Seven Years Part 5

We arranged to meet in a beer garden, but when we met, it was so cold outside that we went to a bar around the corner instead. The place was almost deserted, the air stank of stale smoke and chemical cleaner, but Rudiger seemed not to notice and sat down at the nearest table. He was looking good and seemed relaxed. He had heard about our troubles, and he must have been able to tell from my appearance how badly I was doing, but he didn't let on. He talked about Switzerland, where he felt very settled now, and his inst.i.tute outside Zurich, high over the lake. A little paradise, he said, and-not that I asked him about it-promptly started talking about his job. He talked about spontaneous networks and people who had a sort of entrepreneurial approach to their lives, and kept asking themselves, okay, what are my strengths, my preferences, my a.s.sumptions? What am I making of them all? Where am I going, and how will I get there? That's where the future is, EGO plc. And what if EGO plc goes bust?, I asked. Sure, there are some losers, said Rudiger. The way things are looking now, we're headed for a new cla.s.s society, where two-thirds of society will have to work more and more to carry the social burden of the remaining third, which can't find a niche in the new world of work. I said, that doesn't sound too good. I'm not here to judge, beamed Rudiger.

And apart from that, how are you doing? Are you still with Elsbeth? Rudiger creased his brow, as if trying to remember. No, he finally said, that's over now. He hadn't heard from her in ages. I remember seeing her once at one of your parties, I said, I thought back then that she was a bit loopy. She was working on some project that involved bread. Rudiger laughed. Her father was a baker, that's what that was about. For a time she made sculptures out of chewed-up bread that looked like those pastry cutouts we used to make at school. Her tragedy was, she didn't have anything to express. Having a thousand ideas in your head didn't help either.

He shook his head, as though he couldn't quite believe he'd ever been in love with Elsbeth. He hadn't found the ideal woman yet. Maybe you're asking too much, I said. The ideal woman doesn't exist. Either they're too young, he said, or they're divorced with kids. For a time I was with a teacher who had two sweet little girls, but I want my own kids, and she said she didn't want another pregnancy. The joys of bachelor life, eh, I said. Ach no, said Rudiger, I'm fed up having to look and chase all the time. I'd like to be able to sit at home and watch a soccer match on the television and be content.

I'd ordered my fifth pint by now, while Rudiger was still on his first. I interrupted him in the middle of a sentence, and said I had to go to the restroom. As I washed my hands, I looked in the mirror and thought I still looked pretty good, not like a loser or an alkie, just a bit tired. I'd had bad luck. One day I'd get back on track, I was still young, everything was possible.

Back at the table, we sat and faced each other in silence awhile. The place had filled up, and Rudiger nodded at the corner where a lone woman was sitting, reading a book. Do you remember how we picked up that Polish girl, he said. She reminds me a bit of her. Say, did you and she ever have a thing together?

I didn't answer. I wondered how to begin. Finally I asked Rudiger if he believed Sonia loved me. He looked at me in surprise. How do you mean? If she loves me. Sure, said Rudiger. Why did you and she break up then? Rudiger laughed, then coughed. Beats me, it's a really long time ago. Which of you wanted to break up then? I think it was me, Rudiger said slowly. How could you leave such a perfect woman? Now Rudiger started to look worried. Have you got problems? I don't mean with the company. Did you love her?, I asked him. I like her an awful lot, said Rudiger, she's absolutely perfect, a wonderful human being. He smiled encouragingly. You'll get through it, don't you worry. The building industry will recover, you'll see.

I was sure he wouldn't say anything more about his relationship with Sonia, either out of loyalty or because he really couldn't remember. I said I had to go. Next time we'll all meet up, yeah?, said Rudiger.

As we left the bar, Rudiger tapped me on the shoulder. Look, he whispered. A man was standing by the table of the woman with the book. He was talking insistently to her, and she was smiling shyly. Rudiger walked past me and held the door open. The next story, he said.

I had brought Sophie to my in-laws just ahead of the meeting with Rudiger. It was just after ten when I rang their bell. Sonia's mother suggested I should leave Sophie with them overnight. I said I wanted to take her home. Don't you think we should let her sleep? I'll carry her into the car, I said, she can go on sleeping there. Have you been drinking?, asked Sonia's mother. Not much, I said, just a little bit. Sonia's father emerged from the living room, newspaper in hand. He too suggested I should leave Sophie with them overnight. He could drive her to school tomorrow morning. I didn't want any more arguing, so I climbed up the stairs and got Sophie. She was half-asleep as I carried her down the stairs. She was clutching my neck and pressing her head into my shoulder, and I had a sense-I don't know why-of liberating a prisoner. Sonia's parents were standing at the foot of the stairs, with serious expressions. I hope to G.o.d you know what you're doing, said Sonia's father.

