All Days Are Night by Peter Stamm Read Free Book Online Page A

guessed.
    Gillian hadn’t got up, he held out his hand to her. He seemed less sure of himself than in the TV studio, at any rate Gillian liked him much better. Hubert didn’t say anything, and Gillian didn’t know what to say either. In the end he asked her why she called herself Miss Julie.
    After the Strindberg play, said Gillian. It was a part I played once. In my drama school graduation show.
    The waitress came over. Hubert smiled at her and ordered a beer. When she came back with it, he took it from her with a little pleasantry and had a sip right away. The waitress walked away, you could tell by her walk that she knew Hubert was looking at her.
    Do you like her then?
    He apologized. I can’t help seeing a potential picture in every face.
    I had the sense it was more her bottom you were looking at, said Gillian. What do you see in my face?
    He looked at her attentively. I don’t know, he said. I always watch your program.
    Really?
    Your face is too familiar to me.
    Then look at it more closely, said Gillian. She liked it when Hubert was looking at her with his keen, appraising look.
    Your complexion isn’t as clear as it seemed to be in the studio, he said finally, that must be the makeup. Your nose is a bit shiny. And you have unusually heavy eyebrows for a woman.
    Gillian winced. I could have done without the detail.
    I like the little hairs on your neck, said Hubert, and the mobility of your features. The way you sometimes open your eyes very wide. Are you nearsighted?
    A little bit.
    Hubert asked her why she wanted to see him. Gillian shrugged.
    They were silent again, but it wasn’t the disagreeable silence of two people who have nothing to say to oneanother. Gillian’s cell phone went off. She looked down at the display and declined the call.
    Will you show me your pictures?
    Sure, he said, and went over to the bar to pay.
    Although it was only late September, autumn was already very much in the air. It was almost dark outside, and distinctly chilly.
    I’ve got my car in the car park, said Gillian.
    Hubert gave her directions. During the drive, he asked her what she did in her free time. A bit of exercise, swimming, jogging, said Gillian. And I read a lot. What about you? She hadn’t had a conversation like this in a very long time, and it made her smile. In a minute you’ll be asking me about my taste in music.
    The drive took less than a quarter of an hour. Hubert’s studio was in an old textile works on the edge of the city. To the south was a dark wooded chain of hills, the slopes in the north were not so high. The valley drew in here, and it was dotted with ugly industrial buildings. The main building in the textile works was a wreck, its roof stove in, the windows boarded up. The walls were propped by a heavy steel scaffold to keep them from collapsing.
    They crossed the yard to a side building. The sky was still bright, and there was a thin sliver of new moon. As Hubert and Gillian approached the building, a security light came on. Hubert unlocked the graffitied metal door, switched on a light, and led Gillian down a narrow corridor past a number of doors. His studio was at the back, a big, almost empty room with a paint-spotted linoleum floor. The walls were in an uncertain yellowish color, in some places you could see gray marks where shelves had been once. On theceiling there were halogen bulbs that bathed the room in a chill, garish light. On one side of the studio were tall windows, the blinds were down. Along one wall were metal shelving units full of bottles and tubes, brushes, stacks of books, and sketch pads. There was a sofa, a couple of old kitchen chairs, a mattress in a corner. On top of a small fridge was a single hot plate, with a beat-up aluminum saucepan on it. Side by side along one wall leaned three evidently recent pictures like those in the exhibition, one was still unfinished. Next to them were the backs of half a dozen canvases, protected by clear plastic sheeting. A large