Peter Stamm
On A Day Like This
It is on a day like this, a little later, a little earlier,
that everything will start over, that everything will begin,
that everything will go on as before.
Andreas loved the empty mornings when he would stand by the window with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and stare down at the small, tidy courtyard, and think about nothing except what was there in front of him: a small rectangular bed in the middle of the courtyard, planted with ivy with a tree in it, that put out a few thin branches, pruned to fit the small space that was available; the shiny green containers for glass, packing material, other rubbish; the even pattern of the cement paving blocks, some of which were a little lighter, having been replaced some years back for some unknown reason. The noise of the city was only faintly audible, reduced to an even roar, interspersed with distant birdcalls and the rather clearer noise of a window being opened and shut.
This unthinking state only lasted for a few minutes. Even before Andreas had finished his cigarette, he remembered last night. What did emptiness mean to him, Nadia had wanted to know. For her it meant lack of attention, lack of love, the absence of people she had lost, or who paid her insufficient attention. Emptiness was a space that had once been filled, or that she thought might be filled, the absence of something she couldn’t put her finger on. He didn’t know about that, Andreas had said, he wasn’t interested in abstract notions.
Evenings with Nadia always followed the same pattern. She would arrive half an hour late, and give Andreas the feeling that it was he who was late. She would be wearing full makeup, and a short, tight skirt and black fishnet tights. She would drop her coat theatrically on the floor, sit down on the sofa, and cross her legs. As far as she was concerned, that was the high point of the evening, her entrance. She put a cigarette in her mouth, and Andreas gave her a light, and complimented her on her appearance. He went into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of wine. Nadia must have had something to drink already, she was a little bit excitable.
Usually, they ate in a local restaurant. The food wasn’t bad, and the gay waiter bantered with Nadia. Sometimes, if the restaurant wasn’t too busy, he sat down at their table with them. Nadia drank and talked too much, and together with the waiter made fun of Andreas’s being a vegetarian, and the fact that he always ordered the same thing off the menu. He said he wasn’t a vegetarian, he just didn’t eat meat that often. By dessert, if not before, Nadia would have gotten onto politics. She worked for a PR company. One of her clients was a group connected to the Socialist Party, whose views she represented in a way that drove Andreas crazy. By that point, he would often have stopped speaking, and she would ask him in an aggressive undertone if she bored him.
“I bore you,” she said.
No, he said, but he was a foreigner, he didn’t understand French politics, and wasn’t that interested either. He obeyed the law, he sorted his trash, he taught the syllabus. Apart from that, he just wanted to be left in peace. Nadia would be annoyed by his lack of interest, and would lecture him, and they quarreled. Andreas tried to change the subject. Then every time Nadia would start to talk about her ex-husband, his lovelessness and his inattentiveness, Andreas got the feeling she was talking about him. Nadia couldn’t stop complaining. She smoked one cigarette after another, and her voice got a little teary. All the other guests would have gone by then, and the waiter had emptied the ashtrays and wiped the espresso machine. When he came to their table and asked them if they wanted anything else, Nadia was suddenly a different person. She laughed and flirted with him, and that would go on for another fifteen minutes until Andreas was allowed to pay the bill.
On the way home, Nadia was quiet. They hadn’t touched all evening. Now she linked arms with Andreas. He stopped in front of the building where he lived. He kissed her, first on the cheeks, then on the mouth. Sometimes he kissed her on the neck, and then he would feel a bit ridiculous. She seemed to like it, though. Presumably, it accorded with her own glamorous sense of herself. The sort of woman that men prostrated themselves in front of, who gets kissed on the neck, who laughs her lovers to scorn. Andreas would have liked to be alone now, but he asked her all the same if she wanted to come up. It sounded like capitulation.
Nadia was not one of those women who became more beautiful once you had slept with them. Her tight clothes were like a suit of armor; once she was naked she seemed to lose confidence, and looked old, older than she really was. She permitted everything to be done to her, enjoyed Andreas’s caresses without reciprocating them. That — he should have said to her — was his idea of emptiness. These evenings with her, every other week, or rather the same evening over and over again, followed by the same night, and no sense of getting closer to her. But he didn’t say anything. He enjoyed the sense that Nadia was somewhere else in her head, that she left him her body to do with as he pleased, then, after an hour or two, suddenly got impatient, shoved him away, and told him to call her a taxi. Emptiness meant those evenings with her, the afternoons with Sylvie, or the weekends by himself at home in his warm, comfortable apartment, where he would watch TV, play a computer game, or just read.
Emptiness was his life in this city, the eighteen years in which nothing had changed, without his wishing for anything to change. Emptiness was the normal state of things, he had said, nor was it anything he was afraid of — quite the opposite.
Sometimes, when Andreas crossed the street on his way to work, he imagined what it would be like to be run over by a bus. The collision would be the end of what had been thus far, and at the same time a sort of fresh start. A blow that would put an end to entanglements and create a little order. Suddenly, everything seemed significant, the date and the hour, the name of the street or boulevard, and that of the bus driver, even Andreas himself, the date and place of his birth, his profession, his religion. It was a rainy morning, winter or fall. The gleaming asphalt reflected the lights of the electric signs and the car headlights. The traffic piled up behind the bus, which blocked the road. An ambulance came. Pedestrians stood and gawked. A policeman waved the traffic past the site of the accident. The passengers in other buses craned their necks or stuck their heads out of the window. They failed to understand what had happened, or else forgot it straightaway when a different scene caught their attention. A second policeman came and tried to reconstruct the accident. He asked the bus driver, the woman in the bakery who had seen it all happen, a further witness. Then he would write up a report in duplicate, a file that would be stored in some archive somewhere, arranged in an alphabetical sequence of fatal accidents. Andreas imagined the measures that would have to be taken to remove him from the system. His brother would have to be informed, it would be for him to decide what would be done with the body. Andreas had withstood the temptation to draw up a will, it had always struck him as rather narcissistic to leave instructions in the event of one’s own death. Presumably Walter would opt for incineration, that was the simplest and most sensible course. Even so, there would be a lot of paperwork to be done, and all sorts of official business. The embassy would certainly have to become involved.
Andreas asked himself whether a detailed account would be drawn up of the last working days before his death. The school authorities would know what to do. Perhaps there was even a memo somewhere listing the steps that had to be taken in the event of the unexpected death of foreign members of the teaching staff.