Where Love Begins

by Judith Hermann

  He puts the bottle of beer down on the table without looking at it, and Stella realises that he can’t bring himself to stop looking at her face, that he doesn’t trust her. Jason thinks she would show her true face only the moment his eyes are turned elsewhere. She feels something electric between herself and him, something, surprisingly, from before, from their first months – fear and uncertainty, doubt about the feelings of the other, of one’s own feelings. Jason looks at her as if maybe he didn’t know her at all, as if he were discovering at precisely this moment, after five years and seven months, that Stella isn’t the person he thought she was. He looks as if he wanted to get up and leave, and Stella suddenly remembers an evening five years ago, an evening in the hallway of the apartment where they were living at the time, when Jason, drunk, banged his head against the apartment door, over and over again, because he wanted to leave and couldn’t leave. Her recollection of it is unexpected and it is frightening, and Stella leans forward and takes Jason’s hand.

  She says, No, he wasn’t standing outside the front door. He was standing outside the garden gate, and I spoke to him through the intercom. She says, He came again on Thursday, and again yesterday. Yesterday he dropped this letter in the mailbox, and today I’m showing it to you.

  Jason says, And you have no idea. You have no idea, but you’re certain that you don’t know him. Never saw him before.

  I’m sure I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before.

  Jason pulls his hand from hers. He says, Shit.

  You can say that again, Stella says.

  *

  Later, the light of dawn wakes her up. It’s five o’clock in the morning. Beside her Jason is asleep, lying on his back, his arms stretched out, relaxed. She wakes up because it’s unusual for him to be there, lying next to her and reaching for her in his sleep. She lies awake next to Jason and thinks that Mister Pfister’s sentences, his words, that for her don’t really fit together – each word standing alone by itself is a foreign word and toneless – apply to her and Jason in a spooky way. She wishes that Jason would look at her. She wishes that he would listen to her. She wants to show him what she sees. She wishes she could always have known Jason, although she knows that if she had always known Jason, she would certainly not still be with him today. She has got older. Jason has got older. Ava is growing up.

  *

  Noiselessly Stella goes to Ava’s room; she flips Ava’s sleep-warmed blanket over. She goes into her room and stands by the window for a while; when Ava was a baby, she used to stand by this window too, in the evenings, with Ava in her arms, and at night, after nursing her, she would stand here by herself. The waxing moon is setting over the house across the street. No birdsong yet. Stella can hear Ava and Jason breathing.

  Five

  Jason stays four days. He takes Ava to kindergarten and picks her up from there.

  *

  Jason is here, isn’t he, Paloma says as Stella comes into the office. She says it casually, pleasantly, not necessarily to embarrass Stella.

  Yes, Jason is here, Stella says. He’s – how would you say – onshore?

  And Paloma smiles and prudently says nothing.

  *

  The days have turned unexpectedly warm, and the hedges and trees have suddenly burst into white bloom, hastily, as if belatedly. After work Stella rides home on her bike, sees Jason’s car in the driveway and cycles past the house and farther on, along the edge of the forest until there are only fields on both sides of the road. Rabbits crouch in the ditches so motionless that Stella can look into their blank eyes. She cycles straight ahead until she comes to an invisible boundary; she couldn’t say why she turns around there and cycles back, but at some point she turns around. She thinks, tomorrow I’ll ride farther, but she doesn’t ride any farther. On the second afternoon she goes to the movies and sees a film that takes place in San Francisco: American light, middle-aged women who, after running, support themselves on park benches to tie their trainers more tightly, who turn their possibly make-up-free faces to the camera with an expression that seems docile and idiotic to Stella, a stubborn faith in better times ahead. Stella used to like going to the movies alone in the afternoon, but ever since Ava came along, she can no longer forget about reality unless the cinema is totally dark. She sees the exit sign in the left-hand corner of the theatre glowing throughout the entire film; she has to go to the toilet and can’t think of anything else. As she comes out of the cinema, the day outside is still bright. She pushes her bike through the pedestrian zone; she is hungry, thinks vaguely about not wanting to work as a nurse any more, taking a trip, having her hair cut; she thinks of nothing at all as she pushes her bike home through the pedestrian zone.

