by Peter Stamm
Alfons was surprised how much Lydia knew. When they were with the bees, she asked him if he had had trouble as well, she had read that lots of bee colonies were ailing.
I was lucky, he said, I only lost one hive, and that wasn’t because of illness. The queen must have been old. They got a new one in, in the fall, but presumably it was too late. I don’t think there were any drones left to fertilize her. In spring the hive was empty.
A few odd bees buzzed around their heads, Lydia ducked, and Alfons shooed them away with his hand. Thank you, she said, and smiled.
He was surprised how much he had to say, while he showed her around. He showed her the fruit orchard and the vegetable fields, talked about organic fertilizers and pest control. The farmers in the valley can water their fields with groundwater, or they pump it out of the Thur, he said, but up here I have no water. Just out of the mains, and that’s too expensive.
All along, the music had been quietly audible, a songwriter was singing for the children, a comedian did his show, and later an acoustic group played traditional ballads. There were long pauses between sets, while a DJ played records. It started raining again. Lydia asked Alfons if he felt like wandering down and eating something. We can always sit in the tent.
WHILE THEY WERE LOOKING for space at one of the long tables, the music suddenly kicked in again, and people leaped up and ran in the direction of the stage. As they ate, Alfons and Lydia exchanged few words, and those were shouted so that they could be heard. It’s so amazing, shouted Lydia, down in the village you can’t hear anything at all. Do you know who’s playing? Alfons shouted back. She shook her head and slid a program to him across the table. He hadn’t heard of a single one of the bands. She pointed to one of the names with her finger, and said right in his ear, They’re the ones I really want to see. He read the name of the band, Gallowbirds, and shrugged his shoulders. Never heard of ’em.
When they had finished eating, Lydia wanted to go over to the stage, and Alfons went with her. They snaked their way through the crowd, which still wasn’t all that dense, to the front. He kept in her wake. The band was playing a South American—inflected number, and Lydia began to dance. First she started to sway her shoulders and turn her head this way and that, as if she were looking for someone, then she started to move her hands about, and her arms, and she made circling motions with her pelvis like a belly dancer. Not many people were dancing, but that didn’t seem to bother Lydia. Her movements were fluent; they seemed natural and unaffected. It was as though she managed to infect the others, because after a while everyone around Alfons was dancing, only he stood there, feeling increasingly ill at ease. He was glad when the band played their last song and left the stage to applause. Lydia took his hand and pulled him out of the crowd. Her face and hair were shining from the rain and the exertion. Where the crowd was not so bunched together, she let go of his hand and they walked together to the food tent. I’m thirsty, she said, wiping the sweat from her brow. It still felt warm.
No sooner had the next band started playing than Lydia wanted to go back to the front. She pointed to Alfons’s boots and said, No wonder you can’t dance in those. She herself wore a pair of ancient, muddied flip-flops. He hesitated briefly, then he pulled off his boots and socks, stood them next to the bar, and followed her. He looked around uncertainly, but everyone was preoccupied with themselves, and no one seemed to notice him. Lydia started dancing again right away. The crowd in front of the stage was thicker now, and people were bumping into Alfons the whole time. Finally he began to move himself, at first in a spirit of evasion, then later in a sort of dance, staggering back and forth to the music. Perhaps it was the beer that had relaxed him, perhaps the falling darkness. He didn’t care that he could see Klemens and Jasmine nearby, also dancing, and he shut his eyes, and raised his face to the heavens, and felt the fine raindrops and the deep mud into which his feet sank.
During the next break they remained in front of the stage without talking much. Next up was the group Lydia wanted to hear, four men of around fifty. It must be ten years since they last played together, said Lydia, one of them works in television now, that guy over there. It wasn’t really dance music, but plenty of people in the crowd seemed to know the songs, sang along, and danced in a vague sort of way. Alfons stood right behind Lydia. During one ballad she leaned against him and he put his hands around her waist and felt her moving. You can always stay, sang the men, I’m not going anywhere. When Alfons looked around he saw Jasmine, who smiled at him and nodded, and he smiled back.
They stayed until the end. Then they went to the bar and had another beer. All around, people were standing and chatting and laughing. Alfons found his boots where he had left them, and he carried them when he left the festival site with Lydia. There was no one standing at the gate now, and he ripped off his white plastic armband. He looked down at the ground, which was covered with rubbish, and put the armband in his pocket. Are you not camping, then? he asked, once they had reached the road at the top. From the parking lot farther down, they could hear doors being slammed and the sound of car engines getting quieter, then disappearing altogether.
