Peter Stamm - In Strange Gardens and Other Stories

He stood next to his suitcase. He had a book with him. He could have sat down to read, but he was annoyed about her unpunctuality. He wanted to be annoyed. He was always annoyed when he got excited about something. They hadn’t seen each other for three months.

In the context of three months, what are ten minutes? Twelve minutes. She hugged him. Ever since the funeral, it was hugs all round. It had just happened like that. She liked to be touched. The hostess’s hand around her waist, just casually, when they happened to be standing behind the bar together. The hands of men, brushing hers, when she stepped up to the tables. And when she touched herself. But hugging her father. That didn’t feel right. She felt sorry for him, and that was disagreeable to her.

So this is where you live? It was a question he had prepared on his way down, and also the reproachful tone of it. The real question was: Why don’t you come home? The valley was dark, the village was ugly, and the noise from the cars was never-ending. He was surprised to find all his prejudices confirmed. He didn’t ask his question. It was too abundantly clear that she couldn’t live there. The place was a hollow, a funnel feeding into the tunnel. Seventeen kilometers, said Inger, there’s a different climate on the other side, a different language, a different world. Over there is the south, here is the north. You can also go over the pass. The train had passed through many tunnels on its way. The mouths of all the tunnels were the same. You only got to learn how long they were when you came out the other side.

He greeted the owner politely, he made a good impression, he did at least owe Inger that much. A real gentleman. How old was he? And what was his job? And such good German too. He’s retired, said Inger.

She had shown him up to the room, and then she’d gone back down to the restaurant. If you like — but she knew he wouldn’t show his face down here. Even so, she looked at the door every time someone came in. He would stay up in the room till she came to get him at the end of her shift. She thought about him all afternoon. When she got off at six, it was already dark outside. She slowly climbed the steps. There was no hurry. He suddenly seemed ridiculous to her, sitting up there alone in the tiny dark room, waiting. The owner would have let her go a little earlier. But Inger didn’t want to go. He was to learn that she had a job, had her own life, that she hadn’t waited for him.

He had been waiting for her. He was standing in the middle of the room as if he hadn’t moved from the spot all afternoon. He had been preparing himself. His daughter seeing fit to work in such a place. Waiting tables. When she had a degree, and a profession. If it’s just a question of money. It suits me this way. But it doesn’t suit me. The whole village seemed to be like a dark, cramped little room to him. When are you coming home? I’m not. How do I know.

We could go to the Ticino, she said, in the south. What for? Because it’s beautiful there. Is that a good enough reason? She didn’t know. She had never been there on her own. She took off her blouse and her black skirt, and washed in the basin. Did she resemble her mother? He had hardly any photos from her early years. You’ve got a tattoo? So he was watching her. No. She laughed and stepped closer to him. You can wash it off. Well, then wash it off. Childish nonsense. What have you got it for? A rose. From the station kiosk. She had bought some candy. They didn’t have salty licorice here, but they had other things. Shall we get something to eat? What do you feel like eating? He didn’t mind. He asked if they cooked properly here at least. Yes, they do, she said. But we’ll go out for supper. Tomorrow we’ll go walking, okay? Hiking.

She had set up a camp bed in the room. She would sleep there for the time her father stayed. She didn’t sleep well. She heard him breathing loudly, and tossing and turning. When she got up to go to the bathroom, she passed by the bed. Sleeping, he looked older than he did awake. She didn’t see him as her father, she saw him as an old man, the withered body of an old man who was utterly strange to her. She couldn’t imagine anything connecting her and this old man.

He had woken up two hours before her, had been sitting at the table reading. She had woken up when he got up, but she had pretended to be still asleep. On the days when she did the early shift, she had to get up at half past five. She opened the restaurant at half past six. The driver of the bus would be standing outside already, who always went to Denmark for his vacation, and knew one or two words of Danish. Good morning, how are you, my name is Alois, I love you . He laughed, and she laughed, and corrected his accent. I love you, I love you, I love you . Again and again, till it sounded right. Then he read the newspaper, and she set out the ashtrays on the tables.

Her father stood beside the camp bed. It’s my day off, she said, and turned over. And then she got up after all. We could catch a bus or train somewhere. But he wanted to hike. It had stopped raining. What if it started again? That wouldn’t bother him.

She told him the story of the Devil’s Bridge. He didn’t say anything. He breathed heavily. The path was narrow and steep, and he walked unsteadily. When she wanted to rest, he drove them on. Only then did she notice that he was frightened.

They walked across a steep slope. To him it felt as though the earth had turned over, and everything was skewed and unsafe. There was nowhere to orient yourself, and no holds. The moraine slipped away under your feet. It was an easy path, she said. Even for a Dane. What have you got against Denmark? He was annoyed. Those people who emigrated and badmouthed their native country. Do you want to live here then? In this hole? She shook her head. You don’t have to be so aggressive.

She walked on. Her father followed her in silence. It was almost noon, but it had grown hardly any lighter in this narrow valley. There was a Russian bus by the Devil’s Bridge. We can do the last bit on the road. Why? Well, if you’re having trouble with the scree … It was no trouble. You never find anything difficult, ha? You can do anything. You know everything. You never make any mistakes. Of course he made mistakes. For instance? Coming here was a mistake, for one. If you want to leave … He didn’t reply. He walked behind her, along the road, even though there was hardly any traffic.

She didn’t want to quarrel. She wanted to be with her father the way she had been with him when she was a child. He was besotted with her, her mother had often said so. But only when he wasn’t listening. If she opened her mouth, it was all over. He had stopped. When she turned around and saw him standing by the side of the road, she knew she was stronger than he was.

That night she stood beside his bed again. Then she lay down next to him, carefully, so as not to wake him. In his sleep he turned toward her. He placed a hand on her hip. She lay perfectly still beside him, he was sleeping more calmly now. Later on, she moved back to the camp bed again. In the morning she asked him if he’d dreamed anything. He said he never dreamed. She said everyone dreamed.

The weather was better. What shall we do today? We could take the train a ways, and then walk … But he wanted to walk up the valley again. Why? It’s where we were yesterday. Why not? This time he went ahead. He seemed to feel more confident now. Sometimes they saw the railway line on their climb, and once the path crossed over the road on a viaduct. You could step right up to the edge and look down.

Inger! he called, not so close to the edge. He had never been to the mountains before, he had no idea about mountains. On the pictures he knew, they were always in the distance, a feature of the horizon, small seeming. The Alps were formed when Europe and Africa collided. You don’t have to tell me about the Alps. You will never belong here. What if I meet a man here, and marry him? It’s your life. Is it? He reflected. Do you have any friends here? Do you have a boyfriend? Why not?