by Stan Rogal
“Ah, you mean someone who’ll report my indiscretion? Or brand me with the letter ‘A’ across my chest? Don’t worry. While the Swiss people in general may have a reputation as being dour, strict and narrow minded in their own affairs, they are positively libertarian when it comes to the behaviour of their artists. In fact, they expect artists to be wild, crazy, permissive, decadent and even deviant. They’d be disappointed if things were otherwise. Why, the worst thing would be to hide you; keep you to myself. My neighbours would be outraged. They’d feel absolutely snubbed and would hate me for sure. They want to live vicariously through us, why should we prevent them? They see no difference between who we are in life and who we are in our art. It’s all to be shared.”
“And your husband is good with this?”
“He has his lovers, I have mine. We have an understanding. We make it work.”
“I see.” We headed into the pub and I tried to remember the word Paul told me. Was it Gratzi? Gertzi? Something like that. Anyway, fuck it. I’m lousy at accents and if anyone says anything close, I’ll throw out a hiya and see what happens.
We perched on stools at the end of the bar and ordered gin and tonics. I noticed three abandoned drinks across from us, nudged Sigi and motioned with my chin. She grinned and shrugged. There was a pint of green beer, a pint of beer with what appeared to be two scoops of ice cream and a highball glass containing a stir stick, orange slices and a blue liquid that practically glowed in the dark. There was also a round, lipped board holding five dice.
Three guys about my age entered from outside, laughing, bouncing, poking at each other. They leaned against the bar and raised the three glasses. One of the guys laid eyes on Sigi and right away offered some sort of greeting in German. It didn’t start with ‘G’ so I had no idea. Sigi responded and the two of them went on for a minute, then she said “he’s from Canada” from which I gathered I was some small part of the conversation. The guy reached out to me for a handshake and gave his name as Max.
“Stanley,” I said, lying. I don’t know why, maybe something about what Sigi said in the car, that the locals liked to live vicariously so why not raise the stakes with a certain level of deception?
“Stanley! Stan!” Max said. “Do you know the song ‘Stan’ by Eminem and Dido?” I shook my head, no. “Check it out. It’s pretty good. Not great, but pretty good. You know Eminem? The rapper?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him. I’ll be sure to YouTube it when I have the chance.”
Having made the polite gesture, Max returned his attentions to Sigi. He was obviously attracted and I could see him trying to make out her eyes in the dim light. “And you are?”
“Stella,” she said, without missing a beat.
So that answered the Streetcar question, I thought.
“OK, good,” Max said. “This is Eric and Conrad. Kurt is out in the cold, smoking.”
I pointed at Conrad’s beer. “Is that ice cream?”
“Yes. Ice cream. Very good. You try.” He shoved the beer at me. “Go on, try!” The other two tilted their glasses in unison. I took a sip. It wasn’t half bad. Sigi gave it a try and popped her lips.
“Mm. Different,” she said. “What’s the green one?”
“Beer with apple schnapps,” Max said. We each took a hit.
“And that?” Sigi asked. “It looks positively radioactive.”
“Alp Top,” Eric, whose English appeared to be the worst, said. He slid the liquid across and we tried it. It was like drinking sweetened furniture remover.
“What’s in it?” Sigi made a face and waved a hand in front of her mouth. The guys all laughed uproariously. Eric may have known the ingredients, but he was stuck for the correct English words.
“A girlie drink,” Max said. “He’s going through the cocktail menu until we get into the hard drinking, later.” Max was also stumped as to the ingredients. We called the waitress over.
“Gin, blue curacao, peach liqueur and tonic water,” she said. Max waved her closer, whispered in her ear. Next thing you knew she was back with five apple schnapps shooters.
“Prosit!” Max said, and we slammed them back. “You know this game?” He pointed to the dice on the board and Sigi and I shook our heads, no. “It’s for gambling and drinking. Very simple.”
