Peter Stamm - All Days Are Night

Tamara called the waitress and asked for the bill. She said she was on her way to a meeting of the commune. Hubert insisted on paying. After she was gone, he stayed for a long time alone. He got a copy of the paper, reread the article about himself, and listened to the conversation of the men at the next table.

In the hotel, there again seemed to be plenty of activity when Hubert went over there for a nightcap. At the circular bar in the lobby there were only couples and a group of young men, talking and laughing loudly. Opposite Hubert stood a woman between two men, who were talking over her head. She had blond hair and very pale skin, in the dark room it looked like she had been picked out by a spotlight. She seemed unconcerned, as though she had fallen into a kind of rigidity. Even when his eyes briefly met hers, Hubert saw no reaction in them. He drew her face on the back of a coaster. That made him think of a series of tourist portraits on coasters, but he was sure he would reject the idea when he was sober.

The next morning Hubert breakfasted in the hotel. It was already quite late, the few guests were mostly young couples. Hubert wondered what they were doing here and imagined spending a few days here with Nina. When the staff began clearing away the buffet, he went to reception, asked what a room cost, and also if he could pay to use the pool. You mean the spa and recreation area, said the receptionist, and quoted a rather steep price. Hubert thanked her and strolled through the hotel. The building looked a little faded and dim, although lights were on all over the place. From a second-story window he surveyed the grounds, where a few children sat in a circle with a young woman, tossing a ball around. A few elderly visitors read or snoozed in deck chairs, even though it was ten in the morning.

Hubert went back downstairs and scanned the hotel notice board, the week’s program, the day’s menu, looked at a poster of protected Alpine flowers that was familiar to him from boyhood, and studied what to do in the event of a forest fire. Then there was an organizational chart of the hotel, with the first names and functions of every employee. Over each name was a small photograph, almost all of them showed smiling young people in red polo shirts, most of the women had long hair, many of them were blond. One face was familiar to Hubert: JILL, HEAD OF ENTERTAINMENT, it said under the picture. Gillian’s face looked a little different from before, but that might just be the photo. He looked around, as though he’d been doing something forbidden, and quickly left the hotel.

He walked down a narrow footpath along the river and thought of his last meeting with Gillian, and how he had thrown her out of his studio.

At the end of his walk, he went briefly into the cultural center to fetch his swimming trunks. He had no plan to get in touch with Gillian, but he was drawn back to the hotel. In the pool there were a few people copying exercises demonstrated by a young man on the poolside. Hubert went into the sauna, but the heat was soon too much for him. When he returned to the pool, it was full of shouting children. He watched them for a while, then went to the changing room. All the time he was thinking of Gillian, and preparing an account for what had happened then. As he walked past reception, he stopped on impulse and asked about her. The woman at the desk asked him for his name and made a quick phone call.

She’s just on her way, she said.

Hubert sat down in his old leather armchair in the lobby.

Five minutes later, Gillian was standing in front of him. He pushed himself up with both hands, and for a moment they stood uncertainly facing each other. Gillian’s face looked somehow incoherent, she had slight scarring, like someone with bad acne in childhood, and her nose looked different, it seemed cruder, a little puffy.

She smiled, kissed Hubert on the cheek, and asked him if he wanted to have a drink.

Do you have time? he asked.

She nodded and said the preseason was pretty quiet. Come on, let’s go outside.

She led him across the hall. She was wearing a red polo shirt with the hotel logo on it, and tight white pants.

The terrace was at the back of the hotel and gave onto the grounds. Only one of the tables was occupied, by two old couples sitting together over beer and cards. Gillian sat down and waved to the waiter. She ordered a white wine spritzer. Hubert followed suit. While waiting for their drinks, neither of them spoke.

Gillian raised her glass, smiled, and said I go by Jill here, it’s easier for people to say.

Again, neither of them spoke.

It seems to me I have every reason to be angry, she then said, smiling again.

Hubert nodded and was a little surprised at his willingness to accept the blame.

How did you find me? Did Arno say something?

Hubert said it had been pure chance, he had seen her picture on the hotel notice board. I’m doing another exhibition at the cultural center.

I know, said Jill. I saw the article in the paper, though it didn’t tell me much.

Me either, said Hubert. It’s all so long ago, I can hardly remember.

I suppose it was my idea to have you back, said Jill. I’m on the committee that runs the cultural center. My last connection to the arts.

Why didn’t you get in touch? he asked.

Jill made a face. You made it pretty clear last time that you weren’t interested in me.

My wife left me, said Hubert.

Jill didn’t respond and asked instead what he was planning to show. Hubert shrugged. He laughed uncertainly. Suddenly Jill stood up, finished her spritzer, and said she had to go back to work.

Come and have dinner sometime. Are you free on Sunday?

I’m always free, he said.

Then come and meet me here at six.

She bent down, kissed him on the cheek, and disappeared.

There was a knock on the door, Hubert was still in bed. It’s me, said Arno, can we talk?

I’ll come down, said Hubert.

He waited for the footfall of the director to disappear, then he went to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he was standing in front of Arno’s desk like a naughty pupil told to see the principal. Do you need anything? asked Arno. Is there some way I can help …

Hubert lied that he had an idea but wasn’t able to say anything specific about it.

We’re under a certain amount of pressure here, said Arno, some local politicians resent us, and we need proof that we’re doing good work. It’s important that the show be a success.

I’ll keep you posted, said Hubert

Just do something, said Arno. Anything, so long as we don’t have bare walls in three weeks.

Hubert breakfasted in the hotel. Then he got the password for the WLAN and Googled Gillian’s name. A couple hundred mentions came up, but almost all of them seemed to be about her former work in TV. When he put Jill for Gillian, there were fewer than a dozen results, and they all had to do with her work in the vacation club.

The opening of the graduation show at the art college was scheduled for Friday. Hubert had promised Nina and the others he would be there, but he was just on his way out of the cultural center when he saw on the door a large black poster with Carta Alba/Carte Blanche on it, his name, and the dates of the show. The opening was in exactly three weeks, on June 25. He decided not to drive down into the valley and instead went to the hotel and sat in the lobby. He wrote Nina an apologetic e-mail. He was under pressure, didn’t know what to do, couldn’t get away. He promised to come down in the next week or two to take a look at her work.

When he drove down to the village later on to buy food, he saw the poster for his exhibition in some of the shop windows. It felt as though Arno was making fun of him. He spent the evening in the hotel lobby, aimlessly surfing the Web.