Free On A Day Like This by Peter Stamm Page B

malevolence there had been in him. But what was done was done. They would get over it. At least they wouldn’t miss him.
    After breakfast, he wrote a letter to the school administration, handing in his notice. He wasn’t sure how long the notice period was, but he didn’t care. If I’m not there anymore, I’m not there, he thought. Then he went to the realtor who had sold him the apartment ten years before. The realtor remembered the apartment, or claimed to. He said Andreas probably stood to get twice what he had paid then, even though it was tricky selling an apartment in the middle of summer. Andreas said the price was not so important, the main thing was getting the apartment off his hands. He was going to Brittany for a few days. The realtor gave him a form to fill out, and promised to do his best. Andreas gave him a key.
    At noon, he called Sylvie at home. Her husband picked up. Andreas asked him to tell his wife he couldn’t make this afternoon. In fact, he wouldn’t see her again, ever.
    “Who is this?” asked Sylvie’s husband.
    “Well, put it this way, I’m not her hairdresser,” said Andreas, and hung up.
    In the afternoon, his mobile rang. When he saw Sylvie’s number flash up, he decided not to answer. She left him a message saying, had he taken leave of his senses? He knew he couldn’t call her at home. It had taken her half an hour to calm her husband. And what did he mean, he couldn’t see her again? Her voice sounded equally amused and annoyed. What a great woman, thought Andreas, she won’t have any trouble finding someone for her afternoons.
    The journey to Brittany was ghastly. Every last seat was taken on the train. There weren’t any smoking compartments, and only in Rennes did they stop long enough for him to get out and smoke a cigarette. The platform was full of people greedily smoking, listening nervously for loudspeaker announcements, and looking up at the clock.
    Andreas arrived in Brest a little before half past nine at night. It was still light. No sooner had he got out than he lit a cigarette. Jean-Marc was waiting for him at the end of the platform. They shook hands.
    “Finish your cigarette,” said Jean-Marc. “Are you hungry? We’ve eaten already. We had to put the children to bed.”
    Andreas said he had eaten a sandwich on the train. Jean-Marc offered to carry his bag. Andreas declined. He wasn’t that ill, he said.
    “Are you ill?”
    “Just an irritating cough. It’s nothing really.”
    The drive to Lanveoc took an hour. It was a winding road, and Andreas had to concentrate so that he didn’t feel sick.
    “Is the sea warm?” he asked.
    “Warm enough,” said Jean-Marc. “We’ve been swimming every day we’ve been here. Only Marthe doesn’t go in the water. For her, it has to be twenty-five degrees.”
    Andreas thought of Marthe as a typical Parisian. She was interested in culture, read a lot, and went to exhibitions and classical concerts. She was slim and seemed taller than she was. She wore elegant but practical clothes, and had dyed her hair, which she wore in a bob, for as long as he’d known her. He often asked himself what she saw in Jean-Marc. It was hardly possible for two people to be more different. In spite of that, they seemed to get along pretty well. Sometimes Andreas envied them their life, which seemed to be so straightforward. When Jean-Marc talked about the children, clamoring for new running shoes or clothes like theclothes their friends had. When he planned his vacation and dragged back piles of brochures for holiday cottages that all looked the same. Was there money for a new car? Maybe next year. Or they might do it on installments. He comparison shopped for weeks, poring over technical data and prices. Once, Jean-Marc had entered a marathon. The preparations for that took up six months. He managed to finish in the first third, and told everyone about it with such childish pride that no one could be offended. Andreas pictured