Peter Stamm - In Strange Gardens and Other Stories

One day, an empty Sunday, I finally decided to pay a visit to my dancer. I hadn’t spoken to anyone for two days, and I felt completely wretched. It was a radiant afternoon as I crossed the street. I stopped in front of the building and lit a cigarette. It began to rain. First a couple of fat drops splashed down on the crooked cement slabs of the sidewalk, and then the heavens opened. I jumped into the little glazed-in porch where the doorbells were, and from where a further, locked door led to the stairwell.

Outside, the rain was teeming down, and spurting against the panes. There was a smell of drenched asphalt. I peered through the iron grille into the entrance hall, which was dark and silent. There was a mosaic tiled flooring, which had been patched with cement. The walls were ocher. In the background I saw the door of an elevator, and beside it a narrow staircase going up, dimly lit by the light through a grimy window. There was a stroller, and a rusty bike in a corner.

A woman with a dog emerged from the elevator, and came across the hallway toward me. She opened the door, held it open for me, and said: “This rain. You must have just missed it. Were you on your way to see someone in the building?”

I said: “I was just sheltering here till the rain stopped.”

“I was going to walk the dog,” she said, “but with this weather I’m not so sure … Where are you from?”

“Switzerland,” I said.

“A beautiful country,” she said, “so clean. I come from Puerto Rico. But I’ve been living here a long time. Years.”

“Do you like it here?”

“I couldn’t live in Puerto Rico, and I can’t live here either,” she said. “I don’t know. I’m not going out in this. Good luck.”

She went back to the elevator, dragging her dog after her. I slid my foot in the door, then took it back, and the door crashed shut. Once the rain eased, I ran back across the street. I was shivering. I took a hot shower, but it didn’t do any good. I felt cold and damp in the apartment.

A week later, Chris came back. We spent a few nice evenings together, eating and talking till late. The day before Eiko was due back, we cleaned the place and listened to country music.

“Please don’t tell her I’ve been smoking marijuana,” Chris said.

“Of course I won’t,” I said, “it’s none of my busines.”

“We’re friends,” said Chris. “We men need to stick together.”

“Stick together against who?” I asked, and thought: we’re not friends.

Chris laughed. “I used to smoke a lot more. But since I met Eiko, I’ve almost given up. She doesn’t approve. And I don’t need it when I’ve got her.”

Then Eiko came back, and Chris didn’t have any time for me anymore. The two of them often invited their friends over, and I took myself to the movies, and when I was home I generally stayed in my room. On the weekends I would sometimes spend whole days reading, and only go out to buy beer or to pick up Chinese take-out. My interest in the dancer had faded. I tried not to think about her. Sometimes I still saw her. She was now often sitting at the back of her room, where I could only dimly make her out.

One evening, when I was sitting by the window smoking, someone called up to me from the street. I looked down and saw a young woman standing on the sidewalk with a poodle. She waved up at me.

“I’ve come on behalf of my friend,” she called. “She lives opposite, and always sees you in the window.”

“Yes,” I called back, “I see her too.”

“She would like to meet you,” the woman called up, as if to stick up for her friend. “She didn’t want me to tell you.”

“Right,” I called. I felt paralyzed. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then the woman said: “She’s called Margarita. Do you want her number?”

She gave me the number and told me once more: “She didn’t want me to tell you.”

“Sure,” I said, “it’s nice that you came and told me anyway.”

I looked across at the window with the red light, but I couldn’t see the dancer. I sat down on my bed, and took a few deep breaths. Then I picked up the phone from the bedside table, and dialed the number.

“Hallo,” I heard a warm woman’s voice.

“Hallo,” I said, “I’m the man in the window opposite.”

The girl laughed in embarrassment.

“Your friend gave me your number.”

“I didn’t want her to,” she said softly.

“Would you like to meet?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “My name’s Margarita.”

“I know,” I said, “what about right away?”

“Sure,” she said. Her English wasn’t very good.

“We could go for a beer.”

She hesitated. Then she said: “Tomorrow.”

“Okay, I’ll be outside your house at eight o’clock,” I said. “Is that good?”

“Yes. That’s good.”

“Goodnight, Margarita.”

“Goodnight,” she said.

I was nervous all the next day, and wondered whether I should turn up at all. At eight I was waiting outside Margarita’s house, but she wasn’t there. I waited for a quarter of an hour, then I went up to my room and called her number. I stood by the window, and kept my eyes on the street.

Margarita answered. “Hallo,” she said.

“Hallo,” I said. “I thought we were going to go out for a beer.”

“Now?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Yes.”

“Are you at your window?” she asked. “Hang on, I’ll wave.”

I looked across at the dancer’s room, but all I could see was the faint outline of the standard lamp. Then I heard Margarita’s voice on the phone again.

“Did you see me?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Top floor,” she said, “middle apartment. Wait, I’ll go out again.”

“Oh, okay,” I said in alarm.

I looked up at the top floor of the opposite building, but I still couldn’t see anyone. Finally, two buildings along I spotted someone standing by the window, and waving both arms.

“Did you see me that time?” asked Margarita shortly after.

“Yes.”

“I’m coming down now.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”

Margarita was pretty and quite small. She was wearing jeans and a brightly colored blouse. I can’t say I didn’t like her, but she wasn’t who I expected. She wasn’t the woman I thought I’d known for months. We walked down the street together. As we turned into Broadway, I saw Chris coming the other way. There was nothing else to do but to introduce them to each other. Chris smiled and wished us a pleasant evening.

We went into the nearest bar, and sat down at a table. It was noisy. Margarita didn’t understand much English. She said she came from Costa Rica, and had been in the States for a couple of months. She was living with her sister and brother-in-law. They both worked, and she was alone in the apartment all day. She was very bored. When I asked her if she was looking for a job, she became suspicious, and said she was here on vacation.

“What do you do with yourself all day?” I asked.

“I go to the beach,” she said. “In Costa Rica there are very beautiful beaches.”

“New York has some beautiful beaches as well,” I said.

She laughed and shook her head in disbelief. “Palms,” she said, “in Costa Rica. And the sand is so white.”

I asked her how long she planned on staying, and she said she didn’t know. I told her I came from Switzerland, but she didn’t know where that was. The conversation was sticky, and we sat and looked at each other in silence, and drank our beers. Once, I picked up Margarita’s hand, but then I let it drop again. She smiled at me, and I smiled back.

We said goodbye outside her building. I was going back to Switzerland soon, I explained, it was too bad. Margarita smiled. She seemed to understand.