Seven Years

Antje looked at me silently. After a while she said she had thought it couldn’t get any worse. Is it so bad then?, I asked. What do you think? Try and put yourself in her shoes. She falls in love with a man who uses her as he pleases, and ends up paying her for it too. She gets pregnant, and hopes they will now start a family together, instead of which he takes her baby away from her, and she’s left with nothing. I said I had recently heard a sentence in a film that made sense to me: you are what you love, not who loves you. I need to think about that, said Antje, and she filled up her glass. After a while, she said the sentence sounded very Catholic to her. What did I mean by it? That Ivona’s happiness didn’t depend on me. Someone in love is always to be envied, whether his love is fulfilled or not. That’s stupid, said Antje. It would mean that an unfulfilled love is just as happy as a fulfilled one. That’s not how I meant it, I said, all I meant is that it’s worse not to love than not to be loved. It sounds as though you’re trying to get off the hook. Just the opposite, I said. My guilt has nothing to do with Ivona, just as her love has nothing to do with me. That’s all too theoretical for me, said Antje. The fact remains that you’ve taken advantage of her. She furrowed her brow and looked skeptical. Somehow I still have the feeling that you haven’t played any real part in this whole business. It was you who did the damage, but somehow it’s all about Ivona. Ivona and Sonia. And Sophie, I said. I knew about Sophie, said Antje. More or less. Sonia told me about it three years ago during your crisis. She said Sophie was the daughter of your lover, but that’s not really a true description.

Basically, everything was perfect, I said, there was nothing I didn’t like about Sonia, and my life was exactly the way I wanted it. Then I saw Ivona again, and it was as though she had some power over me. I knew what harm I was doing, and that there was next to no chance that Sonia wouldn’t find out. But I had no choice, I couldn’t help myself. Antje said I was making things a bit too easy for myself. She believed in free will. Has it never happened to you, I said, that you did something, even though you knew it was wrong? That’s a part of free will too. Antje shrugged her shoulders. Maybe if you’re a kid or something.

I wondered what sort of image Sonia had of Ivona. She had never seen her, and I never talked about her either. I suppose she assumed Ivona must be superior to her in some respect, voluptuous or passionate or whatever. I had to laugh. Antje asked me what I was thinking about, and I told her. Would you like to meet the man with whom Sonia deceived you?, she asked. There was a fling she had once with an old school friend I vaguely knew, I said, but she was tipsy. For her, that was extenuating circumstances, for me it only made it worse. I wanted to know who it was, until she finally told me. After that, I wished I’d never known. For a while I was completely paranoid. Every time she left the office, I thought she was on her way to him. Antje said as long as Sonia didn’t know Ivona, she could pretend she didn’t really exist. Ivona’s just a name to her. Only if Sonia were to meet her would the name acquire a face, never mind how attractive or otherwise.

Antje asked whether Sophie knew who her mother was. She doesn’t even know she’s adopted, I said, and if Sonia has her way, she never will either. You’ll see, said Antje. But one day you’ll have to tell her. I asked her how Sonia was doing. Shouldn’t you ask her yourself? If I ask her, it’s always the same, she’s fine. Antje smiled. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? She asked me if I’d ever really loved Sonia. As if it was easy to say, I said. I had to think of our wedding, and the promises we made to one another, promises I didn’t believe in at the time. I shook my head. I don’t know. Did you love Ivona then?, asked Antje. I’ve got to go to bed, I said. If you like, I’ll continue tomorrow. I more or less know the rest, said Antje. I met Ivona again. Antje raised her eyebrows. Well, well. She got up and said she’d better get to sleep, there was always tomorrow. Do you need anything?, I asked. Antje shook her head. Good night. I remained seated, I wasn’t tired yet. I asked myself whether Antje didn’t have a point, whether we’d have to tell Sophie that Sonia wasn’t her biological mother. It wouldn’t have been any trouble for me, if I’d had the least hope that Ivona had any feelings for the girl. But she seemed not to. Perhaps she’d denied them to herself.





Years passed after Sophie’s birth, in which I heard nothing from Ivona. To begin with, I still used to call Hartmeier from time to time and ask after her, but once he said she had stopped going to the Bible group, and he had lost contact with her. She’d become a burden on all of us, he said. The whole business with the baby and her stubborn silence. Ivona hadn’t wanted to see what terrible mistakes she had perpetrated, so they had suggested she stop coming. And some seeds, he said, fell among thorns, and the thorns sprung up and choked them.

I had expected Ivona to get in touch on Sophie’s birthday, and send a gift or at the very least a card. When we heard nothing from her, I tried to call, but the number was no longer valid, and I made no further attempt to find her. Maybe she’s gone back to Poland, I thought, it would be the best thing for all of us.

It had taken us a while to adjust to Sophie. Other parents have nine months in which to get used to the idea of having a baby. Even after Sophie came to us, we still weren’t sure we would be able to keep her. Only when we got Ivona’s final release form in our hands at the end of eight weeks did we dare to see Sophie as ours, and include her in our plans and thoughts.

Even so, our initial feeling of strangeness was slow to yield. Sometimes I forgot about Sophie, and was surprised, coming home at night, to run into her with the nanny, who was looking after her for the first six months. Sonia often got home later than I did, her new role took even more getting used to than mine did. But however difficult the changes, she never talked about them, and she never let Sophie sense them either. On the contrary, she was very tender to her, and almost overprotective. She was forever putting her to her breast. And whatever Sophie managed to pick up, Sonia saw it as a potential threat, poisonous paints, sharp edges, little objects that she might swallow. Just imagine if something were to happen to her, she said. Nothing will happen to her, I said.

Sometimes I would gaze at Sophie for a long time, and seek similarities to Ivona or to me, and not find any. She’s like you, I would say to Sonia, who would laugh and say, she’s not like anyone, she’s unique. And then I would catch her watching Sophie, and I wondered what was going through her head.

At the end of six months, we left Sophie in day care. When I took her in the very first time, I felt terrible, it was as though I was setting her out in the wilderness. But she seemed happy enough to be together with other children. At night she didn’t want to come home, and she started crying when I picked her up and took her in my arms.

Sophie was a quiet, placid child, and little trouble. She had a healthy appetite, and put on weight so quickly that Sonia said she was getting fat, we had to keep an eye on her diet. Even at an early age, Sophie was capable of amusing herself. Sometimes I watched her lying on a blanket on the floor, raptly watching something, or endlessly repeating the same gesture with her hand, reaching for a toy or a stuffed animal nearby. When she was older she looked after her dolls with the devotion of a real mother. She fed them and put them to bed, and told them weird goodnight stories that she’d gotten from God knows where. When I asked her about them, she didn’t say anything. She wasn’t an unfriendly girl, but she was very wrapped up in herself, and seemed to live in a world of her own. Sometimes I had the impression that nothing of the love I felt for her was reciprocated, as though my feelings vanished into a black hole.

Sophie was slower than the other kids in everything, it was a long time before she was walking, and at the age of two she still didn’t speak a word. Birgit, Sonia’s gynecologist and Sophie’s godmother, said none of that mattered. The main thing was that she was healthy. Sonia seemed disappointed, though she would never have admitted it. She wanted Birgit to conduct some tests, but Birgit refused. Just give her time, she has her own rhythm.

Birgit and Sonia usually arranged their medical appointments at the end of the afternoon, and we would go out together afterward. Once, Birgit said Tania had written to her. She had three children with her Swiss fellow, and was living in a sort of commune with several other families on a remote farmhouse not far from Lake Constance. They strove to be self-sufficient, and the children were home-schooled. It was evident she wanted a reconciliation with her, said Birgit.

The organization had jettisoned its former nationalist views, and was now busy opposing war and the threat of Islam. Tania had written that she couldn’t very well fight for peace on earth if there was disharmony in her own backyard, and so she wanted to ask Birgit’s forgiveness.

