Peter Stamm - All Days Are Night

I had a word with the doctor, said her father, after the third operation there’ll be hardly any trace left.

That’s in five months, said Gillian. In summer.

She had called her boss after the operation. He had suggested expanding her editorial function, since she wasn’t able to appear in front of the camera for now. He had cautiously felt her out about the prognosis for her face. In five months it’s supposed to be fully restored, said Gillian, with the help of a bit of makeup. Let’s talk nearer the time, said her boss. When can you start work?

When can you start work? asked her father.

He had never liked her job, never even approved of drama lessons. She was surprised to see him at her graduation show. Nor was her father impressed with her journalistic training. For him, journalists were all lefties, out to wreck the private sector. As a student Gillian had started presenting a lifestyle show for a local television station. She had been so good at it that she was called in for a screen test when the national broadcaster was looking for a host for a new flagship arts program. But even after Gillian started getting more and more prominence, her father continued to criticize her profession. The thing that most got on his nerves was when a customer or acquaintance of his asked if he was related to her, and he had to undergo a detailed commentary on the program and what she was wearing and what the magazines had to say about it.

After the accident a tabloid newspaper published a blurred hospital picture of her. Her father had pulled the page from his briefcase and held it out to her. He said no one could account for the picture, presumably it had been taken by someone working here, who had sold it to the paper. Gillian was barely recognizable, it must have been taken by a cell phone camera and with poor light. Under the picture was a brief report: tragic accident and so forth. She didn’t feel like reading the piece. Instead she looked at the other picture, of her and Matthias, taken at some party or other, her smile appeared forced, and she looked older than she was.

What am I supposed to do? she asked. It could have been almost anyone.

She passed the paper back to her father, and he returned it to his briefcase. She thought he would say that’s your comeuppance, but all he said was that he had lodged a complaint with the hospital management and telephoned the paper. He had even talked to his lawyer, but the lawyer wasn’t interested. She was of public interest, it made it difficult to defend her privacy. If you shared your happiness with journalists, you shouldn’t be surprised if they were interested in your misfortune as well.

When are you starting again? asked her father.

That’s finished, said Gillian. You won’t have to be angry with them anymore now. I’m not going back into editorial to receive anyone’s sympathy.

She didn’t feel like writing scripts for Maia, who, thanks to her accident, was getting the chance to move from her desk to in front of the camera.

What will you do instead? asked her father.

She couldn’t tell from his tone if he was relieved or concerned.

I don’t know yet, she said, something will turn up.

Do you want the use of the holiday house for a while? he asked. We won’t be there past Sunday.

Neither of them mentioned that she and Matthias had been going to spend the next week in the mountains.

On the first floor was the maternity ward. In the elevator was a list of the babies born during the past few days. When Gillian went down to the kiosk in the entrance hall for cigarettes or a newspaper, she would see the young couples standing around with their new babies. They looked lost, as though they were waiting for someone to come by and say something complimentary. Behind their smiles Gillian saw panic in the face of the horrifying creature they had made, and for which they were now responsible, without really knowing what they were going to do. She felt them avoiding her eye.

It was a sunny day in February, the air was cool, and the wind chased the occasional cloud across the sky. Gillian stood on the balcony of her room, smoking. She had wrapped herself in a blanket and was looking down at the city and the lake. She felt chilly as she lit another cigarette. Smoking was banned everywhere in the hospital and a nurse passing by outside made an indignant face and wafted her hand in front of her face. Gillian ignored her. A young couple left the building. The man carried the baby awkwardly under his arm. The woman had linked arms with him, she walked a little uncertainly, and didn’t look particularly pleased. Suddenly the w-word made an appearance, I am a widow, and it was more shocking than her injury, than Matthias’s death, than anything.

The clouds suddenly gave way to the sun and, dazzled, Gillian took a backward step. The doctor came in to say goodbye. He said she shouldn’t go out in the sun for the time being and should avoid getting her face wet for a few days. Also she shouldn’t take any exercise, and should avoid all forms of exertion. Apart from that, she could please herself. He shook hands with Gillian and said he had to go, they would see each other again in five months’ time. Gillian looked at her watch. It was a little after two. She packed her case and went out into the corridor. She quickly said goodbye to the nurses. Something kept her from walking out of the main hospital exit. At the end of the landing was a staircase that went down to the emergency ward and a side exit. She called a taxi. While she waited, she wondered where she would go. She didn’t want to see any of her friends, no one she had known from before, who would compare her old face to the new one. When the taxi finally arrived, she put on her dark glasses and almost ran the few steps to it.

From home, she called the police station and asked to speak to Frau Bauer. She was away from her desk, but the man took a note of Gillian’s number and promised his colleague would get back to her. When she phoned three hours later, Gillian was almost in tears. She reminded the policewoman who she was.

What can I do for you?

Gillian hesitated, then she said, my husband wasn’t to blame for the accident. I was supposed to drive us home. And then I got drunk and I couldn’t.

You told me that already, said the policewoman.

It wasn’t his fault, said Gillian again, and by now she was crying.

He still shouldn’t have been driving, said the policewoman coolly. Perhaps you do need help. Shall I give you that victims’ support number again?

I’m not the victim, said Gillian and hung up.

She called Matthias’s mother and told her everything, but she wouldn’t hear of Gillian’s guilt either. She said there was no point in looking for a guilty party. Matthias’s death had been God’s will. The conversation was over almost as quickly as that with the policewoman.

Over the next few days, Gillian kept thinking of the New Year’s party and of how the accident might have been avoided. She should have insisted on staying the night at Dagmar’s, she shouldn’t have gotten into the car, she should never have allowed Hubert to take photographs of her nude.

Early on Sunday she called her parents at the vacation house. Her father picked up. She asked him where exactly the accident had happened. Someone from his workshop had picked up the totaled vehicle, and he was able to tell her the place. Gillian said she was happy to take his offer of staying in the house for a while. He said they wouldn’t be leaving till tonight, the weather was fine, and they wanted to get another day’s skiing in.

What about coming up today? It would be good to see you there.

I can’t manage that, she said.

Well, you know where we keep the keys, said her father.

She spent Sunday straightening up the apartment and packing a suitcase, though she didn’t know how long she would be staying in the mountains. On Monday morning she drove to the scene of the crash. She parked by a forest path a hundred yards farther on and went back on foot. By the side of the road was a withered bouquet of flowers with a burned-down votive candle, the only clue that there had been an accident here. Gillian wondered who had put it there. She picked it up and put it on her backseat. When she stopped at a rest stop an hour later, to fill up, she threw it in a trash can that had Thank You written on it in four languages.