Peter Stamm - We're Flying

I probably shouldn’t have drunk that last beer, said Lydia, and smiled at him. They both said nothing. Well then, she said finally, and put her hand on his upper arm.

And then he finally managed to get out what he had had on his mind all evening. If you like, you could stay at my house. I’ve got plenty of room. Lydia said yes right away, and took his arm, and they walked up to the house together.

They washed their feet in the trough outside the house, Lydia holding on to Alfons. I’m a bit drunk, she said, so it’s good I’m not driving anywhere. Tomorrow is Seven Sleepers’ Day, he said. If it rains then, it means it’s going to rain for the next seven weeks. Didn’t the seven sleepers wake up long ago? asked Lydia. It’s just a farmers’ superstition, said Alfons, but it’s been proved right two-thirds of the time. It has something to do with the Gulf Stream. Then let’s just hope tomorrow’s a nice day, she said, squeezing his arm.

ALFONS STOOD IN FRONT of his bedroom closet, pulling out fresh sheets and a towel. When he turned around, Lydia was standing just behind him. Don’t go to any trouble, please, she said, taking the things from him. I don’t have to have my own bed. He wasn’t sure what she meant by that. He pushed past her and led her to the guest bedroom, which had almost never been used by guests, and had become a sort of spare office for him. I hope the computer doesn’t bother you. He began to make up the bed. Lydia helped him, and smiled at him again.

Alfons showed her the bathroom, and asked her if she needed a toothbrush or anything. Would you happen to have a clean T-shirt for me? she asked, my things are all so sweaty. While she was in the shower, he sat down at the computer and checked his emails. He wasn’t expecting any news, but the idea of being in Lydia’s room gave him a little thrill. Suddenly there she was behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder and asking him for a T-shirt again. She was wrapped in a towel. Alfons led the way to his bedroom, opened the closet, and said, Here, help yourself. She rummaged around in his things, pulled out T-shirts, held them to herself, and made funny faces. She even took out a pair of his neatly folded boxer shorts and made some remark. Alfons took them out of her hand, folded them up, and put them back. In the end, Lydia settled on a white T-shirt with TRUST A CARPENTER written on it. Dropping the towel, she spun around and stood naked in front of him. He looked at her back and shoulders, which still had a couple of drops of water on them. He had his hand raised to brush them away when Lydia pulled the T-shirt over her head and simultaneously turned to face him again. He caught a flash of her breasts, which were smaller than he had imagined. He was put in mind of the time Kurt had taught him about milking. He had shown him how to massage the udder before hooking it up to the milking machine. Not so hesitant, he said, imagine they’re a woman’s breasts. Alfons had been ten or twelve at the time, the tip hadn’t helped him an awful lot, rather confused him more. Aren’t you going to have a shower yourself? asked Lydia. Yes, sure, he said, even though he usually showered in the morning.

Lydia’s clothes were all over the bathroom floor. Alfons picked them up and ran his hands over the fine, slightly damp material. Then he folded them and put them down on the toilet seat. After he had showered, he got into his pajamas and came out of the bathroom. Lydia was standing on the landing, as though she’d been waiting for him, with a bottle of beer in her hand. I helped myself, she said, and held out the bottle. He took a big swig and handed the bottle back. Don’t suppose you’ve got anything to smoke here? she asked. I don’t smoke, he said, sorry. I thought you grew things, said Lydia with a laugh. Had he not heard of the farmer who had a little patch of hemp in the middle of his cornfield? The police stumbled on it with the help of some aerial photographs. It was quite near here too. I don’t do drugs, said Alfons. He suddenly wished he hadn’t asked Lydia back. Nor do I, she replied, a little miffed. She emptied the bottle in a couple of swallows, passed it back to Alfons, and said she’d changed her mind, she would go home after all, she wasn’t tired, and at this time there wouldn’t be any traffic cops around. She took off his T-shirt, tossed it on the floor, and went to the bathroom. He followed her and watched as she got dressed. When she was done, she looked at him, and he saw that her eyes were moist. Then he went up to her, wiped the tears away with his thumb, and kissed her, first on the forehead, then on the mouth. Don’t go, he whispered, I don’t want you to go.

MICHAEL HAD BEEN distracted the whole class. Sara told herself it was on account of the heat or the upcoming summer vacation. When he made the same mistake for the fifth time, she suppressed her irritation and said, There’s no use, in your head you’re already at the beach. Then he looked at her with big round eyes that seemed to be on the point of bursting into tears. It’ll come, said Sara, patting him on the shoulder and standing up. Michael lowered his gaze and muttered that he wouldn’t be having any more piano lessons after the vacation. There’s no reason to give up, said Sara, even the great maestros had to practice.

That’s not the reason, said Michael. His parents had told him he couldn’t carry on swimming and playing the piano, otherwise his classwork would suffer. He stood by the piano, shoulders slumped. I’m sorry.

All this is about one hour a week? said Sara. How often do you have swim training?

Four or five times, said Michael. It’s the practicing.

Sara made a face. But you don’t practice, admit it.

You’re right, said Michael.

Maybe Clementi isn’t the right thing for you. Perhaps you’d rather be playing something rockier. Or do you like jazz?

Michael lowered his head, and for a moment they stood silently facing each other, then the boy packed up his notes and held out his hand to the piano teacher. Good-bye, Frau Wenger, and have a good holiday.

I’m going to phone your parents, said Sara.

He was her last pupil that afternoon. Sara didn’t show him out onto the landing as she usually did. She sat down at the piano and waited for the apartment door to close behind him. Then she started to play—the first movement of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, which she had been working on for two years now. The eight chords of the opening were like blows, the louder and more violent, the more Sara’s fury was dispelled. It was as though she were dissolved in the music, were transformed into music. Then the strings came in and carried her away. She saw herself on the stage of the concert hall, and the music streamed through her to the audience, which was raptly listening. Halfway through a bar, she broke off. She sat there breathing heavily, not thinking of anything at all. After she calmed down, she went out on to the landing and phoned Michael at home. No one picked up.

BUT HE’S NOT the first pupil of yours to give up, said Victor, gathering up his scores. He’s my best, though, said Sara. He’s really talented. But if he prefers sports, said Victor. Music isn’t very cool. The word sounded strange, coming from a sixty-year-old. He’s keen enough, said Sara, but his parents won’t let him. I’ll try it once more. She rang the number for probably the tenth time that afternoon. When Michael’s father answered, she didn’t know what to say. He listened to her patiently, then in a friendly tone of voice said he was sorry, but Michael needed to concentrate on just one hobby. You can’t just take him out of lessons like that, said Sara vehemently, at the very least you’ll have to pay for next term’s lessons. Michael’s father said he had talked to the school office, and everything was settled. Music isn’t a hobby, said Sara. She avoided looking at Victor, who was shaking his head and lowering his hands placatingly. Any fool can swim. Frau Wenger, Michael’s father broke in, we are grateful to you for all you’ve done, but the decision has been made.