by Peter Stamm
The sky was overcast, but it was warm. Andreas was sweating. His body felt strange to him, unresponsive. It moved somehow independently of him. Onward, ever onward. He reached the Seine, and followed it west. He saw the Eiffel Tower loom up, and left it behind. He was on the narrow Swan’s Island, approaching the little Statue of Liberty, the model for that other one that the French gave the Americans to celebrate their independence. He had often come here during his early time in Paris. When he was sad and alone. After Fabienne had left for Switzerland, and later, when a woman had finished with him, he had come here, and stood under weeping willows and watched the freighters, and surveyed the ugly office blocks on the south bank. It was one of the few parts of Paris that wasn’t beautiful, one of the few places that didn’t have that silver patina, the patina he adored when he was feeling good, but that he couldn’t stand at times like this.
Andreas imagined how he would tell Delphine about his illness, or Nadia and Sylvie and Jean-Marc. Isn’t it hot today. How was your vacation? Oh, by the way, I’ve got cancer. Everyone would get to hear about it, his colleagues, the school administration, the pupils. Maybe they would have to operate on him and give him radiation treatment. He would have a course of chemotherapy. He pictured himself in the school with no hair or a silly cap. Everyone staring at him, knowing the situation, pitying him. They would presume to discuss him and his “case,” his tragic case. They whispered behind his back. When they talked to him face to face, they would pretend nothing was different. But he would be a patient in everything he said and did.
He lit a cigarette, but it didn’t taste good, and he dropped it disgustedly in the river.
They would start to avoid him. He remembered a colleague from a few years back, a French teacher, who had a brain tumor. He had gone out of the man’s way himself. He hadn’t even turned up for the little drinks party the colleague had given for his leaving. He left some pathetic excuse. When they had a collection a few months later, for flowers, he put in far too much. Now he would be the one to whose health they would drink, whose grave flowers they would collect.
There had to be another way. There was always another way. Perhaps the patch really was just the scarring from some old tuberculosis, or it was a benign tumor. Even if the results were bad, nothing was certain. The lab could have made a mistake. The samples could have gotten mixed up with someone else’s. It was a tiny chance, but there it was. Andreas didn’t want to know. They couldn’t force him to know. As long as he didn’t know anything, nothing could happen to him. He had to get away from here. He had to begin a new life. That, he thought, is my only chance.
His decision spurred him on. It was as though he had got back control over his own life, as though, maybe for the first time since going to Paris, he had his life in his hands again. He would heal himself of his past life, which hadn’t been one. From now on, he would determine things himself. He would make his own decisions, and leave them all, one after another, and, last of all, himself. He called Nadia, but she wasn’t home. Sylvie was in a rush, as always. He asked if she had any time tomorrow. “But tomorrow is Saturday,” she said, “you know, family day.”
“Just very quickly,” said Andreas. “I’ve got something I want to say to you.”
Sylvie laughed. They agreed to meet tomorrow afternoon, somewhere near her apartment. Half an hour, she said, not a second more.
In the apartment, Delphine was waiting for him. She had been worried. She asked what had kept him so long. Andreas was irritated by her question and the way Delphine had taken over and claimed he owed her an explanation. He looked at her in silence.
“What’s the matter?”
“I got my results,” he said. He reflected for a moment, and then he smiled. “Everything’s fine—couldn’t be better.”
“Really?” asked Delphine, as though she couldn’t believe it. Then she flung herself at him. She kissed him on the mouth a couple of times, and said now they had to celebrate. He felt suspicious of her joy, looked for signs of disappointment in her eyes. Most people—and here he didn’t exclude himself—preferred the misfortune of others to ordinary dull day-to-day life. But Delphine seemed to be genuinely happy. She wouldn’t stop hugging him, and rubbing his chest with the flat of her hand, as though giving him some kind of first-aid.
