We're Flying

by Peter Stamm

  SARA FELT RELIEVED when the weather finally broke, and it cooled down. Every day she resolved to talk to the chief conductor and make an appointment, but she ended up putting it off, telling herself either he was on holiday or she needed to get a better grip on this or that passage. Victor sent her regular emails from Madeira, attaching photographs of red cliffs and exotic tropical plants. He seemed to be bored in his fancy hotel. Some of the emails, Sara could tell, he had written while drunk, they were so full of typos. She answered briskly, saying there was nothing much happening, the weather was bad, she was practicing hard. After two weeks something changed in the tone of Victor’s emails, he still wrote regularly, but it sounded as though he was just doing it out of a sense of duty. Perhaps he’s met someone, thought Sara. The idea incensed her. Strangely, she had never felt jealous of his wife, and even after his divorce, she had never wanted more from him than their weekly meetings, conversations, and his friendship. But it hurt her to imagine that he might have a lover, a woman who enjoyed more rights and privileges than she did.

  The second-to-last holiday weekend, Sara finally called the sponsorship office of the orchestra. She told the man on the other end what it was about. He tried to dissuade her, told her they worked exclusively with agencies and artists of an international reputation. Couldn’t I come along after a rehearsal and play for the conductor for ten minutes? she suggested. Ten minutes isn’t asking a whole lot. He’s terribly busy, said the man on the phone. Finally, Sara had no option but to make use of her connections and drop Victor’s name. The man at the other end was silent for a minute, then he said in an offended tone of voice that he would have a word with the chief conductor and call back.

  For the next few days, Sara practiced more than ever. Sometimes she played the same few bars over and over again for an hour, until her fingers hurt. On Thursday the man from the orchestra called. Once again she missed his name, and didn’t trust herself to ask. He was short with her, and said that the conductor could fit her in tomorrow after rehearsals, at half past twelve, and she should try to be punctual.

  That afternoon she played through the whole concerto. For the first time she noticed that her playing was entirely lacking in brilliance and expression. She needed all her strength and concentration to master the technical difficulties, and even then she wasn’t successful. She made mistakes, many mistakes. How deluded she had been for all those years. Even when she’d been a conservatory student she hadn’t been allowed to take the concert diploma, because she hadn’t been good enough, and she hadn’t got any better since. Perhaps the swimming coach was right, and talent didn’t matter, but nor did she have sufficient enthusiasm to carry her through, the energy, the thing he’d called the winning instinct.

  Left to herself, Sara wouldn’t have turned up to the audition at all, but she couldn’t do that to Victor. Perhaps she was too self-critical. That too was part of the makeup of a proper artist, that restlessness, that dissatisfaction. In the evening she drank a couple of glasses of wine, and suddenly she felt confident again.

  SARA WAS AT THE CONCERT HALL far too early. The side entrance was locked, so she waited outside the front door. Even though it was a cool day, she was wearing a skirt. She had spent a long time thinking about what to wear, she had even briefly pulled out the rather garish dress she had worn to her sister’s wedding. In the end she settled on a knee-length tartan wraparound skirt paired with a cream silk blouse. She felt cold and clenched her hands, which were slowly turning clammy. At last the door opened and a mob of chatting, laughing musicians came pouring out, some of them with instrument cases. Sara recognized an oboist who was her contemporary at the conservatory, but the woman ignored her greeting. Sara walked into the lobby, where a few musicians stood around and looked at her.

  She recognized the conductor at once, even though he was in a cardigan and some baggy old cords. He walked very confidently toward her and held out his hand, without saying his name. Sara was amazed by his youthful appearance, he seemed younger than she was. He led her to the soloists’ room, a small space that, apart from a grand piano and a music stand, contained only a small side table and a hideous black-and-white designer couch that reminded her of the chair at the gynecologist’s. The blinds were down and two neon tubes spread a cool, diffuse light.

  The conductor sat down on the couch and stretched his legs; the attitude had something a little obscene about it. While Sara took the score from her bag and adjusted the piano stool, he asked her what sort of piano she played at home. Just an upright, said Sara. Better a good upright than a poor grand, said the conductor. What was the last concert you’ve been to? Sara thought about it. She had heard Britten’s Ceremony of Carols, but that was years ago. I don’t get to listen to as many concerts as I’d like, she said, I have to teach on some of my evenings. The conductor furrowed his brow and asked what her connection to Victor was. He takes lessons from me, she said, has done for years. We’re friends. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how extremely grateful we are to his company for their generous support, said the conductor, but of course that mustn’t play any part in the decision here … Well, whenever you’re ready. He looked at his watch.

  IT WENT BETTER than I expected, said Sara.

  And what did he say? asked Victor. The phone connection was poor, his words sounded chopped up and kept being interrupted by brief moments of stillness.

  He said he would be in touch, said Sara, and then, louder, He’ll be in touch, he said.

  I can hardly hear you, said Victor, but we’ll see each other in another week. Bye.

