger self’s naivety, and it wasn’t unusual for me to feel a temptation to give him a jolt, or whisper some good advice in his ear. But I never did, perhaps for fear of the unpredictable consequences of a direct confrontation.

  I neglected my work, stopped seeing my friends, no longer went out. Eventually, completely shattered, a nervous wreck, I decided to move to another city, another country. I wanted to be as far from him as possible, so as not to have to see him anymore, and find myself again, and live my own life. After looking for a while, I found a job at a German-language school in Barcelona, a city I had never been to before and where my doppelgänger wouldn’t come looking for me. I cleaned up my flat, gave away or sold the bulk of my stuff, and left the rest with friends. And then I went.

  * * *

  —

  I’m hungry, said Lena, and it’s getting cold as well. Let’s go and eat something. After a while we found a restaurant, a sort of bistro with a small menu. It was rather a gloomy place, with just a few solitary guys sitting there over their beer. Lena chose a table in the middle of the room, it didn’t seem to bother her that the other patrons were staring at her. We ordered something and ate in silence. I had a beer, Lena drank water. I need a clear head, she said. What are you doing here, if you don’t want to see him again? One thing at a time, I said.

  In Barcelona, things picked up. I didn’t have much more stuff than would fit into a large suitcase, and I started off living in a cheap pension. I liked working with the children, made friends with the men and women on the staff, and soon found a small apartment in the old town. At first I had a pretty quiet, withdrawn kind of life, it was as though I had to retreat, hide away from myself. Over time, though, I started to move more freely through the little crooked lanes. I sought out places where people congregated, I liked the feeling of being part of a crowd. Sometimes I would drift about half the night, spend hours sitting in cafés, and then after closing time, in clubs, just observing the scene. Near my apartment there was a hotel where lots of Swiss people stayed, and it was fun watching them and listening to them, not suspecting anyone understood their language.

  I started a relationship with an Argentine woman, who lived on the floor below me. She was in Spain illegally, and was getting by on various temp jobs. I seemed to think that my life would be harder to pick up, the more uneventful and discreet it was. Via my girlfriend, I met other Argentines, a casual, likable set, all living from hand to mouth, but loyal and helpful whenever one of their number was in trouble with the authorities or with his landlord or employer. Sometime, maybe in my seventh or eighth year, Alma went home. Her father had gotten sick, and she wanted to be with him. We talked about maybe starting a business together in her country, a restaurant or a bookshop or even a Swiss school, but probably we were never that serious about it. I never made it over there to visit her.

  Once Alma was gone, I missed her more than I had expected. Even so, we wrote each other less and less. I started thinking about returning to Switzerland. Since I’d been there, Barcelona had gotten more and more touristy, the old town where I was still living was full of backpackers who were only there to drink and hang out together.

  Then one Saturday in spring, I saw him. Chris? said Lena. Yes, I said. As I did every
Saturday, I’d gone shopping in the Boqueria. And I saw him coming up to me. I recognized him instantly, there was no chance of a mistake. Our eyes met, and this time too he gave no indication of knowing me, he walked past without batting an eyelid. I stopped still in shock, turned around, and set off after him. He strolled through the rows of stalls, not buying anything. I followed him out of the market and then through the old city. He seemed not to have anything in mind, eventually he sat down in a café, bought himself a drink, wrote in a small notebook, and then went on.

  I tracked him all day. It was a shock to run into him, and at the same time I felt a vast relief. The fact that he had come here meant that he was leading an autonomous life, that he was doing things I had never done, going to places I had never been to. I began to doubt the whole doppelgänger story. Maybe I was just imagining everything, certainly I had been drunk the very first time we met, and it was all so long ago now that it seemed unreal in my memory, like a bad dream on waking up.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I had just paid and the landlord had gone back behind the counter when an old man walked into the bar. He was wearing a thin raincoat and his face was red with cold. He looked around the bar, and seeing us, he took a step in our direction and then stopped as though afraid to come any closer. He said something in German, but so quietly that I had trouble hearing him. It’s too late, he said. It will always be too late. He laughed mirthlessly but his eyes swiveled like those of a maniac. After staring into my eyes for a long time, something seemed to swing in him, his stare seemed to fade, and he quickly stalked out of the bar.

  Shall we go on? asked Lena, who had been busy with her phone, and seemed not to have noticed the incident. I nodded, and we set off. Chris is bound to be tied up with his dinner till midnight, she said, and I really don’t feel like sitting around in the hotel waiting for him. She smiled and put her phone away. Did he reply? I asked. I’ve never been to Barcelona, said Lena, is it very beautiful? It’s warmer than here for a start, I said. The old town is right on the water, there are even sandy beaches. Stockholm is on the water too, said Lena. Or are those just lakes?

  While we’d been in the bistro, it had started snowing in little grainy flakes that had formed a thin crust on the roads and pavements, except where pedestrians and cars had left dark traces through it.

  The part of town got a little livelier. An open expanse between tenement blocks had been converted to an illuminated ice rink, and people were skating on it. Look at that guy, said Lena, and pointed to a young dark-skinned man who was curving around all by himself, turning pirouettes and even performing the odd leap. He seemed to be dancing for himself, concentrated on himself, slipping in and out among the other skaters as though they didn’t exist. Lena stepped out onto the ice. Come on! She took my arm, and we took a few short, cautious steps along the edge of the glittering surface. At the other end of the little park, an old man was roasting chestnuts. We bought a small bag and ate them as we walked on.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I don’t know what made me decide to tell the whole story to my doppelgänger. Perhaps because it suddenly seemed like an anecdote to me, one of those urban myths that happened to the friend of a friend, and that get passed from one person to the next without anyone actually believing them. When Chris stopped at a light, I walked up beside him, said hello, and asked if he could spare a moment. The sound of his home dialect gave him a turn, but then he said, sure, he wasn’t doing anything. I too jumped, not because of the resemblance to my younger self, but because of the differences, which struck me immediately. It was less his appearance than his way of speaking and behaving that had something artificial. Even his general friendliness seemed put on; under the mask of his smile, I saw something pinched and stiff, familiar to me from people who concealed their actual motives but were ruthless in the pursuit of their aims. I couldn’t believe that my face had been anything like that sixteen years ago. I took an immediate dislike to him, but it was too late to change my plan.

