by Peter Stamm
Matthias is dead, said her father.
Yes, said Gillian, of course.
She had known it, she had seen him. The tears were running down her temples before she realized she was crying. Her father took a Kleenex from a box on her bedside table and wiped them away, in an unusually gentle gesture.
I’m sorry.
I could have been dead. Gillian had said the sentence over and over to herself, but it didn’t have any meaning. The tears stopped as suddenly as they had begun. Her father dropped the Kleenex in the bin by the door and returned to the bed, settled down on the chair. He waited for a moment, then said he had a couple of practical things he needed to do.
Your mother was in your apartment and tidied up a bit.
Ever since she’d been in the hospital, Gillian had thought a lot about her childhood and the time after she’d left her parents’ house, of drama school, the years on small provincial stages. She had a vague memory of how the story continued, her getting married to Matthias, her job in TV. She had come up with an ending, too, a scene in a garden, a sunny afternoon in summer, she was older now, but still attractive, there was a man, they were drinking white wine together and talking about old times.
Matthias is dead, said Gillian.
He had a blood alcohol level of 1.4, said her father. It sounded like a statistic, as though he had given Matthias’s height or weight.
I’m tired, she said.
At least you’re alive, said her father.
That’s what people say. I’m not really sure …
He gave her a short look and then turned away.
Your friend said you and Matthias had had a fight.
Maybe, said Gillian, maybe we did.
Matthias had found the roll of film and taken it to the photo shop to be developed. Just before they were due to drive to Dagmar’s to see in the New Year, he had slammed the prints down in front of her.
Who took these?
Gillian had taken the pictures without looking at them and slipped them back in the envelope.
That’s nothing to do with you.
Matthias gave a humorless laugh. Of course you think it’s perfectly acceptable to appear in photographs like these.
You can rest assured, she said, they’re not going to be published.
Oh, so you took them for fun?
Maybe they were going to be a present for you, she said.
For a moment Matthias didn’t say anything. What if the guy in the photo lab kept a set of prints? he asked. But then you don’t seem to care who sees you like that.
It was you who took the film to be developed, said Gillian, I never asked you to.
Matthias walked out. An hour later he was standing in the doorway in his dark suit and asking if she was ready. It was at that moment that Gillian lost all respect for him.
Okay, she said, we’ll go. I’ll just get changed quickly.
She went to the bedroom and put on her shortest dress, black fishnet stockings, heels. She put on scarlet lipstick and applied a little scent behind her ears, a sultry perfume Matthias had given her that she hardly ever wore. Matthias stood impatiently in the corridor.
When she passed him on the way to the front door, he hissed after her, where do you think you’re going, a party with friends or a brothel?
Neither of them said a word in the car, and at the party he did his best to stay away from her. Gillian saw him in the distance with his gelled hair and shiny suit.
By two a.m. there was just a hard core of partiers left sitting around the big table, which was full of dirty plates and empty glasses. Matthias was the only man, he stood off, glass in hand, staring through the patio door into the dark garden. Dagmar, who had recently broken up with her boyfriend, was saying she was finding it increasingly difficult to see men as erotic objects. Even though the agreement had been that Gillian would drive them home, she had had a fair bit to drink. She agreed with Dagmar and said women simply had nicer bodies than men. Dagmar got up to go to the bathroom. She stopped behind Gillian, placed her hands on her shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek. Matthias opened the patio door and stalked out into the garden.
Matthias was arts editor of a magazine that was not noted for its coverage of the arts. When they first met, Gillian was still working for the local TV station. She had been impressed by the way he seemed to know everyone in the cultural scene. Their paths kept crossing, Matthias introduced her to people and talked her into going to openings and premieres. One very cold winter day they met at the premiere for a musical in a small theater in the city. After the show they sat together with some of the cast. Gillian talked to the composer for most of the evening. He had asked her what her name was, and she explained her mother was English. She had a sense the composer knew something about her that she herself was unaware of. When they all left the theater a little after midnight, the streets were full of snow, and an icy wind was blowing. Matthias said he had something he wanted to tell her. While the others walked to the funicular, he took her across the street to a small belvedere. The lights of the city glittered in the cold; even the stars seemed unusually close. Matthias showed her a memorial stone under a big linden tree and told her this was where Büchner was buried. He put his arm around her shoulder and told her the story of the poor child in Woyzeck, which Gillian dimly remembered from school. And the moon was a piece of rotten wood, the stars were little golden midges and the earth an upside down harbor. And then they kissed.
That was as far as things progressed that evening. They had parted at a tram stop and gone home their separate ways. It wasn’t until the spring that they first spent a night together. Gillian had a couple of difficult relationships behind her and was glad that Matthias was straightforward and seemed to like her. He was very tender, but over time they slept together less and less often. They were both so busy that Gillian kept putting off the conversation she meant to have with him about it.
When he dropped to his knees and asked for her hand in marriage, she laughed and tousled his hair. It was in an expensive restaurant where they knew her and greeted her by name. First, the situation felt embarrassing, then she enjoyed it. Over the course of the following years, there had been a good many carefully orchestrated candlelight dinners and champagne breakfasts, and a surprise party for her thirty-fifth birthday with the guests in masks, weekend outings to spa hotels, overnight trips to specially decorated rooms for romantic couples.