I figured as much. Turned out these guys grew up together in Lenzerheide, then split after graduation to settle in various parts of Switzerland and Germany. Eric was a veterinarian, married and living in Chur. Conrad was an eco-friendly farmer living outside Stuttgart and engaged to be married in a month. Kurt was a banker in Zurich. Max was a lawyer and recently split and hurting from a five-year steady relationship, clearly intent on finding someone to ease the pain, if only temporarily. He placed the dice in Sigi’s hand, gazed into her eyes, gazed deeper, and gave her fingers a squeeze. Apparently, the four amigos plan a ritual meeting one weekend a year in order to catch up, reminisce, bullshit and generally go berserk. This was the weekend. They ended the previous night at four in the morning at Nino’s and were back at it again. I noticed a new face had insinuated himself next to Conrad. I assumed it was Kurt. The two said a few words, Kurt shrugged and did a little dance step on his way to the john.
“There are five dice. The object is to roll sixes or ones, the other numbers don’t count. A six is worth one point while a one is worth half a point. If you roll two ones, it becomes a six. If you’re left with a single one, you have to throw for a six. You can’t end with a half point. You keep throwing until your remaining dice are neither a six nor a one. Whoever ends with the least points pays for a round.”
I could guess how this would end — as an expensive, four a.m. debauchery at Nino’s with a bunch of drunken guys with charge cards nailed to their foreheads, sharing stories of the good old days in sloppy German, maybe singing the old school song, with Max hitting on Sigi every time I turned away — and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hang in and watch it play out. Besides, the place was starting to fill up and there’d be plenty of other girls for them to try and impress. Sigi, of course, loved the idea of a game of chance.
“So if I roll and neither a one nor a six come up, I score zero and I pass the dice, yes?” The guys nodded. She rolled the dice across the board and immediately had three sixes. The guys cheered. She rolled again and there was another six. She rolled the final die and another six appeared. She jumped in her seat while the guys whooped amazement. Sigi said something to them in German and they laughed even louder. She turned to me and translated.
“I told them sometimes the dumbest farmer grows the biggest potatoes. It’s a saying that means you don’t always have to be smart to win, you can be lucky.”
The guys all took their turn and Eric placed last. He waved a finger and five more schnapps arrived. Different colour, same result. We banged them back. Sigi clapped her hands and was set to roll again. I grabbed her elbow and pointed to my watch.
“Hey, look at the time, Stella honey! What did we tell the babysitter? Grab your stuff, we gotta get a move on or else it’s time and a half.” I tossed a twenty franc note on the bar. “Sorry fellas. Nice meeting you. Thanks for the drink. Enjoy your evening.”
Sigi opened her mouth to speak and decided to lay a big wet kiss on me instead. “Oh, Stanley, I love it when you’re macho!” She blew the guys a kiss. “Have fun! Thanks for teaching me the game.” She grabbed her gear and we tumbled onto the street.
Back at the ranch she asked if I didn’t mind waiting until morning. To be honest, I was still pretty jet-lagged anyway and nothing worse than trying to have sex when there’s the fear of nodding off at the crucial moment. I said, sure, no problem. She waltzed off to the loo. When she stepped out, she proceeded to leave a trail of clothes on the floor behind her. She crawled into bed butt naked beside me, gave me a hug, a kiss, then rolled over on her side. The linens felt clean, fresh and wrinkle free. That wouldn’t last.
Next morning we went at each other with a vengeance, up one side and down the other. We agreed it had
been a good idea to wait. Sex was followed by a breakfast of coffee, eggs, toast, a variety of fruits, cheeses, sliced meats, champagne and orange juice. Sigi had a tremendous appetite for all of it.
“I can’t help myself,” she said. “I have a small tank and a lousy metabolism yet I keep stuffing my face. I have to constantly work out to keep down the weight. I ski, I run, I cycle, I hike, go, go, go. Next week I start again. This week, I enjoy.”
We went back to bed. I said it would help wear off the calories and she laughed. “If that’s the case, I’ll be nothing but skin and bones by the end of the week.”
