We're Flying (27 page)

At lunchtime he went down again. It was still cloudy, and muggily warm. He showed the man at the gate his white plastic armband. The guy said he had to wear it, and they argued about that for a while. Finally, Alfons gave in. Onstage the band was playing a sort of mixture of folk and rock. It was much quieter than it had been last night, and Alfons stood for a while in the sparse crowd. Then he went to the food tent and got himself a helping of macaroni with tomato sauce. He looked around to see if he could see Lydia, but she wasn’t there. He ate his lunch and went back up to the farm.

IN THE AFTERNOON
, he was fooling around with his machinery when suddenly he heard Lydia’s voice. Is there anyone there? Alfons pulled himself up and saw her standing in the doorway of the barn. Here I am, he said, and approached her. His hands were coated with grease, and he put on an apologetic expression. Lydia squeezed his forearm, shook it, and said, Hello, I was just coming by and thought I’d look in on you. Alfons asked, Can I treat you to a coffee back? Sure, she said, but did he have anything else?

Alfons scrubbed his hands in the trough, then he showed Lydia into the house and poured two glasses
of his home-pressed apple juice. How come you’re not working? he asked.

I was on the early shift, she said. Of course. Alfons nodded. They all prefer the late shift, she said, and smiled. But I’m used to getting up early.

I’m an early riser too, he said.

I thought only dairy farmers have to turn out early.

My father has cows. Once you’re used to it, it’s a hard habit to break. He poured them some more juice and they drank it silently. Would you like to have a look around the farm?

Very much, said Lydia.

Alfons was surprised how much Lydia knew. When they were with the bees, she asked him if he had had trouble as well, she had read that lots of bee colonies were ailing.

I was lucky, he said, I only lost one hive, and that wasn’t because of illness. The queen must have been old. They got a new one in, in the fall, but presumably it was too late. I don’t think there were any drones left to fertilize her. In spring the hive was empty.

A few odd bees buzzed around their heads, Lydia ducked, and Alfons shooed them away with his hand. Thank you, she said, and smiled.

He was surprised how much he had to say, while he showed her around. He showed her the fruit orchard and
the vegetable fields, talked about organic fertilizers and pest control. The farmers in the valley can water their fields with groundwater, or they pump it out of the Thur, he said, but up here I have no water. Just out of the mains, and that’s too expensive.

All along, the music had been quietly audible, a songwriter was singing for the children, a comedian did his show, and later an acoustic group played traditional ballads. There were long pauses between sets, while a DJ played records. It started raining again. Lydia asked Alfons if he felt like wandering down and eating something. We can always sit in the tent.

WHILE THEY WERE LOOKING
for space at one of the long tables, the music suddenly kicked in again, and people leaped up and ran in the direction of the stage. As they ate, Alfons and Lydia exchanged few words, and those were shouted so that they could be heard. It’s so amazing, shouted Lydia, down in the village you can’t hear anything at all. Do you know who’s playing? Alfons shouted back. She shook her head and slid a program to him across the table. He hadn’t heard of a single one of the bands. She pointed to one of the names with her finger, and said right in his ear, They’re the ones I really want
to see. He read the name of the band, Gallowbirds, and shrugged his shoulders. Never heard of ’em.

When they had finished eating, Lydia wanted to go over to the stage, and Alfons went with her. They snaked their way through the crowd, which still wasn’t all that dense, to the front. He kept in her wake. The band was playing a South American—inflected number, and Lydia began to dance. First she started to sway her shoulders and turn her head this way and that, as if she were looking for someone, then she started to move her hands about, and her arms, and she made circling motions with her pelvis like a belly dancer. Not many people were dancing, but that didn’t seem to bother Lydia. Her movements were fluent; they seemed natural and unaffected. It was as though she managed to infect the others, because after a while everyone around Alfons was dancing, only he stood there, feeling increasingly ill at ease. He was glad when the band played their last song and left the stage to applause. Lydia took his hand and pulled him out of the crowd. Her face and hair were shining from the rain and the exertion. Where the crowd was not so bunched together, she let go of his hand and they walked together to the food tent. I’m thirsty, she said, wiping the sweat from her brow. It still felt warm.

