Judith Hermann - Alice

There you are, Lotte said. She smiled and then stopped smiling. When she wasn’t smiling the creases around her eyes were white. Lotte was seventy years old. Conrad too. More than twenty-five years older than Alice. Did everything go all right. Lotte said. Did you have a good trip. She asked the questions so that they sounded like statements but still she expected an answer.

Yes, Alice said. Everything went well. It was strenuous, but now we’re here, and we’re happy to be here. Lotte, I’m so very happy.

Lotte said, Conrad is sick. Unfortunately he’s sick, nothing serious, only a little fever, but he’s in bed.

She indicated the middle door; it was dark behind the door, not a sound to be heard.

He doesn’t want you to see him lying in bed; he doesn’t want that. He’ll come to see you later, Lotte smiled again, a smile somewhere between irony and sadness. She was tanned from the Italian sun, wore a lightweight linen dress, unwrinkled, pale violet, falling in precise folds, and a necklace of silvery, smooth beads. She looked neat and rested; Alice thought of all the motorway rest stops of the past ten hours, of the radio music in the toilets, the smell of urine and disinfectant, the broken soap dispensers, of her own exhausted face reflected in a mirror of scratched tin. She was glad she didn’t have to say hello to Conrad just now; he would be able to retain his image of her arrival: a picture of an arrival.

Come, said Lotte softly. I’ll unlock the yellow house for you.

She held up two small keys that she had probably been holding in her hand all the while. She had been sitting on the terrace, holding the keys, waiting for them. And, Alice thought, it was really Conrad who had invited them. It had been his invitation; of course he must have discussed the invitation with Lotte, but it had been his idea. Come and visit us and bring along whomever you like. Alice decided to ask Anna, she didn’t want to go anywhere without Anna. And she picked the Romanian because he was always polite and knew how to behave. Maybe also because she wasn’t in love with him. As far as she knew, Anna wasn’t in love with him either. She had suggested their names to Conrad, and he had agreed. And now he was sick. A fever. He would have unlocked the yellow house and shown it to them. Alice knew he would have enjoyed that very much. She followed Lotte down the stairs, Lotte’s slow, measured steps, not turning to look again at the middle door. The cardinal beetles scurried out of their way and vanished into the cracks between the stones.

The yellow house had three storeys and six rooms. Alice chose the room under the eaves, the room Conrad used to live in, before he and Lotte converted la stalla . The room was square, windows on two sides, a narrow bed, a cupboard, a red carpet with a black pattern woven into it and, in its exact centre, a table. From there Alice could see the peaks of the mountains on the other side of the lake. Anna took the room next door. Fig leaves on the coverlet over the wide bed, a door leading to the second balcony and another to a bathroom with a bathtub, shiny fixtures, blue tiles, and two sinks in front of two mirrors. A stairway led down to the first floor, no banister, instead a golden cord along the wall which slid softly through Alice’s hand. The sheets, starched and ironed, were in a chest under the stairway. The Romanian took the smallest room for himself. Its window was shaded by ivy; it had a metal bed with a small table next to it, polished wood, delicate inlaid work. On the ground floor: the kitchen, a dining room, a living room, low sofas in front of the fireplace and on the bookshelf were games for rainy days: Monopoly, Ludo, chess. On the walls hung framed drawings by their children, Lotte and Conrad’s children, three. And drawings by the grandchildren, five. A guest book next to the telephone. In the large pantry behind the kitchen was a refrigerator into which Conrad had put a watermelon the day before. Alice went from room to room pushing open all the shutters, then the doors to the balconies; the curtain rings clattered softly against each other. Sunlight on the table in Conrad’s old room, and fine dust.

Anna opened her backpack, threw everything on the bed: white skirts, dresses, and blouses with red roses on them. Suntan lotion. Books. Three pairs of sunglasses. From downstairs the Romanian called up to them: Campari! It was really quite unbearable.

Leaning against the door frame of Anna’s room, her naked feet crossed and her arms across her chest, Alice asked, Do you suppose we’ll still be going for a swim today?

Well, naturalmente , Anna said, what do you think!

One of the kitchen doors led to the outside, the other into the dining room. Seventeen steps from the kitchen to the dining room, living room, and a white French door to the terrace. The terrace was the seventh room; it had a stone parapet with red cushions on it, three columns, a cypress. Alice sat down on the bench outside the house next to the kitchen door. Lizards on the house wall, their mysterious rustling in the ivy. No breeze now. Nothing. She sat there like that for a while. Then she got up and went into the kitchen, walked past the Romanian without saying a word, and the seventeen steps again to the terrace where Anna was sitting on the stone parapet on the red cushions, leaning against a column, holding a glass in her left hand, her knees drawn up, her head to one side, and her matted hair tied into a child’s pigtail. She smiled at Alice, showing her broken left front tooth. What a relief to see her.

What a relief to see you, Alice said. You have no idea, you just wouldn’t believe it.

And what if I do? Anna said.

That doesn’t change anything, Alice said.

After the sun had set, they walked along the dirt road, past the goats, through the great forged-iron gate, and down to the restaurant on the lakeshore road. Nuovo Ponte, it was called. Lotte had said they should have supper there, drink a glass of wine, and leave the shopping until tomorrow. She asked Alice to introduce Anna and the Romanian to her, but seemed absent-minded and rather apathetic, giving them only a quick and knowing glance. She had apologised for Conrad’s indisposition and had postponed their celebratory meal together until the following day. The Romanian had been exceptionally obliging and charming, Anna had been, too; she just wasn’t able to hide her preference for leaving all this, to desert so she could be on her own. Lotte had taken note of this, casually but accurately. She also took note of the pigtail. The broken tooth. The neckline of Anna’s dress, and what all these things said about Alice. All three of them had revealed themselves.

They walked peaceably next to each other. The Romanian in the middle, Anna on his left, Alice on his right. And you’ll order for us, Alice said. You’re going to take care of all that. Wine and olives and sardines and bread. And tomorrow you’ll go to the barber. And have your hair cut. By a barbiere. Alice felt her head would burst if she couldn’t immediately have a glass of wine to drink. The Romanian handled everything with ease. Playfully. Ironically. He picked a table near the street, a round table with a white tablecloth, set under a lemon tree on the pebble strip in the small garden in front of the ristorante . He greeted the waiters and answered their stock phrases, buon giorno, come va, bene, grazie, bene, grazie, benissimo ; he flipped open the menus and closed them, recapitulated the vineyards, vintages, grape varieties. Alice closed her eyes. Then drank the red wine. They ate sardines and peppers and little slices of white bread soaked in olive oil. The Romanian talked about his childhood summer holidays. Weeks spent on the eastern shore of the lake, on the opposite side, at a campground. They had stayed in a caravan with a tent and plastic chairs, waking every morning, getting up, and heading straight for the lake, swimming far out. Thunder, the gathering and passing of thunderstorms. Black mould on the walls of the caravan, like filigree blossoms. Rubber boots, rain jackets, and instead of sweets, sucking grainy Instant Tea powder till your tongue was thick and bloated. Suntan oil. Algae on the water. Fog. Once they had gone up the mountain in the cable car, actually finding snow on top, a lunar landscape, grey rocks and the air very thin; then, back down in the cable car, into the insane certainty of the heat. In the evening, playing canasta with cards swollen from the humidity. Rummy. Bridge. Clammy sleeping bags. Mosquitoes swarming around the camping lantern and the smell of paraffin, the smoking wick.