  Sara hadn’t managed to tell Victor the truth. That the conductor had ended the audition after a few minutes by saying there was no point. He had walked up to the piano, taken her score, and flipped through it, as though to check for himself what she had been playing. Then he passed it back to her and gave a little lecture on Rachmaninoff, whom he called the last romantic. His kindliness and patience with her were perhaps the most hurtful of all; he talked to her as to a child that needed to be comforted. He said she had picked an extremely difficult piece, which was simply beyond her. She ought to try something simpler. And as far as public performances went, he could imagine that an old age home or care facility would provide a grateful public. Though best steer clear of Rachmaninoff, he added, laughing, otherwise all the old folks will get coronaries. Sara smiled dutifully and allowed the conductor to usher her to the door and wish her all the best.

  At home she sat at the piano for certainly an hour, shaken with crying jags, until her throat felt sore. She drank a glass of tap water in the kitchen. She dropped the score in the recycling.

  TEN DAYS LATER Victor came for his lesson. Sara said the audition hadn’t worked out. He seemed to sense that she didn’t want to talk about it, and started speaking of his holidays. When the lesson was over, they sat in her kitchen, and Victor showed her his holiday snaps of Madeira. They had to put their heads together to make out anything on the little display of his digital camera. Victor had laid his arm around Sara’s shoulder. And did you have your holiday fling? she asked. He moved away, looked at her in surprise, and asked, How can you think of something like that? So you did. Look, he said, I have my life and you have yours. We may be friends, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell you everything. Sara could feel the tears running down her cheeks. You’re so obtuse, she said, you’re so bloody obtuse. Victor stroked her shoulders and talked soothingly to her, but she stood up and coldly told him to go. Find some other woman you can exploit. He tried to placate her, but it only made matters worse.

  After he had gone, Sara remained sitting at the piano for a while. She struck a couple of notes at random, but they sounded wrong, and no tune was forthcoming. Finally, she pushed the piano stool back against the wall, climbed up on it, and carefully started to unpick the raffia knots that held up the philodendron. It took a long time before she had undone every one, and the plant was a crumpled heap next to the piano. When she cut it into little pieces with her pr
uning shears, she felt like a murderess, but after she had stuffed it into garbage bags and stood them on the edge of the sidewalk, she felt oddly relieved.

  The Suitcase

  NO SOONER DOES Hermann put the list down on the unmade bed than he picks it up again. He has already forgotten everything on it. Toiletries. He goes to the bathroom and gathers up Rosmarie’s things: the olive oil soap she bought last year in the south of France, her hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste, her deodorant. He’s not sure which of the many shampoos is current, and packs one, hoping it’s the right one. What else? Nail scissors. He puts back the nail polish, after briefly hesitating. He goes into the bedroom, pulls the small suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe, and puts the sponge bag in it. Then he checks the list again. Several changes of underwear. He stands in front of the open wardrobe, roots around in Rosmarie’s underthings, fluffy tangles of white that remind him of peony blossoms in the garden. He has the feeling he is doing something inappropriate. How many do they want? He doesn’t know how long Rosmarie will be kept in for, he’ll be glad if she’s allowed back at all. Pajamas or nightie. He prowls through the apartment looking for her slippers. Then he remembers seeing them when Rosmarie was on the stretcher, being carried out by the paramedics. They were on her feet like two hooks. He had even wondered for a moment about maybe putting her shoes on. She wouldn’t even have gone out to the mailbox in her slippers. Stout trainers, in case physiotherapy is indicated. He doesn’t know what the doctors have in mind for Rosmarie. The very notion of her in trainers makes him smile in spite of himself. For the moment, there’s little prospect of such therapy. The doctors have put her in an artificial coma and cooled her temperature down to a constant ninety-two degrees. They’re refrigerating her, he keeps thinking.

  He looks at his watch. She is under the knife right now. A swollen blood vessel in her brain, one of the doctors said after hours of tests, and explained what they were trying to do. Then the doctor gave him some hospital literature and packed him off home. Have a rest. The literature includes a message from the chief surgeon, a map of the layout, a train schedule, and various other information. At the very end, Hermann found the checklist. Please bring the following items with you on the day you are booked in.

  No one was able to tell him what would happen next, no one seems to have any idea. Hermann looks at the list. Personal supports, such as glasses or hearing aid (incl. batteries). Rosmarie doesn’t need any support. If anyone needs help, it’s him. It’s decades since he last packed a suitcase. Even his army kitbag, in the time he was doing national service, was always packed by Rosmarie, and that was thirty years ago. Each time he arrived in the barracks and unpacked his bag, he always found a bar of chocolate she had smuggled in among his things. He goes into the kitchen but he can’t find any chocolate. Ever since he became diabetic, Rosmarie’s kept all the candy out of sight. Reading matter, letter paper, writing things. On the night table are three library books. He reads the titles and the names of the authors—none of them means anything to him. He’s not a reader. Rosmarie’s reading glasses are on top of them. He packs everything. Because he can’t find the spectacle case, he wraps the glasses in a handkerchief and stuffs it in her sponge bag. The suitcase is about half full. Hermann throws in a cardigan and a couple of magazines he finds in the living room, and he carefully closes the suitcase.

