by Peter Stamm
Me either, said Hubert. It’s all so long ago, I can hardly remember.
I suppose it was my idea to have you back, said Jill. I’m on the committee that runs the cultural center. My last connection to the arts.
Why didn’t you get in touch? he asked.
Jill made a face. You made it pretty clear last time that you weren’t interested in me.
My wife left me, said Hubert.
Jill didn’t respond and asked instead what he was planning to show. Hubert shrugged. He laughed uncertainly. Suddenly Jill stood up, finished her spritzer, and said she had to go back to work.
Come and have dinner sometime. Are you free on Sunday?
I’m always free, he said.
Then come and meet me here at six.
She bent down, kissed him on the cheek, and disappeared.
There was a knock on the door, Hubert was still in bed. It’s me, said Arno, can we talk?
I’ll come down, said Hubert.
He waited for the footfall of the director to disappear, then he went to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he was standing in front of Arno’s desk like a naughty pupil told to see the principal. Do you need anything? asked Arno. Is there some way I can help …
Hubert lied that he had an idea but wasn’t able to say anything specific about it.
We’re under a certain amount of pressure here, said Arno, some local politicians resent us, and we need proof that we’re doing good work. It’s important that the show be a success.
I’ll keep you posted, said Hubert
Just do something, said Arno. Anything, so long as we don’t have bare walls in three weeks.
Hubert breakfasted in the hotel. Then he got the password for the WLAN and Googled Gillian’s name. A couple hundred mentions came up, but almost all of them seemed to be about her former work in TV. When he put Jill for Gillian, there were fewer than a dozen results, and they all had to do with her work in the vacation club.
The opening of the graduation show at the art college was scheduled for Friday. Hubert had promised Nina and the others he would be there, but he was just on his way out of the cultural center when he saw on the door a large black poster with Carta Alba/Carte Blanche on it, his name, and the dates of the show. The opening was in exactly three weeks, on June 25. He decided not to drive down into the valley and instead went to the hotel and sat in the lobby. He wrote Nina an apologetic e-mail. He was under pressure, didn’t know what to do, couldn’t get away. He promised to come down in the next week or two to take a look at her work.
When he drove down to the village later on to buy food, he saw the poster for his exhibition in some of the shop windows. It felt as though Arno was making fun of him. He spent the evening in the hotel lobby, aimlessly surfing the Web.
On Saturday morning, Hubert called Astrid. She asked how he was doing and whether the show was coming together. He replied evasively. They talked about a few practical matters, then Astrid asked if she and Lukas should come up and see him. Maybe Rolf would come too. Hubert said it wasn’t a good time, he needed to concentrate on what he was doing. Then he asked to talk to Lukas and asked him what he was doing, but the boy was pretty monosyllabic and soon hung up.
All Sunday Hubert was nervous. He had crazy ideas about what he might do for the show, he thought about unpacking his old slides, projecting them on the walls or magnifying them, the whole series as a sort of illustrated romance. He could cut bits out of them, blow up certain details till they became unrecognizable. Or take pictures of himself, naked or clothed, doing the same things he had painted the women doing, as an ironic commentary on his earlier exhibition. Or he could do the thing he thought about doing before, make portraits of hotel guests. Or he could start a herbarium, paint with natural materials, make a stone circle, some reference to the power places. He even briefly considered a performance, though that really wasn’t his thing. None of it interested him.
In the afternoon, he took himself to the hotel spa. At six he asked at reception for Jill. He was told she would be on her way, but it was another ten minutes before she appeared in the lobby.
We can take my car, she said, leaving the hotel almost at a run.
She had a red Twingo, the backseat was a jumble of papers and clothes. Jill drove fast up the narrow road and over the new bridge.
Don’t you live in the village, then? asked Hubert.
Just outside, said Jill, it’s not far.
Five minutes later, she drew up outside a 1950s vacation house.
It’s not a thing of beauty, she said, but it belongs to my parents, so there’s no rent to pay.
