Seven Years by Peter Stamm Read Free Book Online Page A

calm, but Ivona must have sensed there was something amiss. She backed up toward the window, and I followed her. This time she didn’t turn to the bed, but stayed where she was. I started to unbutton her blouse. She placed her hands over mine, and held them, but I freed myself with a sudden movement. I took off her blouse and her skirt, slip and tights, which she wore in spite of the heat. At first she resisted a bit, but I was the stronger, and eventually she gave up any resistance. When I pulled down her panties, she said, no, but she stepped out of them, first one foot then the other. She stood there awkwardly, both feet on the floor, and trying to cover herself up, but I held her hands and knelt down in front of her, kissing her. Her white untouched flesh had something vegetable about it, the pleats in her skin which was thickly sown with moles, her black, crisp pubic hair. I was almost beside myself with lust. Then she turned around and took another step forward to the window, so that she could have been seen from the street. I got up and, while I quickly stripped, looked outside with her. There was no one in sight, no witness, I thought. Come, I said, and made to pull her over to the bed. Then she started crying. Her crying got more and more violent, until her whole body was cramped up and shaking. She collapsed into herself, and sat hunkered on the floor, still crying softly. It was as though I woke up. I sat down on the bed and stared at her. I remember something Aldo Rossi had said, that every room contains an abyss. The abyss was between me and Ivona. I stretched out my hand to hold her, and hold her to me, but she shrank back. She looked deep into my eyes, her expression was full of fear and sadness. I quickly got dressed and left.
    * Let us see him safe, Almighty God! / Let us see him safe and well! / He dies!—He dies!— / O dreadful night!

T hat’s not a nice story, said Antje. Her voice sounded low and serious. I know, I said, and you’re the first person I’ve told it to. Why me?
    Instead of taking the road via Traubing as I usually did, I drove along the lakefront, even though it was night, and there wasn’t much to see. There was a time I was bored by this landscape, but the longer I lived here, the more I saw its beauty. Sometimes, when Sonia was in bed already, I would go for a walk down to the Academy, and sit by the shore and think about my life, and how it could have been different. Then I would have the feeling it had all happened automatically, without any input from me, as though it had to be this way. I admired people like Antje who seemed to have their lives in their hands, and set themselves goals, and made decisions.
    I parked outside the house, but Antje made no move. I don’t really feel like going in there with you, she said quietly. It’s almost twenty years ago, I said. You’re sitting here in your house, with your beautiful wife and your sweet little girl. Don’t you feel any shame? I haven’t gotten to the end of the story yet, I said. Well, I’ve heard enough for today, said Antje, and she climbed out.
    I showed her to the guest bedroom, which was right beside the front door, and facing the office on the lower ground floor. Sonia had everything ready. There were towels laid out on the freshly made bed and flowers on the table by the window. She had even written a welcome card and propped it against the vase. Antje read it and set it down with a smile. Mathilda, our cat, walked in. Sophie had been pestering us for ages, and finally for her tenth birthday she was allowed to have the kitten her grandparents had promised her long before. But now, half a year later, her interest had let up noticeably, and we continually needed to remind her to look after her pet. Mathilda strolled through my legs and looked up at Antje, who was taking her toiletries from her overnight bag. You have your own bathroom, I said, here on the right. Will you remove the cat, please?, said Antje. I asked