Seven Years by Peter Stamm Read Free Book Online Page B

her if she didn’t like animals. I like wild animals, not pets.
    I said good night and turned to leave. Wait, said Antje, and dropped onto her bed. You didn’t answer my question. Why tell me all this? We hardly know each other. Maybe that’s the reason, I said. Do you remember when you showed me your paintings back then? Antje made a doubtful face. You didn’t like them. Actually, no one liked them, not even me. You said I was too young for them, I said, but that wasn’t true. I recognized myself in your copulating chimeras. I felt trapped, maybe that’s why I didn’t want to see your pictures. Aren’t you making things a teeny bit simple for yourself?, asked Antje. You behave like a swine, and then you blame your inner beast. I’m not buying that. Maybe I thought, because you’re an artist, you’d understand, I said. Antje stopped to think. She had some understanding for craziness, but she couldn’t understand what I’d done. You had to be able to tell the difference between fiction and reality. Imagine someone doing that to your daughter. I said that wasn’t fair, Sophie was still a child. That’s not the point, said Antje.
    Finally we said good night, and I went upstairs to Sophie’s room. The only light was from a small blue night-light, in which Sophie’s face looked very calm. While I gazed at her, she quickly furrowed her brow, and I wondered what was going on in her head, what she could have been dreaming about. Sometimes she came into our room, I would wake up for some reason to find her standing by our bed and staring at me with a frightened expression. When I sent her back she would say she’d had a bad dream. Then she would tell exotic stories about wild animals and wicked men, and sometimes great big destructive machines, and I would tell her to try and think of something else, something pretty. I can’t, she would say.
    I went into the bathroom and got changed. When I lay down, Sonia woke briefly, gave me a kiss, and went straight back to sleep. I thought of the pictures I’d taken of her asleep, and that she’d seen later. That was the first time we’d kissed, on that little island in front of the port at Marseilles. It all seemed terribly long ago.

W hen I got to the parking lot, Sonia was already there. She got out, said hello, and opened the trunk. There was hardly any room for my duffle bag next to her huge wheeled suitcase. I asked her what she’d packed, I’d thought we were only going for a couple of days. Things I need, she said, and a few books and my Rolleiflex. Did you bring a camera? I don’t need a camera, I’ve got eyes in my head and a good memory. You’re just lazy, Sonia said.
    It was a cool morning, everything felt clean and fresh. It was due to get hot again by noon, but by then we’d be in the mountains, Sonia promised. She’d thought of everything, she had all the necessary maps with her, and water and a thermos of coffee. Some sandwiches were in a picnic basket on the back seat. We’re going to go via the San Bernardino Pass, said Sonia, past Milan and along the Ligurian coast. It’s a pretty route. I said I’d be glad to take turns driving. We’ll see, she said.
    It really was a lovely drive. We had never spent so much time together, and we got on like a house on fire. Sonia talked about Le Corbusier, she knew everything about him and his work. She asked me what I had against him. Nothing, I said, I just don’t like him. There’s something conceited about his buildings. I always get the feeling they’re out to turn me into an ideal man. Have you ever been inside any of his buildings? No, I said, but I’ve seen loads of pictures. Sonia said, pictures weren’t enough, the essence of Le Corbusier wasn’t in the facades, but in the rooms. Anyway, what could be bad about a building that improved the people who lived in it? I said, people have a history that you have to respect. Attempts to create a better man were at best misguided and at worst had led