How long have you been living here? asked Hubert.
Six years. I moved up here right after the accident.
Hubert said he had read something about that in a magazine, what had happened.
Jill climbed out. While they were still standing in front of the house, she explained rapidly that her husband had been drunk, had hit a deer, and died.
I was pretty badly hurt. My nose was more or less gone, but they built me another one that’s almost the same. It took over three years and lots of operations before it looked all right. Come in. Do you want a tour?
She showed him around and talked about the oil-fired central heating that would have to be replaced sometime, and the fact that they could do a roof conversion if they ever needed more space. The décor looked impersonal, perhaps because a lot of the furniture was old and didn’t really belong, as though its useful life had been spent somewhere else, and it was here in semiretirement. On the walls were a couple of calendar photos of Engadin landscapes, which Jill certainly wouldn’t have chosen. The magnificent landscape outside reappeared inside, in smaller, faded versions. On the dining table was a thick mustard yellow cloth, with a wrought iron ashtray on it. The air smelled of cold cigarette smoke.
They sat at a little granite table in the garden, in the middle of a flower meadow ringed by tall shrubbery. The sun hadn’t gone yet, but the light was changing, and large flecks of shade were wandering over the facing slopes.
I get properly snowed in here sometimes, said Jill. I’ve more or less got used to the mountains, but the winters are very long here.
How on earth did you wind up doing this vacation club thing? asked Hubert.
I had to do something, said Jill. I couldn’t go back in front of the camera, and I didn’t want to retreat into editorial. I came here because I wanted to recuperate for a while, then I saw a job ad and applied. At first I was working with children. The good thing is that ninety-nine percent of our guests are from Germany. No one recognized me. My boss was the only one who knew I’d once worked in TV. I told everyone who wanted to hear about it about the accident, and after that people no longer asked. Anyway, my nose kept looking better after each operation. Once I had settled, there was an opening in events, and my boss offered me the job.
And what do you do there? asked Hubert.
We put on an event every other evening, plays, musicals, sing-alongs. I’m also responsible for sports and fitness, I draw up schedules, look after my team. And I’m very often out with guests, we go on hikes together, I play games with them, sometimes do a little bit of acting. I just about have enough talent for the kind of things we put on. Tomorrow we’re doing Love Between Valley and Peak, you can come if you like, I’ll save you a seat. I’m playing the farmer’s ugly daughter.
Hubert stared at Jill. She looked back, unabashed.
The play wasn’t as silly as it sounded, she said, at any rate it was perfect for the guests. And she got a kick out of being onstage again. It was only here that I realized how heartily sick I was of the arts scene in the city.
She asked Hubert what he had done in all that time. He talked about his teaching job and the fact that he had almost stopped painting. I don’t know why that is, he said. Maybe I’ve just seen too much bad art, my own included.
By now the sun had disappeared behind the mountains, and the shadows were creeping up the slopes.
I’m cold, said Jill, shall we go inside?
Hubert followed her into the house and then into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and looked uncertainly at what little it contained. I’m afraid I haven’t bought anything wonderful, she said. What do you feel like eating?
Perhaps I just need to reconcile myself to the fact that people want pictures to hang on their walls, said Hubert, and watched as Jill washed lettuce and cut a carrot in slivers. It’s not a crime. But I think I’d rather work on a building site or wait tables than make commercial art.
Stay here, said Jill, I can make inquiries at the hotel. You could offer drawing classes to the guests, I’m sure that would go down well. She was facing away from him, and for a moment he thought she meant it. She turned and passed him the salad bowl with a grin.
During the meal, Jill talked about the club, and meetings with hotel guests, personnel difficulties, and the one big family they were.
When I began here, I looked so horrible, I’m surprised they gave me a job at all. Hang on.