Birgit laughed. It doesn’t matter if those people campaign for spelling reform or against animal experiments, they never change. Well, asked Sonia, will you forgive her? There’s nothing to forgive, said Birgit. She enclosed a couple of editions of a magazine that her organization puts out. The things they say seem pretty sensible at first glance. But if you read them more closely, you’ll see it’s the same blend of authoritarianism, naturopathy, and conspiracy theories. I bet you didn’t know that the twin towers in New York were blown up by the American government. If only the world were that simple! Sonia reckoned Birgit should write to Tania, what did she have to lose. But Birgit only shook her head. No, she said, I’m not getting into that. It’s wrong to support those mad systems.


I had heard of several cases of women getting pregnant after adopting children, and secretly I hoped we would have a second child. When I mentioned it to Sonia one day, she said she had been fitted with a coil. I was shocked, and said, couldn’t we at least have talked about it first? It’s not you that has to hump the weight around, said Sonia. Anyway, we’ve got a child. I said, wouldn’t it be nice if Sophie had a little brother or sister, but Sonia said we didn’t even have time to look after one properly. She seemed not to understand my consternation. Since Sophie was with us, she struck me as being more distant than before. She was often in a bad mood, critical of me, no longer jokingly as once before, but with a tetchiness I hadn’t seen in her before. Family life seemed to bore her. When we went out for a stroll on a Sunday and later sat down at a café, the three of us, there was often an awkward silence. Then Sophie would get up and start running around the café, until Sonia called her, and said, can’t you sit still for a moment? She finished her coffee silently and got up. Is it all right if we go now?

Outside it was getting dark already. Sophie was holding our hands and alternately pulling us along and letting us drag her. Sonia was still irritated. Stop it!, she said, stop that nonsense! Sophie didn’t seem to hear. She carried on, then Sonia pulled her hand away and stalked off ahead of us. At home she disappeared into her office and didn’t emerge till I called her down to dinner. Then she was in a good mood again, and said she had been able to get something done. You shouldn’t be so hard on Sophie, I said. I’m not hard on her, said Sonia, but she knows exactly how to infuriate me.

During supper, Sophie kept squinting across at Sonia. She wrinkled her nose, and her expression had something cunning. After we ate, she played by herself, but she stayed close to Sonia, until Sonia asked her if she wanted to make up.


Sonia’s parents came to visit more often. They spoiled Sophie, and brought her expensive presents, but they never passed up a chance to say what a bright child Sonia had been. Sonia’s father had read up on adoption, and had turned into an impassioned opponent. He was especially influenced by the texts of a former priest who had studied to become a psychotherapist. This man insisted that adoptive parents could never replace birth parents, and shouldn’t even make the attempt. An adopted child had a right to know about its birth parents, it needed to know what they could not give him, only in that way was there any chance for the child to break free of its origins and build a good relationship with its adoptive parents.

Sonia’s father sat on the sofa, feet apart. He looked from one of us to the other, as though on the brink of saying something vastly important. Then he stared at me, and said it would be an improvement if children were fostered, and adoption given up entirely. I stood and said that was stupid. Sophie wouldn’t have to know she was adopted. Not to tell an adopted child the truth can have grave consequences, said Sonia’s father. Children usually sensed sooner or later that there was something amiss. There was the Zurwehme case, if we remembered that. He was leaning forward now, and eyeing Sonia. A murderer and rapist.

Dieter Zurwehme had been arrested following a spectacular flight a few years back, his name had been all over the papers. He was the child of a German woman and a Polish forced laborer, and given up for adoption immediately after his birth, Sonia’s father explained. At the age of eleven, he found a letter from his birth mother. Look after my little sweetheart for me. But his adoptive parents refused to tell him about his parents. From that moment on, things went downhill with him. He resisted all efforts to discipline him, and at the age of twelve committed his first assault, on a fifteen-year-old girl. I think you know the rest of the story, said Sonia’s father.

I had to laugh. Do you think Sophie’s going to grow up to be a serial killer then? What do you think we should do? Put her out? Sonia too thought her father was overdoing it. She got up and stood next to me. Her father remained quite calm, he was now sitting back again. We knew how they loved our little Sophie more than anything in the world, and that they respected our decision. He just thought we should tell her the truth as early as possible, and give her a chance to know her biological parents. Sonia’s parents didn’t know that Sophie was mine, we had told them it was an anonymous adoption, and that we had no idea who the parents were. She’s five, I said.

To give up a child for adoption is an attack on life and nature’s way, Sonia’s father said, quoting his psychotherapist-priest, having a child adopted is a form of abortion. The child is refused space in its life. The birth parents often felt as though they’d murdered their child, and were therefore at risk of suicide. There were cases where the guilt of the parents was transmitted to the children, who then proceeded to be self-destructive.

I could have slapped him. There are perfectly good reasons for giving up a child for adoption, I said, for instance there are people who aren’t as well off as you are. It was the first time I had argued for Ivona. Poverty is no excuse for emotional obtuseness, said Sonia’s father. Sophie came wandering in, and he set her on his knee, as though to protect her from us. If anyone is emotionally obtuse here, then it’s you in your stupidity, I said, you and your tidy lives. I’d like to see you get by on a thousand marks a month. Sonia’s father remained perfectly calm. They hadn’t always been so wealthy as they were now. And unlike me, he knew what it was like to be poor, really dirt poor. After the war, they didn’t know on any one day what they’d get to eat on the next, and so on and so forth. That doesn’t give you the right to condemn other people, I said. He smiled agreeably. That’s a side of you I haven’t encountered before, the socialist. I said I had to make a few calls, and disappeared into my office in the basement.

Deep down he despises me, I thought, the fact that I hadn’t managed to get his daughter pregnant, and pass his genes on to another generation. He was completely different with the children of Sonia’s sister Carla than with Sophie, not more loving or doting, perhaps even a tad stricter. But he took them seriously, stimulated and challenged them, expected things from them. With Sophie he was so indulgent, it felt almost hurtful. It’s because she’s the youngest of his grandchildren, said Sonia. And because she’s a girl. Go on then, I said, protect him too. At least from that day forth, the subject of adoption was taboo in the house.


For all my passionate opposition to Sonia’s father, the argument with him had its effect. I was more and more surprised at Ivona’s failure to get in touch. She had to know that I would never keep her daughter from her, that I would have no objection if she occasionally—under some pretext, if necessary—spent an afternoon with Sophie. The more I thought about it, the more heartless I found her behavior. When I mentioned Ivona, Sonia never said anything, though we could talk about everything else much better than we could before. Perhaps our relationship was becoming more objective, but our shared responsibility gave it a new quality. Sophie was the most challenging project we had ever taken on together. Even though she was anything but difficult as a child. She had a lot of willpower, but she didn’t use it the way other children did, with hysterics and stubbornness. When we told her she had to do what we said, she would just look at us in silence, and the minute we turned away, do whatever she wanted. Basically, we were relieved that she didn’t require much in the way of attention, and was happy so long as she was left alone and not bothered overmuch.

School admission was a bit of a problem for her. The kindergarten teacher said Sophie was still emotionally unprepared. Sonia was indignant. A few days later she brought home some forms for a Waldorf school in Schwabing. I wasn’t wild about the idea. What little I knew about Rudolf Steiner was suspect, and his notion of architecture struck me as frankly idiotic. Someone had once referred to him as an overenthusiastic village schoolmaster, and that seemed about right to me. The school syllabus didn’t convince me either. In geometry they’ll be studying Nordic weaving patterns, I said, do you know what they are? Sonia shook her head. I’m sure it’s perfectly okay. Eurythmics, I read, parts of speech expressed through movement. I looked at Sonia. It’s just the beginning, she said. At least it’s a day school, and they give them organic lunches.

We took Sophie to look at the school, and she seemed to like it. An older girl took us on a tour of the buildings, and showed us everything. She wore a T-shirt that read: I CAN DANCE MY NAME. I looked at Sonia and smirked. She motioned to me to keep quiet.

I had read up a little on Rudolf Steiner by now, and asked the headmaster a few critical questions, to which he gave evasive answers. I had the feeling he himself kept a healthy distance from the more abstruse ideas of the master. In the end we decided to send Sophie there on a trial basis.