  *

  Paloma stops by in the evening. She brings tulips and ranunculus, a bottle of wine, and a game for Ava in which she can fish little cardboard fishes out of a golden box with a fishing rod. She brings films, banana gummies and candyfloss in a plastic container. Goodbye, till later. Ava forgets Stella, forgets Jason. She waves to them from the kitchen table, casually and without looking up. It’s the golden box and the candyfloss, but it’s also Paloma’s way of speaking to Ava, looking at her for a long time, thoughtfully and candidly.

  Take care, Paloma says to Stella and Jason. She stands by the open door, her arms crossed over her chest; then she disappears into the house.

  *

  Right or left, Jason says. Stella knows that Jason is really asking himself and that he would drive in exactly the opposite direction she would like anyway. Automatically. A reflex; she could think about what this reflex actually meant, but she has the feeling that she wouldn’t arrive at any conclusion. She thinks, Right, and they drive in the car along the dark forest in the direction of Main Street. Let’s turn left and drive along the lakeshore, Jason says. Let’s see what we’ll find.

  There are impressive rain clouds above the tile roofs of the new development. Traffic is sluggish; Stella says, almost casually, Can you turn off the radio; she rolls down the window and sticks her hand out. They drive out of the city, along the shore of the lake, across the bridge to the other side and up into the hills. Jason parks at the observation platform, and they get out and walk down towards the valley; they share a beer on a bench with a view of the water. We’re sitting next to each other the way we were on the airplane, Stella thinks, and she wonders about the silence between them that seems to be closed and taken for granted. Jason, in any case, is a taciturn man. But maybe the silence is cryptic, expectant; perhaps Jason is being watchful. Is Stella watchful?

  On the other side of the lake, some late rockets soar up above the trees. Fountains of cool blue and silver sparks shoot up and spread out, opening up like flowers or stars. The explosions sound faint, and it is starting to rain. They continue to sit there until the rain starts to come down through the dense foliage of the May-time trees, then Jason gets to his feet, pulling Stella up from the bench. They walk back to the car; Stella’s face is wet, and she is suddenly awake and exuberant, and happy. She turns to Jason and holds him tight, even though she knows that it will make him suspicious.

  Get in, Jason says. Not fending her off, more likely embarrassed. Get in, let’s drive a bit farther, and Stella regretfully pulls the car door shut.

  She thinks, Well, so that’s how it is then. Doesn’t matter; it doesn’t matter. That’s how it is then.

  How is Esther doing, Jason says. What’s Walter doing; what has Dermot got to say; he starts the engine, turns the car around and rolls back down to the street. For Jason it’s easiest to ask questions and talk while he’s driving a car. Having a conversation with him while sitting across from each other at a table, perhaps eating, drinking, is almost impossible. While driving he can look at the street, he’s busy, it’s easier for him then; the street is a red thread that leads through the imponderable, seemingly mined territory of a conversation. Stella thinks she knows this, and it makes her both inattentive and relaxed. She gazes out the window, turns bac
k to look at the lake; the surface of the water is choppy and metallic; a last rocket shoots up over the trees.

  She says, I have to stop, Jason. I have to stop working for Paloma. I have to get away from Walter and Dermot. She says, Thanks for asking what Dermot says; because Julia doesn’t say anything at all any more. Julia sits in a chair by the window twiddling her thumbs all day long.

  Jason says nothing, and Stella is silent for a while, then she says, Maybe I’d like to sit at a cash register in the shopping centre. I’d like to sell coffee and croissants there in that little booth. For one season I’d like to pick strawberries. Train as a florist. Help out in a bookshop. Sit around in an office like Paloma. Maybe I’d like to be Paloma?

  It occurs to Stella that it might be risky to talk to Jason about her ideas of another life, a different profession. What is he supposed to say? But he’s laughing softly now and he says, Then just go ahead and do it. Not being Paloma, but everything else – why don’t you simply do it.

  Because it isn’t simple, Stella says. At any rate, for me it’s not simple. Nothing in this world seems to be simple to me, except maybe preparing supper for Ava or putting fresh sheets on the beds or washing the dishes properly.

  Jason nods. He turns on the windscreen wipers; the road is a dark green ribbon being rolled out before them, silky, wide. The rain blurs the beechwoods; the trees seem to fall into one another. It’s warm inside the car. Jason takes his right hand off the steering wheel to rub his head; putting his hand back on the steering wheel, letting it drop back on the steering wheel, he says, By the way, I walked by there.

