In Strange Gardens and Other Stories

by Peter Stamm

  “Things have gotten quieter here,” said the man, “but we can’t complain. Ships no longer come to grief here, but all kinds of things still get washed ashore.”

  Lotta asked him whether he was a fisherman.

  “I used to be a realtor,” he said. “You can’t imagine the kind of things that get washed up here.”

  He laughed, I didn’t know why.

  Then we went down to the beach again. Lotta started looking for shells again, we others sat down and smoked. Graham took a shard of crab’s claw and dug a hole with it in the fine sand, which grew waterlogged just below the surface.

  “Well,” I said, “what did I tell you? She’s quite nice, don’t you think?”

  Werner didn’t say anything. Graham laughed. “What are we going to be able to say about her, we don’t get to sleep in the same bed with her.”

  “The sound of that: sleep in the same bed with. Why don’t you say what you’re really thinking.”

  “It’s my turn tonight,” said Graham with a grin, “and tomorrow it’s Werner’s. But he doesn’t go in for that kind of thing.”

  I told him he was being an idiot, and Werner said: “Come on, stop it.” He stood up and walked off, down to the sea. Lotta came back, with her hands full of shells. She sat down in the sand next to us, spread out her bounty, and began slowly wiping each shell with her fingers. Graham picked up a spiral shell from between Lotta’s legs, and examined it for a long time.

  “Strange, what nature throws up,” he said, and laughed. “What was it the man said? You can’t imagine what washes up here.”

  The noon ferry brought a few more tourists ashore, but they quickly dispersed in various directions, and before long the village was deserted again. We ate on the terrace of a coffee shop.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “I’m tired,” said Lotta. “I think I’ll go and lie down for an hour.”

  Graham set off to look for a newspaper, and Werner said he was going down to the sea. I strolled back to the hotel with Lotta.

  The beds in our room had been made up, and the window was wide open. Lotta shut it, and pulled down the blinds. She lay down. I sat down on the floor and leaned against the bed.

  “I wonder how poor little Romeo’s doing,” said Lotta. “I do miss him terribly.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “Don’t you want to lie down?”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “I can always sleep,” said Lotta.

  In the late afternoon, we rented some bicycles to go and view the Palatine graves on the south of the island. That’s where sixteen Dutchmen who survived the famous wreck of the Palatine are supposed to be buried.

  “Why are they buried if they survived?” asked Lotta.

  “Buried alive,” said Graham.

  Werner laughed.

  “It was in the eighteenth century,” I said.

  “But why were they buried together then?” asked Lotta. “Just because they were on the same ship?”

  “Perhaps because they were rescued together,” I suggested. “They must have bonded.”

  We found a crumbly signpost somewhere, but we never found the graves. We saw a man in a meadow. He didn’t know where the graves were either. He had never even heard of them. Disappointed, we turned back.

  “I don’t care,” said Lotta, “I don’t like graveyards anyway.”

  We were riding into the wind now, and only reached the hotel after dark. We drank a beer. Lotta called her neighbor, to see if her cat was okay.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said, coming back.

  “It’s Werner’s thirtieth birthday next week,” I said to Lotta. “We should have a party for him.”

  “That makes you a Libra,” she said. “Joseph was a Libra as well.”

  “What Joseph?” Graham asked. “As in Joseph and Mary?”

  “As in Joseph and Lotta, more like,” I said.

  “A friend,” said Lotta.

  “Libra,” muttered Graham, and leafed through his newspaper. Then he read out: “You are facing a decision, and should be realistic about it. It shouldn’t be difficult for you to strike up new acquaintances. Happy hours lie ahead.”

  “That’s a good horoscope,” said Lotta.

  Werner laughed. It was an odd, mocking laugh. Graham and I laughed along, but Lotta merely smiled, and laid her hand on Werner’s arm.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  They got up, and we arranged to meet up in an hour in the fish restaurant where we’d gone the night before. Werner walked upright and stiff like an invalid. He looked as though he wasn’t moving at all. Lotta pushed her arm through his. She seemed to be driving him onward, down toward the beach.