Work was going well. We specialized in school buildings and social housing, and had plenty to do. Sonia and I were a good team in every respect. The division of labor between us was even more pronounced now, it was years since I had last designed anything. Sometimes I fished out my old papers, projects I had worked on in college, competition entries from the time we started the business. Most of it looked alarmingly banal to me. But in the drawings I still sensed something of my mood in those years, my determination to go new ways. Nothing was sacred to me then, and nothing seemed impossible. For all the limitations of the work, there was a kind of truthfulness in it, a freshness that our current designs no longer had. I could understand architects like Boullée, who eventually turned into draftsmen pure and simple, without ever craving to see one of their designs realized. It was only in the fictive world of plans and sketches that you were free to do everything the way you wanted. I started drawing in the evenings, usually oversize interiors, empty halls with dramatic light effects, sacral buildings, labyrinths, and subterranean complexes. I didn’t show Sonia my drawings, she would certainly have thought me mad, and I didn’t take them completely seriously either.

I was content. I liked driving out to building sites and talking with planners and craftsmen, and watching our plans taking shape. Sometimes Sonia said she would like bolder employers, but I think broadly speaking she was content too. The constrained means and tightly drawn parameters seemed to stimulate her creativity. I don’t think she’d have been any happier as an employee of some star architect. A couple of our interns had made the leap overseas. Heike, a young and very gifted woman from North Germany, went and joined Norman Foster in London after getting her degree. When she came back to see us, she talked about nothing but work. She lived on her own in a tiny place, had no boyfriend and no life outside the office. But while Heike talked, Sonia’s eyes began to shine, and she asked lots of questions, and wanted to know everything in exact detail. It sounds like a nun’s life to me, I said. Heike laughed. Yes, in a way that was true. You had to have a sense of vocation.

By now we had more than twenty people working for us. We had moved into new premises in a disused factory we had adapted to our needs. At the opening, I gave Sonia the Le Corbusier quote in a frame: EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT. EVERYTHING IS NEW. EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL. She hung it over her desk and said, everything is the way it’s supposed to be.


The crisis hit us later than the other offices. It began gradually. We were still drowning in work, but no new assignments were coming in. At first, it felt like a welcome respite. Sonia said now she would finally get around to thinking and reading and entering competitions again. But the bills and people’s salaries needed to be paid. I tried to the best of my ability to keep Sonia burden-free, but even so she saw how things stood in the office. We were forced to let some people go. I asked Sonia to do the firing, they were her employees, and she was more popular than me. The first desks were cleared, part of the office was sublet, and a depressed feeling settled in. For the first time, I became aware of a sort of whispering campaign. My secretary told me what was going on. People thought Sonia and I were paying ourselves too much, and treating ourselves to a luxurious standard of living. Is that what you think? Of course not, she said, I know how hard you work. We called a general meeting and put the figures on the table. After that the whispering died down, but the atmosphere didn’t improve.

The situation affected our health. Sonia got a skin rash that tormented her for several weeks, and my back started to bother me again, after years of quiet. I took to drawing late into the night. In the morning I had trouble getting up, and after a day in the office I felt tired and exhausted.

In early June the weather got very hot. I spent the whole day on a site, and the evening in a beer garden with a client. I sat on a trestle bench, and my back hurt. The beer garden was full of young and attractive people in light summer clothes who were probably going on to other restaurants and bars, or the movies or the theater. I hadn’t been out anywhere for ages, and I suddenly had the feeling I was missing out on something. I yearned for the simplicities of student life. Instead of sitting with a beautiful woman, I was with the representative of a local education bureau, discussing fire regulations and emergency exits. I was bored, and drank too much too quickly. By the time I finally finished with the client, I was drunk. I left the car in the city and took the subway home. Sonia was still up, in the living room. She put her book down and started to talk about a problem Sophie had had with one of her classmates. I said I was tired, and she complained that everything was always dumped on her. I was too exhausted to argue. Can we talk about it over the weekend, I said, and went to bed.

In the middle of the night I awoke with a terrible toothache. I looked at the alarm clock, it was just past three a.m. I took a couple of aspirins, sat down in front of the TV in the living room, and watched a rerun of a talk show that had people laying into each other in the most primitive way. I don’t remember the subject, just the ugly, contorted faces, and I thought what a thin veneer civilization is, and how easily it cracks when pain or hatred or lust take over in individuals. I switched off the TV in disgust and got a glass of water from the kitchen. The aspirins had absolutely no effect, but the cold water soothed the pain at least temporarily. I sat on the sofa, drinking a sip at a time and waiting for it to get light outside.


My dentist said I needed a root canal, and he would have to put in a post and crown. He extracted the root and created a temporary filling. He would take another look in a month’s time, and see how things were then. He prescribed a stronger analgesic, and the pain went away, but the provisional tooth was a permanent irritant. I kept probing it with my tongue, it felt quite enormous. The thought of having lost a tooth depressed me; however trivial, it felt like a memento mori to me.

On the way in to the office, I called my secretary. There were problems on a building site, the designer of the facade had ordered the wrong beams and was now claiming it was our fault, and the structure was too weak. I was short with her, and told her to call the structural engineer. Couldn’t they do anything without me, what was I paying twenty people for, if in the end everything came to me anyway. Fourteen, she said offendedly, and hung up.

My mood didn’t improve in the following days. I had a continual, ill-defined sense of being under threat that never left me, even when I drank wine after work to calm down. Sonia was working on a competition entry, she had two days in which to complete the plans, and she stayed in her office, which wasn’t unusual for her. But this time I felt abandoned and crushed. Sophie must have felt the lousy atmosphere. She kept asking for her mother, and reacted badly to everything I said. I tried to reason with her, which only made matters worse. I lost my temper, and she started screaming and rolling around on the floor like a little child. I threatened her with all kinds of punishments, but was too feeble to carry any of them out. At times I felt close to striking her. No sooner was she in bed than I felt rotten, and felt ashamed of my failure.

It was about this time that I started thinking about Ivona again. It was a warm day in early summer, Sonia was still in the office, and I had collected Sophie from school, fixed her dinner, and put her to bed. Then I sat down on the little terrace in front of the house, to smoke a cigarillo. The radio forecast rain overnight. The air felt muggy, and the clouds over the mountains had taken on a dark stormy coloration, with occasional flashes of summer lightning. Down on the lakeshore, the storm lights were blinking, even though there was no wind to speak of. Then the first gusts came, a door slammed, and our neighbor came running out of her house to gather up the toys that were scattered over the lawn.

Sophie came out and said she couldn’t sleep, she was scared of the storm. I took her inside and put her back to bed. Are you going outside again?, she asked when I said good night. No, I said.

The air in the house was heavy, and it felt very quiet. I watched TV for a little while and then went upstairs to look in on Sophie. She had fallen asleep. She had kicked off the covers and was holding one of her innumerable cuddly toys in her arm. I pulled the blanket back over her and returned to the living room.

I didn’t feel tired enough to go to bed, but I was too exhausted to read or draw. I remembered that Sonia had asked about the catalog of an exhibition we’d been to together years before. I looked for it but couldn’t find it, probably it was in the office. On the bottom shelf, with the art books, were Sonia’s old photo albums. Back at the very beginning of our time she had shown me them all, pictures of her as a child and of various friends and relatives she had lost touch with and never talked about. It was as though part of her history had come to an end when the photographs were mounted. A few more albums had come along since, photos of our wedding and of Sophie’s baby years. Of late she had taken few pictures, and they were in a drawer, still in the envelope from the shop that had developed them. I doubted whether we would ever put them in an album, their occasions were too few and too diverse. I looked at the wedding album, and then the one with pictures of our trip to Marseilles, lots of medium-range shots of architecture. There were almost no people in them. I remembered walking through the city with Sonia and standing in front of a building she wanted to photograph, as a form of provocation. Get out of the way, she said laughing, I can take your picture in Munich any time I want to. But she never did. At the back of the album were the pictures I had taken of her while she was asleep. She hadn’t mounted those, even though they were the only true mementos of that trip together. I wondered whether I was in love with Sonia back then. But she was so lovely in the photographs, it seemed a silly question to ask.