No, said Lydia. I thought about it, but the forecast was so rotten, I didn’t feel like it.
So now you have to drive home? Are you good to drive?
I probably shouldn’t have drunk that last beer, said Lydia, and smiled at him. They both said nothing. Well then, she said finally, and put her hand on his upper arm.
And then he finally managed to get out what he had had on his mind all evening. If you like, you could stay at my house. I’ve got plenty of room. Lydia said yes right away, and took his arm, and they walked up to the house together.
They washed their feet in the trough outside the house, Lydia holding on to Alfons. I’m a bit drunk, she said, so it’s good I’m not driving anywhere. Tomorrow is Seven Sleepers’ Day, he said. If it rains then, it means it’s going to rain for the next seven weeks. Didn’t the seven sleepers wake up long ago? asked Lydia. It’s just a farmers’ superstition, said Alfons, but it’s been proved right two-thirds of the time. It has something to do with the Gulf Stream. Then let’s just hope tomorrow’s a nice day, she said, squeezing his arm.
ALFONS STOOD IN FRONT of his bedroom closet, pulling out fresh sheets and a towel. When he turned around, Lydia was standing just behind him. Don’t go to any trouble, please, she said, taking the things from him. I don’t have to have my own bed. He wasn’t sure what she meant by that. He pushed past her and led her to the guest bedroom, which had almost never been used by guests, and had become a sort of spare office for him. I hope the computer doesn’t bother you. He began to make up the bed. Lydia helped him, and smiled at him again.
Alfons showed her the bathroom, and asked her if she needed a toothbrush or anything. Would you happen to have a clean T-shirt for me? she asked, my things are all so sweaty. While she was in the shower, he sat down at the computer and checked his emails. He wasn’t expecting any news, but the idea of being in Lydia’s room gave him a little thrill. Suddenly there she was behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder and asking him for a T-shirt again. She was wrapped in a towel. Alfons led the way to his bedroom, opened the closet, and said, Here, help yourself. She rummaged around in his things, pulled out T-shirts, held them to herself, and made funny faces. She even took out a pair of his neatly folded boxer shorts and made some remark. Alfons took them out of her hand, folded them up, and put them back. In the end, Lydia settled on a white T-shirt with TRUST A CARPENTER written on it. Dropping the towel, she spun around and stood naked in front of him. He looked at her back and shoulders, which still had a couple of drops of water on them. He had his hand raised to brush them away when Lydia pulled the T-shirt over her head and simultaneously turned to face him again. He caught a flash of her breasts, which were smaller than he had imagined. He was put in mind of the time Kurt had taught him about milking. He had shown him how to massage the udder before hooking it up to the milking machine. Not so he
sitant, he said, imagine they’re a woman’s breasts. Alfons had been ten or twelve at the time, the tip hadn’t helped him an awful lot, rather confused him more. Aren’t you going to have a shower yourself? asked Lydia. Yes, sure, he said, even though he usually showered in the morning.
Lydia’s clothes were all over the bathroom floor. Alfons picked them up and ran his hands over the fine, slightly damp material. Then he folded them and put them down on the toilet seat. After he had showered, he got into his pajamas and came out of the bathroom. Lydia was standing on the landing, as though she’d been waiting for him, with a bottle of beer in her hand. I helped myself, she said, and held out the bottle. He took a big swig and handed the bottle back. Don’t suppose you’ve got anything to smoke here? she asked. I don’t smoke, he said, sorry. I thought you grew things, said Lydia with a laugh. Had he not heard of the farmer who had a little patch of hemp in the middle of his cornfield? The police stumbled on it with the help of some aerial photographs. It was quite near here too. I don’t do drugs, said Alfons. He suddenly wished he hadn’t asked Lydia back. Nor do I, she replied, a little miffed. She emptied the bottle in a couple of swallows, passed it back to Alfons, and said she’d changed her mind, she would go home after all, she wasn’t tired, and at this time there wouldn’t be any traffic cops around. She took off his T-shirt, tossed it on the floor, and went to the bathroom. He followed her and watched as she got dressed. When she was done, she looked at him, and he saw that her eyes were moist. Then he went up to her, wiped the tears away with his thumb, and kissed her, first on the forehead, then on the mouth. Don’t go, he whispered, I don’t want you to go.
