Peter Stamm - Seven Years

Her hunger for a better life was fulfilled through romance novels and TV films that always ended happily. I asked myself what she felt when she shut the book or switched off the TV. I hadn’t picked up a novel in years, but I still remembered the feeling of finishing a story when I was a child, late at night or on some rainy afternoon. That alertness, that sense of perceiving everything much more clearly, even the passage of time, which was so much slower than in books. I held my breath and listened, even though I knew there was nothing to hear, and that nothing had happened or would happen. I was safe in bed, and in my thoughts returned to the story that now belonged to me, that would never end, that would grow and turn into a world of its own. It was one of many worlds that I inhabited in those days, before I started building my own and losing all the others.

Basically, my relationship with Ivona had been from the start nothing other than a story, a parallel world that obeyed my will, and where I could go whenever I wanted, and could leave when I’d had enough.

Perhaps our relationship was nothing more than a story for Ivona as well. I had been struck by the way she never talked about herself. She never asked me about my life either. I could just sometimes tell from things she said that she didn’t approve of my social environment, just as she seemed to despise her own surroundings. It was as though nothing counted beyond our secret meetings.

I could understand Ivona’s feelings. I too was moving in a circle I didn’t really belong in, only, unlike her, out of cowardice or opportunism I had managed to come to terms with it. The splendid family holidays with Sonia’s parents, the visits to concerts and plays, the male gatherings where fellows smoked cigars and talked about cars and golf, they were all part of another world. Basically, I yearned for the lower-middle-class world of my childhood, with its clear rules and simple feelings. However limited it was, it still seemed more honest and genuine to me. When I was with my parents, I didn’t have to playact, didn’t have to try and be better than I was. Their affection was for me as a person, and not for my achievements as an architect. And then they were much more sensitive than Sonia’s parents. They noticed immediately when something was wrong. Their ethical ideas might be narrow, but they understood human frailties and were prepared to forgive anything. I was sure they would like Ivona, and would accept her as one of themselves. They had never quite warmed to Sonia, even though they would never have said as much to me. Once or twice I was almost on the point of mentioning Ivona to my mother. I was certain she would understand, even if she disapproved. Presumably the reason I didn’t was that I was afraid of her advice, I knew what she would say.

In the seven years I’d been married to Sonia, I’d had a couple of brief affairs, once with an office assistant and the other time with a neighbor, whose child we sometimes babysat. Sonia had been unfaithful to me once as well. We had owned up to these affairs and gotten over them, albeit perhaps scarred by them, and afterward our union felt either better or at least more stable. But I could never have told Sonia about my relationship with Ivona. It seemed to take place in a world governed by different rules. I couldn’t have explained my behavior to her — I could hardly account for it to myself.

Once I asked Ivona if she wanted to go back to her homeland. She said no, she had to stay here. I didn’t ask her why. But I do admit I felt relieved to hear it.

I’d been seeing Ivona for six months or so when Hartmeier called me one day. He called me in the office, at first I didn’t know who it was. Only when he said we’d met at Ivona’s did the shoe drop. He asked if he could see me. I asked what it was about, but he said he’d prefer to talk about it in private. A little reluctantly, I agreed to meet him in a café near Ivona’s apartment. There were never many people there, he said. It was as though he was planning a conspiracy.

It was November, and it had been raining for days. At twelve o’clock it suddenly stopped. Now it felt cold, and there was a smell of snow in the air. When I went to the café, it was already dark outside, and I could see Hartmeier through the window, sitting over an almost empty glass of beer. He was the only patron, and was chatting with the waiter.

I walked up to his table. He stood and held out his hand formally. I ordered something, and we sat down facing one another, like two chess players. Hartmeier sipped at his beer and looked at me in silence, until I asked him what this was about. Ivona, he said. He looked somehow pleased with himself, which made me suspicious. That’s what I thought, I said. More silence from him. Then he said it was a delicate situation, and he didn’t want to speak out of turn, but he didn’t like the way I was treating Ivona. I wondered how much he knew. I had no intention of confiding in him, so, to play for time, I asked him what he meant by that. She loves you, he said, and sighed deeply. I shrugged my shoulders. With all her heart, he added. She’s waited for you for seven years, the way Jacob waited for Rachel. I only vaguely remembered the story, but I remembered that at the end of seven years, Jacob had gone off with the wrong woman. Leah, Hartmeier said. And then he had to wait another seven years. I didn’t understand what he was driving at. Whether she waits for you for a year or seven or fourteen, makes no difference, he said. It’s like love of the Savior, it doesn’t get any less over time, in fact the opposite. Ivona’s feelings are a matter for her, I said. And you? I said I didn’t think that was any concern of his. I might not know this, said Hartmeier, but Ivona had sacrificed a lot for me. She was acting against her faith, which forbade extramarital sex, and with a man who was married himself. Perhaps it was hard for me to grasp, but in a certain sense Ivona had sacrificed her spiritual welfare for me. She’s a free human being, I said. But the Lord saw that Leah was less beloved, and he opened her womb, said Hartmeier, and then I understood why he had summoned me. He didn’t speak, and it was as though I caught a glimpse of secret triumph in his face. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. It’s not easy for me to describe what I felt. I was shocked, my pulse was racing, and I felt slightly sick in my stomach. At the same time, though, I felt a great feeling of calm and a kind of relief. I would have to talk to Sonia, she wouldn’t find it easy, maybe she would leave me, but just at that moment, all that seemed unimportant.

Ivona is pregnant, said Hartmeier. I know, I said, I wasn’t going to allow him his little triumph. He looked at me in bewilderment. You cannot ask that she … He didn’t go on. I don’t ask that she do anything, I said. He said it would be a sin. I don’t care if it’s a sin or not, I’m not asking her to abort the fetus.

Hartmeier walked me to Ivona’s. Though he was shorter than me, he set such a rapid pace I could hardly keep up with him. It seemed to have gotten colder, or perhaps I was just feeling it more, because of my excitement and uncertainty. I put up my coat collar and ran after Hartmeier. He stopped outside Ivona’s building and said he wouldn’t accompany me any farther. He rang the doorbell, and I heard a rustle in the intercom. Hartmeier leaned down and said in his best conspiratorial tone, he’s here. Immediately the door buzzed, so loud that it startled me. Hartmeier shouldered the door open, gave me his hand, and nodded to me, as though to give me courage.

Ivona was waiting for me with an almost simple smile. She looks like a bride, I thought. We sat down in the little parlor. Ivona had made tea, and poured a couple of cups. I took a quick gulp and burned my mouth. Hartmeier told me you’re pregnant, I said. She nodded. I wasn’t expecting that, I said. She looked at me expectantly, with an edge of panic. I said I understood that an abortion was out of the question for her, and that of course I would recognize the child, and give her what support I could. But it wouldn’t be easy for her to bring up the child all by herself. Her face took on a scared expression. She must have imagined I would leave Sonia for her. There are several options, I said, of course it would be better for the child to grow up in an intact environment than with her, after all she was still an illegal alien. I would talk to my wife, after all it was my child. Ivona didn’t speak, and let her tea go cold. I said she ought to think about it, there was quite a bit of time yet.