I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock. I pulled out the next album. University, it said on the first page. I wasn’t sure I had ever seen these particular photographs. There were snaps of parties, excursions, and the graduation party. The pictures weren’t taken on a Rolleiflex, they were small formats, some with a flash, which made the faces look flat and the background murky. Most of them were before Sonia and I got together. We had been in different cliques, some of the people were unfamiliar to me, others I knew only by sight. I didn’t even recognize the bars where they were taken. In a few of the pictures I saw Sonia and Rüdiger together, dancing or embracing with overdone gestures and cheesy smiles for the camera. Sonia looked very young, there was something calm and cheerful in her features that I barely recognized and didn’t think she had in her. I felt a little envious of her, and envious of Rüdiger for her love. My own student years didn’t seem so happy to me. I’d had to work to earn money, and in the evenings we had sat around in bars talking about politics and the social responsibility of architecture, instead of having a good time like the others. There was one party though that I remembered. It was our last year at college, just before the exams. The caption was “Spring Awakening”; that was the theme of the party. Underneath were pictures of students in costumes, standing in front of the cameras in various configurations, probably already sensing that they were about to scatter in all different directions. I saw myself standing between Ferdy and Rüdiger with a surprised expression on my face, and another time with Ferdy and someone else whose name I didn’t remember. And there, behind me in the crowd, was Ivona. I knew her right away, even though her face in the picture was very indistinct. I knew her by her posture, her drooping shoulders, and the straggly hair in her eyes. She stood there all alone, it looked as though she had cleared a space for herself in the crowd, or the others had moved away from her. Her pupils were red dots. I had the feeling she was staring at me.





Sophie woke early and came into our bedroom, and wouldn’t leave us in peace until I got up. I told Sonia she could sleep in for a while. But don’t wake me too late, she said, turning over. Sophie seemed to have forgotten all about her tantrum yesterday. When Mathilda came running in, she picked her up and kissed and petted her. I meant to apologize to her, I had overreacted, I shouldn’t have sent her off to bed without any dinner. But as often after we had quarreled, she was so incredibly sweet and affectionate that I said nothing and simply enjoyed the peace. Come on, let’s go buy some rolls for breakfast, I said, dress warm.

It was a foggy morning, and so cold that our misty breath disappeared into the fog as if into a bigger cloud of breath. Sophie took my hand, which she didn’t do often, and we walked down the hill to the only bakery that was open early on Sundays. On the way home Sophie asked me if I liked fog. Yes, I do, I said, what about you? Me too. She asked me if I wanted to live in Marseilles. Why do you ask? She said Mama had asked her if she could imagine living there. And what did you reply? Sophie shrugged her shoulders. I said Marseilles was a beautiful city, but not to live in. Me neither, said Sophie. You’re just copying me. No, she said, we just have the same taste.

When we got home, Sonia had gotten up and was in the kitchen making breakfast. I sat down at the table and watched her cut open the rolls, take ham and cheese out of the fridge, and arrange them on a plate. She boiled some eggs and poured water into the coffee machine. She asked Sophie to set the table and asked me if I wanted some freshly squeezed orange juice. What’s the matter with you? You look as though you’d seen a ghost. I said I was still a bit tired, I’d stayed up late the night before, talking to Antje, and hadn’t been able to get to sleep after. Sonia too looked as though she hadn’t slept well. She turned quickly, and I wondered if she guessed what we’d been talking about. I thought of the question Antje had asked me after the show: whether I’d ever loved Sonia. I asked myself whether Sonia loved me. She had once likened our relationship to a house we were building together, something that wasn’t an expression of either one of us, but that came about through our joint wills. There were many rooms in this house, she said, a dining room and a bedroom, a children’s room, and a pantry for our common memories. And what about a cellar, I said, but at that she had merely laughed.

Will you look in on Antje?, Sophie asked. Shouldn’t we let her sleep?, I asked. But Sophie was sure Antje wanted to have breakfast with us, now that she wasn’t on her own. I don’t think being alone bothers her, I said. Don’t kid yourself about that, said Sonia. No one likes being alone. I went downstairs and knocked on the door of the guest room. Yes?, called Antje, and I went in. She was on the floor, dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and leggings, doing sit-ups. Her body didn’t look like that of an almost sixty-year-old woman. I said breakfast was ready. She reached out her hand and I pulled her upright. I’m coming, she said slightly out of breath, just as soon as I’ve taken a shower. I asked her if she exercised every morning. I have a young lover, she said, with an ironic smile, I’m sure he expects me to stay in shape. How young? Half my age, she said, and she raised her eyebrows. A young savage. And? Do you love him? Antje laughed. You didn’t like that question, did you? I love him when we’re together. But I don’t miss him when he’s not there. It’s straightforward and good, the kind of thing I’ve always wanted. Is that the way he sees it?, I asked. Antje smiled. I think so. He’s a different generation. We don’t try and fool each other. Her smile turned slightly wistful. One day I expect he’ll have had enough of me, and he’ll find himself someone else. I enjoy it as long as it lasts. She thought for a moment, and then she said, we laugh a lot, you know. She put her hands to her hips and pushed her top half forward, and in a sort of reflex I reached out my hand and rubbed her cropped hair. Okay, leave now, she said, otherwise I’ll have another jealous wife on my case.


That day the fog seemed not to want to break, and we sat over breakfast for a long time. Sophie was in her room, doing homework. What are your plans?, Sonia asked. I asked if they wanted to be left alone, and Sonia nodded. Old memories. I didn’t believe her. She was the last person to be interested in the past. I’ll be in the office, I said, and I went downstairs.

The door to the guest room was ajar, and I stopped in the entryway, to listen to the quiet voices of the two women upstairs. Then I went in. Antje’s travel bag was wide open on the floor, the handle still with the airline tag on it with the flight number and the code for Munich. Next to it were her leggings and T-shirt, and a tattered paperback of a Simenon thriller, La chambre bleue. I reached inside the bag and pushed a few garments to the side. Underneath was a tangle of lacy underwear, a clear plastic duty-free bag, sealed, from the Marseilles airport containing a bottle of Swedish vodka, and a charger for a cell phone. At the very bottom of the bag was a sketchbook. I took it out and leafed through it. It was empty.

In the guest bathroom was Antje’s toiletry bag, overflowing with little bottles and tubes. I read the names of the products, creams and powders, tar shampoo and toothpaste for sensitive teeth and contact lens cleaner, aspirin and antacid tablets.

I went over to the window of the guest room, pulled up the blinds, and looked out into the fog, which was thicker than on previous days. Everything seemed very intensely there to me. I had the feeling that everything was possible for me just then, I could walk out of the house and never come back. It was a feeling at once liberating and frightening.

I put on a coat and went outside. The drive, which I’d swept only yesterday, was once again littered with fallen leaves. I walked down the street, slowly and aimlessly. I remembered the last time I had had this menacing feeling of freedom. It was the morning after the first night with Ivona, when I stood in front of the student hall and the birds were singing so incredibly loudly, and I had the feeling of being terribly grown up and having my life in my own hands. I felt as though I’d spent years going through a tunnel, and had finally come out the other side, and was now standing on a wide plain, able to walk in any direction.

The street stopped in a dead end. There was a big pasture there, with a couple of cows grazing on it, behind some electrified fence. When I stopped in front of the wire, one of the cows raised her head and looked briefly in my direction. She took a step toward me, then seemed to reconsider and went back to grazing. In the distance, I heard the sound of a leaf blower and some church bells striking ten.

I heard steps, and turned around. It was Antje. She came up beside me, looking at the cows. They’re not so easy to draw, you know, she said after a while, especially their rear ends. I asked her where Sonia was. Antje didn’t answer. You wanted to tell me the rest of your story, she said. Come on then, I said, and I turned around, it’s easier to talk while walking. Antje slipped her arm through mine, and we walked down the street in the direction of the city center. I told her about the beginning of the crisis. It was the first time the business wasn’t improving. Maybe that was the thing that discouraged me the most. It had been difficult before, but we always had an end in view, which we managed to reach sooner or later. Three years ago, for the first time I had the sense that things could only get worse. Presumably that’s when I started thinking about Ivona again. By chance I saw her picture in one of Sonia’s photo albums, a photograph of a party, where she was only barely recognizable.