The Last Romantic
MICHAEL HAD BEEN distracted the whole class. Sara told herself it was on account of the heat or the upcoming summer vacation. When he made the same mistake for the fifth time, she suppressed her irritation and said, There’s no use, in your head you’re already at the beach. Then he looked at her with big round eyes that seemed to be on the point of bursting into tears. It’ll come, said Sara, patting him on the shoulder and standing up. Michael lowered his gaze and muttered that he wouldn’t be having any more piano lessons after the vacation. There’s no reason to give up, said Sara, even the great maestros had to practice.
That’s not the reason, said Michael. His parents had told him he couldn’t carry on swimming and playing the piano, otherwise his classwork would suffer. He stood by the piano, shoulders slumped. I’m sorry.
All this is about one hour a week? said Sara. How often do you have swim training?
Four or five times, said Michael. It’s the practicing.
Sara made a face. But you don’t practice, admit it.
You’re right, said Michael.
Maybe Clementi isn’t the right thing for you. Perhaps you’d rather be playing something rockier. Or do you like jazz?
Michael lowered his head, and for a moment they stood silently facing each other, then the boy packed up his notes and held out his hand to the piano teacher. Good-bye, Frau Wenger, and have a good holiday.
I’m going to phone your parents, said Sara.
He was her last pupil that afternoon. Sara didn’t show him out onto the landing as she usually did. She sat down at the piano and waited for the apartment door to close behind him. Then she started to play—the first movement of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, which she had been working on for two years now. The eight chords of the opening were like blows, the louder and more violent, the more Sara’s fury was dispelled. It was as though she were dissolved in the music, were transformed into music. Then the strings came in and carried her away. She saw herself on the stage of the concert hall, and the music streamed through her to the audience, which was raptly listening. Halfway through a bar, she broke off. She sat there breathing heavily, not thinking of anything at all. After she calmed down, she went out on to the landing and phoned Michael at home. No one picked up.
BUT HE’S NOT the first pupil of yours to give up, said Victor, gathering up his scores. He’s my best, though, said Sara. He’s really talented. But if he prefers sports, said Victor. Music isn’t very cool. The word sounded strange, coming from a sixty-year-old. He’s keen enough, said Sara, but his parents won’t let him. I’ll try it once more. She rang the number for probably the tenth time that afternoon. When Michael’s father answered, she didn’t know what to say. He listened to her patiently, then in a friendly tone of voice said he was sorry, but Michael needed to concentrate on just one hobby. You can’t just take him out of lessons like that, said Sara vehemently, at the very least you’ll have to pay for next term’s lessons. Michael’s father said he had talked to the school office, and everything was settled. Music isn’t a hobby, said Sara. She avoided looking at Victor, who was shaking his head and lowering his hands placatingly. Any fool can swim. Frau Wenger, Michael’s father broke in, we are grateful to you for all you’ve done, but the decision has been made.
Sara dropped the telephone and stared at Victor in consternation. He hung up on me. Come on, said Victor, have a glass of wine. He went on ahead into the kitchen and took an open bottle of wine out of the fridge and a couple of glasses, as though he were at home here. Swimming! said Sara, shaking her head in incomprehension. They shave their body hair. Victor smiled and took a sip of wine. Probably not if they’re kids. He hasn’t heard the last of this, said Sara, I’m not going to stand for it. Probably to distract her, Victor asked how she was getting on with the Rachmaninoff. I’m working on it, she said, but it’s bloody hard. Did you ask at the Academy? She shook her head. They want big names, someone like me wouldn’t stand a chance. You should at least try them, said Victor, we’ve just renewed our sponsorship deal, and I happened to drop your name. And? asked Sara. The conductor said you should get in touch with him. Say hello to him from me. Victor laid his hand on her shoulder. She liked these friendly little gestures and stroked the sleeve of his jacket in return. When are you leaving? Day after tomorrow, he said, his hand still on her shoulder. I’m exhausted, said Sara. Look after yourself. Victor emptied his glass and wished her a happy vacation. Sara said nothing back. They kissed each other good-bye on the cheek.
