Seven Years, page 5
Later we talked about our final projects, and when I told Sonia I’d started mine all over again, she looked at me in amazement. I told her about my new ideas. That the structure should emerge from the paths and grow, like a plant, that the halls shouldn’t just be the empty space between walls, but atmospheric bodies, sculptures of light and shade. While I spoke, I got the feeling I hadn’t done so badly over the last week. Of course it’s a waste of time, now that I’ve got my degree in my pocket. Sonia asked me if I’d like to work with her on the day-care design for the contest. That surprised me, because a day or two earlier she’d rejected all my suggestions, and basically we had completely different ideas about architecture. Do you really think we’d make a good team? You make a more interesting class of mistake, said Sonia, and laughed.
At lunchtime we were at the pass. We parked the car and ate our sandwiches. Then we lay in the sun, until Sonia said we’d better get going. I asked if she wanted me to take over, but she shook her head, maybe later, she didn’t feel tired yet. I wasn’t too unhappy about that, because I wasn’t an experienced driver, and I enjoyed sitting idly next to Sonia and staring out the window at the passing scenery.
Somehow we came to speak about Rüdiger. I asked Sonia why she’d broken up with him. He broke up with me. That I don’t understand, I said, how anyone could leave a woman like you. Sonia quickly turned to look at me, and smiled ironically. Tell him that.
They had been together since high school, she said, and had grown up only a mile or two apart. Rüdiger had decided to go into architecture for her sake. He could just as well have done something completely different. You know him, he can do anything and does nothing.
When she started university, Sonia had found a room in a communal apartment, but Rüdiger continued to travel into the city from his parents’ house at Possenhofen every day. We had a good time, but it bugged me that he was still at his parents’. But his mother’s nice, I said. Yes, she is, and so’s his father too, but Rüdiger somehow can’t get free of them. Eventually I gave him an ultimatum. He decided in favor of his parents. Sonia laughed. She could easily imagine Rüdiger never getting married, he wasn’t really interested in women. Do you think he’s gay? No, said Sonia, he’s not interested in men either. What’s left? She shrugged her shoulders. I don’t know. She said she didn’t hold anything against Rüdiger, quite the contrary, at seventeen she’d been quite relieved to have a boyfriend who wasn’t pressuring her into this and that. I didn’t respond. It’s the same with work, said Sonia, perhaps that bothered me more. He’s just got no energy. It’s typical of him to have bailed before his final. Now he can go on being a student for another year. I wouldn’t be surprised if he never receives his degree.
We were out of the mountains and crossing a huge flat plain. The nearer we got to Milan, the denser the traffic. Sonia was silent now, she had to concentrate. Then we were in open country again, and the traffic was lighter. What do you look to a woman for?, she asked. I don’t look for anything in particular. When I’ve fallen in love with her, I just have to take her the way she is. Sonia laughed. I must be a hopeless romantic. That’s why women have to be sensible and choose their men. Is that what you do?, I asked. She didn’t say anything for a moment, and then she replied, sure I do that.
The air was hazy, and the car got very hot. We rolled the windows down and listened to the radio, and then later to cassettes. Every so often I would offer to take over the driving, but each time she shook her head and said, I can do it. Two or three times she stopped, without consulting me, at a service station, and we drank lukewarm coffee from the thermos, and peed, and then we drove on.
It was late afternoon when we got to the coast, and about an hour later we were in France. Not much farther now, said Sonia.
We reached Marseilles at eight in the evening, after driving for twelve hours. Unfortunately it took us another half an hour to find the house where Sonia’s friend lived. It wasn’t far from the old harbor, but the quarter was a tangle of one-way streets, and we drove around in endless circles, sometimes following signs to CENTRE VILLE, and sometimes TOUTES DIRECTIONS. Isn’t that great, I said, wherever you want to get to there’s only one way. Sonia didn’t say anything. She looked tired and stressed out.
Finally we found the house, a five-story Art Nouveau building with a grimy facade, and not too far away from it, an empty parking spot. Sonia switched the engine off and sat still. She said she was a bit tired now. Shall I carry you upstairs? She said Antje lived on the fifth floor.