I pulled out my wallet and showed Antje the picture. That was my objective. I had to find Ivona. I don’t know what I thought would happen if I did.





It wasn’t easy to get hold of Ivona’s address. Her name wasn’t in the phone book, and at the Polish Consulate I was told that if Ivona wasn’t registered, they wouldn’t be able to help me. The agency leasing the house where she had lived before had never heard of her, presumably she had been on a sublease then. Finally I called the Polish mission. The woman I spoke to asked me to come by.

The mission was housed in an anonymous-looking office building. I rang the bell, and a pleasant-looking woman of about fifty or so opened the door. I introduced myself, and she told me her name, which I immediately forgot, and led me to her office. Outside there had been bright June sunshine, but inside the office it was gloomy, even though the room was high-ceilinged. The woman sat down at her desk and pointed to a chair that looked as though it had been salvaged from somewhere. I was in luck, she said, it was a quiet morning. I asked after her work, and she told me about the difficulties of Poles in Germany, pathetically low wages, long hours, and all sorts of abuses. I had no idea how many Poles were living in the city. Something in the order of ten thousand, said the woman, no one quite knew. And presumably there’ll be a few more coming now, I said. We’ll have to see, she said. She didn’t think joining the EU would greatly affect the situation. The women who were working off the books wouldn’t register, so as to avoid paying any of their small wages in taxes. Most of them would probably stay, as illegals.

I had come up with a story ahead of time, but this woman here seemed well disposed and so understanding that I thought I would tell her the truth. She listened carefully while I told her what she needed to know. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, I ended. I expected her to say, yes, but it was best for the child, but she only nodded. It was probably best for the child, I said. Who knows, she said. At any rate, I’d like to get in touch with Ivona now, and tell her that Sophie’s doing well, and give her the opportunity to see her. Why now? I was unable to say. I hope it’s not just a matter of relieving your guilt, said the official, and she went over to a big gray metal filing cabinet, and pulled open a drawer. What was the surname again? I handed her Sophie’s birth certificate.

It took a while, and then she pulled a thin file out of the cabinet and opened it. She was here three years ago. Needed money for an operation. But we have no money, we can only offer advice. We gave her the name of a doctor who treats patients without visas free of charge.

There was an address in the file, she said, but she had no idea if it was still current. Ivona hadn’t given a phone number. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then she wrote the address down on a piece of paper and gave it to me.

That same day I drove out to the address, which was a building in Perlach, not far from Ivona’s previous apartment. I found a parking spot from where I could see the entrance. I waited for a while, then called the office and canceled the two appointments I had for the afternoon. The secretary asked me if I was going to be in later. I said I didn’t know.

There was hardly anyone on the street. Even though it was a big building, containing fifty or so units, no one came out for a long time, and no one went in. I started getting hotter and hotter in the car, until after half an hour or so I got out and went up to the door. The nameplates beside the buzzers had only foreign-sounding names on them, but I didn’t find Ivona’s among them.

I waited. After a while an old woman left the building, and I asked her about Ivona. Not stopping to look at me, she shook her head and scuttled off. A while later, a fat young woman pushing a stroller came down the street toward the building. She too seemed never to have heard of Ivona. She thought for a long time with a strained expression, then finally she said there were some Polish people living on the ground floor. She unlocked the door and let me in. I took a peek in the stroller. It was empty. The woman showed me the apartment and remained standing next to me after I’d rung the bell. She wasn’t suspicious so much as nosy. When a frail-looking woman of about fifty opened the door, the woman next to me said the gentleman’s looking for someone. Does Ivona live here?, I asked. She’s at work, replied the woman, with a distinct accent. She was in a kimonolike wrap, even though it was two in the afternoon. Can I come in?, I asked. I’m a friend of hers. I didn’t feel like discussing the whole affair in the stairwell. The fat woman stomped away up the stairs. Thank you so much, I called out after her.

The woman in the wrap showed me in and locked the door behind me. She won’t be home till the evening, she said, and pushed past me. I was pretty sure she knew who I was. She walked down a narrow, dark hallway, past a half-open door behind which I could hear voices. It took me a moment to realize that the voices were from a television. At the end of the hallway was a kitchen that was clean and tidy. The window was open, and looked out onto the back of the building, where I could hear children and the noise of a lawn mower in the distance. The woman in the wrap slumped onto a chair with a faint groan, then got up right away and asked me if I wanted something to drink. Just a glass of water, I said, please. She filled two glasses at the tap, pulled a stool from under the table for me, and sat down again with another sigh.

She said her name was Eva. She lived here with Ivona and another friend. Ivona was her cousin. She had gotten her the job at the Christian bookstore where I had first met her. We actually met in a beer garden, I contradicted her, fifteen years ago. She was always stubborn, said Eva, and laughed. I asked her what she meant by that. I warned my cousin, she said, men are the same the world over.

Eva was very different from Ivona. I would never have thought they were related. She was petite and blond. She must have been a good-looking woman when she was younger, even now she was quite attractive. She said she had been married to a German man once. The Germans like Polish women, we have more passion and more feeling than German women. We don’t try to behave like men.

My cell phone rang. I switched it off without looking at the screen. I asked how Ivona was doing. Not so good, said Eva. The family had somehow gotten wind of her pregnancy, not from her, she swore, and they had—she hesitated, seemed to search for a word—shunned Ivona. I nodded. Ivona was still sending money home, but other than that she had no contact with them anymore. She hadn’t been home for eight years. If she didn’t have me, said Eva, she wouldn’t even know that her father’s died.

Healthwise, Ivona wasn’t doing particularly well either. She had these growths. She should have had them operated on long ago, but she didn’t want to. I said I had given Ivona money for the operation. Eva shrugged her shoulders. Presumably she sent it home to Poland. That seemed to be her only goal in life, to send home as much money as she could. Half her relatives were dependent on Ivona, and yet no one liked her. She works, said Eva, she works like a crazy woman. By day she looks after a bedridden old woman, and in the evening she cleans offices.

For a while no one spoke. Then Eva said Ivona was probably still hoping that I would one day return to her. She looked at me with an inquiring, somewhat skeptical eye, as though to say: you’re surely not about to do that. I shook my head. I told her not to be stupid, said Eva, but she doesn’t listen to me. You should have told her yourself. I did tell her. Eva spread her hands. There’s nothing to be done. If she doesn’t want to listen. You can’t force a man to love you.

Each time she had talked to her cousin about me, Ivona had said, Alexander is my husband. That was all that could be gotten out of her on the subject. When she tried to introduce Ivona to other men, she said the same thing. I have a husband already.

Come with me, she said, and she took me into the room directly opposite the kitchen. It was even more jam-packed than Ivona’s earlier apartment had been. The curtains were drawn, but in spite of that it felt very warm, and everything was bathed in a reddish glow. Eva pulled open the top drawer of a small desk, got out a thick album, and opened it. On the first page, in ornate letters, was written the name “Alexander.” My name was underlined and decorated with twisting flowers that looked as though a child had drawn them. Underneath it, attached by Scotch tape, was a lock of hair. I couldn’t remember ever having given Ivona any such thing. The following pages were full of photos of me and objects and places that were connected to me and Ivona in some way. I saw the beer garden where we had first met, the sweater Ivona had knitted for me, the back room of the bookstore. Two or three of the pictures I had given her, after she had asked for them, one came from the graduation paper we had put out together at the end of our studies, a few more from architectural journals or newspapers. The articles they had come with had not been clipped, and there was nothing else written in the album either. There was one photograph I could remember well. It was of me and Sonia at the topping-out party for a school we built a few years back. We had brought Sophie along, and she was in the picture with us, though I hadn’t wanted it. Ivona had only included the part of the photo with me in it; Sonia and Sophie had been cut away. Other pages had photographs of couples from magazines, advertisements, couples sitting in front of bodies of water at sunset, crossing green meadows hand in hand, or a man and a woman, in pajamas, brushing one another’s teeth. On one of the back pages were photos of Tutzing, and our house. I haven’t even seen those, said Eva, she must have taken those very recently. Is that your house? I nodded.