The house looked terrible. To save money I'd told the cleaning woman to stop coming, but I had neither the time nor the energy to look after the place myself. Often I didn't have any clean clothes left, or I had to wear my shirts unironed. The freezer was full of frozen meals. Sophie didn't seem to mind the microwaved junk, in fact she liked it, at school the food was terribly healthy, and she hardly ever had meat. In fact she was very well behaved throughout the whole ordeal, playing quietly with her dolls when I had to work and going to bed without making a fuss. When I woke up in the morning, I would often find her lying beside me, and it would take me a long time to wake her up, hardly being able to crawl out of bed myself. Sometimes I went back to sleep, and then she was late for school and I was late for work.

I could feel my body disintegrating. The stress, the alcohol, the smoking, were all taking it out of me. One morning when I was sitting on the toilet, I noticed my bare feet, and I thought I'd never seen them before, they were the feet of an old man, the veins shimmering blue through the pitifully thin skin. This is how it's going to be from now on, I thought, my body will disintegrate, piece by piece will fail. I felt weak and incapable, and without the strength to pull myself together. Even though the state of the business, objectively, wasn't all that bad anymore. While I had let myself be incapacitated by my self-pity, the young architects who were working for us had hustled for work and managed to land a few minor contracts. Just carry on like this and we'll pull through, said the administrator. She talked about it as though it were her firm, which in a sense I suppose it was. We need to convince the creditors that we'll make it, she said. We'll draw up an insolvency plan, you pay down a mutually agreed portion of the debt, and in three years you'll be in the clear, able to start afresh. I said I wasn't sure I had the energy for that. She said you've got no choice. Where I should have been grateful to her, I hated her for her cheery optimism.

I had sworn to Sophie by all that was sacred never to leave her alone again at home, but one night I did it again. Although it was mid-September already, it had been hot for days, and I felt a weird disquiet, a hard-to-describe excitement. I called Antje, but there was no one home, and Sonia didn't pick up when I called her cell either. I worked and I drank, and every half an hour I tried Ma.r.s.eilles. Finally, at eleven o'clock, Antje answered. She said Sonia was already asleep. Half an hour ago there was no one home, and now she's already asleep? Antje said people in gla.s.s houses shouldn't throw stones. I said I didn't know what she was talking about. Then think about it, and call back in the office tomorrow. Good night. She hung up before I could reply.

I was quite sure that Sonia wasn't home, that she had a lover, and that Antje was protecting her. I tried her once again on her cell, but once again I was put straight through to the voice mail.

I stepped outside and lit a cigarillo. It was a warm night, and I thought about my student summers, when we stayed up until morning and only went home when the birds started singing, drunk but clear-headed and full of expectation. The house felt like a prison to me, a stifling cell I was locked up in, while life rampaged outside, and all Munich-my compet.i.tors, my creditors, and even the workmen on my building site-celebrated. It would take years for the business to clear its debts, years in which we'd have to tighten our belts, maybe live in some cheap hole somewhere.

More or less instinctively, I got into the car and drove off. Sophie had a sound sleep, and I didn't mean to be gone for long. I had had a fair bit to drink, but I felt in control of the car. There wasn't much traffic on the roads, and I got through easily. Half an hour later, I was parked in front of Ivona's building. Maybe she was still at work, and I could pick her up and take her for a spin, or just bang her on the back seat. Then I'd be able to sleep, at long last sleep quietly. I switched on the radio, listened to music, and smoked. After a bit, I opened the window and turned off the radio, to listen to the city and the sounds of the night. Gradually I sobered up. I had already decided to drive home when the phone rang. It was Sonia. Sounding incandescent with fury, she asked me where I was. In the car, I said. Are you crazy? Who's looking after Sophie? She's asleep, I said. Now that I was speaking, I felt tipsy again. I said I was just on my way home. Sonia said I was a fool. And where were you hanging around?, I asked.

When I got home, the next-door neighbor was in the sitting room. She had a key, and Sonia had called her and asked her to keep an eye on Sophie until I got home. She looked sleepy and didn't have much to say, just that everything was fine. Of course everything's fine, I don't know what's gotten into Sonia. The neighbor said nothing. Well, good night then, I said, thanks. I know you're having a hard time of it, she said, but you need to pull yourself together. Imagine if something had happened. I walked over to the door to usher her out. If you want to talk, she said. No, I said, I don't want to talk. Good night.

