Peter Stamm - In Strange Gardens and Other Stories

I walked into the city. I spent the whole day tramping the streets without looking at anything. I strolled through obscure parts of town, where men had spread porn mags on big cloths and were selling them. I sat in cafes, watching the people getting off ferries and going to work. From up on the hill I stared down at the city, and out to sea, till it lost itself in haze. Toward evening I got back to the port, and heard that now the ship wasn’t going till the next day,which was a Sunday. I headed into the city again, to get something to eat. In a side street I found a restaurant where they played fado music.

The food was poor but I liked the music, it suited my mood. I sat on after my meal was finished. I had already drunk half a liter of wine, and I ordered another. The other half, I said to the waiter, a little dark-skinned man, but he didn’t react. I felt better, and started to jot a few things down. I had just noted some foolish thought when a young woman came up to my table and asked me, in English, whether I wanted to come and sit with her and her friend. I had noticed her earlier. She was sitting with another woman at a table near me. While they ate, they both laughed a lot, and looked across at me a couple of times.

“You looked so all alone,” she said. “We’re Canadian.”

I took her invitation and followed her with my glass and carafe of wine.

“I’m Rachel, and this is Antonia,” she said.

We sat down.

“I’m Walter.”

“Like Walt Whitman,” said Antonia. “Do you keep a diary?”

“Oh, I write whatever comes into my head,” I said. “It’s almost as good as talking.”

“My father always used to say only intelligent people can bear solitude,” said Antonia.

“Being alone doesn’t make anyone intelligent,” I said.

It was past eleven. The fado singer packed up his guitar, and came over to our table. He seemed to know Rachel and Antonia. He sat down, and we talked about Lisbon and fado music.

“The last piece was nice,” said Antonia, “what was it called?”

“If you don’t know where you’re going, why don’t you stop walking,” the fado singer quoted. “Heart of mine, I won’t go with you anymore.”

“Amalia,” he said, and his face suddenly looked ridiculously tormented. “ This strange sort of life .”

“What sorts of life are there?” Antonia asked.

“Long, for one,” said Rachel, “or short. Whichever.”

“My heart lives on wasted lives,” the fado singer continued to quote.

Rachel asked me what sort of life mine was.

I said I didn’t know. Presumably none at all. With both her hands, she outlined the shape of a woman in the air.

“Woman …” said the fado singer, and then some nonsense or other. I knew what he was after, and I knew he wasn’t going to get it tonight. He seemed to know it too. But just the same, he wrote down his phone number on a napkin, and passed it to Rachel. He said they could call him anytime. Any time at all. Then he shook hands all around, and went.

“Man …” said Rachel, and laughed. Antonia told her to stop being stupid.

“Would you have gone with him, then?” asked Rachel, drawing up her eyebrows in surprise. “Do you fancy bullfighters?”

“Portugal doesn’t have any bullfighters,” said Antonia. “He had a nice voice.”

Rachel laughed. She had met a man once with a nice voice. “I only knew him from talking on the phone. And when I finally got to see him … he was indescribable.”

Antonia said Rachel should stop being stupid again. Rachel said the pitch of a man’s voice was important. Men with low voices had a lot of testosterone. My voice, for instance, was deep.

Rachel laughed and said they had fixed with Luis to meet up in the disco. “The little waiter, you know. Once he’s finished here.”

For the past three weeks, Rachel and Antonia had been touring around Europe. In a week they would be flying home, from Barcelona. Rachel talked about the small town in Canada where they both came from, and Antonia kept interrupting and correcting things she was saying. I listened and didn’t say a lot. I was just glad to have some company.

The last of the customers left, and Luis put the chairs on the table and swept the floor. Then he walked over to our table.

“This is a friend,” said Rachel. “He’s coming to the disco with us.”

Luis said it wasn’t far. His English wasn’t up to much, and he had a heavy accent.

“What a low voice,” said Rachel, and she laughed. She asked Luis if he had a lot of testosterone. He asked what that was.

“Toro,” said Rachel. “You like a bull?”

Antonia told Rachel to stop it. She was drunk.

“You bull, me cow,” said Rachel. Luis looked at her in bafflement.

“You Tarzan, me Jane,” said Rachel.

“Tarzan.” Luis nodded. “We go.”

Luis said he would show us the best disco in Lisbon. He walked very fast, so that we had trouble keeping up. We zigged and zagged down narrow little streets. After just a few, I had no idea of my bearings. Rachel was talking about her boyfriend, who was a pilot in the air force.

“He’s got a really low voice,” she said, “like a prop plane.”

I asked Antonia whether she too had a boyfriend. She shook her head. She had just started university in Montreal, and didn’t know anyone there.

“She had a boyfriend but she broke his heart,” said Rachel.

“Nonsense,” said Antonia, “he was never my boyfriend.”

“Hey, Luis,” said Rachel, “ slow down! ”

After half an hour, we were finally there. The place we were standing outside was scuzzy and small. Luis knew the doorman, but we still had to pay a ridiculously large sum of money to get in.

It was dark in the disco, except on the slightly raised dance floor, which was brightly lit. It was empty, but some of the tables had people at them. It was almost completely guys. The music was loud. We sat down at the bar, drank, and talked. Luis didn’t say much. Suddenly he stood up, climbed up onto the dance floor, turned his back to us, and started dancing in front of a large wall-mirror. I could see his face reflected in it, he was looking serious and concentrated. I thought he was staring into his own eyes. His movements were mechanical and aggressive. I asked Rachel to dance. Antonia remained behind at the bar, alone.

I had been feeling fairly drunk, but the long walk had sobered me up. I danced with Rachel for a long time. We looked at each other, Luis seemed only to have eyes for himself, in the mirror. After a half hour or so, he said there was nothing happening, he knew some better places. Antonia said she wanted to go to bed. Rachel whispered something in her ear. She said she wanted to go to bed too. She laughed.

The four of us walked down empty streets. Rachel had taken my arm. Luis tried to take her other arm, but she shook him off. She said she wasn’t a baby. Luis instead linked arms with Antonia, who didn’t resist, and walked along stiffly beside him, not looking at him. Luis said he came from Faro, in the south of Portugal, but there was no work there. Then he was silent. None of us spoke. We walked more slowly than we had on the way there, more carefully, as though to postpone the goodnights. Too little had happened, and then again too much for an easy leave-taking.

Rachel and Antonia shared a room in a private house. When we got to the house, they said goodnight, and we kissed on the cheek. Antonia unlocked the door, and went inside. Rachel stood in the open doorway for a brief moment, with a childlike smile. Then Luis went up to her, and forced her back to the staircase. I followed them. The door fell shut behind me with a crash. Then there was silence.

The staircase was dimly lit by a single bulb. Antonia was waiting on the staircase, looking down to us. Rachel and Luis stood facing each other, and staring.