Andreas took her to the Vieux Moulin, a restaurant that was only a short distance from his house, though he didn’t often go there. The food was expensive, and the staff were moody, because the place was usually half-empty. They ate oysters and some main course the waiter recommended, and they shared a bottle of wine.
“I thought you were a vegetarian,” Delphine said.
Andreas replied that he wasn’t a vegetarian, he just didn’t eat meat all that often. But now he felt like it.
“I’m a new man,” he said, and rolled his shoulders. “I’m going to start all over again.”
“And do everything differently,” laughed Delphine.
“And do everything differently,” said Andreas.
“Right. And now we’re going dancing,” said Delphine.
Andreas protested, but it was no use.
It was very loud in the discotheque. They bought drinks at the bar, and watched the dancers for a while. Then Delphine took Andreas by the hand and led him out onto the dance floor. She went on ahead, dodging through the mass of people. She walked on light feet, like a cat, or a model, he thought. Andreas stared at her bottom, then she spun around, pushed his hand aside, and drew him against her. She beamed, kissed him on the mouth, laid her other hand on his shoulder. She seemed to be unaware of the rhythm of the music, until Andreas took over. When that happened, Delphine laughed, a silent laugh that the music drowned out. Her head went right back, and Andreas thought either she’s drunk or she’s happy, it doesn’t matter, comes to the same thing. He too was drunk with the wine and the loud music and the flashing lights. And perhaps he was happy as well, or just excited, he couldn’t tell. He wasn’t sick, for a moment he almost believed it himself. He turned his head this way and that while he danced, he looked at other women, but it was only Delphine he wanted to dance with, who held his face in her hands to make him look at her, and then let him go again. A strobe light cut the movements of the dancers into individual stills, and then the colored lights came back on, and everything gleamed in red, and blue, and red again. Delphine spun around Andreas’s hand, lost the beat, and hugged him clumsily, while the other couples jigged up and down around them.
The music seemed to have gotten quieter, Andreas had the sensation of floating, he was moving in slow motion. He held Delphine, and she gripped him, then he picked up the beat and took Delphine with him. The music was back again, and louder than before. The DJ sang something, and the dancers sang along, no one seemed to have understood the words, they were all just mimicking the sounds, as though they were in a foreign language that was all vowels, meaningless words, a pounding rhythm, a song that imperceptibly segued into another, and then another.
Delphine leaned up to Andreas and shouted in his ear that she wanted to sleep with him, right now.
“Here?” Andreas yelled back. Delphine didn’t understand him, so he yelled “Here?” again.
She punched him playfully on the shoulder, and dragged him off the dance floor.
Andreas didn’t turn the lights on in the apartment. He opened all the windows. There was a light in the yard, and its orange glow suffused everything in the apartment. Delphine had followed Andreas into the bedroom, and he started undressing her. When she was naked, he took off the ring she wore on one finger, and her little earrings as well. She laughed and asked him what he was doing. He didn’t answer. While they made love, he told her to look at him. At first she wouldn’t and turned her head away, but then she did, and it seemed to excite her as it excited him. Her pupils were dilated in the dim light, and her eyes looked as though they were made of glass.
Andreas and Delphine lay side by side, sweating. She had her palm on his thigh, and was stro
king it mechanically. She asked him what he was thinking.
“I want you to leave,” he said.
“Leave where?”
“Go home.”
“Now?”
“Yes,” said Andreas. “Don’t be upset, just I’d prefer to be on my own.”
He had thought Delphine would resist. But instead she got up without a word, went in the bathroom and showered. She came back, and got together her clothes and her jewelry in the dark. Andreas felt like making love to her again, and for an instant he regretted having sent her away. He got up and embraced her from behind. She shook him away.
“Can you understand how I might feel used?”
“I might as well say I’ve been used by you.”
She laughed, a cackling sort of laugh, bewildered, not malicious.
“If you want to feel like a victim,” said Andreas, “fine by me. Just go.”
Delphine turned the light on and furiously got dressed. She stuffed her things in the sports bag.