The following day Sonia's mother called me in the office and said they would be happy to look after Sophie for a while. Has Sonia talked to you? She hesitated, then said it would surely make things simpler for me now, when I had so much on my mind. I wondered whether Sonia had told her what happened. She sounded perfectly calm and neutral. She has to go to school, I said. My husband can drive her, said Sonia's mother, he's happy to do that for you. I didn't say anything. You can see her whenever you want, she said. It sounded as though she was depriving me of custody. I still didn't say anything. I'm sure it's best for her, she said. I said I had to talk to Sophie about it. Then we'll come by tonight and collect her, she said.

I asked Sophie how she'd like to spend a couple of days with Granny and Grandpa. Your daddy's got lots of work to do, Sonia's mother said, when they came around that evening. She promised her a doll that could make pee-pee. And they would go out on a boat on the lake, and she'd baked a cake, a chocolate cake. You don't have to talk to her as if she's a moron, I said. I promised Sophie I'd look in on her every day. I felt like a traitor.

I imagined everything would be easier without Sophie, but it turned out to be the opposite. I started drinking even more, and started looking clearly ravaged. After work I stopped by my in-laws', played a bit with Sophie, then I drove into the city and back to the office, to work some more. When I couldn't go on, I went to a bar where I could be sure of not meeting anyone I knew. I got into conversation with all kinds of people, listened to the life stories of men I would have crossed the street to avoid only months before. And more and more often I told my own story, and got bits of advice back. Just leave them, urged someone who had deserted his own family many years ago. Since then he'd only done the bare minimum of work, so they couldn't take anything from him. Another man told me he'd been married to a Polish woman too. I'm not married. Then marry her, he said. I said I am married, and he gestured dismissively. Women are all the same. Sometimes women accosted me and wanted me to go home with them. When one wouldn't give up, I said I didn't pay for s.e.x. Then what's this about, she asked, pointing to my wedding ring.

That time in my life has turned into one long night, a night full of mad conversations and loud music and laughter. I talked incessantly, not caring whether anyone was listening. My story was just as interchangeable as the man or woman next to me, we all stared in the same way, clutched our gla.s.ses, ordered another round of beer or schnapps. I staggered to the toilet, which was brightly lit. Cool night air came in through the open window, and for a moment I thought I could escape, climb out the window and run away from my life, a sort of film scene. But then I went back into the bar and sat down again. The stool next to me was empty, and I could hardly remember the man who had just sat there, listening to me.

At the end of my pub crawls I often drove to Ivona's house at dead of night and waited, I don't know what for. I felt my life had shriveled to a single moment of expectancy. I was no longer bothered by what had happened and what would happen, I sat there in a sort of trance, staring at Ivona's door and waiting.

One time I fell asleep in the car and only woke up when a couple of kids on their way to school banged on the windows and ran away laughing. I felt ashamed of myself when I imagined Sophie finding me in this state, but not even that could induce me to pull myself together. That day I didn't go to the office. I went home and lay down, and when the secretary called at nine o'clock, I claimed I was sick and went straight back to bed. I woke late in the afternoon with a splitting headache that only got better when I'd drunk a beer. I called my in-laws and said I couldn't come by today, I didn't feel well. Sonia's mother said that didn't matter, she thought it was better anyway if I didn't come every day. Sophie had settled in well with them. From then on I only visited her on weekends.

I knew things couldn't go on this way, that I was destroying my health and my family and my company, but I didn't have the strength of will to do anything about it. My decline felt like a huge relief, coming as it did at the end of years of strain. I imagined a life without ties and obligations. I would find a job somewhere and a small apartment, and live there on my own. At last I would have time, time in which to think and reflect. I felt calmer, often it was as though I was looking at myself from the outside-as though this was a person with whom I had nothing in common. Then everything around me became peaceful and beautiful. Sometimes I felt I was waking up in the middle of the street, I was standing somewhere and looking at a schoolyard or a building site, or some other place, and I didn't know how long I had been standing there like that, and I had to stop and think before it came to me what I was doing and where I was going.

When I stayed late in the office, it was just to delay the onset of drinking. I sat at my desk, playing solitaire on the computer until my hand hurt with the repet.i.tive motions. It was almost eleven when I finally left. That evening there had been an important Bundesliga match, and the bars were full of drunk soccer fans. But what I wanted was boredom, I didn't seek distraction, my time was valuable. I found a small corner pub that didn't have a TV and was practically deserted. I sat down at a table and ordered a beer, and started staring into s.p.a.ce. A heavyset man was sitting at the bar, who seemed to be more or less my age, and who kept looking across at me. After some time, he came up to my table, gla.s.s in hand, and asked if he could join me. I nodded, and he sat opposite me and started talking right away. He had a faint accent, perhaps he was French and had learned German out of books. His sentences were long and complex, and he used quite a few obsolete words. It wasn't altogether easy to follow his account. A woman had died, it wasn't clear to me what the relationship between them was, but he blamed himself for her death. He seemed to be quite obsessed with the idea of guilt. More than once he asked me if I thought I was guiltless, but before I could say anything he was off again, till I stopped listening and was only nodding. I thought about his question. I had treated Ivona badly, but I couldn't feel guilty because of that. If anyone had the right to reproach me for something, it was Sonia. But I didn't exactly feel guilty toward her either. It seemed to me that everything had just happened to me, and I was as little to blame for it as Sonia or Ivona. I wasn't a monster, I was no better and no worse than anyone else. The whole question of blame seemed absurd to me, but in spite of that I realized that although I'd never given it much thought, it had always played a role in my life. It was as though I'd felt guilty from childhood, but not for anything specific, anything I could have done differently. Perhaps it was the aboriginal guilt of humanity. If only I could get rid of this feeling, I'd be free. This insight in my drunkenness struck me as a great wisdom, and I really had a sense of liberation.

