Seven Years (17 page)

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: E
VERYTHING IS DIFFERENT
. E
VERYTHING IS NEW
. E
VERYTHING 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.

S
ophie 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.