THE AIR IN THE PIANO ROOM was stale, the yellow curtains half drawn, and it was dusk. Sara watered the philodendron that was growing along the ceiling and sprayed its leaves with leafshine. She had taken over the plant some years back from a pupil who was emigrating to America with her parents. Philodendrons purify the air, the girl claimed, they absorb formaldehyde and other poisons. The shapeless plant with its air roots dangling in space struck Sara as an emblem of her own life, in her slow growth she put out one leaf after another, without the prospect of ever leaving this room.
In the afternoon she called the school office and demanded to speak to the director. She put him in the picture, and complained at the way Michael had simply been allowed to quit. The director said he wasn’t familiar with the particular case, but if the boy wasn’t motivated, there was no sense in forcing him to take lessons. You have enough pupils, he said. That’s not the point. Michael is gifted, it would be a pity if he stopped now. Don’t get so worked up, said the director. We have no leverage, as you very well know.
Sara called Michael’s teacher. He was still more curt with her than the director had been. When she asked what Michael’s grades were like, the teacher said he was not at liberty to divulge such information to her, she should ask his parents. What a pupil did in his or her spare time didn’t matter to him, so long as he did it willingly.
Furiously, Sara leafed through the phone book as if there was anyone there who could help her.
ALL HER FRIENDS seemed to have left town, and so for the next few weeks Sara was mostly at home, practicing the Rachmaninoff or reading. She didn’t feel like going out alone, besides it was too hot. One day she got a postcard from Michael. He had never written to her before, and she took it as a cry for help, even though it was just a few banal sentences on a card. She drafted letters to his parents, furious, f
actual, imploring, and threw them all away. On the Internet she found the training times of Michael’s swimming club. That afternoon she went to the pool. She hadn’t been there in ages. At school she hadn’t been a good swimmer. Once or twice during her time at the conservatory, she had gone to the lake with her fellow students, but she hadn’t seen the attraction of prancing around half-naked in public. The actual water was always too cold for her anyway.
She looked at herself in the changing room mirror. Her one-piece bathing suit was hopelessly out of fashion, the fabric cracked and dry, the colors faded. She wrapped a towel around her waist so as not to look quite so conspicuous. Then she stepped out uncertainly into the dazzling sun. The big pool was full of people, but there were no lanes. Sara turned to the attendant standing at the edge of the pool. The swimming club trains indoors, he said, not looking at her, and he blew his whistle to call a couple of youngsters to order.
Indoors it was even hotter, but quieter. The chlorine took Sara straight back to her school days and her gym teacher, a sadist who poked fun at the kids who were frightened of water. She had hated swimming lessons so much that she got a stomachache each time. Eventually, her mother had grasped what was happening—but still sent her. Only a couple of lanes of the pool were being used, in which half a dozen kids were swimming laps. A man in shorts and a T-shirt was writing figures and letters on a slate—it seemed to be a sort of code. Sara asked him if he was Michael Bernold’s swimming coach. Yes, he said, and held out his hand. He’s on vacation. I’m … I used to be … his piano teacher, said Sara, shaking hands with the man. She felt naked, and looked down at her body. In the neon-lit hall, her skin looked greenish, and she noticed a nasty-looking pimple in her cleavage. Does he play the piano, then? asked the coach. He’s very talented, said Sara, but he’s giving up, because swimming takes up too much of his time. Too much, the coach repeated, tonelessly. That’s my view, said Sara. I hate the word talent, said the coach. In the end, success comes to whoever trains hardest. That’s what I’ve told him all along. Sara smiled. What is success, in your view? Just a minute, said the coach. He went up to the board, wiped away the letters and numbers, and wrote down some new ones. The children who had been waiting at one end of the pool set off. It looked as though they were being pulled along on ropes, that’s how effortlessly and quickly they were moving. The coach went back to Sara, and pointed to one girl who was just swimming past them. Take Lea. She has an amazing feel for water. Look at her moving. But if she doesn’t train for three or four days, it’ll all be gone, and I can start over. How do you define success? repeated Sara. The main thing is they enjoy themselves, said the coach. Michael has a winner’s instincts. He trains hard. If he didn’t train quite so hard, he’d have time to play the piano, said Sara. Couldn’t you have a word with him? The trainer smiled absently and shook his head. No. Look, I’ve got to work now. Sara remained where she was for a moment and watched the swimmers. Then she circled the pool, took off her towel, and climbed down the steps until the water reached up to her belly. She glanced over at the trainer, but he wasn’t looking.