It's not that one's a bad person, the Frenchman was saying, but you lose the light. He was still talking about his guilt, but he could have been talking about mine. He had treated me to a schnapps, and as soon as we'd emptied our gla.s.ses, the bartender stepped up to our table, I don't know if he'd been given a sign or what, and refilled them, anyway I drank far too quickly, and even more than usual. When I stood to take a leak, my chair fell over behind me, and the room started to spin before my eyes. The Frenchman stopped in midsentence, and when I came back continued at exactly the same place. He was talking about the most difficult things with a wild merriment like a madman, or someone with nothing left to lose. The more I drank, the easier I found him to follow. His thoughts seemed to have a compelling logic and beauty. It's too late, he said at last, and sighed deeply. It will always be too late. Just as well. Then he got up and left me at my table, in my darkness. I called the bartender and ordered a beer, but he refused to give me any more. You'd better go home now, he said, I'll call you a cab. If I hadn't been so drunk, I'd probably have gotten into an argument with him, but I just pulled out my wallet and asked what I owed. Nothing, said the bartender, the gentleman's already paid. So I am home free, I thought, and had to laugh. The bartender grabbed my arm to support me, but I shook him off and tottered out the door. I'm free.

I sat in the taxi, and was surprised that it didn't drive off. Only then did I appreciate that the driver was talking to me, he needed to know where to take me. I was tired and felt sick. I looked in my wallet, and saw I was almost out of money. Without thinking about it, I told him Ivona's address.

It wasn't a long drive, or maybe I pa.s.sed out. Anyway, the driver tapped me on the shoulder, saying we've arrived. He waited for me to go to the door and pretend to fumble for a key. I turned around and saw he'd gotten out and had come after me. He asked if he could help. I said someone was just coming, he'd better go. I asked him where he was from. Poland, he said. I thought that was funny, and took a step back and would have fallen over if he hadn't caught me. He asked me what bell to ring, and I said ground floor, left-hand side.

It was a while before Eva came to the door. She was in her robe, just like the afternoon I'd first gone round there. For a moment she looked at me in bafflement through the gla.s.s door, then she appeared to recognize me. She unlocked the door and asked the taxi driver if I'd paid him. He nodded, and said something in Polish. Eva chuckled and replied, and took me under the arm. I can still remember the bang of the lock falling shut, and then the silence and cool in the stairwell. I felt sick and had to vomit. Eva kept hold of my arm, and stroked my back with her other hand. She spoke to me as to a child. She walked me to the apartment, led me to the bathroom, and sat me down on the toilet. Then she brought in a plastic bucket and rag and disappeared. I was still dizzy, but felt clearer in my head, and finally a little better. I heard doors and murmured conversation, then Eva returned to the bathroom and said I could sleep in Ivona's room. I stood and rinsed my mouth out with cold water. Eva had stepped up to me from behind and held me in a nurse's secure grip. I can manage, I said.

The room was dark except for a feeble night-light. Ivona stood beside the door with lowered head. Eva handed me over to her, and she took me to the bed and helped me get undressed and lie down. The whole situation was oddly ceremonial, almost ritual.

I lay in bed and shut my eyes, but I had terrible pillow-spin, and I opened them again and stared at the ceiling to try to keep myself still. I heard noises and, turning my head, saw Ivona padding around, tidying her room. She pushed things here and there, looked at the results, and moved something else. It was hopeless, the room was so jam-packed with stuff, it was impossible to neaten. Ivona's movements became more desultory. She picked something up, stood still for a moment, then put it back in the same place. What are you doing?, I asked. My voice sounded hoa.r.s.e. Ivona said nothing. She waited there, with her back to me. Come to bed, I said. She took off her robe, turned out the night-light, and settled down beside me.