She brought out another bottle of wine and went over to a small desk by the window, opened a drawer, and pulled out a cardboard folder that she laid in front of Hubert. She sat down beside him and opened the folder. He saw a photograph in which she looked more or less as he saw her now. She went on, and from page to page her face changed. It looked as though it was crumbling, even though it was always the same face. Sometimes Hubert clutched Jill’s hand and asked her to go back one. Then there was a picture of Jill’s nose, which looked like a large red potato, and another in which her whole face was cut and bloody. It was so swollen around the eyes that he could hardly see them, and everywhere there were patches of raw flesh. There was no nose.
That’s what I looked like after the accident, said Jill. They took the photos in the hospital.
Hubert turned away. It wasn’t the last picture, but Jill dwelled on it for a long time before turning the page. The next was a portrait of her as she was at the time Hubert had met her. Her face had an expression of vulnerability, as though she sensed what was in store for it. But it was only when he saw the next picture that he realized where these pictures came from. Jill was sitting naked on a chair in his studio, her hands in her lap, a pose he had cribbed from Edvard Munch. These were the pictures he had taken then. They were better than he had thought at the time. He remembered accusing Jill of not being there and of being stilted. He picked up the rest of the pictures, laid them on the table side by side, and stood up so he was able to see them all together. A few were shots of her upper body, or her face.
Do you like them? she asked.
Hubert suddenly remembered her provocative question to him when she had taken her clothes off. Do you like what you see, then?
Yes, he said. Presumably something could have been done with these.
He also spread out the photos of Jill’s injured face.
They have more to do with one another than you might think, she said. If my husband hadn’t seen these shots of yours, the accident wouldn’t have happened.
She refilled their glasses and lit a cigarette. That’s a frightening thought, isn’t it, that you’re capable of killing someone with your art.
He put the photographs on the table into two piles: the nude shots and the injured faces.
Do you want me to exhibit these?
I don’t know, said Jill. You’re the artist.
She had been smoking one cigarette after the other, now clouds of smoke hung under the low ceiling. Hubert wanted to open a window, but when he stood up he almost overbalanced and had to grab hold of Jill’s chair. She stood up as well, and the chair fell over. They held each other.
Come, she said. He looked in her eyes, but their look was expressionless. It was chilly in the bedroom and smelled of wood and old smoke.
When Hubert awoke, he felt giddy, but at least he didn’t have a headache. He was dressed. Next to him lay Jill, apparently asleep. She was wearing a short silk nightdress, which had ridden up a little. He stroked her, felt her coming around, though she didn’t move. After a time she turned and looked at Hubert.
What time is it?
Without answering, he laid his hand on her stomach and went on stroking her. Jill smiled. When he slipped his hand down between her legs, she gripped it tight.
Draw me.
Hubert groaned.
There’s a pad and pencils on my desk downstairs, she said.
He groaned again, got up, and went downstairs. When he came back, she was undressed. She was lying on her stomach, her head pillowed on her crossed arms.
Hubert sat on a chair and drew her. As soon as he stopped, Jill changed position, and he turned the page and started a new sketch. She lay on her side; with her upper body raised; kneeling, hands behind her back; standing with folded arms by the window; sitting on a chair, legs apart, hands on her knees.
After he had done about twenty drawings, Jill went up to him and propped her hands on her hips. Let’s see what you’ve done.
Hold that, he said and sat on the bed to go on drawing.
Turn around.
He made a couple more drawings until Jill said she was hungry and had to have a cup of coffee and a cigarette. They ate breakfast in the sunshine outside.
Well, that seemed to work all right, said Jill.
Hubert shook his head. Those were just finger exercises.
Jill leafed through the pad on the table in front of them.
I like your drawings.
Of course I can knock out a couple of nudes, said Hubert, but that doesn’t prove anything.
I think I expected to be told something about myself from your pictures, said Jill, but then I saw you didn’t see me at all. That’s what made me undress. The notion that a human being should be something sealed off like a table or a chair is nonsense. Eventually I was reconciled to the thought that I didn’t really exist.
She went on leafing through the drawings.
The thing about the drawing lessons here, by the way, I meant that. They don’t need to be life classes. If you’re going to be spending more time here. You’d be paid for it, maybe it would inspire you.