When she was gone, Andreas showered and got dressed. Even though he’d drunk a lot of wine, he felt clear-headed. He felt like a secret agent, carrying out a plan that no one besides him knew. He looked at the clock. It was a little after midnight. He thought of giving Nadia a call, but then he had another idea.
He walked quickly, and was rather out of breath as he stood outside Nadia’s house, twenty minutes later. He rang the bell. It took a long time until he heard her voice on the intercom. She sounded tired.
“Can I come up?” he asked.
“Are you mad? It’s … Do you know what time it is?”
“Half past midnight,” said Andreas. “I wanted to say good-bye.”
“I thought you were already on vacation.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m leaving Paris.”
There was a click on the intercom. The lock buzzed.
The front door of the apartment was open. Just coming, called Nadia from the bathroom. Andreas hadn’t often been here. He went into the kitchen. The sink was full of dirty dishes, on the table was an empty wine bottle and a couple of glasses. In the fridge, Andreas found an almost empty bottle of champagne, with a silver spoon in its neck. He looked around for a clean glass. He didn’t find one, and finally just tipped the end of the bottle into a teacup. When he threw the bottle in the trash, he saw some Chinese takeout containers on top. In a little cardboard box that had a few dried scraps of rice in it lay a used condom.
The living room was a mess as well. Books, magazines, and clothes were scattered on the floor. On the sofa was a brimming ashtray that fell on the ground when Andreas sat down. He stood up again, and went into the corridor.
After a while, Nadia came out of the bathroom. She was wearing her nightdress with a loose robe thrown over it. She had put on makeup and done her hair.
“An unexpected visitor,” she said and smiled, a mixture of uncertain and offended. She seemed not yet to have made up her mind how she was going to respond to him.
“I should have called,” said Andreas. “I didn’t know it was someone else’s turn today.”
“I had a visitor. An old girlfriend.”
Andreas said he hadn’t come to check up on her. He didn’t care who she slept with. He had spent the evening with someone else too. Nadia said she wasn’t interested. She said she’d had enough of him. He used her like a prostitute. She didn’t want to see him anymore.
“I came to say good-bye to you,” said Andreas.
Nadia told him not to act so sensitive. It was nothing to do with her, said Andreas, he was leaving Paris. Nadia sighed and said, if he must know, her ex-husband had been around.
“Your horrible ex,” said Andreas. “You’ve been seeing him the whole time, haven’t you?”
That was none of his business, said Nadia. Why shouldn’t she, anyway. They were both free to do as they pleased. She and her husband got along better now than before their separation.
“But who will you go to to complain about him when I’m gone?” asked Andreas. “Oh, you’ll find someone soon enough. Or I can put you onto someone, a friend of mine. Do you want his number?”
“Bastard,” said Nadia icily.
“I’ll miss you,” said Andreas. “I always used to feel so alone when I was with you.”
“You’re always alone, no matter who’s with you,” said Nadia.
The next day Andreas got up early. He had left the windows open all night, and the apartment felt chilly. He had a violent coughing fit. He felt a little ashamed of the way he had behaved with Nadia and Delphine. He was surprised at the malevolence there had been in him. But what was done was done. They would get over it. At least they wouldn’t miss him.
After breakfast, he wrote a letter to the school administration, handing in his notice. He wasn’t sure how long the notice period was, but he didn’t care. If I’m not there anymore, I’m not there, he thought. Then he went to the realtor who had sold him the apartment ten years before. The realtor remembered the apartment, or claimed to. He said Andreas probably stood to get twice what he had paid then, even though it was tricky selling an apartment in the middle of summer. Andreas said the price was not so important, the main thing was getting the apartment off his hands. He was going to Brittany for a few days. The realtor gave him a form to fill out, and promised to do his best. Andreas gave him a key.
At noon, he called Sylvie at home. Her husband picked up. Andreas asked him to tell his wife he couldn’t make this afternoon. In fact, he wouldn’t see her again, ever.