Then she got the job as host, and suddenly she was making as much as Matthias. What really seemed to get to him, though, was the fact that when they were both reporting on the same events, she was the one who seemed to matter. Only now did Gillian understand that he might know everyone by name, but no one really took him seriously. When she did interviews, she sometimes out of the corner of her eye saw him standing around nearby. No sooner was the camera switched off than he would turn up and jump into the conversation. He would demonstratively throw his arm around her, or kiss her.
Is he really offended? asked Dagmar when she came back.
We had a fight this afternoon, said Gillian. She got up and went out into the garden. Matthias was on the terrace, smoking. What’s the matter? Her voice sounded harsher than she had intended. Come back in, it’s freezing out here.
He claimed she had been flirting with Dagmar. Was it her who took the pictures? he asked.
That’s enough, said Gillian.
We’re going, said Matthias, as though he hadn’t heard her.
I’m not good to drive, said Gillian, and she traced a one-fingered spiral in the air. We can always stay with Dagmar.
You’d like that, wouldn’t you, he said.
She left him and went back into the house. Someone spoke to her, but she didn’t reply, and poured herself a glass of grappa, knocked it back, and then another. Are you planning on staying the night here? asked Dagmar. Perhaps we’d better, she said with a laugh.
Yes, said Gillian, we had a fight. But that doesn’t matter now.
Her
father stood up. Take some of the flowers, why don’t you, she said. I’ve no idea who sent them all. Do you want me to read the cards? he asked. She shook her head. I feel like I’m a corpse in a mortuary.
That afternoon her mother called to thank her for the flowers. She asked when she could visit Gillian.
Ideally never.
Every intact face reminded Gillian of the destruction of her own. And she had the feeling she had to bear the horror of the other person, and comfort them with her own bravery. The only thing she could endure was the presence of the doctors and nurses.
Her mother didn’t push it. She said she had been to the apartment and cleared out the fridge and done the laundry.
Thank you, said Gillian, there’s no need. My operation’s tomorrow, and then we’ll see. She said she was tired.
Take care.
You too.
She tried to sleep, so as not to think of the crash, the operation, Matthias.
In the afternoon her father came by again. He was very matter-of-fact. After the first operation she could theoretically go home, he said.
But it’s probably advisable to stay in the hospital until you’re half —
You mean until I look like a human being again? asked Gillian.
Until you can walk properly. When can you put weight on your leg?
They’ve inserted a plate, said Gillian. I should be able to walk in a week.
Anyway, it’s very nice here, said her father. As good as a hotel. We can’t offer you that quality of care at home.
I don’t need looking after, said Gillian.
If anything crops up, give me a call. He got up and held out his hand.
I’ve got all I need, said Gillian. Say hi to Mom for me.
Try and understand her, said her father, almost in the doorway.
The anteroom to the theater was full of people in green scrubs. Gillian tried to pull herself upright to get a better view of them, but she didn’t manage. She saw the faces from below, surgical masks and oblique eyes under brows that looked more salient from that angle, ridiculous little gauze bonnets. A face bent down over her, friendly eyes with smile lines, and a voice asked her how she was feeling. Always that question: how am I feeling. She tried asking herself others: What’s left of me? And is what’s left more than a wound? Can it ever heal? Will that be “me”?
Before she could reply, the face had moved away, and the eyes were looking elsewhere. The surgical masks wagged, and she heard sentences she made no effort to understand, instructions spoken calmly and quietly. She could sense the concentration and a kind of happy expectancy. It reminded her strangely of field trips at school. The class met at the station, one person after another joining the group, curt greetings, not a lot of talk. The surgeon said something, very softly. Movements still seemed to be unconcerted, everyone was busy and trying not to get in each other’s way. The anesthetist told Gillian what he was going to do. The green shapes disappeared one after another, and for a brief moment Gillian thought she had been forgotten. That same instant she had a sensation of her legs being lifted, as if she were being shoved into a dark tube and left. She slipped down into the dark, faster and faster, lights whizzed past, sounds were suddenly very near, a bright bell sounded, an echoey voice slowed down beyond intelligibility spoke. Then it got very bright. She felt a hand gently touch her shoulder. The friendly face once more. Gillian’s stomach knotted. She felt hands raising her, a shaking, heard metallic sounds. Lamps slid past her. Breathing became difficult. Her nose was blocked. She had a nose.
In the night after the operation, Gillian had nightmares. She couldn’t remember what she had dreamed, but she could feel the nocturnal landscapes through which unseen people were moving, not talking but in some secretive way in communication with one another. If she opened a door, at that same moment the room behind it would come into being, when she turned away, it disintegrated.
The mirror wasn’t where she had left it. The doctor was holding it in his hand when he walked into the room. He explained to her exactly what he had done, taken some cartilage from her rib area and shaped it into a nose, and then folded over a piece of skin from her forehead and covered it.
