Peter Stamm - In Strange Gardens and Other Stories

Why not? She thought about it. She didn’t want a boyfriend. Casual touches were enough for her. She didn’t want to stay here. If it wasn’t for the tunnel, she would have run off long ago. Every hour there was a train south. One day she would get on one of them. If you like, she said, we can go to the Ticino tomorrow.

They had almost reached their destination, and were walking side by side on a bicycle track. He was telling her something. When you were little you fixed a piece of cardboard to your bike with a clothespin, so that it got in the spokes. It rattled like a motorbike. You were so proud, and you couldn’t stop. I punished you. Afterwards, I felt sorry. She couldn’t remember. It wasn’t just that time either. Do you think I was difficult? You were a child. What do you mean? He didn’t reply, and really she didn’t want to know what he meant by it. It was enough for her to have him walking along beside her.

He had made the same mistakes as his own father. A bit late to think of that now. Everyone made mistakes. There was no point talking about it, thinking about it. She had forgotten, and he should forget about it too. He didn’t know what made him think about it now.

If you’re not too tired? They walked beyond where they had got to the day before. The gradient leveled out, and the path led across a meadow. They had almost reached the next village when it started to rain. There was a remote gas station on the road. They sheltered there. The weather is very changeable here, said Inger. Sometimes it snows in summer. Aren’t you cold? A VW van stopped at the gas station. A man got out. There were three children in the back seat. One of them wiped the condensation off the window. He stared at Inger. Then he poked his tongue at her. The man finished filling up. He climbed in, and drove off.

Inger hadn’t been popular as a child, she had never found out why. She had tried to make friends, but she had never had very many. You made a fuss of yourself, said her father. You always wanted to be the center of attention. Sometimes it would drive me crazy. Inger had always seen herself as a victim. It’s a good thing to be grown-up, she said. Because you get left in peace. Because you don’t owe anyone anything. Tell me about Mama. What was she like when you married. Ah, he said.

The driver of the bus had seen Inger on the road, and stopped. Do you want a ride? This is my father. This is Alois. They drove up to the pass. The bus stopped there for twenty minutes, and Alois tried out his repertoire of sentences on Inger and her father. He said: Good morning, how are you, my name is Alois. I would like a cup of coffee . And then, in his own language: Can I take you on to Airolo? Inger shook her head. Some other time. Maybe tomorrow.

She took her father by the hand, and they ran through the rain to the inn. It was cold up here, and he was in his shirt. Aren’t you cold? Come on, we’ll make some tea. On the way back, he was coughing. He didn’t want to take her jacket, she simply laid it over his shoulders. For a moment she left her arm there.

In the evening he had a temperature. When she moved to put her palm on his forehead, he turned his head away. It’s nothing. They ate downstairs, in the restaurant. He wasn’t hungry, and when he climbed the stairs in front of her, he staggered as though drunk. Now he was asleep, and she was sitting at the table, reading a magazine he had brought her. She imagined: He’s the child, and I’m the mother. He’s sick. She went up to the bed, laid her hand on his brow. He seemed helpless. But what could she do? She imagined: If he gets sick at home, there’s no one there to look after him. She saw him traipse through the house in his pajamas. He was sick in the bathroom, he cleaned himself up, he went to the kitchen and made tea. He didn’t turn on the light, he knew where everything was kept. Inger switched off the light on the nightstand, and got into bed with him. She lay there still for a long time, and then she kissed him on the mouth. At that moment, she was prepared to forgive him for everything.

When he woke up, she had gone to sleep. He wasn’t surprised to find her next to him in bed. He took her hand, which lay on the sheet. In the sparse light, he could only just dimly make out her face. He looked at her for a long time. She resembled her mother. But that was so long ago. Perhaps he was just imagining it, perhaps he was dreaming. When he awoke again, it was morning. Inger stood in front of the sink. He was glad she wasn’t lying beside him.

He wouldn’t have known what to say. Inger? he said. She turned to face him. Do you feel better? Yes, he said, and smiled. If you like, we can go south today.

He was talking more softly than usual, she could hardly hear him. As she washed, she could hear him getting up. He went up to the window and opened it. Cool air came in. She didn’t know what it was that made her think about his death, now, for the very first time.