“Who is this?” asked Sylvie’s husband.
“Well, put it this way, I’m not her hairdresser,” said Andreas, and hung up.
In the afternoon, his mobile rang. When he saw Sylvie’s number flash up, he decided not to answer. She left him a message saying, had he taken leave of his senses? He knew he couldn’t call her at home. It had taken her half an hour to calm her husband. And what did he mean, he couldn’t see her again? Her voice sounded equally amused and annoyed. What a great woman, thought Andreas, she won’t have any trouble finding someone for her afternoons.
The journey to Brittany was ghastly. Every last seat was taken on the train. There weren’t any smoking compartments, and only in Rennes did they stop long enough for him to get out and smoke a cigarette. The platform was full of people greedily smoking, listening nervously for loudspeaker announcements, and looking up at the clock.
Andreas arrived in Brest a little before half past nine at night. It was still light. No sooner had he got out than he lit a cigarette. Jean-Marc was waiting for him at the end of the platform. They shook hands.
“Finish your cigarette,” said Jean-Marc. “Are you hungry? We’ve eaten already. We had to put the children to bed.”
Andreas said he had eaten a sandwich on the train. Jean-Marc offered to carry his bag. Andreas declined. He wasn’t that ill, he said.
“Are you ill?”
“Just an irritating cough. It’s nothing really.”
The drive to Lanveoc took an hour. It was a winding road, and Andreas had to concentrate so that he didn’t feel sick.
“Is the sea warm?” he asked.
“Warm enough,” said Jean-Marc. “We’ve been swimming every day we’ve been here. Only Marthe doesn’t go in the water. For her, it has to be twenty-five degrees.”
Andreas thought of Marthe as a typical Parisian. She was interested in culture, read a lot, and went to exhibitions and classical concerts. She was slim and seemed taller than she was. She wore elegant but practical clothes, and had dyed her hair, which she wore in a bob, for as long as he’d known her. He often asked himself what she saw in Jean-Marc. It was hardly possible for two people to be more different. In spite of that, they seemed to get along pretty well. Sometimes Andreas envied them their life, which seemed to be so straightforward. When Jean-Marc talked about the children, clamoring for new running shoes or clothes like the clothes their friends had. When he planned his vacation and dragged back piles of brochures for hol
iday cottages that all looked the same. Was there money for a new car? Maybe next year. Or they might do it on installments. He comparison shopped for weeks, poring over technical data and prices. Once, Jean-Marc had entered a marathon. The preparations for that took up six months. He managed to finish in the first third, and told everyone about it with such childish pride that no one could be offended. Andreas pictured Jean-Marc and Marthe sitting at home in their living room, calculating, planning their vacation, watching TV. How easily they laughed, as they told each other the most ordinary things. Even when they complained, they did it laughingly, as if it was all a joke.
“How did you two meet?” he asked.
“I was in the same soccer team as her brother. I knew her already when she was a little girl. But it only really started when we met again at his wedding, years later.”
He seemed to want to say something more, but then he didn’t. His good humor had something artificial about it, and even though he was tanned, he seemed tired.
The house was on the edge of the village, on the road in. It had belonged to Jean-Marc’s parents. They had moved into an old people’s home some years ago, and since that time he and his siblings had used the house as a holiday home. Marthe was sitting in the living room, watching a political debate on TV. She greeted Andreas casually, without getting up. She too looked tired. Jean-Marc showed Andreas up to his room.
“Well, you know where everything is,” he said. “Come down whenever you’re ready. I’ve opened a bottle of wine. It’s good stuff.”
Andreas unpacked his bag and washed his face and hands in the bathroom. He tried to be quiet, so that he didn’t wake the children. As he came down the stairs, he heard loud voices from the kitchen. The door was ajar. He knocked and walked in. Jean-Marc was sitting at the table, and Marthe was leaning against the sink. Neither spoke, but they had clearly been arguing.