  Where did you walk by, Stella says; her stomach contracts, her heart suddenly pounds faster as if it had been waiting for this sentence, as if the sentence were a hideous cue.

  Mister Pfister, Jason says. He pronounces the name in a funny way, something between hostile and revolted. I walked by Mister Pfister’s house; I had a look at it.

  And…, Stella says.

  Were you ever there, Jason says.

  No, Stella says truthfully; no, I never was.

  She’d thought about going past Mister Pfister’s house. Not in the days since Jason’s been home, but the day before Jason came back, on Friday. She thought about it, and she didn’t go by there; she didn’t want to look at it after all. What was there actually to see, and what for.

  She says firmly, I don’t want to see it. I never go down the street in that direction, and I’m not going to do it now either.

  Yes, Jason says, but he says it as if it weren’t about Stella but about himself and this was something completely different. I know. But I went down there and looked at it; it’s a totally normal house, exactly the same as ours. It doesn’t look either occupied or unoccupied. Anyway, he seems to live there alone; it has only his name on the door, and he wasn’t there. In case you were going to ask.

  I would have wanted to ask that, Stella says. Of course I would have wanted to ask that. I would have asked you whether you’d seen him.

  No, I didn’t see him, Jason says. He looks into the rear-view mirror as if something were approaching very fast, but the road behind them is empty.

  He says, I don’t think he was there. For some reason I don’t think he was home.

  Did you walk by or stop in front of it.

  I stopped in front of it.

  For how long, Stella says; she can’t help smiling.

  Long enough, Jason says. Long enough in any case.

  *

  Back home, Paloma is sitting in Stella’s easy chair by the window watching television. She’s drawn her feet up onto the chair; she doesn’t look out as the car drives up. Jason gets out and opens the gate. Stella stays in the car; she sees Paloma through the windscreen, framed by the picture window like a painting – Paloma’s dependable figure in the flickering glow of the TV; she watches as Paloma casually takes a large swallow from her glass of water and puts the glass back on the table without taking her eyes away from what’s happening on the TV. For one moment Stella has a tremendous and simple longing for Clara. What would Clara do? She would be sitting in the kitchen and would certainly be eating something, a ham sandwich with mustard and pickles probably; the radio station would have been turned from classical music to pop; she’d have lit candles; she’d probably be drunk, and Ava would still be awake. In spite of that it’s a gift for Stella to have Paloma sitting in the armchair by the window. Taking Stella’s place for a short, maybe an important time.

  Gifts like this, Stella thinks, are something new in my life. Didn’t exist before this. Or I didn’t recognise them?

  *

  The next day Jason takes Ava to kindergarten, comes back, packs his own suitcase, and is ready to drive off. He stands next to Stella in the garden watching as, her hands in yellow plastic gloves, she pulls the wind grass out of the rose bed, pulls dandelions up by the roots, stinging nettle, wild oats. The sunshine is incredibly bright. Stella sees her shadow, Jason’s shadow, and the distance between them.

  She says, Did Ava cry. She can’t look at Jason.

  No, Jason says. She didn’t cry. I think she’ll cry this evening. Will you call me.

  We’ll call you, Stella says. She does get up after all and embraces Jason fiercely, exuberantly; then she lets him go.

  What are you going to do about Mis-ter-pfis-ter, Jason says. He’s standing there as if she hadn’t embraced him.

  What am I supposed to do about him. Stella has to squint because of the sun; she can’t properly see Jason’s face.

  Do you want to hear my advice, Jason says, not waiting for an answer. You should stay out of it. You shouldn’t react to it. I’ve read about this; reacting signifies contact; that’s what it’s about; that’s what these people want. It’s sick.

  I’ll stay out of it, Stella says. I’d stay out of it in any case. Where did you read this.

  On the Internet, Jason says. On the goddamn, miserable Internet, where else.

  *

  Stella stands on the corner of Forest Lane and waves until the car with Jason in it has turned onto Main Street. She feels close to tears, and she doesn’t know where they’re coming from. Only later does she ask herself how she’s supposed to stay out of something that she herself didn’t cause; how is she supposed to control something that someone else is controlling. Jason’s cigarettes are lying next to his coffee mug on the table in the kitchen. He’s forgotten his jacket. He made the bed, leaving the bedroom window open. He read a report about a refugee camp in the newspaper; maybe he read the sentence, Space changes; the relationship to places and spaces changes in times of war before he got up from the kitchen table to drive to work, to drive off.