  “So,” said Graham, after we’d been silent for a long time, “what’s she like then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play the innocent. What else did you bring her along for?”

  “She’s a strange woman,” I said. “Don’t you think so?”

  Graham grinned. “A woman’s a woman.”

  “No,” I said, “I like her. I like being with her.”

  “Which one of the three of us do you think she likes best?” asked Graham.

  “I think you’re the one who’s desperate to be liked by her.”

  “Ach, give over. I like it that she’s always so tired. They’re good in bed. I know the sort.”

  “Listen, guy, you should remember you’re married.”

  “I’m on vacation. Do you think I’ve come to look for seashells?”

  “What does Werner say?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Werner says absolutely nothing. I’ve never known him so quiet. He’s like a fish.”

  We finished our beer. Graham said he needed to phone, and I sat down in an armchair in the lobby of the hotel and started flicking through the Fisherman’s Quarterly.

  Lotta didn’t come to supper. She was tired, explained Werner as he came to the table alone. He was as quiet as ever during the meal, but the earnestness of the past few days was gone, and he sometimes put down his knife and fork and smiled quietly to himself.

  “Are we in love then?” asked Graham mockingly.

  “No,” said Werner curtly but not angrily. And he calmly went on eating. Over coffee he said we ought to go and look at the chalk cliffs on the south of the island tomorrow.

  “They must be somewhere near the Palatine graves then,” I said. “I don’t know about cycling all the way down there again …”

  Graham had no desire to cross the island again.

  “Just on account of a few chalk cliffs. There are chalk cliffs all over Europe. In England, in Brittany, in Ireland, all over.”

  But Werner wouldn’t be deterred, and merely said: “Well, you don’t have to come if you don’t want.”

  At midnight Werner went off to bed. Graham and I sat around for a long time after. We had had quite a bit to drink. Graham said his wife had moved out. She was now living with her English tutor.

  “She didn’t get a work permit,” he said. “Then she wanted a baby, but that didn’t work. She was bored.”

  I felt sorry for Graham. Then I suddenly realized that I disliked him. I said I was tired and was going to bed. He ordered two more beers, but I got up and went anyway.

  Lotta seemed to be fast asleep when I walked into the room. Her breathing was loud and irregular. I got undressed, opened the window a crack, and lay down beside her. I listened to her breathing and to the roar of the sea, but I soon fell asleep, and only woke up when I heard someone banging on the door. I saw right away that Lotta wasn’t there, but I didn’t think anything of it. It was mid-morning. Graham was standing outside the door.

  “Werner’s gone,” he said.

  “Lotta is too,” I said. “Maybe they’re having breakfast.”

  “No,” said Graham, “I’ve been downstairs and looked.”

  We ate our own breakfast.

  “Per
haps they went down to the sea,” I suggested, “or to look at the cliffs.”

  “Well, one thing for sure, they haven’t taken their bicycles,” said Graham, “and it must be two hours on foot.”

  We both felt irritated. When Werner and Lotta weren’t back by lunchtime, we took the bicycles and rode south. But there were two roads, and if Werner and Lotta were walking, there was no knowing which one they would have taken. A couple of hours later, we were back in the bed and breakfast.

  “They’re going to get such a tongue-lashing when they get back,” said Graham.

  The woman at the front desk wanted to see us. She said we needed to clear out our rooms. Our friends had left while we were gone. They had left a note. She passed me a piece of paper where Lotta had written we weren’t to worry, and should drive home without them. She and Werner would make their own way back.

  “I sensed your Finn wasn’t too picky,” said Graham, “but taking off with Werner …”

  “I can’t understand why they left,” I said. “We had nice times together.”

  “Werner won,” said Graham. “Simple as that.”

  He was grinning, but he couldn’t mask his fury.