Sonia went ahead while I lugged her suitcase and my bag up the steps. Above me I could hear the two friends greeting each other. This is Alexander, said Sonia, once I reached the door, and this is Antje. Alex, I said, and shook hands with the painter. She wore capri pants and a sleeveless top. Her hair was as blond as Sonia’s. She had small strong hands and must have been quite a bit older than us, around forty, I guessed.
So did you manage to snaffle him after all?, she said with a naughty grin. Antje!, cried Sonia with a show of horror, and laughed. We’re just buddies, as you know perfectly well. Antje asked us in, she had some food ready. She led the way down a dark hallway. From the outside, the building had looked a bit dilapidated, but the apartment was in a good state, the rooms were bright and had high ceilings and old creaky floorboards. The walls were covered with small old paintings of animals, meerkats and birds, ungulates and rodents. There was something disturbing about them, they were eerie and seemed to be observing us, lying in wait. Antje led the way out onto the balcony, and a table laid with bread and cheese, raw ham, olives, and a large bowl of salad, all in the light of an oil lamp and a few candles.
We ate and drank wine and talked. At eleven, Antje asked us if we felt like going out, but Sonia said she was dog tired. You can choose, said Antje, either you can sleep with your nice buddy in the guest room, or you can share the master bed with me. Sonia was sheepish, I hadn’t seen that in her before, it was quite moving. After her brief hesitation, she said, I’ll sleep with you. That’s what I was afraid of, said Antje. Come on, I’ll show you the room. The two women disappeared together. I stayed on the balcony, looking down onto the street, from where there was noisy shouting. A delivery truck was in the middle of the road and the driver of a car was leaning out of the window cursing the truck driver, who was taking all the time in the world to unload some large boxes and pile them up on the sidewalk.
Sonia says to wish you a good night, said Antje, when she came back. Do you mind if I have a cigarette? I asked if the paintings in the apartment were all by her. There was something disconcerting about them. Come, said Antje, and she took a couple of hurried drags, and put out her cigarette. She took me into the sitting room and switched on the light. Look at them closely. Once again I had the feeling I was being watched, but it took me a while to understand the cause of it. The animals had human eyes. I’ll show you my new ones, said Antje. She led me to a large room at the end of the hallway. The parquet floor was covered by large pieces of cardboard, on the walls were a few dark pictures, but in the half-light it was difficult to make out what they were. Antje walked through the room and bent down. A construction light on a tripod flared up, so bright that for a moment I was dazzled. Then I saw the strange beings in the paintings, a man with a fish head and an enormous cock he was holding in both hands, a bull mounting a cow, both with human heads, two dogs with human privates, licking each other. In the background were sketched in cityscapes, half-decayed high-rise apartments, deserted pedestrian walkways, a gray industrial park. The paintings were done in oil, in dark shades, and they had something old masterly about them. The one of the two dogs was still unfinished, the background was just outlined in charcoal on the primed canvas. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t find the paintings beautiful, they were even more disquieting than the small ones in the other rooms, but they were undeniably powerful and unsettling. They didn’t seem to me to go with my idea of Antje, who in her conversation was pretty conventional, the way she talked to Sonia about clothes and going out and Munich compared to Marseilles. Antje didn’t seem to be interested at all in my opinion. Welcome to the zoo, she said with a mocking expression. She unplugged the light, and it was dark, but a different dark now that I knew what terrifying beings were concealed in it. We went back out to the balcony. Antje filled our glasses and looked at me directly. The silence was difficult, I had the feeling I had to say something. You’re unsettling. Yes, said Antje. It wasn’t a confirmation, more a sort of prompt, as though expecting me to carry on. I felt as if I was being tested. What’s the name of the painter who did The Garden of Earthly Delights? That’s what it reminds me of. Don’t trouble yourself, said Antje. Sonia doesn’t like them either. Perhaps you’re both just too young and cosseted. She asked me what my animal was. I thought about it, but I couldn’t think of one. A bird?, I suggested. That’s what they all say. Antje shook her head. A gazelle. That would fit Sonia better than me, I said. Antje twisted her mouth. No, Sonia is domesticated. She’s a sheep, or maybe a guinea pig, yes, that’s right, a guinea pig. I laughed. You’re not very nice, are you. I’m most like a dog, said Antje, a stray dog, that’s not very flattering either. I wondered what sort of animal Ivona might be. Perhaps a dog as well, I thought, but Ivona wasn’t domesticated, under her quiet, long-suffering manner there was still something wild, a resolve that I’d rarely come across in a human being.