We sat in the kitchen, and Eva told me about Ivona’s family. Her mother was a schoolteacher, her father a blast engineer. He had spent a lot of time abroad, working on building sites all over the world. I mean to say the Communist world, of course, said Eva, with a smile.

Ivona was an only child. Her parents were in their mid-thirties when she was born. They were both very devout, but they didn’t make a display of their beliefs, so as not to hurt their careers. Ivona was all they had, they spoiled and cosseted her. I remember how I used to envy her, said Eva. She had incredible numbers of toys, wonderful dolls that her father brought back from Africa and from the Caucasus. Each time we visited them, there was a fight. No one was allowed to touch Ivona’s toys. She threw hysterical fits if you so much as went inside her room. At school, Ivona had trouble. She wasn’t a bad pupil, but she was an outsider. So far as Eva knew, she never had any close friends. She was very quiet and stubborn. For a time, they had tried therapy. She had envied Ivona that as well, all the attention. There was always something going on. Often she was sick, she had these vague, chronic conditions that meant she missed school a lot.

Do you know the story of the man who wakes up one morning as a cockroach?, asked Eva. I nodded. That was how she sometimes thought of Ivona, she said, an alien being that had imposed itself on her parents. They did everything for her, but I think somehow she always remained foreign to them. It was as though she had armor plating that no one could get through.

I asked if Ivona had been religious already back then. Not especially, said Eva, she’s far too selfish. She hesitated. No, there was a time she said she wanted to become a nun. But presumably that was just another one of her overreactions. She probably thought she’d become a saint, not an ordinary nun.

When other girls of her age started going out with boys, Ivona retreated even more into herself. She was an early developer, by the time she was twelve she already had proper breasts, and Ivona’s parents were terrified that she would get involved with somebody. She didn’t know what it was they had said to her, said Eva, but whenever a man showed up, Ivona would run away.

Eva looked at me with her clear blue eyes. Presumably she was wondering what I had managed to see in her cousin, why I had gotten involved with her, and she with me.

When she was finished with school, Ivona first did nothing at all. Eva had moved to Warsaw and started a nursing course. She only came back to Posen over the holidays, and then she would see Ivona at family reunions, but they hardly spoke. When Eva had her first proper boyfriend, she practically broke off contact with the family. She was already in Germany when she heard that Ivona was training to be a bookseller. After Ivona had qualified, Eva found her the job in Germany. Ivona’s mother had turned to her for help, once her father had lost his job and shortly after fell sick. He had joined the union, Eva said, they were difficult years in Poland. I know, I said, even though I could only dimly remember what had happened. Eva said she had organized everything for Ivona, the job, a room, she collected her at the station and introduced her to other people, Polish girls, and later men as well, good, proper men, who were looking for a partner. Ivona had accepted it all as her due, and never done anything for her. Perhaps they were just too different, perhaps they had nothing to say to each other.

At the time Ivona came to Germany, Eva had still been married. Once she had invited her cousin back to the house. Ivona was so silent that the evening was painful. After that they pretty much stopped seeing each other. Eva would occasionally call the student dorms to ask after Ivona, and sometimes they would manage to see a film together, or go to some event at the Polish mission.

I can remember the day she told me she had a boyfriend. I couldn’t believe it. I often asked myself how she met you. When was that?, I asked. Eva said she no longer knew. I think it was just chance, I said. She must have seen me somewhere, and followed me. Do you believe in that? Love at first sight? Eva shook her head. That was silly, maybe if you were fourteen or something, but not to a grown woman. She read too much, and the wrong books. You were her first boyfriend. I was never her boyfriend, we met once or twice, and then I got married. Then we didn’t see each other for years. Eventually she got back in touch, because she needed money for an operation. Eva looked at me inquiringly. I said I couldn’t explain what had made me get involved with Ivona. It just happened. It was as though she had some power over me, I said, just her presence. Eva smiled, and said I didn’t owe her an apology. Men were like that. She had wondered sometimes whether Ivona really had a boyfriend at all, or whether it wasn’t some figment. Ivona had never talked about me, never even mentioned my name.

Only when she got pregnant did I believe her. She called. I asked her if she was together with the father, if they were going to get married. She answered evasively. I mustn’t tell anyone. I wonder why she even told me.

Eva visited her cousin in the hospital once, but Ivona gave her to understand she didn’t want visitors. Then after the birth she turned up at Eva’s, and pretended nothing had happened. When I asked her about the baby she gave me an absolutely terrifying look. Sophie’s living with us, I said, she’s fine. Eva nodded. That’s what I found out eventually. At first Eva feared the worst. She couldn’t say so of course, but she thought Ivona was capable of anything. As a child she was once given a cat, said Eva, a sweet little kitten. She took it everywhere with her. But in time the kitten grew bigger and more independent, and ran off when Ivona wanted to play with it. Then one day in summer it was gone. There was a great hue and cry, but the cat never turned up. Months later, when it was cold again, and we had to run the heat, one of the tenants found it starved in the coal cellar. Could it have climbed in through a window or something, and not gotten out again?, I asked. There was no window, said Eva. Someone must have shut it in there, and I’m pretty sure it was Ivona. Even though she made a great fuss, and had a proper burial for it.

Eva stood and refilled our glasses. Anyway, she said, sitting down again, it’s certainly better for your daughter to grow up with you. Ivona had no time to look after her. I took out my wallet and showed her the picture of Sophie. She looked at it briefly.

Ivona had no money, her religious friends dropped her just like that, as soon as the child was born. She gestured contemptuously. Well, and then suddenly Eva was worth knowing again. It hadn’t been a particularly good time for her either, she had just gotten divorced.

Eva had helped Ivona find another job. Later on they’d moved into this apartment together, to save money, along with Małgorzata, who worked in the hospital with her. Her relationship with her cousin, though, was no closer than before. On the contrary, since they were living as roommates, Ivona remained even more aloof. Except for the people she worked with, she seemed to have no human contacts.

Małgorzata and I often cook together, but Ivona has almost all her meals alone. She comes home and disappears into her room, or she locks herself in the bathroom for hours. It’s been like that for years. Eva tapped her temple with her forefinger, and said, there’s something not quite right upstairs. You probably think I dislike her. But that’s not it at all. I’m sorry for her, but I can’t do anything to help. She’s past helping.

Eva had to go to work. I asked her if I could give her a lift somewhere, and she accepted gratefully. While I waited for her to get ready, I looked at my cell to see who had called. It was Sonia.

Nice car, said Eva, as I opened the door for her. I said it was a leased car. My husband had an Audi 100, she said proudly. She said it was probably best if she didn’t tell Ivona about my having come by, it would just excite her. I asked if there was anything I could do for Ivona. Just leave her alone, said Eva. What if she needs money for the operation? Eva said it wasn’t a matter of money. Ivona didn’t want to have the operation, because she wouldn’t be able to have children. I did the math. She’s forty-six, said Eva, and she’s still not grown up. We stopped talking.

Ivona’s wasted her life on me, I thought. For the past fifteen years she’s been chasing the specter of an impossible love. You mustn’t reproach yourself, said Eva, as though she’d read my mind, it has nothing to do with you. In her own way, Ivona is perfectly happy. She has you. She’s been in love these fifteen years. She laughed. Look at me. I had a husband, but does that mean I’m any better off now?

Here we are, she said. I stopped the car, and she got out and leaned down to say good-bye. Can I call you?, I asked. She pulled a little notebook out of her purse, wrote something down, and gave me the piece of paper. That’s my cell. I wanted to give her my card, but she shook her head and said, call me if you want to hear how she’s doing.

I watched her run up the stairs with quick, youthful steps. At the top, a man held the door open for her. She turned toward him and said something, and I caught a glimpse of a beaming smile.