Didn’t take too many days to realize I’d over packed. The temperature remained in the low to mid-twenties and the two of us wore nothing or next to nothing for the most part of our stay. The fridge and freezer were filled with food. Sigi would pull out steaks and pork tenderloins and elk burgers and wild game sausages and I’d BBQ them outside on the deck. Or else she’d throw together a risotto or polenta and rabbit or rösti with salmon or rösti with meatballs or cheese fondue or raclette or potato dumplings or spätzle with sliced beef. I’d hit the wine cellar and uncork champagne for sex, a nice chablis for fish or a cabernet or rioja for meat. Or mix and match, it didn’t matter. Of course, there were always gin and tonics on the go and we spent our time in a constant state of satiated inebriation. The only times we went out were to pick up fresh fruits and vegetables, condoms and maybe the odd pack of Gauloises. We enjoyed smoking on the deck in the evening, bathed in moonlight, gazing across at the stars brightly twinkling atop Forbisch Mountain. It was sublime.
Over a dinner of sauerkraut and sausages I asked if there was a problem with us cleaning out the pantry. No, she said. When Walter came home he’d simply re-stock the supplies. It was something he liked to do: provide for people. Share his good fortune. Perhaps too much so.
“Uh-huh.” I considered this, then asked: “You probably get this question a lot. Is he related? Your husband. To Herman Hesse.”
“Well, you see, everyone with the last name ‘Hess’ believes they’re somehow related, especially as the population is not large, all things considered. This includes Walter, though he’s never actually checked into it. I think he hasn’t because he fears disappointment. What do they say: Better a certain probability than an uncertain improbability?”
“Right. Makes some sense. Keep the dream alive and so on. What about kids? Do the two of you have any?”
“No. We were both set on our careers. We neither had the time nor the inclination. Besides, there are enough of us running around the world today. We don’t need more gumming up the works.”
I stabbed a chunk of sausage with my fork, covered it with sauerkraut and hot mustard and tucked it in my mouth. I chewed slowly and washed it down with a splash of Italian Zinfandel. Sigi walked to the fridge to grab some sparkling water. I picked up my cell and aimed it at her as she returned. She stopped and wagged a finger.
“Don’t you dare snap a photo.”
We were in our birthday suits, as per usual. “Why not?” I asked. “You look terrific. And I’d like to have a reminder.”
“I’ll give you a publicity shot of myself. Taken by a professional. I’ll even autograph it for you.” She mimed her signature in the air.
“It’s not the same.”
“You’ll like it. It doesn’t resemble me in the least.”
“Please.”
“No.” She very dramatically stuck her hand out in front of her. “I don’t want you to take photos of me here, nude or otherwise. You think I don’t read the papers? The last thing I want is a shot of my tits plastered all over Facebook.”
“I thought there was no difference, your life and your art. It’s all public.”
“Don’t be a wise guy.”
“It’s just for me. I wouldn’t show anyone.” I aimed the cell.
“That’s what they all say. Until later, when the bloom is off the rose. No, I told you. You have a picture of me in your head already. That’s the best, as it will never fade. A photograph loses its lustre. After a time, it’s nothing but cheap nostalgia at best, at worst, pornography.”
“What about your movies, where you’re naked?”
“In the movies, I’m not naked, I’m nude. They paid me. There’s the difference. Here, with you, I’m naked. It’s between us. What was that line of poetry you quoted me? Saying naked reveals itself, we shoot nudes, yes? I’m inclined to believe that. Do you remember who wrote it?”
“No. I think I was browsing through a used bookstore, flipping pages. I spotted it. The line struck me. That’s all I remember of the poem.”
“You see, it’s the same with us. We’ll remember the best parts. For me, I have a tiny reel of film of us in my head that I’ll be able to replay whenever I want.” Sigi pressed a finger to her temple. “You’ll be disappointed to know it doesn’t consist entirely of your cock, though you do have a handsome cock. There are other images. The way you close your eyes when you take a first bite of food, as if relishing the moment. The way you describe a situation using your hands — very funny. Your nose.”
“My nose?”
“Yes, your nose. You have a regal nose. It commands respect.” She smiled. “And, of course, the first time you reached your hands under my ass and raised me off the bed to drive deeper. It made me gasp. Things like that.”