I couldn't get to sleep for a long time, and I was sure Ivona wasn't asleep either, even though she lay there very still. I was drifting between dreaming and waking. From above I could see Ivona and me in bed, like on those old medieval tombstones I'd sometimes seen in churches, a man and a woman lying there side by side for hundreds of years, with their hands folded across their chests, eyes open, and smiling serenely. Ivona looked very beautiful. I wanted to put my arm around her, but I couldn't move.

When I woke, I felt right away that Ivona was awake too. She lay there as though she hadn't stirred all night. I was ashamed of what I'd done, but for the first time I didn't feel the impulse to run away. I pressed myself against her heavy body, and buried my face in her breast, like a child in its mother's bosom. She stroked my hair, and so we rested for a long time in bed, neither of us saying anything.

Eventually Ivona got up. She slid gently away from under me, picked her clothes off a chair, and left the room. I drifted off again, and didn't wake till she softly touched me on the shoulder. I went into the bathroom, and she to the kitchen. I looked at my watch. It was seven o'clock.

It was quiet in the apartment. I showered and went into the kitchen, where Ivona had already started the coffee. She put out bread, margarine, sausage, and sliced cheese. There was something shy about her movements, it was as though she didn't finish any of them. I sat down at the table. Ivona sat facing me and got up when the coffee was ready. Milk?, she asked. I think it was her first word since I arrived the night before.

I didn't feel like eating, but Ivona had an astonishing appet.i.te, and prepared herself a few sandwiches as well, which she wrapped in clingwrap and stowed in a plastic bag. I thought we looked like an old couple who know each other so well, no one has to say anything. Ivona said she had to go to work, and I followed her out of the apartment and out of the building. The sky was clear, but it wasn't cold. The bus stop wasn't far. Ivona joined the line. You can go, she said, but I stayed standing next to her. After some minutes I saw the bus turn the corner at the end of the street, and it pulled up in front us. Ivona seemed to be waiting for me to say something, and for a moment I was tempted to hold her back. I said I had to get my car, I'd parked it somewhere yesterday. Before Ivona got on the bus, she kissed me on the lips and hurriedly turned away. She found a window seat, and we looked at each other through the gla.s.s. All at once I was pretty sure that Eva was right, and that Ivona's life-poor and arduous and unspectacular as it was-had been happier than mine.

The bus had to stop a moment before it was able to enter the traffic. When it finally drove off, Ivona quickly raised her hand, waved and smiled, and then she was gone.

That afternoon was the meeting with the creditors. Sonia couldn't be there, she had too much to do in Ma.r.s.eilles, and anyway she said it wouldn't make any difference to the outcome. The administrator had worked out a plan. She promised to pay the creditors fifteen percent of what they were owed. If I close down the company, you'll get less than five. There was something infectious about her optimism. Even so, the whole business was pretty humiliating. Whether I was to blame or not, I had cost these people an awful lot of money, and they let me feel their anger. One paper dealer was especially vociferous in his opposition to the plan. It was a relatively small sum in his case, but he got on his high horse and lit into me. I flew into a rage, and was about to reply when the administrator put her hand on my arm and whispered, don't say anything, he just needs to let off steam. Finally there was the vote, and the plan was unanimously adopted.

I called Ma.r.s.eilles from in front of the court building. Sonia had been waiting. Well, she said, how did it go? We can carry on, I said. There was silence for a moment, then Sonia said she had spoken to Albert, she was coming home in December. Are you pleased? Yes, I said, I couldn't have stuck it out much longer. I'm terribly tired.

Sonia came back a week before Christmas. I met her at the airport with a bunch of flowers. We sat down in a cafe in Arrivals. Do you remember meeting me here the first time?, asked Sonia. I was astonished by how beautiful you were. Sonia looked down. When she raised her eyes again, I saw that they were shining. Are you crying?, I asked. She said she had lit a candle for us in the cathedral in Ma.r.s.eilles. In that hideous cathedral down by the water? Sonia smiled and nodded. She had gone there many times in the last few months, just to sit and think. Are you going to find G.o.d in your old age? Come on, said Sonia, we'll collect Sophie.

She laughed when she saw the car. I suppose the years of plenty are over. It's not so bad, I said, it even has air-conditioning. Sonia said she had never liked the color of the Mercedes anyway. We didn't talk much on the drive. I just looked across at Sonia from time to time, and then she would look at me, and smile.

Sonia's parents were waiting for us. In the hallway was the little suitcase with Sophie's things, and beside it a new kid's bike, and two or three bags full of cuddly toys and other stuff that Sonia's parents had bought Sophie in the last few weeks. Sophie was sitting in the living room watching a cartoon. When we went in, she looked up briefly, and then, without a word of greeting to either of us, said she wanted to watch the end of her film. Come on then, said Sonia's father, and took us into his office. He adopted a formal expression, and announced he was going to buy back our house from the receivers. He had spoken to the bank and settled on a price. Carla and Sonia's mother were in agreement. What does that mean?, asked Sonia. That the mortgage is redeemed and the house won't form part of any auction. You can continue to live there. Sooner or later you'll come into my money anyway. He got up and said he was doing it for Sophie. And had we noticed how musical she was, we should definitely let her learn an instrument.