  “She’s her own person,” I said, “she’s free to go with anyone she likes.”

  There was just enough time to pack our things before the next ferry departed for the mainland.

  The crossing was cold and windy. By the time we got to the car the entire sky had clouded over, and shortly after we drove off it started raining. We barely talked. Graham was livid, and drove much too fast. He was going back to Switzerland, he said, he had had it with America. His wife would have to go back with him, like it or not. After all, she was still dependent on him for money.

  Outside Bridgeport we stopped for gas, and I tried calling Werner and then Lotta. But Werner wasn’t there, and Lotta’s answering machine played only music, as though nothing had happened. After the signal I yelled out: “Lotta, are you there? Lotta!”

  I imagined my voice echoing through the empty apartment, felt stupid, and hung up.

  We drove through the Bronx to Queens, where Graham lived. I went up with him. His place was a mess, dirty plates in the kitchen. While Graham played back phone messages, I made coffee. There was an agitated voice on the tape, but I couldn’t hear much over the boiling water. When I walked into the sitting room, Graham was sitting slumped on the sofa, with the phone pressed to his ear. I poured the coffee. Graham said yes once or twice, and then thank you, and then he hung up.

  “Werner’s killed himself,” he said. “He wrote a farewell note before we set out on Friday. That was his landlady I was talking to. She has a key to his place and was looking around it yesterday. It was because it was raining, she said, and she wanted to check that all the windows were closed.”

  He told me the whole, utterly irrelevant story as if he was terrified of silence.

  “The note was on the kitchen table. The woman is Hungarian, she knows a bit of German, and she understood the gist of it. But she didn’t know where we were going. She found my number next to the phone. She called a couple of other people as well.”

  “But Lotta,” I said, “surely she didn’t … After all, she wrote that we weren’t to worry about her. They were going to make their own way home …”

  Graham shrugged his shoulders.

  “Do you think he wanted to … do you think he jumped off the cliff?” I asked. “I don’t think he’s capable of that. He’s not a romantic.”

  “Well, I’m sure he didn’t have a gun,” said Graham.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s too early to go to the police.”

  He wanted to give me a ride into the city, but I said he ought to stay by the phone. I didn’t feel like talking, I wanted to be alone. The two cups of coffee sat on the table, untouched.

  The subway station was almost deserted. I had to wait fifteen minutes for a train. As we approached Manhattan, it gradually filled up. I got out one station before my usual stop, and walked the last few blocks. It wasn’t raining any more, but the streets were still wet. I bought a beer and a sandwich at a convenience store.

  As I opened the front door of the apartment, I could hear Lotta’s voice. The answering machine was on, and was recording. At first I wanted to pick up the receiver and speak to her, but then I didn’t and just listened. “The furniture all belongs to Joseph. And Romeo … Robert, please will you look after Romeo. He’s so little. Promise me you won’t let anything happen to him. You can stay in the apartment too. You’ll just have to sort it out with Joseph. Tell him you’ve paid the agency fees.” There was silence for a moment.

  “I think that’s everything. Be well, and don’t be mad at us. Bye Graham, bye Robert.”

  She whispered: “Do you want to say anything else?”

  I heard Werner clearly say no. Then there was a click, and the connection was broken. I pictured Lotta turning to face Werner, in some bus stop or restaurant, and he smiling, and the two of them going off together and disappearing. I thought I’d missed my last chance to speak to her, or at least to say goodbye.

  I rewound the tape and listened to it from the beginning.

  “You have … TWO messages,” said the synthetic voice. Then I heard my voice: “Lotta, are you there? Lotta!” I sounded nervous and angry, worried. There were a couple of clicks, and then Lotta spoke: “Hello, is anyone home? Hello, Robert, hello!” She sighed, and then she said: “Ah well, then you’re still on your way back. Doesn’t matter. I’m calling from a restaurant. We’re in … where are we?”

  I could hear them whispering.

