And then she thought again that failsafes sometimes fail. Unsinkable ships land on the ocean floor and rockets don’t always survive reentry. Love is not a given. No one is promised a tomorrow. She had been wrong about every man she loved or said she loved. She’d been wrong about everything. She’d entered into her life in the middle of its story. She had confused herself with the actress who portrayed her.
And she thought about predestination. How the sum of her days added up to this. The plot of her life had already been published. Everything is foreordained. All is predetermined. The things I do, I cannot help. Everything that will happen already has. What had she learned about verbs? In the past and future tenses, the verb came at the end. And in the present it followed the subject. Wherever she went it tailed her. She dragged it behind like a sack of stones.
And she thought about Doktor Messerli, who, Anna was now sure, was wrong; the problem wasn’t that her bucket was empty, the problem was that it was full. So full it overbrimmed. So full and so heavy. Anna wasn’t strong enough to carry it. She’d have to pour it out. I’ve severed the serpent, Doktor! Look what I have done!
She thought about the woods behind her house. She thought about the hill. She thought about her bench. She thought about Karl and Archie, but her consideration was cursory. She thought about Mary. It had been less than twenty-four hours since last she’d seen her, but Anna wished she were there now. She’d never before had a girlfriend she was close enough to miss. She tried to think about Edith but didn’t know what to think. She wondered what Ursula would say to the ladies in the Frauenverein, if anything at all. She thought about her mother and her father. So many terrible years since her father had loved her, since her mother had listened.
She thought about Bruno. Who she had loved and didn’t love. But had loved. Who had loved her in return. I was a good wife, mostly.
And she thought about fire.
She reached the platform at Wipkingen station three minutes before the train. The day had depleted her. She was too tired to be anxious. This was new. But there was more. She had nothing left to worry about. What autonomy. It settled her. She stood at the center point of her own spiral and it was a fixed position. Anna was calm, guileless, and even-keeled. Let this not become me, she had prayed. But it had.
She looked to the station clock. Then, to the tracks. Then, to the tunnel. Then, she closed her eyes.
For the rest of the afternoon and well into the night, the city trains ran late.
for my father, Jim Schulz
1942–1999
acknowledgments
An ocean of appreciation to my first, best reader, Jessica Piazza, who wouldn’t let me quit this. And to my other readers: Emily Atkinson, Lisa Billington, Janna Lusk, Laureen Maartens, Neil Ellis Orts—love and thanks. And love.
Merci vielmal to Stefan Deuchler, my chief source of all things Swiss.
Much gratitude to Gina Frangello for publishing a portion of this in The Nervous Breakdown.
A thousand thank-yous to the dozens of others who shepherded me through the process of writing and editing: to my colleagues in the UCR Low Residency MFA program, especially Tod Goldberg, hand-holder and ledge-talker-downer extraordinaire, and Mark Haskell Smith, my fiction spirit guide and go-to for advice; to Nick Hanna, the first person to tell me to keep writing this story; to Michelle Halsall, Diplomate Jungian Analyst and counsel-giver of the highest order; to Susana Gardner and Andrea Grant, whose ex-pat friendships saved my life; to Sivert H?yem and Madrugada, whose music I wrote this book to, and whose songs have become, in my artistic consciousness, Anna’s songs; to Axel Essbaum, with whom I embarked upon the adventure of expatriation those many years ago; to Anna Tapsak, who let me grill her endlessly one evening about Swiss provincial life; and to Jill Baumgaertner, Reb Livingston, Cheryl Schneider, Jay Schulz, Louisa Spaventa, Becca Tyler, and Andrew Winer, whose friendships and encouragement I could never have managed without. Nor would I wish to.
Unflagging appreciation to Sergei Tsimberov, who facilitated the early stages of this experience and whose eagle-eye editing is in part responsible for the book you read today.
Immeasurable gratitude to my agent, Kathleen Anderson. There is no song that’s fervent enough to sing out how treasured she is to me.
Colossal thanks as well to the National Endowment for the Arts. A portion of this book was written under funding of a literature fellowship. The financial support was a godsend. The creative endorsement was a grace.
Thanks of all thanks to my editor, David Ebershoff, who kept me on task and encouraged me despite my occasional frustrations and now-and-again moments of heavyheartedness. Thanks also to Denise Cronin and her entire, wonderful rights team. And to Caitlin McKenna for her comfort and assistance and to Beth Pearson for her wealth of patience. Thanks, in the end, to Random House. Everyone. How welcome you all have made me and Anna feel.
To the city of Dietlikon, which let me live inside of it for a little while—how lovely you are.