On the way home, Sophie told us that Grandma had promised her a kitten. If it was all right with us. Sonia said that wasn't so easily decided, an animal wasn't a toy, if you had one, you had to be sure to look after it every day. Could Sophie see herself doing that? I know all that, said Sophie with an irritated voice, Felicitas has a cat. And you'll have to clean its litterbox, said Sonia. She looked over to me. I said I didn't think it was such a good idea. No one was home during the day, and the kitten would be alone. She can always go outside, said Sophie. Let's wait a bit, said Sonia. We'll just go home, and then we'll see. Sophie was offended, and wouldn't speak till we had arrived in Tutzing.

I had cleaned the house and carted the bottles off to be recycled. When we got home, it was as though we were in a strange house. Sonia seemed to feel similarly alien. She walked through all the rooms, opening a blind here and a closet there. I was reminded of cleanser commercials, where the woman comes home unexpectedly from a trip and the man has to clean the house in a jiffy with some miracle product. Then they both walk through the rooms together, and the woman looks around in admiration and kisses the man with a knowing smile-because all that cleanliness is just due to her Mr. Clean. Looks good, said Sonia, and kissed me.

It took Sophie a few days to adjust to us. To begin with she retreated to her room and didn't come when we called her down for mealtimes, and complained about all sorts of things. She kept whining about her cat, and when we put it off, she would burst into tears. We explained the situation to her as well as we could, but she didn't listen, and ran back to her room where she did nothing but brood and sulk. Slowly things got better, we went on little trips, she started to talk about school, where she was very happy. Thus far, we'd always gone to our parents' for the holidays, but this time we canceled all arrangements and stayed at home.

When Sophie was in bed, we talked about the future of the company. We were still doing sums continually, wondering where we could save more, looking at compet.i.tion guidelines. It's not going to be easy, I said. We'll get there, said Sonia, we've got no choice.

The first year was a struggle. We had to bid for every little order, and work for terms we'd have scoffed at a couple of years back, but we managed to stick to the insolvency plan and make the installments. We entered contests, and by and by a few orders came in, little projects to begin with, a restoration job, a vacation home for friends of Sonia's parents. We were working with a much smaller team, and with part-timers. I felt reminded a little of the early years after our wedding, when we were young and inexperienced, and were doing everything for the very first time. Sonia and I worked more closely together than in the years before the crisis, and our relationship acquired an intimacy it hadn't had in a long while. We would often talk about architecture, questions of principle, and what we hoped to achieve in our own work. Everything seemed to be going well, only sometimes I had the feeling I wasn't good enough for Sonia. She had such lofty ideals and goals that I was bound to disappoint her. She treated me with kid gloves, but at odd moments I caught her looking critically in my direction. When I asked her what she was thinking about, she laughed and shook her head.

We set aside more time for Sophie too. We joined the Parent-Teacher a.s.sociation of the Waldorf school, Sonia worked for the festival committee and helped organize the twice-yearly festivities, and I drew up a plan for a new central heating system.

I stopped drinking, and for the first time in years I designed buildings again. I was much bolder than before, it was as though I had nothing left to lose. When I looked through a volume of Aldo Rossi's designs again, I saw a sentence of his that seemed appropriate. Seek to change the world, even if only in little pieces, in order to forget what we may not have.

None of my designs was executed, but that didn't matter, on the contrary, it kept me from having to make compromises, and allowed me to work freely and follow my own tune. I actually felt like an architect again, and that affected my work on building sites.

Sonia's style changed, she had finally broken free of her mentors and found her own language. It sounds cynical, perhaps, but it seemed that the crisis had opened our eyes to new ways of doing things, whereas in the years of success we had barely evolved at all, and just imitated ourselves.

Sonia wrote articles for architectural journals, and was invited to conferences and finally was given a teaching job at Dessau. Then we won a contest for a social housing project in Linz. We're back in business, said Sonia, when she broke the good news to me.

That evening we celebrated. We left Sophie with her grandparents and went to a good restaurant. Do you think we can expense this?, asked Sonia. In six months our probationary period is over, I said, then we'll be clear of debt and we can do whatever we want. I'm amazed we've managed this fresh start. You know the feeling of not being able to turn around, but having to go on and on in the same direction? And the awful thing about that is it has something tempting about it.