And how do you like your guinea pig?, asked Antje. We’re just classmates, I said. At the most, we might enter a competition together one day. Didn’t you notice that Sonia wants more from you? I shook my head. She’s got no time for a relationship. And you believe her when she says that?, asked Antje with an ambiguous smile. I don’t think she’s in love with me. Nor do I, said Antje. It would be wrong to expect too much of her.
We went on drinking and talking. Antje seemed to get a kick out of unsettling me. Her boyfriend lived in Munich, she said, and that was fine by her. She couldn’t stand having a man around her all the time, it would interfere with her work. I expect you want to get married and start a family? I don’t know, I said. If you want to get married, Sonia’s the perfect wife. She’s beautiful, intelligent, cultivated, and she’s a good sort. That’s not enough, I said. I don’t think you’re cut out for a great love, said Antje. Nor am I, by the way, either.
She had only really fallen in love once, she said, when she was twenty, with a man fifteen years older. Georg was Antje’s teacher at art school. He lived in Hamburg, and only traveled down to Munich every other week, to look at his students’ work. He had a wife and four children, as he’d told Antje right at the start. To begin with, their relationship wasn’t much more than an affair.
But then over time I got to become more and more of a second wife to him, said Antje, he took me along to openings, introduced me to important people, and helped to find me a gallery. She was the only student who had had a gallery before she graduated. She liked being the lover of a prominent painter, and Georg had treated her well, taking her to expensive restaurants and giving her presents.
After graduation, Antje fell into a hole, she couldn’t deal with her newly won freedom, and had no more ideas. She worked like a lunatic and got nowhere. Georg was her last connection to the art scene. When he came to Munich, she perked up for a few days, touring the galleries with him, staying up all night. But he had new students, young talents, who were more of an inspiration to him than she was. I was just the one he fucked, she said. The more Georg turned away from her, the more she clung to him. She was getting nowhere with her painting, so she devoted all her energies to jealousy.
He had one very talented student, said Antje, I don’t think there was anything between them, but I couldn’t think straight anymore. I trailed him from the Academy once, and followed him when he went out drinking with his class. I sat down at the next table, so he could see me. Then I wrote him interminable letters, embarrassing letters, I hope to God he’s thrown them away. Sometimes I was aggressive, sometimes submissive, sometimes both at the same time. I’d call him at home in Hamburg, until he changed his number. He threatened he would end my career. I was besotted with him, that’s the only way I can describe it. I had physical symptoms, migraine attacks, stomach cramps. Once when I saw him going to an opening with that student I mentioned, I spent the night puking. At four a.m. I called his hotel. Of course the night receptionist didn’t put me through. I was sure Georg was with the new student. It never crossed my mind that he might just be sleeping.
I can laugh about it now, said Antje, but at the time I was on the verge of insanity. When it was over I swore I would never fall in love like that again. And I stuck to it. Whatever the novels say, amour fou is an inferior form of love. If a cultivated person starts acting like a madman, that is humiliating and a sign of immaturity. She filled our glasses. Those are stories that everyone enjoys listening to, but if they happen to you, you just wish it would end. She asked me what I had to find fault with in Sonia. Nothing. She likes you, said Antje. When she called to tell me that you were coming, she raved about you. I asked her if you two were an item. No, she said, not yet.
I emptied my glass and said I was tired and was going to bed. Come on, said Antje, and she took my arm. Her voice wasn’t slurred or anything, but I could tell by her movements that she was drunk. She showed me the guest room and bathroom. Outside her bedroom, she pressed her finger to her lips and took my hand. She opened the door softly and led me up to the bed. I had never seen Sonia asleep before. While I looked at her, something strange happened. Her features seemed to change, it was as though I was seeing the face of the old woman she would one day become. Antje bent down over her, kissed her on the brow, and said, good night, little guinea pig.