I sat in the car in front of the hospital, watching people go in and out, hospital workers and patients and visitors. People who might just have heard that they didn’t have long to live, and others who had been cured, at least temporarily. I had to think of Sophie. A while back she asked me why people existed. I said I didn’t know, and then she had replied in her pompous way that people were there to look after animals. Yes, perhaps you’re right, I said, why not. That’s the answer, said Sophie with her seven-year-old’s confidence. I asked myself what Ivona would have said. She had lost everything you could lose, but she knew what she was there for. She had a goal in life, no matter how unreasonable. Perhaps Eva was right, perhaps Ivona was happier than the rest of us.

I called Sonia, but only got her voice mail. In the office I was told she had already left for home. They had been trying to find me, the secretary said, I should phone home urgently.

Sonia picked up. I said I’d missed her call. She interrupted me. We’re bankrupt. Come home right away. What about Sophie?, I asked. Birgit’s picking her up from school, Sonia said, she’ll bring her home later.

I felt almost a sort of relief as I drove home. For years I’d had this premonition that our business was going to fail. I had felt threatened, even though there were really no grounds for it. Now at last the tension burst, and something would change, for better or worse. But by the time I climbed out of the car, my relief was over, and I asked myself worriedly how we were going to get out of this mess.


Lechner, our tax accountant, was sitting at our dining room table in front of piles of paper. Sonia was standing in front of the French window that led out into the garden. When I walked in, she turned and looked at me. Her expression was worried and tense, as though she were thinking very hard. I wanted to sleep with her, there and then. I walked up to her and kissed her on the lips, put my arm around her shoulder, but she twisted away.

The bank has canceled our overdraft, she said, I had no idea it was that bad. I said I hadn’t wanted her to get worried. If we’d gotten the job in Halle, we’d have been all right. Sonia asked how long we’d known about it. Lechner stood up, with the last year’s accounts in his hand. It had been in the cards for a while. Liquidity was the least of it. Our outgoings were too high, there were too many people on the payroll. Insurance contributions hadn’t been paid for the last three months. You’ll be lucky if you’re not taken to court. What about the firm?, asked Sonia. Does that mean we’re finished? If we apply for Chapter Six bankruptcy, Lechner said, then an administrator will come in, and he will decide what happens. Probably all current projects will be halted, and the employees will be let go, and the furniture sold. A liquidation wouldn’t realize much, there were just a few desks and computers. Perhaps the administrator would allow the firm to struggle on. That would mean damned hard work for the next three years or so.

Sonia went over to the table and collapsed onto a chair. Distractedly, she picked up a sheaf of papers, looked at them briefly, and dropped them again. I don’t understand, she said, I don’t understand, how come no one told me anything?

Lechner didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said there was another thing too. He paused. As directors, you are personally liable for losses. Sonia groaned. We should have formed a limited liability company, I said. I know, she said, it’s my fault. It’s not a matter of blame, I said. He would do all in his power to see that we could keep our house, Lechner said. Sooner or later we would have to have an asset sale, but that might not be for another couple of years. We were safe until then. We may as well shoot ourselves right now, said Sonia. Lechner pretended he hadn’t heard. The best thing is you try and find a job as quickly as possible. Try and see it as an opportunity. Opportunity?, said Sonia.


After Lechner left, we sat there in silence for a long time. Sonia was on the sofa, drinking her second gin and tonic. I walked back and forth, flicking through the paper on the table, not really knowing what I was doing. Then I sat down on the sofa next to Sonia. She suddenly jumped to her feet. She picked up the telephone, started dialing, and went into the kitchen, shutting the sliding door after her. I heard her say something. It was French, but I didn’t know what it meant.

I went out onto the terrace to smoke. A few minutes later, Sonia emerged. She said she’d talked to Albert. He had work for her, nothing wonderful, but better than nothing. I looked at her in bewilderment. Lechner said we should try and find a job, she said. I won’t find anything here the way things are. Anyway I don’t want to go knocking on the doors of our competitors. How do you think this is going to work?, I asked. What am I going to do? You finish your project, she said, and then we’ll see. What about Sophie? Sonia thought for a moment. It’s better that she stay here. It wouldn’t be easy for her to switch to a French school. And who’s going to look after her? Maybe you could do something too for once, Sonia said crossly, I’m not going away for the fun of it. We’re ruined. We’ve lost our company, and the greater part of our retirement, and the house is being auctioned off. I told her not to exaggerate the situation. You and your wretched optimism, she said bitterly, if you’d started worrying a bit sooner, we wouldn’t be insolvent now. You always told me not to bother you with the numbers. Sonia groaned. She had to call her parents and break it to them somehow. That was almost worse than the glee of our competitors. She came up to me, threw her arms around me, and burrowed her head into my chest. Oh, it’s all so awful, what are we going to do? I don’t know, I said. It’s only six months, she said. Albert is building a barracks, and can use some help in the building. I asked her if there’d been anything between them, back then. That was fifteen years ago. Is that your biggest concern? Surely you’ll be able to remember if you slept with him or not, I said. No, I did not sleep with him, said Sonia. I wouldn’t mind if you had, I said. I did not sleep with him, Sonia repeated. Would you like it in writing?

At about nine, Birgit came, bringing Sophie. They had eaten at McDonald’s, a first for Sophie. Sonia always refused to take her there. Birgit smiled provocatively as Sophie gave us her enthusiastic report. Did you have to do that?, Sonia said, but she didn’t really care. Now run upstairs and get into your pajamas. Can I get you a drink?, I asked Birgit, after Sophie had gone. One like that, she said, pointing at my beer. And how is it? Is it as bad as it sounded? Worse, said Sonia. Do you want me to give you something to calm you down?, asked Birgit. Sonia shook her head. She said she would put Sophie to bed, and she disappeared up the stairs.

I told Birgit about the situation of the company. She listened and asked one or two precise questions, it was as though she was making a diagnosis. But when I looked at her questioningly, she simply shrugged her shoulders. You’ll be fine, I said, people will always get sick. But what if they stop wanting new buildings. They’ll start again, said Birgit. Sure they will, I said. The only question is whether we’ll still have our company when they do. Well, if you don’t, you just start another one. It’s only money. Even when we were roommates, I had the feeling you didn’t like me, I said. Birgit raised her eyebrows, thought briefly, and said, no, that’s true. Why not?, I asked. I think it was because I thought Sonia was too good for you. I suppose I was jealous. The men who hung around her, first Rüdiger, well, he was all right, and then you, and I don’t know who else. And then you wanted to share our place with us. As long as it was just us girls, it was all much nicer. Maybe I really wasn’t good enough for Sonia, I said. It’s not your fault, said Birgit, you’re not the only people in trouble. But for me, Sonia would have had more of a career, I said. She wanted to go abroad and work in a big architecture company. She knew what she was getting with you, said Birgit.

I stood by the window and looked out. There was a thin rim of color in the sky, but the ground was all dark. If there was someone standing outside, I wouldn’t be able to see them, I thought, even if they were just a few yards away. I pictured Ivona with her camera, creeping around our house. We didn’t have curtains in the windows, it would be terribly easy to snoop on us.

Sonia didn’t come down. When Birgit was leaving, I said I would get her, but Birgit said, leave her be, she’s probably lying down. I brought her to the door, and we said good-bye. It’ll be all right, she said, and gave me a wink. I was shattered, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I sat in the living room into the small hours, thinking about what had gone wrong and what mistakes I’d made and how I could have averted our insolvency. I thought of breaking up the company, and about having to tell the employees, and that our colleagues would hear about it, and our creditors would come with their reproaches and demands. I had opened a bottle of wine, and the more I drank, the more confused my thoughts became. I was disappointed in Sonia. Of course she was right, there wouldn’t be any work in Munich, while I had to stay here, because I had a school building to finish in Lower Bavaria. All the same, I thought her running away was a cowardly thing to do. I would face the consequences, while she would be far away on the Med, building a barracks with her Albert, and God knows what else besides. I couldn’t imagine getting through all that, and looking after Sophie at the same time. My thoughts went around and around, my eyes were almost falling shut with fatigue, but I was so scared of the day ahead I didn’t want to go to bed.


