Peter Stamm - Seven Years

That day the fog seemed not to want to break, and we sat over breakfast for a long time. Sophie was in her room, doing homework. What are your plans? Sonia asked. I asked if they wanted to be left alone, and Sonia nodded. Old memories. I didn’t believe her. She was the last person to be interested in the past. I’ll be in the office, I said, and I went downstairs.

The door to the guest room was ajar, and I stopped in the entryway, to listen to the quiet voices of the two women upstairs. Then I went in. Antje’s travel bag was wide open on the floor, the handle still with the airline tag on it with the flight number and the code for Munich. Next to it were her leggings and T-shirt, and a tattered paperback of a Simenon thriller, La chambre bleue . I reached inside the bag and pushed a few garments to the side. Underneath was a tangle of lacy underwear, a clear plastic duty-free bag, sealed, from the Marseilles airport containing a bottle of Swedish vodka, and a charger for a cell phone. At the very bottom of the bag was a sketchbook. I took it out and leafed through it. It was empty.

In the guest bathroom was Antje’s toiletry bag, overflowing with little bottles and tubes. I read the names of the products, creams and powders, tar shampoo and toothpaste for sensitive teeth and contact lens cleaner, aspirin and antacid tablets.

I went over to the window of the guest room, pulled up the blinds, and looked out into the fog, which was thicker than on previous days. Everything seemed very intensely there to me. I had the feeling that everything was possible for me just then, I could walk out of the house and never come back. It was a feeling at once liberating and frightening.

I put on a coat and went outside. The drive, which I’d swept only yesterday, was once again littered with fallen leaves. I walked down the street, slowly and aimlessly. I remembered the last time I had had this menacing feeling of freedom. It was the morning after the first night with Ivona, when I stood in front of the student hall and the birds were singing so incredibly loudly, and I had the feeling of being terribly grown up and having my life in my own hands. I felt as though I’d spent years going through a tunnel, and had finally come out the other side, and was now standing on a wide plain, able to walk in any direction.

The street stopped in a dead end. There was a big pasture there, with a couple of cows grazing on it, behind some electrified fence. When I stopped in front of the wire, one of the cows raised her head and looked briefly in my direction. She took a step toward me, then seemed to reconsider and went back to grazing. In the distance, I heard the sound of a leaf blower and some church bells striking ten.

I heard steps, and turned around. It was Antje. She came up beside me, looking at the cows. They’re not so easy to draw, you know, she said after a while, especially their rear ends. I asked her where Sonia was. Antje didn’t answer. You wanted to tell me the rest of your story, she said. Come on then, I said, and I turned around, it’s easier to talk while walking. Antje slipped her arm through mine, and we walked down the street in the direction of the city center. I told her about the beginning of the crisis. It was the first time the business wasn’t improving. Maybe that was the thing that discouraged me the most. It had been difficult before, but we always had an end in view, which we managed to reach sooner or later. Three years ago, for the first time I had the sense that things could only get worse. Presumably that’s when I started thinking about Ivona again. By chance I saw her picture in one of Sonia’s photo albums, a photograph of a party, where she was only barely recognizable.

I pulled out my wallet and showed Antje the picture. That was my objective. I had to find Ivona. I don’t know what I thought would happen if I did.

It wasn’t easy to get hold of Ivona’s address. Her name wasn’t in the phone book, and at the Polish Consulate I was told that if Ivona wasn’t registered, they wouldn’t be able to help me. The agency leasing the house where she had lived before had never heard of her, presumably she had been on a sublease then. Finally I called the Polish mission. The woman I spoke to asked me to come by.

The mission was housed in an anonymous-looking office building. I rang the bell, and a pleasant-looking woman of about fifty or so opened the door. I introduced myself, and she told me her name, which I immediately forgot, and led me to her office. Outside there had been bright June sunshine, but inside the office it was gloomy, even though the room was high-ceilinged. The woman sat down at her desk and pointed to a chair that looked as though it had been salvaged from somewhere. I was in luck, she said, it was a quiet morning. I asked after her work, and she told me about the difficulties of Poles in Germany, pathetically low wages, long hours, and all sorts of abuses. I had no idea how many Poles were living in the city. Something in the order of ten thousand, said the woman, no one quite knew. And presumably there’ll be a few more coming now, I said. We’ll have to see, she said. She didn’t think joining the EU would greatly affect the situation. The women who were working off the books wouldn’t register, so as to avoid paying any of their small wages in taxes. Most of them would probably stay, as illegals.

I had come up with a story ahead of time, but this woman here seemed well disposed and so understanding that I thought I would tell her the truth. She listened carefully while I told her what she needed to know. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, I ended. I expected her to say, yes, but it was best for the child, but she only nodded. It was probably best for the child, I said. Who knows, she said. At any rate, I’d like to get in touch with Ivona now, and tell her that Sophie’s doing well, and give her the opportunity to see her. Why now? I was unable to say. I hope it’s not just a matter of relieving your guilt, said the official, and she went over to a big gray metal filing cabinet, and pulled open a drawer. What was the surname again? I handed her Sophie’s birth certificate.

It took a while, and then she pulled a thin file out of the cabinet and opened it. She was here three years ago. Needed money for an operation. But we have no money, we can only offer advice. We gave her the name of a doctor who treats patients without visas free of charge.

There was an address in the file, she said, but she had no idea if it was still current. Ivona hadn’t given a phone number. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then she wrote the address down on a piece of paper and gave it to me.

That same day I drove out to the address, which was a building in Perlach, not far from Ivona’s previous apartment. I found a parking spot from where I could see the entrance. I waited for a while, then called the office and canceled the two appointments I had for the afternoon. The secretary asked me if I was going to be in later. I said I didn’t know.

There was hardly anyone on the street. Even though it was a big building, containing fifty or so units, no one came out for a long time, and no one went in. I started getting hotter and hotter in the car, until after half an hour or so I got out and went up to the door. The nameplates beside the buzzers had only foreign-sounding names on them, but I didn’t find Ivona’s among them.

I waited. After a while an old woman left the building, and I asked her about Ivona. Not stopping to look at me, she shook her head and scuttled off. A while later, a fat young woman pushing a stroller came down the street toward the building. She too seemed never to have heard of Ivona. She thought for a long time with a strained expression, then finally she said there were some Polish people living on the ground floor. She unlocked the door and let me in. I took a peek in the stroller. It was empty. The woman showed me the apartment and remained standing next to me after I’d rung the bell. She wasn’t suspicious so much as nosy. When a frail-looking woman of about fifty opened the door, the woman next to me said the gentleman’s looking for someone. Does Ivona live here? I asked. She’s at work, replied the woman, with a distinct accent. She was in a kimonolike wrap, even though it was two in the afternoon. Can I come in? I asked. I’m a friend of hers. I didn’t feel like discussing the whole affair in the stairwell. The fat woman stomped away up the stairs. Thank you so much, I called out after her.