If you give in, you don't have to struggle, said Sonia. Maybe, I said. I just couldn't see any way out. Sonia shook her head. Giving up was always cowardly. Even if you lose in the end, it's still better not to lose without a fight. That's what I love you for, I said, your eternal optimism. Sonia seemed not to detect the irony in my voice. That's not optimism, she said, as though offended by my remark, that's att.i.tude.

And they lived happily ever after, said Antje. Come on, I said, we'd better get back. Sonia will wonder what's kept us. On the way home, Antje asked me what plans I had. No plans, I said. And the affair with Ivona is finished, for good? It's over, I said. Antje looked at me skeptically. Well, let's hope it's over for her too, she said.

We're back, I called out, and shut the door behind me. It was a little after twelve. Antje said she would go and pack. I went into the living room and noticed right away that there was something wrong. Sonia was standing by the window. When she turned toward me, I saw her eyes were reddened. I asked her if she was hungry, did she want me to make her something to eat? No reply. What's the matter?, I asked. Sonia's expression had something desperate about it. She went to the sofa, and then back to the window again. With her back to me, she started speaking so softly that I could hardly make out what she said. I pretended I didn't understand, I wanted not to understand.

What do you mean, you're going to Ma.r.s.eilles? I sat down on the sofa, and Sonia came beside me, with her head in her hands. I'm not happy here, she said.

We sat side by side in silence. Once I tried to put my arm around her, but she was so stiff that I aborted my embrace and pulled my arm back. I thought about ridiculous things, that we'd have to divide up our property, that the house belonged to Sonia's parents, what our employees would say. I thought about it all, but I felt nothing beyond confusion and a kind of terror that was neither positive nor negative. Was it Antje's idea? Sonia seemed relieved to be able to speak at last. She said Antje knew nothing about this. It was her decision, made long ago. When she was in Ma.r.s.eilles, she'd realized how many possibilities she still had in her. Is it to do with Albert? Sonia shook her head. She had never felt at ease here, it wasn't her world. But you wanted the house by the lake, I said, you wanted to live near your parents, I'd much rather have stayed in the city. Sonia laughed, but it sounded more like crying. We could have talked about all that sometime. I had the feeling we were getting along particularly well recently. That's not what it's about, said Sonia. You don't need me anymore.

Antje came upstairs and said she was packed and ready. Was anyone else hungry besides her? Sonia jumped up and ran to her, and led her out of the room by the arm. After about ten minutes, she came back and sat down beside me again.

We talked, though there was no point. Sonia had given up on our relationship long ago, it was just a matter of getting me to understand her reasons and limiting the damage. The discussion went around and around in circles. I contradicted her, maybe out of cowardice, even though I knew she was right. I was reconciled to the situation, I wasn't discontented. But contentment wasn't what Sonia was after. Maybe things will go wrong, she said, but at least I'll have given it a go.

After some time Antje came back upstairs and said she was hungry, and should she fix some spaghetti for us. When she got no reply, she left and came back with Sophie, who was carrying her cat in her arms and looking apprehensively at us. The two of us are going out for lunch, said Antje with a show of jolly determination. Only when the front door closed did Sonia and I continue talking.

What about Sophie?, I asked. There's always a solution, Sonia said. You must think I'm a selfish b.i.t.c.h. No, I said, I don't at all. She doesn't want to go to Ma.r.s.eilles. Sonia nodded, I know, maybe it's better if she stays with you. She hesitated. We're going to have to tell her I'm not her mother. I looked at her doubtfully. She has a right to know, said Sonia. And what if she wants to meet her mother?, I asked. Well, perhaps it doesn't have to be right away, said Sonia. She said she had felt from the start that what we were doing was wrong. Why didn't you say anything?, I asked. I was afraid to lose you, said Sonia. And now I'm losing you, I said. Sonia shook her head. She said we would stay friends. Not much would change. She hesitated. Then she asked whether I intended to move in with Ivona. I think it was the first time she said the name. No, I said, that's over. I wanted to add that I'd never loved Ivona, that she was never any compet.i.tion for Sonia, but I wasn't sure if it was true, so I didn't say it. Who knows, said Sonia, smiling, as if she didn't believe me. I asked her when she wanted to leave. She said there was no hurry. We hadn't quarreled, and there was no other man in the picture, and she had to organize everything anyway, an apartment, a job. Are we having Christmas together?, I asked, and with that I suddenly broke down and wept. I didn't know you could do that, said Sonia, and put her arm around me, and held me close. There, there, she said.

I was surprised that Sonia didn't insist on taking Antje to the airport. Maybe she wanted to talk to Sophie while I was away, or she hoped Antje would be able to explain it to me, where she had failed. But Antje stayed off the subject and talked about other things. Only when I brought it up, she unwillingly gave me information. She said she had had no idea that Sonia wanted to leave me. On the contrary, she had the feeling that things with us were going better. That's what I thought too, I said. Maybe she stopped fighting it, said Antje.

