Peter Stamm - In Strange Gardens and Other Stories

Inside the box was a cookbook, Recipes for Lovers or Cooking for Two or something of the sort.

“There’s something else in there as well,” said Max. Evelyn pulled aside some crumpled crepe paper. Under it was a vibrator in the shape of a colossal orange penis. She stared into the box, without touching the thing.

“It was Max’s idea,” said Richard. He was embarrassed, but Margrit, a heavily made-up woman of fifty or so, laughed shrilly and said: “Every woman needs one. Especially once you’re married.”

“I got this one out of Ida’s collection,” said Max, and Ida: “Max, you’re so awful. You know I don’t have anything like that.”

“Not anymore,” said Max, “not anymore. We’ve supplied the batteries as well.”

“I have to go to the kitchen,” said Evelyn, “otherwise the supper will burn.”

She put the crepe paper back in the box, shut the lid, and went out.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” whispered Richard.

“Ah, nonsense,” said Max, “it’ll be good for her. You’ll see, in a month she’ll be a different person.”

Margrit laughed shrilly again, and Ida said: “Max, you’re disgusting.”

“Anyway, Evelyn’s got you now,” Max said to me.

Then they started talking about work, and I went into the kitchen to help Evelyn.

She had gone to a lot of trouble, but the food was nothing special. Even so, the atmosphere was relaxed. Max told dirty jokes that made Richard and his wife laugh. Ida seemed to be drunk after her first glass of wine, and didn’t say much except that Max was awful. Evelyn was busy serving the food, and taking out the dirty dishes. I was bored. After supper, we drank tea and instant coffee. Then Max said we should leave Evelyn on her own now, she was probably dying to try out her new present. The four of them got up and put their coats on. I said I would help Evelyn with the washing up. Max said something off-color, and Ida said he was disgusting. Evelyn showed them down to the front door, and I heard loud laughter from the stairwell, and then the door crashing shut.

When Evelyn came back she said: “I can wash up tomorrow.” Then she said she wanted to freshen up. It seemed like a sentence from a film or a cheap novel. I didn’t know what it meant, or what I was supposed to say. She disappeared into the bathroom, and I waited. I wanted to put on some music, but I couldn’t find any CDs I wanted to listen to, so I left it. I took down an illustrated volume about the Kalahari Desert, and settled down on the sofa. I wished I could be somewhere else, preferably at home.

I heard Evelyn go from the bathroom to the bedroom, and then she finally came back to the living room. She was in her underwear, which was white and solid and shiny. She had slippers on her feet. She stopped in the doorway, leaned against the doorjamb, and pushed one leg in front of the other. I had just been looking at photographs of gophers, skinny, catlike creatures that stand over their burrows and look into the distance. I set the book down next to me on the sofa. We didn’t speak. Evelyn went red and looked down at the floor. Then she said: “Would you like another coffee? I think there’s some hot water left.”

“Sure,” I said.

She disappeared into the kitchen. I followed her. She took down the jar of instant coffee, and I held out my cup. She tipped in way too much coffee powder, and poured in hot water. Oily scum formed in the cup. I saw Evelyn had tears in her eyes, but neither of us said anything. I sat down at the kitchen table, and she sat down opposite me. She sat slumped on her chair, with eyes closed, shaking. I looked at her. Her bra was too big. The two arced cups stood out in front of her breasts like shields. Once again, I noticed her disagreeable smell.

“Are you gay?” she asked.

“No,” I said, and wished I was drunk.

“I’ve got a headache.”

“Are you not cold?”

“No,” she said. She stood up and folded her arms across her chest, holding her upper arms in her hands. I followed her into the bedroom. She lay down on the bed, and started sobbing silently into the pillows. Her body jerked convulsively. I sat down on the side of the bed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

I ran my hand down her back, and along her legs down to her feet.

“You’ve got a pretty back,” I said.

Evelyn sobbed aloud, and I said: “A pretty back has its attractions.”

She turned over and for a moment lay quite relaxed in front of me, her arms by her sides. She took slow, deep breaths, and looked up at the ceiling. Then she said: “It’s no good. And it’s not going to get any better.”

“You mustn’t expect too much,” I said. “Happiness consists of wanting what you get.”

“I want a glass of wine,” she said, and sniffed and slowly sat up. There was a packet of Kleenex beside the bed, and she took one out and blew her nose. Then she got up and went over to the chair where her dress was hanging. She hesitated briefly, and then pulled out a pair of jeans and a blouse from the wardrobe. I watched her get dressed with practiced movements. When she bent over to smooth the stockings over her knees, I momentarily felt like sleeping with her.

“We’re at our best when we do what we can,” I said, “what we’ve always been able to do.”

Evelyn turned to me and said, buttoning her jeans: “But I don’t like what I do. And I like what I am even less. And it’s just getting worse.”

We went back into the living room, and she got a bottle of wine from the kitchen. Then she went over to the stereo, pulled a few CDs off the rack, and put them back. Then she switched on the radio. A Tracey Chapman song was playing. I went to the bathroom. From the corridor I heard Evelyn slowly singing along: “Last night I heard a screaming …”

She didn’t sing well, and when I walked back into the living room, she stopped.

“I have to go home,” I said. “Will you be all right?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ll be fine. Will you do me a favor?”

She got the carton with the vibrator and gave it to me.

“Will you chuck this in a bin somewhere. I don’t want it anywhere around tonight.”

“What shall I do about the batteries?” I asked. She didn’t answer.

“Okay,” I said. “I can see myself out.”

When I turned around at the top of the stairs, Evelyn was still standing in the doorway. I waved, and she smiled and waved back.

When I moved in, the room’s single window was so dirty that the room seemed twilit even in the middle of the day. Even before I unpacked my suitcase, I cleaned the window. When Chris came home in the evening, he laughed and called Eiko.

He said: “Look and see what our guest has done.”

“The Swiss are very clean,” said Eiko.

I laughed. That was in April. I had gone to New York because I was fed up with Switzerland. I was lucky enough to find a job for six months working in a travel agency that belonged to a Swiss woman. But it was so badly paid I could only afford a very cheap room. The building was on the corner of Tieman Street and Claremont Avenue, on the edge of Spanish Harlem. On the other side of the street were tall dilapidated brick buildings inhabited almost entirely by Hispanics.

The first week I went to some bar or other every night with people from work. On the weekends I was mostly on my own. Chris and Eiko would be visiting friends or somewhere in the city, and the apartment was peaceful and empty.

One rainy Sunday morning, I set off to explore the area. I headed south down Riverside Drive. The traffic was heavy but there were hardly any pedestrians, and I enjoyed the feeling of being on my own. Somewhere around 100th Street, I saw a bigger than life-size statue of a Buddhist monk in a niche in a house. He was standing barefoot behind a black fence, looking out at the Hudson River. The rain started coming down harder, and I turned back and went home.