  “We’re near Philadelphia. I’m with Werner. We’re traveling together. Originally, Werner was going to … well, he left a note in his apartment. But he’s changed his mind. We’re going traveling together. He’s fixed everything. You’ll understand when you see the note. I don’t have much that needs taking care of. Robert? If you get this, will you call Joseph. He knows about everything. You’ll find his number on the list next to the phone. I came back to the apartment quickly to pick up a few things. I don’t need any more. The furniture belongs to Joseph …”

  I stopped the tape, and called Graham. We didn’t talk for long. When I got myself a beer, Romeo walked into the kitchen. There was some milk in the fridge. “Do you know where your children are” it said on the package, and underneath was a picture and a short description of a missing child.

  The milk had gone bad, and I poured it away. In one of the cupboards there was a can of cat food. I turned on the TV, lay down on the sofa, and drank my beer.

  A few days later I called Joseph, and asked if I could meet him. I said I was a friend of Lotta’s. He cleared his throat and said we could meet at his restaurant, which was on the corner of Vandam and Houston.

  I went there the next morning. The place was dark and empty. There was one short, stout man sitting reading the paper at a table at the back. He was balding, and fifty. He stood up as I approached the table, and we shook hands.

  “You must be Robert. I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Joseph. What’s Lotta up to?”

  He asked me to sit down, and went behind the bar to get me a coffee.

  “I’m Lotta’s subtenant,” I said.

  “So she’s back from Finland. I thought she might be.”

  “She’s disappeared,” I said.

  He laughed. “Milk and sugar? She does have a habit of disappearing.”

  “Black, please,” I said. “She disappeared with a friend of mine. No idea where.”

  Joseph sat down opposite. “The building is mine,” he said. “Lotta didn’t pay any rent. Don’t look at me that way. It’s not as though I’m married.”

  “There was nothing between us,” I said. “We just shared the apartment.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Joseph, and drank his coffee. “Lotta’s one of those wandering scrounging types. New York’s full of them. They take whatever
they can get, and give you nothing back.”

  “I always wanted to live the way she does,” I said. “I like her. She’s nice.”

  “Sure. Why do you think I let her live in the place for free?”

  I smiled, and then he smiled too.

  “How long do you want to keep the apartment for?”

  “Three weeks still. I’ve paid the rent. I’ve got a receipt here …”

  “That’s fine. You can stay as long as you like.”

  “What about Lotta’s things?” I asked. “She said she wouldn’t be needing them any more.”

  “Just leave everything the way it is,” he said. “She’ll be back one day.”

  IN THE OUTER SUBURBS

  I’d spent Christmas Eve with friends. They’d uncorked some champagne in the afternoon, and I’d gone home early because I was drunk and I had a headache. I was living in a small studio apartment in West Queens. In the morning I was awakened by the phone. It was my parents calling from Switzerland, to wish me a merry Christmas. It wasn’t a long conversation, we didn’t know what else to say to each other. It was raining outside. I made myself some coffee, and read.

  In the afternoon I went for a walk. For the first time since I’d been there, I headed out of town, toward the outer suburbs. I hit Queens Boulevard, and followed it east. It was a wide straight road, cutting through precincts that didn’t change much or at all. Sometimes it was shops, and I had a sense of being in some sort of conurbation, and then I found myself in residential districts of tenements or small, squalid row houses. I crossed a bridge over an old, overgrown set of rails. Then there was an enclosed patch of waste ground, full of trash and rubble, and an enormous crossroads with no lights and no traffic. After that I came to another bunch of shops and a cross-street that had a subway stop on top of it, like a roof. The Christmas decorations in the storefronts and the tinsel hanging over the streets, disarrayed by rain and wind, looked like ancient remnants.

  The rain had let up, and I stopped on the corner to light a cigarette. I wasn’t sure whether to go on or not. Then a young woman came up to me, and asked for a light. She said it was her birthday. If I had twenty dollars on me, we could buy a few things and have ourselves a little party.