Peter Stamm - Seven Years

On the way into the city Sonia didn’t talk about anything except her work. She said she had done some sketches on the flight, and showed me her notebook. She had learned a lot in those three months, that was obvious from the confidence of the drawing, her resolute and unwavering line. Altogether Sonia struck me as having grown up. She spoke more quickly and she laughed a lot, and when the taxi stopped, she paid the driver before I even had time to get my wallet out.

She seemed to approve of the apartment. She rapped on the walls and opened the windows and flushed the toilet. Well? I said. I’ll take it, she said. We stood next to each other in the bathroom and looked at ourselves in the mirror. Two beautiful people in a beautiful apartment, said Sonia, and laughed. I turned and kissed her, and thought of the beautiful couple in the mirror kissing as well, and that excited me more than the actual kiss itself. I reached into Sonia’s short hair with my hand and rubbed her shaved neck. You look like a boy. She laughed and asked if I’d gone off her? I stepped behind her and placed my hands over her breasts, and said, luckily there were still a few points of difference. When I tried to pull the sweater over her head, she turned to face me and kissed me again and said, not now. I had the feeling she was blushing under her tan. Come on, she said, let’s not be late, my parents are waiting.

While we’d been students, I’d been out to Sonia’s a couple of times, but either her parents weren’t home at the time or else they just gave us a cursory greeting. Presumably they had no recollection of me at all. I hadn’t seen them since I’d started going out with Sonia, and was accordingly nervous. Sonia’s mother met us at the door; she kissed Sonia on both cheeks and gave me her hand and called me by my surname. He goes by Alexander, said Sonia. Alex, I said. But she disappeared into the kitchen even as we were still taking off our coats. In the living room Sonia’s father was decorating an enormous Christmas tree. Ah, there you are already, he said, shaking hands with both of us. Can I get you both a drink? He was perfectly at ease, but even so I felt a little tense. Sonia said she would take me on a tour of the house.

The house had been built in the seventies. It had rough whitewashed walls, high ceilings angled in the upstairs part, and wood paneling. The staircase was open to the living room, a very large space with ceramic floor tiles and a fireplace. Sonia showed me her old room and her sister Carla’s room, who was away in America studying, and who for the first time wouldn’t be home for Christmas. You’ll be sleeping here, Sonia said, pointing to Carla’s narrow bed. I looked at her in speechless astonishment. She lowered her eyes without saying anything and led me back downstairs.

Her parents were standing at the foot of the steps, looking expectantly up at us. Under the Christmas tree there were now a couple of presents. Sonia’s father gave us all a glass of champagne, and we toasted each other. Conversation was sticky. We talked about Antje, and I wondered what use these people could possibly have for Antje’s paintings. Only when Carla called long distance did the atmosphere relax a little. The three of them clustered around the phone, and each of them had a brief conversation with her. The weather in California was fine, it felt weird to be celebrating Christmas under palm trees, the Americans were incredibly hospitable. After everyone had said their Merry Christmases and the call was over, we talked about America and the Americans. I was the only one not to have been to the United States, but that didn’t keep me from joining in the conversation, only to have my contributions corrected by the others. I had a completely wrong sense of the States, said Sonia’s father. I contradicted him, and presumably we would have had an argument if Sonia’s mother hadn’t changed the subject.

The evening was full of traditions, which I failed to understand. Sonia’s parents weren’t religious, but the course of the evening followed a rigid plan. The candles were lit on the tree, and Sonia’s mother put on a record with kitschy American Christmas songs, and turned off the main light. For a while we sat on the lounge suite, gazing at the tree. Then the lights came on again, and the presents were unwrapped. Sonia carried on like a little girl, which bugged me. Her parents had bought me a horrible espresso machine from Alessi. For the new apartment, said Sonia’s mother — the design is by Aldo Rossi. Sonia told us you’re a great admirer of his work. Sonia handed me a very light box. This is from me, she said, and she watched me unwrap it. It was a cardboard model of a single-family house, very carefully done. In front of the house stood two little human figures, a man and a woman. Someday, said Sonia. I wanted to kiss her on the mouth, but she turned her head away, and I kissed her on the cheek. Here are the plans. She passed me a black-bound book of sketches and rough designs for the house. You’ll have to do a lot of work to afford something like that, said Sonia’s father.

Soon after dinner was over, Sonia said she was tired and was going to bed. When I stood up too, she said I could stay if I liked. It probably took two hours before I finally broke free of Sonia’s father. He had an unpleasantly instructional way about him, and imparted his completely unoriginal views as if they were pieces of extraordinary wisdom. Even when we talked about architecture, he didn’t hesitate to correct me. In the middle of one of his lectures, I got up and said I was going to bed. I walked up the stairs. I hesitated outside the bedroom doors. Sonia’s father had followed me up the stairs and motioned to Carla’s door with a frosty smile.

On the morning of Christmas Day we drove out to my parents’ in Garching. There was another round of gift giving and another big meal. I hadn’t seen my parents in a long time and expected they would ask me lots of questions, but they just talked about the neighbors, and the recent autumn holidays, and the garden, it was the same topics of conversation as for twenty years.

We got back late to my apartment and went straight to bed. When I kissed Sonia, she said she needed to get used to me first. There’s no hurry, I said, and turned over.

For the next few days it was very cold, but the sun shone. We wrapped up warm and strolled through the city, and met people and sat in cafés. Sonia had let all her friends know she was back for the holidays, and I had to listen to the same stories half a dozen times, and drank innumerable lattes.

We met Birgit, and she told us Tania had completely lost it. Her sanitary neurosis had gotten out of control, she wore silicone gloves in the kitchen, and wouldn’t touch a doorknob that she hadn’t previously wiped clean. She was forever talking about Christian-humanist values, and bombarded the newspapers with letters urging a tougher stance on drugs and some anti-AIDS claptrap. We wouldn’t happen to have a spare room, would we? Sonia looked at me inquiringly. No, I said, sorry. On the way home, she asked me why I’d said no. She doesn’t like me. You’re imagining that. Anyway, I don’t feel like having roommates anymore. What do you want? asked Sonia. Perhaps she was expecting me to ask her to move in with me when she returned from Marseilles. But I missed my opportunity, if it was one.

When we were at home, Sonia worked and I read and enjoyed the feeling of being together. Sometimes I looked in on her and remained standing in the doorway of the office, and when she asked me what the matter was, I said, nothing, I’d just wanted to see if she was still there. She smiled in bewilderment. Of course I’m still here. That’s good, I said, and I went back to the living room and whatever I was reading.