by Peter Stamm
She had set up a camp bed in the room. She would sleep there for the time her father stayed. She didn’t sleep well. She heard him breathing loudly, and tossing and turning. When she got up to go to the bathroom, she passed by the bed. Sleeping, he looked older than he did awake. She didn’t see him as her father, she saw him as an old man, the withered body of an old man who was utterly strange to her. She couldn’t imagine anything connecting her and this old man.
He had woken up two hours before her, had been sitting at the table reading. She had woken up when he got up, but she had pretended to be still asleep. On the days when she did the early shift, she had to get up at half past five. She opened the restaurant at half past six. The driver of the bus would be standing outside already, who always went to Denmark for his vacation, and knew one or two words of Danish. Good morning, how are you, my name is Alois, I love you. He laughed, and she laughed, and corrected his accent. I love you, I love you, I love you. Again and again, till it sounded right. Then he read the newspaper, and she set out the ashtrays on the tables.
Her father stood beside the camp bed. It’s my day off, she said, and turned over. And then she got up after all. We could catch a bus or train somewhere. But he wanted to hike. It had stopped raining. What if it started again? That wouldn’t bother him.
She told him the story of the Devil’s Bridge. He didn’t say anything. He breathed heavily. The path was narrow and steep, and he walked unsteadily. When she wanted to rest, he drove them on. Only then did she notice that he was frightened.
They walked across a steep slope. To him it felt as though the earth had turned over, and everything was skewed and unsafe. There was nowhere to orient yourself, and no holds. The moraine slipped away under your feet. It was an easy path, she said. Even for a Dane. What have you got against Denmark? He was annoyed. Those people who emigrated and badmouthed their native country. Do you want to live here then? In this hole? She shook her head. You don’t have to be so aggressive.
She walked on. Her father followed her in silence. It was almost noon, but it had grown hardly any lighter in this narrow valley. There was a Russian bus by the Devil’s Bridge. We can do the last bit on the road. Why? Well, if you’re having trouble with the scree … It was no trouble. You never find anything difficult, ha? You can do anything. You know everything. You never make any mistakes. Of course he made mistakes. For instance? Coming here was a mistake, for one. If you want to leave … He didn’t reply. He walked behind her, along the road, even though there was hardly any traffic.
She didn’t want to quarrel. She wanted to be with her father the way she had been with him when she was a child. He was besotted with her, her mother had often said so. But only when he wasn’t listening. If she opened her mouth, it was all over. He had stopped. When she turned around and saw him standing by the side of the road, she knew she was stronger than he was.
That night she stood beside his bed again. Then she lay down next to him, carefully, so as not to wake him. In his sleep he turned toward her. He placed a hand on her hip. She lay perfectly still beside him, he was sleeping more calmly now. Later on, she moved back to the camp bed again. In the morning she asked him if he’d dreamed anything. He said he never dreamed. She said everyone dreamed.
The weather was better. What shall we do today? We could take the train a ways, and then walk … But he wanted to walk up the valley again. Why? It’s where we were yesterday. Why not? This time he went ahead. He seemed to feel more confident now. Sometimes they saw the railway line on their climb, and once the path crossed over the road on a viaduct. You could step right up to the edge and look down.
Inger! he called, not so close to the edge. He had never been to the mountains before, he had no idea about mountains. On the pictures he knew, they were always in the distance, a feature of the horizon, small seeming. The Alps were formed when Europe and Africa collided. You don’t have to tell me about the Alps. You will never belong here. What if I meet a man here, and marry him? It’s your life. Is it? He reflected. Do you have any friends here? Do you have a boyfriend? Why not?
Why not? She thought about it. She didn’t want a boyfriend. Casual touches were enough for her. She didn’t want to stay here. If it wasn’t for the tunnel, she would have run off long ago. Every hour there was a train south. One day she would get on one of them. If you like, she said, we can go to the Ticino tomorrow.
They had almost reached their destination, and were walking side by side on a bicycle track. He was telling her something. When you were little you fixed a piece of cardboard to your bike with a clothespin, so that it got in the spokes. It rattled like a motorbike. You were so proud, and you couldn’t stop. I punished you. Afterwards, I felt sorry. She couldn’t remember. It wasn’t just that time either. Do you think I was difficult? You were a child. What do you mean? He didn’t reply, and really she didn’t want to know what he meant by it. It was enough for her to have him walking along beside her.