The following months were the worst in my life. The only way I managed to get through them was by doing what I had to do one day at a time. Two weeks after our conversation, Sonia left for Marseilles. The company was put into temporary administration, and every other day the administrator came along, wanting to know this or that. She had called a company meeting right at the start, and made it clear to me that I no longer counted for anything in the firm. She sat at my desk and rummaged through my papers and began sacking people, and cutting costs wherever she could. I had to ask her for every little thing. At least she was trying not to have to shut the company down entirely. Even so, the atmosphere was terrible. There were always two or three employees standing around the coffee machine whispering, only to fall silent when I went by. I could feel their stares when my back was turned, and their hostility, as if it was my fault that the construction industry wasn’t doing well.

The administrator tried to cheer me up. In America, bankruptcy wasn’t dishonorable at all, on the contrary it was proof that you had taken a chance, had had a go at something. This isn’t America, I said. She said I should try and hustle for orders, anything that brought in money, even if it was just licking envelopes. I called Ferdy. I hadn’t heard from him in ages, and it was embarrassing to approach him for work, but I didn’t have any option. He said he was sorry but he couldn’t do anything for me, he would be lucky to get through himself. Come and see us, it would be nice to meet your little girl. I asked how Alice was doing, and we talked on a bit in a desultory way, but the old intimacy couldn’t be restored, my begging mission came between us, and I felt vaguely despised. Chin up, said Ferdy, with a show of cheerfulness, as we said good-bye.

The administrator canceled the contract on my leased car and got me a new, smaller one, a white Opel Astra. Maybe that was the single worst thing of all. Not that I cared that much about cars, but every time I parked the Astra next to her Mercedes, I felt my failure anew.

As soon as she was gone, I sat down at my desk, even though I felt like an impostor. I couldn’t stick it out in the office. Whenever possible, I drove out to the building site in Vilsheim. But there too I noticed how my presence was only disruptive, and a distraction to the workmen. Often I would check into a bar at four in the afternoon and sit through the time until I could collect Sophie from school. We drove home in silence. I made dinner and put her to bed, and then I fiddled around until midnight. I went to sleep for five or six hours, showered, woke Sophie, took her to school, and went to the office, where the administrator was already waiting for me.

The spite of our rivals was bearable. Some were up to their necks in trouble themselves, and avoided direct comment. The whole sector was suffering, everyone was hurting, lots of companies had already let people go. Sonia was right of course, there wouldn’t have been anything for her here. She stayed with Antje in Marseilles, and called every other day or so, but the calls were usually brief. She didn’t want to hear about the company, and we didn’t have much else to talk about. I was pleased each time Sophie took the phone out of my hand to exchange a few words with her mother.

After a month, Sonia came back for a long weekend. It was early August and the weather was beautiful. The world looked lush and peaceful. The green of the trees had already taken on the blackish hue of late summer, and the color of the water in the lake had darkened too. We strolled along the shore, watching the sailboats and looking at the lovely old villas. The kids were playing badminton in the gardens, and from somewhere you could smell the aroma of grilled meat. We read the menus of the lakeside restaurants. Sonia said prices had doubled since the introduction of the euro, we’d be better advised to stay home and eat.

On the way back, Sophie started moaning. Since Sonia’s return she had hardly spoken to her, and wouldn’t hold her hand on our walk. From the very beginning Sophie had a closer relationship with me than with Sonia, and the long separation hadn’t improved matters.

The next morning, Sonia was short-tempered and irritable. We drank wine at lunchtime, and in the afternoon, when she was tired and needed a rest, she scolded Sophie for not being quieter. She blamed me for things, and she was cynical when I tried to talk about the future. Even though she was suntanned, she seemed exhausted, and her features were harder and thinner, and there was something unattractive about her. We squabbled all day, and in bed at night we fell upon each other and made love more passionately than usual, but the sex had something desperate about it, as though we were trying to save ourselves. Stop it, said Sonia, you’re hurting me. I dropped off, and we lay there side by side, sweating and panting. Sonia said I had changed. I didn’t ask what she meant by that. For the first time in all our years together, I felt ashamed in front of her.

In those months I thought about Ivona a lot. When I went out onto the terrace late at night to smoke, I imagined her standing in the dark with her camera, watching me. The notion simultaneously excited and infuriated me. I imagined hauling her in and interrogating her. She was obdurately silent, and tried hiding the camera behind her back. So I stripped her naked, and we slept together on the sofa, or in Sonia’s and my bed. And then, still in the darkness, without her having said a single word to me, I would send her packing.

Once I called Eva’s cell, but I hung up before she could answer. I didn’t want to hear any more about Ivona’s childhood or her family or her life without me. All that bored me, just as Ivona had always bored me with her saints’ lives and schlocky TV movies whose stories she narrated, as if they’d happened to her. When I thought about being with her, it wasn’t the yearning you felt for a friend or lover, it was an almost painful desire, something uncontrollable and brutal. On nights like that I sometimes drove into Munich, and sat in the car in front of Ivona’s building for an hour, in the crazed expectation that she would sense my presence and come out. Of course she never did, and eventually I’d drive home feeling slightly sobered.

When I came back from one of those excursions, Sophie was awake. I heard her loud crying as soon as I set foot in the house. It was a long time before she would settle down, and I was so exhausted from my exaltation that I ended up yelling at her and threatened to leave again if she didn’t cut it out. The whole time I felt as though I was somehow standing outside myself, watching, disgusted by my own heartlessness. But I couldn’t help myself, and that only deepened my fury and my self-disgust.


We had deadline issues on the building site. Perhaps I’d been too optimistic in my planning, perhaps it was the builders’ fault. At our meetings I would urge them on and threaten them with breach-of-contract suits. But by now everyone knew about the moribund state of the business, and when I swore at them, they avoided eye contact and scribbled on pieces of paper. July had been rainy, which contributed to some of the delays. In August the weather improved, and finally things got going on site. But in the middle of the month the plumbers’ foreman fell from a scaffold and was badly hurt. When I got to the site, he had already been taken away. The workers were standing around, talking. No one could explain to me what happened, everyone had just heard a cry and then the sound of the impact. The scaffolding was solid, that was checked up on right away. So what was it?, I asked. They said he had been an approachable guy. The ambulance men had carried him away on a gurney. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, I said. They looked daggers at me and went back to work. The next day we learned that the plumber had broken four vertebrae in his spine. The spinal cord wasn’t affected, but he would be gone for at least a couple of months. At least it was no problem finding someone else in the current climate.

I started drinking more heavily. I spent a long time over lunch, drinking beer and sometimes wine, until I felt tired, and work was out of the question. I knew it was stupid, but I thought alcohol helped me relax. After I’d had a few, the situation didn’t seem so hopeless, and my mood brightened a bit. After hours I continued. Once, when I was driving Sophie home, I missed a set of lights and almost hit another car. After that I stopped drinking in the daytime, but more than made up for it at night. Soon I couldn’t go to sleep without alcohol.

Once in that time Rüdiger called. He wanted to talk to Sonia, and when I told him she wasn’t there, he agreed to talk to me. Sonia’s in Marseilles, I said. Rüdiger said he was in Munich, if I’d care to have a beer. I didn’t really feel like seeing anyone, but I’d long intended to quiz him about Sonia, so I said okay.

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 Rüdiger 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 institute 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 assumptions? 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 Rüdiger. The way things are looking now, we’re headed for a new class 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 Rüdiger.

And apart from that, how are you doing? Are you still with Elsbeth? Rüdiger 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. Rüdiger 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 Rüdiger, 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 Rüdiger 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 Rüdiger 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 Rüdiger if he believed Sonia loved me. He looked at me in surprise. How do you mean? If she loves me. Sure, said Rüdiger. Why did you and she break up then? Rüdiger 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, Rüdiger said slowly. How could you leave such a perfect woman? Now Rüdiger 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 Rüdiger, 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 Rüdiger.

As we left the bar, Rüdiger 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. Rüdiger 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 Rüdiger. 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 God 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 Marseilles. 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 glass 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 competitors, 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 sex. 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 glasses, 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 repetitive 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 space. 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, glass 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 glasses, 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 passed 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 glass 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 hoarse. 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 appetite, 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 glass. 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.