I asked her about Sonia's time in Ma.r.s.eilles. No, said Antje, Sonia hadn't gone out much. The evening I couldn't catch her on the phone, she'd gone to the cinema, by herself. If there'd been an affair, she, Antje, would have known. That would make it easier, wouldn't it? That would have been a reason at least. I asked Antje what she would do in my shoes. Let her go. You mean, she might come back to me sometime, when she's ready? Antje said nothing. And what if I agreed to go to Ma.r.s.eilles? It's too late, said Antje.

I had to think of the Frenchman I'd met when I was down in the dumps. He too had kept saying, it's too late. It's too late, he said, just as well. Three years ago Sonia had decided to leave me, three years she had stuck it out with me, she had gotten through the probationary period with me, always knowing she would escape me, that she would start afresh when the worst was over. I racked my memory for clues, I asked myself if there wasn't something that would have told me. But Sonia had remained discreet. She must have been terribly lonely during that whole time.

I dropped Antje outside the departure hall. Do you mind if I don't come in with you?, I asked. She shook her head and picked up her bag off the back seat. I watched her go, striding into the terminal building. I imagined her taking a taxi in Ma.r.s.eilles, and coming home to an empty apartment, how she would look in the fridge, and then go and eat something in a bistro. Back home, she would switch on the TV and open a bottle of wine, or look through her mail from the last few days, maybe she had messages on her answering machine.

I imagined Sonia in a small apartment in Ma.r.s.eilles. She was working late, and got home tired but somehow still buzzing. Then she went out again, and met a man. I imagined the photographer that Antje had brought home with her. He sat next to Sonia in a club, she put her hand on his thigh and shouted something in his ear. The two of them laughed, it seemed to me they were making fun of me. I'm sure you'll find someone else soon, Sonia said, you're not a bad match. But I didn't want to find anyone. The thought of hanging around in bars and restaurants and going on dates with women, and starting over, was pretty repugnant to me.

I thought about Ivona. I hadn't seen her since that last night three years before, the only night we'd really spent together. I'd never called Eva, and she'd never gotten in touch with me either.

Presumably they were still both living in the same apartment. I was free to go there and see them, but what would have been the point? Sometimes I would suddenly think about Ivona, something would remind me of her, a smell, a woman on the street, sometimes I wouldn't even know what the precise trigger was. Then I would get out Sonia's photo alb.u.m at home and look at the picture where I could just see her in the background, her out-of-focus, fingernail-sized face, the only picture I had of her. Then I would wish to possess her again, as I had never possessed a human being before or since.

I drove to the parking lot and walked across to the check-in building. Since the opening of the new airport, I'd flown from here a couple of times, but for the first time the ugliness of the building struck me, the way it was erected without the least sense of human proportions. The handful of pa.s.sengers who were around at this hour seemed to disappear in the cavernous s.p.a.ces. They darted nervously about, like c.o.c.kroaches intimidated by the light. It was as though the building was its be-all and end-all, there only to celebrate its own size.

I sat down in a cafe from where you could look across the hall. At the next table were two young women with little children who hopped around on the leather seats and were fed cookies by their mothers. I listened to their conversation. They were obviously regulars here, and seemed to feel at ease in this sterile place that could have been just about anywhere in the world. Maybe they thought nothing would happen to them here.

I went to the spectators' gallery. I had once been there with Sophie, but the airplanes hadn't interested her, and as soon as we got there, she wanted to go home again. The only other people besides me on the terrace were a man with two children, who eyed me suspiciously. Then he turned to his children and said, she's gone now, and one of the children, a boy of ten or so, asked, where did she go? I don't see her. There, said the father, pointing into the air, that's where she is. But there was nothing to be seen where he was pointing except the overcast sky. Come on, he said, and then something else that I didn't hear.

Way below, a couple of men in blue overalls and yellow luminous vests were loading baggage into a plane. I looked at my watch. Antje's plane was leaving in half an hour. Slowly it started getting dark, and the colored lights on the runways began to flicker in the cold air. It smelled of jet fuel. Everything, the smell, the noise, the dimming light, gave me an overpowering wanderl.u.s.t, a desire to leave and never come back, to begin again somewhere, in Berlin or Austria or Switzerland. It was that mixture of trepidation and liberation that I'd only otherwise known with Ivona, and then only for moments at a time. I wasn't happy exactly, but for the first time in a long while, I felt very light and alert, as though I'd come around after a long period of unconsciousness. I rested my back against the gla.s.s and tipped my head back and looked up at the empty sky overhead, that seemed so inexplicably beautiful.

end.