Peter Stamm: In Strange Gardens and Other Stories

“Do they speak English on Trinidad?” I asked.

“I think so. My friends speak English … well, and it’s always warm.”

On the road below, a car drove past. Its headlights sliced through the blinds, swung across the room, up onto the ceiling, and suddenly went out, just over our bed.

“You have a lot of freedom,” I said. But Lotta was already asleep.

We met Werner and Graham at breakfast.

“Did you sleep well?” asked Graham with a grin.

“I like to be able to hear the ocean from bed,” I said.

“I was very tired,” said Lotta.

Werner ate in silence.

It started raining in the morning, and we went to the local museum. It was housed in a little white barn. There’s not much to report on the history of Block Island. Some time it was discovered by a Dutchman by the name of Block. Some settlers crossed from the mainland. Not too much happened after that.

The old fellow who ran the museum told us about the many ships that had run aground on the reefs in front of the island. The locals had lived from flotsam and jetsam more than they had ever done from fishing.

“People say they lured the ships ashore with false lights,” said the man, and laughed. Nowadays the island was living off tourism. In summer, every ferry was full of summerfolk, and a lot of wealthy New York people kept summerhouses there. For a while it had been quite the thing to have a house on Block Island. But today a lot of those people flew to the Caribbean.

“Things have gotten quieter here,” said the man, “but we can’t complain. Ships no longer come to grief here, but all kinds of things still get washed ashore.”

Lotta asked him whether he was a fisherman.

“I used to be a realtor,” he said. “You can’t imagine the kind of things that get washed up here.”

He laughed, I didn’t know why.

Then we went down to the beach again. Lotta started looking for shells again, we others sat down and smoked. Graham took a shard of crab’s claw and dug a hole with it in the fine sand, which grew waterlogged just below the surface.

“Well,” I said, “what did I tell you? She’s quite nice, don’t you think?”

Werner didn’t say anything. Graham laughed. “What are we going to be able to say about her, we don’t get to sleep in the same bed with her.”

“The sound of that: sleep in the same bed with. Why don’t you say what you’re really thinking.”

“It’s my turn tonight,” said Graham with a grin, “and tomorrow it’s Werner’s. But he doesn’t go in for that kind of thing.”

I told him he was being an idiot, and Werner said: “Come on, stop it.” He stood up and walked off, down to the sea. Lotta came back, with her hands full of shells. She sat down in the sand next to us, spread out her bounty, and began slowly wiping each shell with her fingers. Graham picked up a spiral shell from between Lotta’s legs, and examined it for a long time.

“Strange, what nature throws up,” he said, and laughed. “What was it the man said? You can’t imagine what washes up here.”

The noon ferry brought a few more tourists ashore, but they quickly dispersed in various directions, and before long the village was deserted again. We ate on the terrace of a coffee shop.

“What now?” I asked.

“I’m tired,” said Lotta. “I think I’ll go and lie down for an hour.”

Graham set off to look for a newspaper, and Werner said he was going down to the sea. I strolled back to the hotel with Lotta.

The beds in our room had been made up, and the window was wide open. Lotta shut it, and pulled down the blinds. She lay down. I sat down on the floor and leaned against the bed.

“I wonder how poor little Romeo’s doing,” said Lotta. “I do miss him terribly.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Don’t you want to lie down?”

“I’m not tired.”

“I can always sleep,” said Lotta.

In the late afternoon, we rented some bicycles to go and view the Palatine graves on the south of the island. That’s where sixteen Dutchmen who survived the famous wreck of the Palatine are supposed to be buried.

“Why are they buried if they survived?” asked Lotta.

“Buried alive,” said Graham.

Werner laughed.

“It was in the eighteenth century,” I said.

“But why were they buried together then?” asked Lotta. “Just because they were on the same ship?”

“Perhaps because they were rescued together,” I suggested. “They must have bonded.”

We found a crumbly signpost somewhere, but we never found the graves. We saw a man in a meadow. He didn’t know where the graves were either. He had never even heard of them. Disappointed, we turned back.

“I don’t care,” said Lotta, “I don’t like graveyards anyway.”

We were riding into the wind now, and only reached the hotel after dark. We drank a beer. Lotta called her neighbor, to see if her cat was okay.

“Everything’s fine,” she said, coming back.

“It’s Werner’s thirtieth birthday next week,” I said to Lotta. “We should have a party for him.”

“That makes you a Libra,” she said. “Joseph was a Libra as well.”

“What Joseph?” Graham asked. “As in Joseph and Mary?”

“As in Joseph and Lotta, more like,” I said.

“A friend,” said Lotta.

“Libra,” muttered Graham, and leafed through his newspaper. Then he read out: “You are facing a decision, and should be realistic about it. It shouldn’t be difficult for you to strike up new acquaintances. Happy hours lie ahead.”

“That’s a good horoscope,” said Lotta.

Werner laughed. It was an odd, mocking laugh. Graham and I laughed along, but Lotta merely smiled, and laid her hand on Werner’s arm.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

They got up, and we arranged to meet up in an hour in the fish restaurant where we’d gone the night before. Werner walked upright and stiff like an invalid. He looked as though he wasn’t moving at all. Lotta pushed her arm through his. She seemed to be driving him onward, down toward the beach.

“So,” said Graham, after we’d been silent for a long time, “what’s she like then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play the innocent. What else did you bring her along for?”

“She’s a strange woman,” I said. “Don’t you think so?”

Graham grinned. “A woman’s a woman.”

“No,” I said, “I like her. I like being with her.”

“Which one of the three of us do you think she likes best?” asked Graham.

“I think you’re the one who’s desperate to be liked by her.”

“Ach, give over. I like it that she’s always so tired. They’re good in bed. I know the sort.”

“Listen, guy, you should remember you’re married.”

“I’m on vacation. Do you think I’ve come to look for seashells?”

“What does Werner say?” I asked.

“Nothing. Werner says absolutely nothing. I’ve never known him so quiet. He’s like a fish.”

We finished our beer. Graham said he needed to phone, and I sat down in an armchair in the lobby of the hotel and started flicking through the Fisherman’s Quarterly .

Lotta didn’t come to supper. She was tired, explained Werner as he came to the table alone. He was as quiet as ever during the meal, but the earnestness of the past few days was gone, and he sometimes put down his knife and fork and smiled quietly to himself.

“Are we in love then?” asked Graham mockingly.

“No,” said Werner curtly but not angrily. And he calmly went on eating. Over coffee he said we ought to go and look at the chalk cliffs on the south of the island tomorrow.

“They must be somewhere near the Palatine graves then,” I said. “I don’t know about cycling all the way down there again …”