The next morning, when I came into the kitchen, Sonia and Antje were already sitting there, drinking coffee. They stopped talking and smiled. I was sure they’d been talking about me. Antje stood up to get me a cup. Sonia called me a sleepyhead.
After breakfast we went to the Cité Radieuse and had a tour of that rather run-down building. Sonia pointed out every detail to me, and tiptoed down the dark corridors, as though we were in a church. She was right—only now that I was actually inside the building did I notice its quality. The rooms and stairwells were surprisingly small, and even though the building was eighteen stories high, because it was supported on concrete pillars it seemed extraordinarily light. It was the first building Le Corbusier had built using the Modulor, his invented system of measurements, Sonia told me. I vaguely remembered it coming up at school. Sonia showed me an illustration from her guidebook, a muscular, asexual being with big hands and small head, and a hole in place of its navel. Does he live here then?, I asked. The ideal inhabitant of the ideal house.
We took the elevator up to the roof terrace. Up there it was hot, and I sat down in the shade of the superstructure and read the guidebook while Sonia scouted everything.
We took the bus back into the city. Sonia’s eyes were shining, and she was enthusing about the “unit for living.” There was no sense that we’d just seen it together. The building had impressed me, but I felt like contradicting Sonia. Be honest, would you want to live there? In a second she said, wouldn’t you? I’m not sure, machine for living, I mean, the very expression. You might as well say battery farm. The individuality comes through the inhabitants, said Sonia, the building is just a container. My critique seemed to annoy her. Her face was a little flushed, which suited her. Shall we go to the sea?, I asked. Maybe later, she said, I’d like to jot down a few notes first.
Antje had gone out. She wasn’t going to be back until tonight, she said at breakfast. We had a bite to eat from the fridge, and then Sonia disappeared into Antje’s room, and I took a seat in the living room and browsed through some coffee-table books about animals that I found on the sofa. In Brehm’s animal encyclopedia I read the article about guinea pigs. According to Brehm, they were easy to keep, harmless, cheerful, and undemanding. If you just gave them something to eat, they’d be happy pretty much anywhere. On the other hand, they weren’t truly affectionate, just friendly to anyone who treated them well.
It was hot in the apartment, but a breeze came in through the open balcony door carrying the sounds of the city, which sounded surprisingly near. I stretched out on the sofa and imagined what it would be like to live with Sonia in the Cité Radieuse. We would have two kids, a girl and a boy. We would eat breakfast as a family, and then take the children downstairs to the day care, and go to our studio, where we both worked on social housing projects. It was an open, brightly lit space in the city center, with large tables with blueprints on them, and white cardboard models of machines for living scattered about. Then we went on site. Sonia looked lovely in beige pants and a white linen shirt and white plastic helmet. Huge red cranes stood around, but no one seemed to be working. The sky was blue, and you could see the sea in the distance and sense the nearness of Africa just across the water. It was a scene from a French movie of the fifties or sixties, our whole life was a film put together from distance shots, wide angles under white light, with little people moving through it, all very aesthetic and intellectual and cool.
I got up and went out into the hallway. I knocked gently on the door of Antje’s room and said quietly, Sonia? No reply. The door was half-open, and I went inside. Sonia was lying on the bed asleep, one arm curled over her head on the pillow. There was a small dark sweat stain in her armpit, the one flaw in an otherwise perfect picture. I stroked it with my finger, I didn’t dare any other touch. The Rolleiflex was on the desk. I picked it up and started to take pictures of Sonia. The image in the frame was reversed, and it took me a while to get used to the fact that every move I made had the reverse effect. Slowly I circled the bed, looking for the perfect setup, moving in and then back again. I took a couple of shots, once, when I was really near, Sonia’s brow creased at the sound of the shutter, and I was afraid she’d wake up, but her face relaxed again, and I went on taking pictures. Then the film was full, and I took it out, sealed it, and laid it with the other rolls that Sonia had shot that morning. As I was about to leave the room, I heard Sonia’s drowsy voice call my name. I turned around and went back to her. I must have gone to sleep, she said. I said I’d dozed off as well.
