Peter Stamm - We're Flying

I was standing beside him, and I couldn’t see the expression on his face while he told me about his project, but his voice sounded enthusiastic and full of energy. He had bought the land some years before, he said, ten thousand square meters for thirty thousand Canadian dollars. He had no direct access to the lake, but then again the land was on the main road, and that was good for trade. At the end of January he would be flying to Halifax. From there it was another two hours by car. He had been to look at it already, last year. The countryside was amazingly beautiful, a bit remote, true, but with bags of potential. A paradise for hunters and fishermen.

I couldn’t imagine Biefer in the wilds of Canada. He was pale and puffy-faced, and didn’t strike me as particularly healthy. But he went on enthusing about his property and about Nova Scotia. The area was on the same latitude as Genoa, he said, in summer it got into the nineties. The winters admittedly were snowy and cold. Building permits were no trouble to get, he said, and gas cost barely half of what we paid here.

I asked him why he wanted to emigrate in the middle of winter, wasn’t it cold enough for him here? He said that way he would have time to get everything ready for the tourist season in summer. First the forest would have to be cleared, and then the house built. There was a lot to get done. He said the movers were coming after the holidays. His whole household would be packed into a single container and put on a ship. It would have to remain in storage until such time as the house was built. I asked him what he was going to do with himself until it was time to go. He looked at me as though it hadn’t occurred to him. What about your wife? I asked. What does she think of your plans? He said they weren’t plans, they were decisions already taken. Before I left, he asked me again not to breathe a word of this to anyone.

When I came out of the porter’s lodge, I saw Jana, a young artist who had her studio on the same floor as me. She rode up on her bike, braked at the very last moment, and squeaked to a halt a few inches from my feet. She grinned, and asked if I was taking over as porter now. Sure, why not, I said. There are worse jobs, it’s not too strenuous, and there’s a regular paycheck at the end of it. I’ll miss those two just the same, she said. Albert especially.

She got off her bike and we walked to the lab building together. She had been one of the first to move to the site. Back then, nothing worked, the heating failed all the time and the electricity most of the time. She saw a lot of the two porters then. Albert had been really helpful. He was an incredibly nice person.

THE EMPTY PORTER’S LODGE had something depressing about it. I couldn’t exactly say I missed either Biefer or Sandoz, but I’d always been pleased to see someone there when I got to the office in the morning, someone who unlocked the gate and turned on a few lights, someone to start the day. Now the site seemed dead, the facades of the old buildings were even more austere than usual, and all the windows were dark. Sooner or later it would all be demolished, we were only guests here, our days were numbered, even if we carried on like the new masters.

The violin maker parked his car. I waited for him outside the entrance, and we chatted. He asked me if I felt good here, and I said it was probably just temporary for me, and I would probably leave one day. He wanted to stay here as long as he could. He would probably never find such a perfect place to work again. We were still talking when Jana came along with a journalist who had moved in to a downstairs office just a couple of weeks ago. We talked about Biefer and Sandoz. The journalist said he’d never been able to tell them apart. I asked what our retirement present had been to them. No one seemed to know.

I was meeting a client for lunch. It was about a double garage, my first proper commission for months. We ate in a restaurant in the city center. When I got back to the site at two o’clock, the fog was just beginning to clear. I went down to the lakeshore and gazed out at the water, which was smooth and perfectly clear. I suddenly felt pretty certain that I would never leave, and would stay until the end of my days, building garages or single-family homes, and if I was lucky, the odd kindergarten or tenement building. We all would stay here, the violin maker, the journalist, Jana, and the rest. Biefer was the only one who would have managed to get away.

Jana was sitting on her own in the weigh-house bar, reading the paper. I picked up a coffee and joined her. She went back a couple of pages, folded the paper in the middle, and passed it to me.

Have you seen this? she asked, pointing to an item on the obituary page.

Gertrud Biefer, I read aloud, dearly beloved wife, mother and grandmother, left us on December 27, after a long illness, borne with patience and fortitude. Family only.

That must be Albert’s wife, said Jana. There’s his last name. And the two following, I bet those are his sons.

She said it was awful. Just when he could have had a little time to enjoy life. He had often talked about the travels he wanted to go on once he was retired.

He was planning to emigrate to Canada, I said, but didn’t pursue it. Jana said she really couldn’t imagine that, not with his wife so sick.

It’s true, I said. I helped him out with his application. He showed me the letter from the embassy, and pictures of his property in Nova Scotia.

Jana said again, she couldn’t imagine that. I said she should call him if she didn’t believe me, but she said it wasn’t really our business.

Do you know where he lives? Jana shook her head. She said she’d look him up in the phonebook and send him a sympathy card.

The next morning, the weather was so nasty that I left my bicycle at home and walked to work. The fog was thick, as it was almost every morning at this time of year, but from a long way off I could still see a light on in the porter’s lodge. The blinds were open, and there at his desk sat Albert Biefer in his blue coveralls. He looked the same as ever, only he wasn’t smoking and he wasn’t reading the paper. He was looking straight ahead, as though he hadn’t seen me. I tapped on the window, but he still didn’t react. His eyes were pinched shut, and the corners of his mouth were pulled up. He looked as though he might start grinning or crying at any moment. I waved to him again. When he didn’t respond, I left. About an hour later, there was a knock on the door of my office. It was Jana. She asked me if I’d seen Albert.

I tapped on his window, I said. It was as though he couldn’t see me.

Jana thought we should call someone, a doctor or the police, or at least the administration. I said I thought it was better to wait. He’s lost his wife. I can understand him not wanting to sit around at home.

At lunchtime in the weigh house, Biefer was the only subject. Everyone had seen him and was talking about what to do. The room was full of smoke, but when someone entered or exited, a burst of icy winter air came in. The man who ran the bar turned the music down, and was talking too. He had known Biefer longer than any of us. He said he tried to open the door of the porter’s lodge, but it was locked. It might have to be forced open. I didn’t say anything about Biefer’s plans to emigrate, and when Jana made to speak, I gestured to her and shook my head. Suddenly someone called out, Hey, there he is, and pointed out the window. Biefer was just going by, shuffling along, eyes straight in front. He had nothing on over his coveralls, his face was white with cold. For a moment there was silence, then the journalist said one of us should go and try to speak to him. Who knows him best? We all looked at each other. In the end, Jana said she would give it a go.