It’s not very pretty just at the moment, he said. And maybe you can’t imagine how it’s all going to heal, but I can assure you …
She said it couldn’t be any worse than what it was before.
I’m very pleased with you, he said.
Why? What have I done?
You’ve been brave.
Gillian had the feeling he was playing for time. She held out her hand. The doctor nodded and put the mirror down on her covers.
In three weeks, the skin should have taken sufficiently for us to sever its connection to the forehead, and then it will look better right away. And in another three months you’ll come back to us. Now you’ve only got another couple of days here. After the second operation you should be able to work again. Do you have anyone to look after you?
No, said Gillian, and then on an impulse: Yes, it’s no problem.
The doctor shrugged. Don’t worry. It’ll all turn out well.
Breathing was still difficult for Gillian. When she touched her top lip with her tongue she could taste blood and feel the rough gauze. The doctor went away. Carefully she felt for the mirror on the cover.
Before lunch she called her father in his office. Presumably he wasn’t alone, there was a customer with him or a mechanic. He spoke quietly, and she sensed that he was in a hurry to bring the conversation to an end.
I was going to visit you, he said, I’ll come and see you for a little bit after work.
I wouldn’t, she said.
Really? he asked vaguely. Have you got everything you need?
I don’t need anything, said Gillian, just to be left alone. You don’t need to come.
I’ve got a lot going on, he said, in advance of the holidays everyone needs things done.
It looks even worse, said Gillian, and suddenly she was crying.
Her father seemed not to notice, he just said that was part of the healing process, the doctor had shown him pictures of the various phases.
It’s not like with your cars, you know, said Gillian, where you can hammer everything out.
As if you knew, said her father. How are you feeling?
She had to laugh. Oh, I’m fine.
I’ll come by tonight, he said and hung up.
The prospect of his visit made Gillian uneasy. It was conceivable that one day there would be a person with a different face, who would be her. But there was as little connecting her to that person as to the other one she had been before the accident. In drama school she had imitated faces and tried out gestures, and that had produced a sort of vague echo of whatever feeling was to be expressed. She turned down the corners of her mouth and felt a weak, unspecific sadness, she pulled them up and straightaway her mood brightened. Now, without a face, she couldn’t do that. All sorts of feelings, relief, fury, grief, were just possibilities that couldn’t be realized. Even other people’s faces, those of the nurses and people in magazines, became illegible scribbles to her.
In the evening, Gillian’s father hung his coat on a hook and hovered near the door. Then he approached her bed. He looked at her, not saying a word, gripped the bed frame, and reluctantly slid down onto the chair beside the bed. He didn’t look at her while they spoke, he took her hand in his. His voice was quieter and more hesitant than during his other visits, and he only stayed for fifteen minutes.
After he had gone, Gillian called her mother-in-law. The phone rang a long time. At last a breathless Margrit picked up. When she heard who was calling, she fell silent.
I’m sorry, said Gillian.
It’s not your fault, said Margrit.
Then she talked about Matthias’s funeral, which had been beautiful, and she wanted to get Gillian’s approval of the music and the restaurant where they had held the wake, and the text of the death announcement, which she read to her. She lis
ted the people who had attended.
That’s fine, said Gillian, I’m sure you did everything right.
It’s too bad you couldn’t be there, said Margrit.
Yes, said Gillian. I’ll visit the grave as soon as I’m out of the hospital.
She got along with Margrit better than she did with her own mother. They talked a while longer, then Gillian said she was tired.
Call anytime, said Margrit.
Gillian wondered what Margrit and her parents would say if they saw the photographs. She was briefly alarmed that her mother might have found them in the apartment, but then she remembered that she had put the envelope away in her desk. She hadn’t looked at the pictures herself. They were evidence of an evening she would prefer to forget. She still remembered her sense of shame, and then panic. She had pulled her clothes on as in a trance. Hubert stood in the open doorway. For the first time that evening, he was looking straight at her. She grabbed the film, which was still on the table. Then she walked off without either of them saying a word. She went to the train station. There was a man on the platform who stared at her as though she had nothing on, and she realized that she didn’t feel up to taking a train or a streetcar home. She followed the road into the city center, first through the industrial precinct, then suburbs she had never set foot in before. She kept running into children in costume moving from house to house. They were strikingly quiet. A few were accompanied by their parents, who hung back a little while the children rang doorbells and asked for treats. It was fully an hour before Gillian locked the door of her apartment behind her. She was pleased that Matthias wasn’t home yet. She could have exposed the film and destroyed it, but she had the illogical feeling that that would release the pictures into the world. Instead she stashed it in her desk. Then she ran a hot bath.
Matthias came home while Gillian was still in the bath. She heard the door shut, and then he walked into the bathroom and sat down on the side of the tub. He played with a few remaining scraps of foam that were drifting on the water. Gillian hoped he would leave, but he started telling her about some editorial meeting or other. She didn’t listen. She leaned out of the bath and reached for her robe. Matthias picked it up and held it open for her. She stood and turned her back to him. When she had climbed out of the bath, he put his arm around her and kissed her. She twisted out of his embrace and took a towel to dry her hair.