No sooner had the next band started playing than Lydia wanted to go back to the front. She pointed to Alfons’s
boots and said, No wonder you can’t dance in those. She herself wore a pair of ancient, muddied flip-flops. He hesitated briefly, then he pulled off his boots and socks, stood them next to the bar, and followed her. He looked around uncertainly, but everyone was preoccupied with themselves, and no one seemed to notice him. Lydia started dancing again right away. The crowd in front of the stage was thicker now, and people were bumping into Alfons the whole time. Finally he began to move himself, at first in a spirit of evasion, then later in a sort of dance, staggering back and forth to the music. Perhaps it was the beer that had relaxed him, perhaps the falling darkness. He didn’t care that he could see Klemens and Jasmine nearby, also dancing, and he shut his eyes, and raised his face to the heavens, and felt the fine raindrops and the deep mud into which his feet sank.

During the next break they remained in front of the stage without talking much. Next up was the group Lydia wanted to hear, four men of around fifty. It must be ten years since they last played together, said Lydia, one of them works in television now, that guy over there. It wasn’t really dance music, but plenty of people in the crowd seemed to know the songs, sang along, and danced in a vague sort of way. Alfons stood right behind Lydia. During one ballad she leaned against him and he put
his hands around her waist and felt her moving.
You can always stay
, sang the men,
I’m not going anywhere
. When Alfons looked around he saw Jasmine, who smiled at him and nodded, and he smiled back.

They stayed until the end. Then they went to the bar and had another beer. All around, people were standing and chatting and laughing. Alfons found his boots where he had left them, and he carried them when he left the festival site with Lydia. There was no one standing at the gate now, and he ripped off his white plastic armband. He looked down at the ground, which was covered with rubbish, and put the armband in his pocket. Are you not camping, then? he asked, once they had reached the road at the top. From the parking lot farther down, they could hear doors being slammed and the sound of car engines getting quieter, then disappearing altogether.

No, said Lydia. I thought about it, but the forecast was so rotten, I didn’t feel like it.

So now you have to drive home? Are you good to drive?

I probably shouldn’t have drunk that last beer, said Lydia, and smiled at him. They both said nothing. Well then, she said finally, and put her hand on his upper arm.

And then he finally managed to get out what he had had on his mind all evening. If you like, you could stay
at my house. I’ve got plenty of room. Lydia said yes right away, and took his arm, and they walked up to the house together.

They washed their feet in the trough outside the house, Lydia holding on to Alfons. I’m a bit drunk, she said, so it’s good I’m not driving anywhere. Tomorrow is Seven Sleepers’ Day, he said. If it rains then, it means it’s going to rain for the next seven weeks. Didn’t the seven sleepers wake up long ago? asked Lydia. It’s just a farmers’ superstition, said Alfons, but it’s been proved right two-thirds of the time. It has something to do with the Gulf Stream. Then let’s just hope tomorrow’s a nice day, she said, squeezing his arm.

ALFONS STOOD IN FRONT
of his bedroom closet, pulling out fresh sheets and a towel. When he turned around, Lydia was standing just behind him. Don’t go to any trouble, please, she said, taking the things from him. I don’t have to have my own bed. He wasn’t sure what she meant by that. He pushed past her and led her to the guest bedroom, which had almost never been used by guests, and had become a sort of spare office for him. I hope the computer doesn’t bother you. He began to make up the bed. Lydia helped him, and smiled at him again.