Hubert was pushing buttons on his phone. There’s no reception here either, he said.
He spent the next several days driving around the area, even though he felt tired and unwell. He took photographs of the landscape that he knew he would never use. It was pleasant and warm. Sometimes he parked his car and walked some way up a slope, but he never went very far. When he ran into Arno, Arno always looked at him reproachfully. Once, Hubert asked him when the other artists were arriving. Arno shrugged and said they were delayed, he had no exact information.
On Thursday Hubert took the train down into the valley and spent the weekend in the city without getting in touch with Nina or Astrid, or taking in the diploma exhibition. Arno tried to speak with him once or twice, but each time Hubert refused the call. Instead, he called Jill and made a date for Saturday.
This time they went to a restaurant in the village. In the car, Jill asked Hubert where he had been, Arno had been desperately looking for him. We have the events committee tomorrow afternoon. He’s afraid you won’t be ready in time. It’s in less than two weeks. He’s thinking of trying to bring in someone else instead at short notice. Hubert didn’t say anything.
After dinner, Jill quite naturally drove back to her house. They split a bottle of wine and talked about the past six years. At midnight Jill asked if Hubert wanted to stay the night. Again, they slept in the same bed.
When Hubert awoke, Jill was already up, and he could smell coffee. Over breakfast she said she had to get going, but he didn’t have to hurry. Just call Arno.
Hubert didn’t feel like going to the cultural center and getting leaned on, so instead he showered and then wandered farther on up the road out of the village. It climbed a little more, and wound among meadows with large rocks lying on them, and then it went down, and he arrived in a thin forest. The air was cool and
damp and resinous and ever so slightly smoky. Sunbeams fell through the trees and cast blurred patterns on the forest floor. He sat on a thick tree trunk by the side of the road and listened to the birds. He could hear the rushing of the Inn down below. He remembered walks he had gone on with his parents, vacation weeks in the mountains, endless days spent building dams over mountain streams, playing hide-and-seek in the forest, making campfires and cooking sausages. Suddenly he heard a buzzing sound. He looked down at his cell and saw he had five text messages. Three were from Arno, who wrote that there was an important meeting today, and would Hubert get in touch, urgently. The fourth was from Astrid, who asked how he was doing. She was planning on coming to the opening. Nina had written some nonsense. Hubert wiped everything and put the phone back in his pocket.
He walked back to Jill’s house, did the dishes, and picked a bunch of wildflowers from the garden. He couldn’t find a vase, so he used a big beer glass. Then he looked around the house once more. The books on Jill’s shelves were surely mostly her parents’. Everywhere in the house lay piles of magazines and fashion papers, in the living room next to the sofa was a stereo, beside it a little shelf with a couple dozen CDs. Hubert sat down at Jill’s desk and opened a drawer. He leafed through her old calendars, which he found right at the back. Most of the entries seemed to be about her work, plus a few massage or pedicure appointments, and sometimes a name without time or comment. Mostly they were women’s names, and they came around fairly regularly.
It was just two o’clock. Hubert went back out into the garden. He took a piece of wood from the pile next to the door, sat down at the granite table, and started whittling away at it with his pocket knife. He didn’t carve a shape, but first took off the bark, then cut the wood patiently into thin strips. As a boy he had often whiled away the hours like this, had pulled one thread after another from a piece of rough cloth, or picked away at a rope until there were just thin fibers left, broken up a blossom or a fir twig into its constituent parts, hatched and crosshatched a piece of paper with pencil till it made a shiny even surface. Suddenly he saw the exhibition he wanted to put on: white steles distributed around a room, and on them the remnants of such labors, a pile of thread, hemp fibers, blossoms. Or, better, he would leave the steles empty, and the materials would lie beside them on the floor, as though rejected, or as though the objects had dissolved of their own accord. He went into the house, got a small plastic bag from the kitchen, and put in the wood shavings and the rest of the log.