  Six

  Ava doesn’t cry at all. But that evening she insists that Stella tell her a story. Stella should tell her some story. Ava won’t take no for an answer. For Stella telling such a story is like a free fall. The characters that Ava wants to hear about tumble around in Stella’s head, can only be held on to with great effort, they soar up and float off like helium-filled balloons.

  Couldn’t I tell you a fairy tale, Stella says weakly.

  No, Ava says, firm and unrelenting. Tell me the story about the little giraffe and the prince.

  Stella tries. She tries; afraid to think that, years later, she might regret never having told Ava the story of the little giraffe and the prince. (Back then. One evening in May. You were four years old, and Jason wasn’t there. In that house in the suburbs where we used to live; I think you can still remember it a little. You had a room upstairs under the roof, your night-light was a globe; you always wanted to see the Atlantic Ocean on it. Outside your window there was the garden and a wild meadow; once we watched a buzzard; the buzzard caught a field mouse and flew away with it; you cried so hard; do you still remember? Back then. When I refused to tell you a simple story.)

  This regret always stays with Stella. It is like a defect, like a tiny but important flaw in the system. Sometimes Stella thinks that Jason also feels this regret, b
ut he passed the whole thing along to Stella; she took over his regret; she carries it with her. Why does she think this? Regret makes things difficult; at the same time unique, special.

  *

  The little giraffe can’t fall asleep. She’s lying next to the little prince and tries to close her eyes.

  Tries desperately to close her eyes, Ava says.

  Tries desperately to close her eyes. The little prince puts his arms around the neck of the little giraffe and presses his face into her furry coat. The little giraffe’s coat is warm. The moon is shining through the window. The little giraffe says, I’m hungry. I’d like a glass of milk. The little prince gets up. The hallways in the castle are dark and very cold. In the kitchen the fat cook is sitting by the warm stove doing a crossword puzzle. She says, It’s a good thing that Your Grace has come just now. Your Grace probably knows what falls from the sky and has four letters. And Your Grace probably wants a glass of hot milk?

  *

  Ava is lying on Stella’s arm, her head on Stella’s stomach. Her black hair is soft; her entire body is soft. She’s twisting the buttons on Stella’s cardigan; she sighs. She loves simple sentences; Stella knows that Ava is happiest with a story in which nothing actually happens. A story without a point, maybe also without any excitement, a story that tells about the uneventfulness of all days, about everything staying the way it is.

  What falls from the sky and has four letters?

  Rain. Rain falls from the sky and has four letters.

  Snow also falls from the sky. Can I wear my red rubber boots tomorrow? No matter what? Even if it doesn’t rain?

  Tomorrow you can wear your red rubber boots, no matter what, even if it doesn’t rain.

  We were going to call Papa.

  We’ll do it tomorrow. Sleep well, Ava. Go to sleep quickly.

  Stella leaves the door ajar and the light on in the hall outside the three rooms. She stands in the living room next to the armchair by the window; turning on the floor lamp, she looks at her reflection in the picture window, and behind her own reflection, the night-time garden, the fence, the street lamp and the street; the images slide into each other, depending on how she looks at them. Stella turns the lamp off again. She sits down at the table in the kitchen and makes a list of the things she wants to remember – light bulbs, coloured oak tag for Ava, ask Walter about medication allocation, letter to Clara, weekend shift schedule, apples and pears – she feels there’s something else she should write down, that there was something she forgot; she can’t think what it could be, and finally she gives up. The radio is softly playing classical music, series of discreetly withdrawn notes. Stella sits at the table holding a pen; she thinks that sitting here doing nothing at the day’s end must be a sign of old age. How did she go to bed before? Before Ava? In the years with Clara, in the years before the decisions for this or that life or a completely different one were made. It seems to Stella that they used to go to bed while talking. Went to sleep still talking, got up again, talking. Went to bed drinking, smoking. Indignant or shaken – by what, actually? – or drunk. Used to fall asleep and wake up again precipitously. Everything was important. Everything was important.