She put on her bathrobe, walked out to the deck, gripped the rail and stared out at the night. A pale moon hung above Forbisch Mountain. Sigi lit a Gauloise. I slipped into my own bathrobe and followed her. She was softly crooning an old standard.
“It’s only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea, but it wouldn’t be make believe … da-da, da-da, dadee …”
Her voice trailed. I reached around, under her robe and gently squeezed her breasts, played with her nipples. “You know,” she said, “I’ve never made love outdoors. Can you believe that? A woman my age.” I crept my fingers down between her legs. She was sopping wet. I grew hard instantly. I opened my bathrobe, raised hers and pressed my body in tight. She pushed up on her toes and bent over the railing. I inched slowly inside her. She took a deep drag on the Gauloise and shuddered.
It was our final night together.
Next morning, I awoke and could hear Sigi getting breakfast on in the kitchen. I crawled from bed, hit the shower, got dressed. I walked to the living room and took a quick peek at the walls. All the previous photos of her were gone, replaced by family portraits of her and her husband along with a couple of kids at various ages. She wandered over, rested her chin on a fist, and studied them with me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is reality.”
“Your kids.”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re not kids anymore, if that’s what you think. They’re adults, out in the world, living their own lives.”
“Why …?” The word floated out of my mouth, into the air, somehow disconnected from anything.
“I wanted to fulfill a young man’s fantasy: an affair with an older woman — an aging movie star — in an exotic location. I didn’t want to spoil it with reminders of childbirth and stretch marks and milk-filled breasts once used as feeding bags for colic-y, snotty-nosed babies. So, I sweetened the scene with perfectly lit, perfectly shot, 8x10 glossies from a more idyllic era.”
“I see.”
“You see. Good! Now, it’s over — poof! We had our fun. I begin rehearsals in Zurich, my husband returns from Brazil, you return to Toronto. Nice while it lasted. Thank you very much for the swell time.”
“We can keep in touch.”
“I think not. I’ll drop you off at the bus station with a polite kiss on the cheek, after that …” She snapped her fingers. “C’est tout.” She stroked my nose with her hand, spun on her heels and retreated to the kitchen. I stood there, alone among a frozen array of innocent, blissful, smiling faces.
I ordered a gin and tonic on the plane. Natura
lly, I had known all along that Sigi had kids as I’d Googled her those several months ago, wanting to know more about her. It was also no secret she and her husband were splitting and having to sell their home sweet home due to him having an affair with another, much younger, woman. Gossip travels at warp speed in the entertainment industry. I was made aware before I left Toronto and apprised again by Paul and Ingrid in Zurich. And Sigi was no dummy — she knew that I knew, it goes without saying. It didn’t matter. The situation was all so banal, so tawdry, the most we could do was play our designated roles to the best of our abilities and attempt to transform the mundane into something that resembled art. Perhaps not high art, but art nonetheless.
I appreciated Sigi making the effort to create a dream that included me. She was correct on one level. There was a small reel of film in my head containing many beautiful memories which I could replay anytime I wanted: our fear-filled drive down the mountain, smoking Gauloises at the Giger Bar, her standing naked in the doorway, one green eye and one blue eye. Though I knew even this piece of film couldn’t last forever. Nothing does.
And so it goes.
Whether it’s the staged image of some poor sap stood in the pouring rain under a second floor window hollering “Stella” at the top of his lungs, or a similar heartbroken soul leaned against a moonlit balcony rail, humming: “It’s only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea, but it wouldn’t be make believe …,” it’s the same. There occurs the sobering recognition that whatever part we play, and however well we play it, the performance (as well as the particular details) fades and disappears soon after the curtain falls.
And so it goes.
And so it goes.
THE MARRIAGE COUNSEL’S TALE
In which a young couple attempts to save their marriage by seeking advice from a home audience via a do-it-yourself internet program.
The two fuss at the foot of the basement stairs leading into the den. They face a slim full-length mirror, Maddie in front, Jonathan tight behind her, making last minute adjustments to their wardrobes. Jonathan zips the back of her dress and latches her necklace. Maddie checks her lipstick and hair in a compact. She licks and rubs lipstick from her teeth. They bicker jokingly.