He had made the same mistakes as his own father. A bit late to think of that now. Everyone made mistakes. There was no point talking about it, thinking about it. She had forgotten, and he should forget about it too. He didn’t know what made him think about it now.
If you’re not too tired? They walked beyond where they had got to the day before. The gradient leveled out, and the path led across a meadow. They had almost reached the next village when it started to rain. There was a remote gas station on the road. They sheltered there. The weather is very changeable here, said Inger. Sometimes it snows in summer. Aren’t you cold? A VW van stopped at the gas station. A man got out. There were three children in the back seat. One of them wiped the condensation off the window. He stared at Inger. Then he poked his tongue at her. The man finished filling up. He climbed in, and drove off.
Inger hadn’t been popular as a child, she had never found out why. She had tried to make friends, but she had never had very many. You made a fuss of yourself, said her father. You always wanted to be the center of attention. Sometimes it would drive me crazy. Inger had always seen herself as a victim. It’s a good thing to be grown-up, she said. Because you get left in peace. Because you don’t owe anyone anything. Tell me about Mama. What was she like when you married. Ah, he said.
The driver of the bus had seen Inger on the road, and stopped. Do you want a ride? This is my father. This is Alois. They drove up to the pass. The bus stopped there for twenty minutes, and Alois tried out his repertoire of sentences on Inger and her father. He said: Good morning, how are you, my name is Alois. I would like a cup of coffee. And then, in his own language: Can I take you on to Airolo? Inger shook her head. Some other time. Maybe tomorrow.
She took her father by the hand, and they ran through the rain to the inn. It was cold up here, and he was in his shirt. Aren’t you cold? Come on, we’ll make some tea. On the way back, he was coughing. He didn’t want to take her jacket, she simply laid it over his shoulders. For a moment she left her arm there.
In the evening he had a temperature. When she moved to put her palm on his forehead, he turned his head away. It’s nothing. They ate downstairs, in the restaurant. He wasn’t hungry, and when he climbed the stairs in front of her, he staggered as though drunk. Now he was asleep, and she was sitting at the table, reading a magazine he had brought her. She imagined: He’s the child, and I’m the mother. He’s sick. She went up to the bed, laid her hand on his brow. He seemed helpless. But what could she do? She imagined: If he gets sick at home, there’s no one there to look after him. She saw him traipse through the house in his pajamas. He was sick in the bathroom, he cleaned himself up, he went to the kitchen and made tea. He didn’t turn on the light, he knew where everything was kept. Inger switched off the light on the nightstand, and got into bed with him. She lay there still for a long time, and then she kissed him on the mouth. At that moment, she was prepared to forgive him for everything.
When he woke up, she had gone to sleep. He wasn’t surprised to find her next to him in bed. He took
her hand, which lay on the sheet. In the sparse light, he could only just dimly make out her face. He looked at her for a long time. She resembled her mother. But that was so long ago. Perhaps he was just imagining it, perhaps he was dreaming. When he awoke again, it was morning. Inger stood in front of the sink. He was glad she wasn’t lying beside him.
He wouldn’t have known what to say. Inger? he said. She turned to face him. Do you feel better? Yes, he said, and smiled. If you like, we can go south today.
He was talking more softly than usual, she could hardly hear him. As she washed, she could hear him getting up. He went up to the window and opened it. Cool air came in. She didn’t know what it was that made her think about his death, now, for the very first time.
“Black Ice” was originally published as Blitzeis, © 1999 by Peter Stamm. First published in the German language by Arche Verlag AG, Zürich-Hamburg, 1999.
“In Strange Gardens” was originally published as In Fremden Gärten, © 2003 by Peter Stamm. First published in the German language by Arche Verlag AG, Zürich-Hamburg, 2003.
Translation copyright © 2006 Michael Hofmann
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Stamm, Peter, 1963-
[Short stories. English. Selections]
In strange gardens and other stories / Peter Stamm; translated by Michael Hofmann.
p. cm.
Published in German in 2 collections: Blitzeis (1999) and In fremden Gärten (2003).
eISBN: 978-1-59051-410-8
1. Stamm, Peter, 1963—Translations into English. I. Stamm, Peter, 1963-In fremden Gärten. English. II. Stamm, Peter, 1963-Blitzeis. English. III. Hofmann, Michael, 1957 Aug. 25-IV. Title.
PT2681.T3234A2 2006
833′.914–dc22 2005029502
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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