  In the cafe opposite the entrance are patients and their visitors. Some are wearing dressing gowns, walking sticks are leaning against the tables, one trundles an IV along with him on a stand. Hermann hasn’t seen inside a hospital for years, but the smell takes him back immediately. There is a little kiosk behind the cafe, where he buys a bar of chocolate, even though he knows Rosmarie isn’t a great one for chocolate. It’s the only thing he can do to prove his love, flowers are too ostentatious. You give flowers when there’s a baby on the way, and everyone knows. He remembers seeing bouquets on hospital corridors, looking like trophies in their vases. Rosmarie will be able to keep the chocolate in her bedside table. She will think of him as of something clandestine, here, where everything is out in the open, in the bright light of the fluorescent tubes. Hermann opens the catch of the suitcase, to slip the chocolate in between Rosmarie’s things, but the lid flies open and everything spills out on the polished stone floor. He kneels down, grabs the things, and stuffs them back in as quickly as he can. He looks around—it’s as though he were doing something forbidden. The man on the drip looks his way, without expression. The clothes Hermann went to so much trouble to fold together are all crumpled.

  The porter tells him how to get to the intensive care ward. The wards are all color-coded, to ease orientation. Intensive care is blue, yellow is the children’s ward, urology and gynecology are green, surgery is purple. Hermann tries to find some rationale for the pairings, but he can’t do it. Only the red of the cardiology ward makes sense to him.

  He is standing by Rosmarie’s bedside. Her head is bandaged and her body is connected up to machines, she is breathing artificially, she has a stomach probe and a catheter. Drugs are being fed into her bloodstream via tubes. Her arms and legs are being kept cool, so as to keep her body temperature down. She is naked except for a sort of white loincloth open at the sides, which can barely cover her. There is a strangely flaccid quality to her features. Hermann stands at her bedside, staring at her, he doesn’t even want to put his hand on her forehead, that’s how strange she looks to him. Only her hands with the painted nails look familiar. From time to time he hears the beep of an alarm from the corridor. It sounds like the hour being struck on a grandfather clock.

  A doctor says they will need to perform another operation, create a bypass. His expression is serious, but he also says Rosmarie has been lucky. If she had been brought in just half an hour later … He doesn’t finish his sentence. Hermann imagines what he might have gone on to say. We’re hoping for the best, says the doctor. Do you have any questions? No. Hermann shakes his head. He has the feeling that all of this has nothing to do with him or Rosmarie. The doctor nods to him and leaves with a look that is probably intended to be encouraging. The sister says Frau Lehmann didn’t need anything, she would rather he took the suitcase back with him, then at least nothing would go astray. He should bring her things once his wife was able to leave intensive care. She gives him a form about the patient’s habits and personal preferences. Your answers will help us to look after her, she says; she gives him a pencil and conducts him to a waiting room. He reads through the questions. Does the patient belong to any religion? What form does worship take? Does the patient like music? If so, what? Which smells does the patient like? He thinks of the olive oil soap. Which does she not like? What is her favorite color? Does she have a set ritual at bedtime? Where does she like to be touched?

  He walks down several corridors, past reception and the cafe and out into the cold winter afternoon. The stop is between the hospital and the lake. Hermann sees a streetcar leave. The next one won’t be for another half an hour. He could walk home, it wouldn’t be more than an hour or so, but he’s already bought the return ticket and he’s tired, he barely slept last night. He presses the button for STOP ON DEMAND and sits down on the narrow bench. The suitcase is on the ground beside him. He looks at the lake. About a hundred yards from shore, the color of the water abruptly changes from pale blue to deep green. A couple of walkers pass down the shore promenade. They stop at a marker and look back. By the time the streetcar comes, Hermann is frozen through.

  HE HASN’T BEEN to the library very often. On rare occasions he has accompanied Rosmarie, or he’s taken books back for her when he’s had to be in town. Even so, the librarian greets him by name. She takes the books from him and asks whether Rosmarie enjoyed them. Hermann is bemused by her referring to his wife by her first name. Yes, he says, I believe she did. I’ve set aside the new Donna Leon thriller for her, says the librarian, and she picks it up from a little rolling shelf next to her desk. I promised her first dibs at it. She stamps the date on
the borrowing slip at the back of the book. Only then does she seem to become aware of Hermann’s suitcase, and she asks him if he’s on his way somewhere. Yes, he says. He’s not in the mood to answer questions. The librarian says she could hang on to the book if he didn’t want to take it with him right now. I’m not going away for long, he says, and he grabs the book with a quick movement of his hand. Through a Glass Darkly. The librarian makes some remark about an active retirement and laughs. Hermann thanks her and leaves.

  Darkness is falling outside. He turns once more when he notices the librarian watching him through the glass doors, then he heads off in the direction of the station. On the way he runs into a neighbor. The family only moved there two years ago, the man works for an insurance company, the woman stays at home, looking after the two children. Hermann sees her in the garden sometimes. She once complimented him on his peonies and asked him for tips. She said they had lived in a condo before, and she had little experience with plants. The most important thing is to find the right place for each plant, he said. It needs to feel at home there, and then it’ll thrive by itself.