  Chris was just on his way to Barceloneta, an old harbor district on the sea where fishermen and factory workers used to live, but which had in the meantime become as touristy as the old town around the Ramblas. He said he wanted to get to a beach. I’ll take you, I said, I know my way around here. I led him along one of the narrow old streets that led through the area in a tight grid. I loved the sea, but I didn’t very often come here. When I wanted to go to the beach, I took a train to one of the little towns north of the city, Mataro or Caldetas, where the beaches weren’t so crowded, and mainly locals went.

  The buildings looked decrepit, most of the ground floor windows were barred. The street was already in shadow, only the second floors of the buildings were still in sun. Some of the balconies had washing hung up to dry on them. The streets were full of a mixture of cooking smells and the briny wind that blew in from the sea, running over our bodies like greedy hands. From the promenade, which was lined with scruffy palms, a flight of steps led down to the beach. There was a cruise ship on the horizon.

  As we walked, I told Chris my whole story—our story. Somewhere we sat down in the sand and drank the beers we’d picked up in a little supermarket on the way, and I went on with my story. Behind us, the sun was plunging to the horizon, lengthening our shadows. The high chairs of the lifeguards were deserted, but there were still people in the water, others were playing beach volleyball or simply strolling. It took me a while to realize that the birds looking for food in the sand weren’t seagulls but pigeons.

  After I’d finished, and Chris had spent a while thinking about what I’d said, he started to ask me questions about our childhood and youth, detailed questions concerning things that no one but ourselves could have known. When I answered correctly, he gave a quick nod, and went on to the next question. If my answer didn’t satisfy him, he shook his head, and said, You see! There are deviations, I said, there are bound to be. It’s not possible, he said. The story is too crazy, and our conversation has gone on too long for it to be a dream. So, tell me, what’s the book going to be called that I’m going to write in a few years’ time, the one you say you published a long time ago? I told him the title, and he took out his phone, typed something into it, and said with a malicious smile, There’s no such book. Then it’s out of print, I said, why wouldn’t it be, after so many years? He typed some more. Not available secondhand either, he said, and it’s not in the principal library catalogs either. I know the national library acquired the book, I said, they buy copies of every book that’s published in Switzerland. I went there once with Magdalena. We ordered it, and she said I ought to sign the copy. A librarian caught me in the act, and she made a gigantic fuss and accused me of vandalizing public property. Maybe the book was withdrawn as a result. Come on, said Chris, you got that out of a film.

  TWENTY-THREE

  This is the most painful part of the story, I said. He was right. I must have seen the scene somewhere and made a memory of it, incorporated it into my life. Or Magdalena knew it, and we had performed it in the library. Yes, said Lena, I know the film, it’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Could we have seen it together perhaps? I asked. No, she said, shaking her head, I saw it many years ago, I was little more than a girl at the time. Chris performed the search for my book a second time, and showed me what came up on his phone: no results. He laughed in relief. For him this whole thing was a bizarre story that he would tell friends when he got home and make them laugh. But for me it spelled the end of a world, my world, a whole life, the way I remembered it. He went on to Google Magdalena’s name and “actor” and found a single entry on the drama school home page. She was called Lena, not Magdalena, he said. Maybe my Magdalena has got married, I suggested, and then changed her name. Maybe she’s not acting anymore. You can’t find everyone on the Internet. Yes, or maybe your Magdalena never existed, said Chris.

  When was this? asked Lena. Four years ago, I said. She counted on her fingers. That was shortly before I met him. The y
ear I passed my final exams at drama school and got my first part.

  Chris must have noticed how excited I was, at any rate he stopped asking about our shared past and started concentrating on the years I had on him. Even though he claimed not to believe me, he wanted to hear all about Magdalena, our first meeting, the time we were happy together. Perhaps he was just trying to calm me down by asking about events that I didn’t share with him, that were exclusively mine. I was happy to talk, it did me good to have at least some part of my life all to myself, and to be able to assure myself of my memories by telling them to him. I told him how and why Magdalena had left me, and how just a few months afterwards I had written the book, which became the repository for all my grief at our parting. He even wanted to hear the plot of the book, even though this was a book he had just claimed had never existed.

  He listened patiently, from time to time he let a handful of sand trickle through his fingers, he gave an occasional nod, and asked a brief question to ascertain a detail or point of chronology. By now the sky had gotten completely dark, but there was still plenty of activity on the beach. There was music playing all around us, and people talking and laughing. When I had got to the end of my story, Chris got up and brushed the sand off his pants. He put his hand out to pull me up, but I didn’t take it. I wasn’t going to accompany him any farther, having said everything I had to say. It’s time I went back to the hotel, he said, I’ve had hardly anything to eat all day, and I’m tired.

  I got up. I was dizzy and might have fallen over if Chris hadn’t grabbed me by the shoulder. Are you not well? Should I call a taxi? Suddenly I felt an indescribable fury, I was this close to slapping him. There he was, imagining a quick Internet search was enough to rub out the whole of my life, as though only what was online existed. I shook off his hand and stalked off without another word. When I had climbed the steps up to the promenade, I turned around to look. He was still standing there, head down, apparently lost in thought.