Alfons showed her the bathroom, and asked her if she needed a toothbrush or anything. Would you happen to have a clean T-shirt for me? she asked, my things are all so sweaty. While she was in the shower, he sat down at the computer and checked his emails. He wasn’t expecting any news, but the idea of being in Lydia’s room gave him a little thrill. Suddenly there she was behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder and asking him for a T-shirt again. She was wrapped in a towel. Alfons led the way to his bedroom, opened the closet, and said, Here, help yourself. She rummaged around in his things, pulled out T-shirts, held them to herself, and made funny faces. She even took out a pair of his neatly folded boxer shorts and made some remark. Alfons took them out of her hand, folded them up, and put them back. In the end, Lydia settled on a white T-shirt with
TRUST A CARPENTER
written on it. Dropping the towel, she spun around and stood naked in front of him. He looked at her back and shoulders, which still had a couple of drops of water on them. He had his hand raised to brush them away when Lydia pulled the T-shirt over her head and simultaneously turned to face him again. He caught a flash of her breasts, which were smaller than he had imagined. He was put in mind of the time Kurt had taught him about milking. He had shown him how to massage the udder before hooking it up to
the milking machine. Not so hesitant, he said, imagine they’re a woman’s breasts. Alfons had been ten or twelve at the time, the tip hadn’t helped him an awful lot, rather confused him more. Aren’t you going to have a shower yourself? asked Lydia. Yes, sure, he said, even though he usually showered in the morning.

Lydia’s clothes were all over the bathroom floor. Alfons picked them up and ran his hands over the fine, slightly damp material. Then he folded them and put them down on the toilet seat. After he had showered, he got into his pajamas and came out of the bathroom. Lydia was standing on the landing, as though she’d been waiting for him, with a bottle of beer in her hand. I helped myself, she said, and held out the bottle. He took a big swig and handed the bottle back. Don’t suppose you’ve got anything to smoke here? she asked. I don’t smoke, he said, sorry. I thought you grew things, said Lydia with a laugh. Had he not heard of the farmer who had a little patch of hemp in the middle of his cornfield? The police stumbled on it with the help of some aerial photographs. It was quite near here too. I don’t do drugs, said Alfons. He suddenly wished he hadn’t asked Lydia back. Nor do I, she replied, a little miffed. She emptied the bottle in a couple of swallows, passed it back to Alfons, and said she’d changed her mind, she would go home after all,
she wasn’t tired, and at this time there wouldn’t be any traffic cops around. She took off his T-shirt, tossed it on the floor, and went to the bathroom. He followed her and watched as she got dressed. When she was done, she looked at him, and he saw that her eyes were moist. Then he went up to her, wiped the tears away with his thumb, and kissed her, first on the forehead, then on the mouth. Don’t go, he whispered, I don’t want you to go.

The Last Romantic

M
ICHAEL HAD BEEN
distracted the whole class. Sara told herself it was on account of the heat or the upcoming summer vacation. When he made the same mistake for the fifth time, she suppressed her irritation and said, There’s no use, in your head you’re already at the beach. Then he looked at her with big round eyes that seemed to be on the point of bursting into tears. It’ll come, said Sara, patting him on the shoulder and standing up. Michael lowered his gaze and muttered that he wouldn’t be having any more piano lessons after the vacation. There’s no reason to give up, said Sara, even the great maestros had to practice.

That’s not the reason, said Michael. His parents had told him he couldn’t carry on swimming
and
playing the
piano, otherwise his classwork would suffer. He stood by the piano, shoulders slumped. I’m sorry.

All this is about one hour a week? said Sara. How often do you have swim training?

Four or five times, said Michael. It’s the practicing.

Sara made a face. But you don’t practice, admit it.

You’re right, said Michael.

Maybe Clementi isn’t the right thing for you. Perhaps you’d rather be playing something rockier. Or do you like jazz?

Michael lowered his head, and for a moment they stood silently facing each other, then the boy packed up his notes and held out his hand to the piano teacher. Good-bye, Frau Wenger, and have a good holiday.

I’m going to phone your parents, said Sara.

He was her last pupil that afternoon. Sara didn’t show him out onto the landing as she usually did. She sat down at the piano and waited for the apartment door to close behind him. Then she started to play—the first movement of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, which she had been working on for two years now. The eight chords of the opening were like blows, the louder and more violent, the more Sara’s fury was dispelled. It was as though she were dissolved in the music, were transformed into music. Then the strings came in and carried
her away. She saw herself on the stage of the concert hall, and the music streamed through her to the audience, which was raptly listening. Halfway through a bar, she broke off. She sat there breathing heavily, not thinking of anything at all. After she calmed down, she went out on to the landing and phoned Michael at home. No one picked up.