by Peter Stamm
Where’s Hubert? asked Ursina. I haven’t seen him lately.
Hubert is history, said Jill.
I like him, said Ursina, he’s an amazing painter. Suddenly Jill’s mood swung and she could hardly breathe. Now everything was clear, Hubert had been sleeping with Ursina all along. That was why he had practically stopped painting and had destroyed the nude drawings he had done of her. Presumably Hubert wasn’t in the city at all, he was with the masseuse in her apartment. Or he was here at the party somewhere. Ursina looked at her in horror.
What are you talking about? she said. You’re insane.
Jill closed her eyes, she felt dizzy. She was almost falling over, but Ursina took her in her arms and helped her to sit.
I’m sorry, said Jill, and she hugged Ursina.
What are you sorry about?
I don’t know, said Jill, everything. I’m sorry about everything. I need to pee again. She had to laugh.
You haven’t been yet, said Ursina.
Jill went on dancing. Sometimes she stood still, only moving her head and her shoulders. Or she flew over the landscape without beating her wings. Clouds blew past her in accelerated motion. She dipped into a blue sea, saw underwater landscapes, schools of fish shooting concertedly at incredible speed in and out of bright coral. She seemed to be always a fraction of a second ahead of the music, her movements were producing the music, controlling it. The beats shaped the room, they felt like huge invisible bubbles flying toward her and bouncing off her. The dancers had lifted their arms and kept pushing the bubbles away into the air, they flew higher and higher, floating over the dark valley. Far below she could see the wood, the railway line, and the road. The music grew quieter and finally gave way to the monotonous pouring of the wind. Jill saw snowcapped peaks, then chains of mountains, one behind the other, and in between them green valleys, the Po basin with its sleeping towns, and in the distance the lights of the port cities and the black plain of the sea. She no longer felt the weight and shelter of the mountains, she had the feeling of weightlessness to which she surrendered without fear.
When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the ground with her head in Ursina’s lap. Someone had covered her with a windbreaker. In front of them was a big flickering fire and some people Jill didn’t know. Her thoughts were clearer.
Won’t the music ever stop? she asked. What time is it?
Ursina shook her head and looked at her watch. Half past three.
Where are the others?
I’ve no idea, said Ursina. They’ll find their way back, don’t worry about them.
Jill sat up. I don’t want to go back, she said, not knowing what she meant. I want to know what was in the pill that Gregor gave me.
Some shit or other, said Ursina, you should be more careful. Have you really finished with Hubert?
He has with me, said Jill. Oh, I’ve no idea, maybe he hasn’t. He’s with his ex-wife, apparently she’s not doing well. I don’t think he’ll come back.
I can’t imagine that, said Ursina.
Jill laughed. And why not?
Because you’re the most lovable person I’ve ever met, said Ursina. If I was into women, you’d be my first choice.
She looked Jill in the eyes. I mean it, you’re the spirit of the club, everyone says so. I know a couple of people in the village who think you’re a bit strange, but that’s only because you have such a quiet life.
Ursina got up and said, come on, let’s dance, I’m getting cold.
The crowd in front of the stage was hardly any smaller than before. Another DJ was now spinning, but the music was identical. Ursina stayed close to Jill. They bought something to eat at a stall, a vegetarian dish with Oriental spices, mushy and overcooked, and then they danced some more. The sky slowly brightened. Ursina tapped Jill on the shoulder and pointed up at the peaks that were glowing red in the first beams of the sun. The other dancers had noticed it too, some just stood still and looked. Jill and Ursina had made their way to the edge of the crowd and watched the light slowly wander down the mountain slopes until at last it reached the festival area.
I think I’ll go home, said Jill. I don’t have as much stamina as you.
Do you want me to go with you? asked Ursina.
Jill shook her head. I can make my own way.
She took a shuttle bus down to the train station. There were a couple of tired characters on the bus, one or two of them looked unwell. No one spoke, silence was a tonic at the end of the noisy night. Jill felt very sober and clearheaded, as though she had woken up from a long period of unconsciousness. At the station she got coffee from a machine and sat down on the platform in the sun. She looked at her filthy feet. The bottom of her skirt was dirty as well. In the train she thought about what Ursina had said. She felt like a child found in a game of hide-and-seek. After the breathless excitement of being hidden, it felt like a relief, she could move freely again, everything had just been a game. For six years she had hidden herself up here and not even noticed that no one was looking for her. Over time she had felt so comfortable in her hiding place that it felt like the whole of life. Only in spring, when the snow refused to melt, did she sometimes think of moving back to the city. Perhaps the reason she had asked Hubert to put on a show at the cultural center was so that he could get her out of this life that wasn’t hers. That’s what she would say to him if he came back: You should do whatever you want, you don’t owe me anything.
She transferred onto the bus. The driver said good morning and something about the weather. In the front row sat an old woman with a traveling bag, who was the only other passenger. She and the driver talked in Romansh. Jill didn’t understand. She was thinking that before long the larches would change color, that the first snow would come soon, and then stay until March or April. She couldn’t imagine getting through another winter here alone, the cold days and long nights.
The bus stop was about two hundred yards from her house. As Jill walked along the road, she mapped out the day ahead. She would shower and wash her hair, then sit in the garden with cappuccino and a cigarette and read the Sunday paper. She probably wouldn’t eat anything at lunchtime, the vegetarian dish was still heavy in her stomach, and she had a funny taste in her mouth. Perhaps she would go into the office briefly in the afternoon and take care of something, just so as not to feel so useless, and maybe have a little chat with someone. The new guests would be standing around uncertainly, because they didn’t yet know their way around the building and weren’t used to the rules of the club. We all call each other by first names. The pool? That’s along the corridor and down the stairs. Dinner is anytime after half past six. The winner of the Trivial Pursuit quiz will be announced afterward. I hope you have a very enjoyable stay here. She tried to work out what time Hubert might arrive, if he set off early, if he breakfasted first with Astrid and Lukas, if he waited until after lunch.
Jill stood under the shower, washed the dirt off her feet, and suddenly she knew she would give up her job and leave here. Not immediately, there was no hurry. Perhaps Hubert would come with her and they would make a new start together somewhere, but her decision had nothing to do with his. The game was over, she was free and could go anywhere.
PETER STAMM is the author of the novels Seven Years, On a Day Like This, and Unformed Landscape, and the short-story collections We’re Flying and In Strange Gardens and Other Stories. His prize-winning books have been translated into more than thirty languages. In 2013 he was shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize. He lives in Switzerland.
MICHAEL HOFMANN has translated the work of Franz Kafka, Joseph Roth, and Peter Stephan Jungk. He is the author of several books of poems and a book of essays, Behind the Lines, and is the editor of the anthology Twentieth-Century German Poetry. In 2012 he was awarded the Thornton Wilder Prize for Translation by the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He lives in Florida and London.
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