Free Unformed Landscape by Peter Stamm

fifty. He wasn’t eating or drinking anything. Beside him he had a sheaf of papers covered with writing. He looked over at Kathrine. She smiled, but he didn’t react, and just looked at her for along time with curiosity. She put her tray back, and took the escalator downstairs. Then she saw the colored glass dome, over the atrium in the middle of the building. It was pretty, but Kathrine had imagined it would be bigger and prettier.
    She walked along between counters, as though looking for someone. Everything was much too nice for her. Undergarments were called
lingerie
in French. She took an unbelievably sheer nightie, all trimmed with lace, off a rack, held it in front of herself, and looked at the effect in the mirror. It was a ridiculous sight, the dark blue fleece over her shoulders and the fine, flowing silk. It’s so delicate, she thought, I could just stuff it in my pocket and leave with it. But that’s not my style. She looked at the price tag. That wasn’t her style, either. The whole department store smelled of vanilla.
    On the ground floor, she bought herself some perfume. She passed the counters of the various cosmetics firms, the young salesgirls who were no prettier than she was, but much better dressed, and carefully made up. They spoke to the customers, and squirted perfume on their hands, the backs of their hands, their wrists. None of them came up to Kathrine. At one counter, there was a little purple bottle, with the word
Poison
on it in gold. Fish, she thought, what a strange name for a perfume. She held out her hand to one of the salesgirls, who took it between her fingertips, turned it over, and squirted some perfume on her wrist. Kathrine sniffed at it, but shecouldn’t smell it in the suffocating scent of a thousand other perfumes. She could only smell the alcohol, which slowly evaporated and chilled her wrist. The salesgirl had already turned away. She was talking to a colleague, and Kathrine had the feeling they were both making fun of her, maybe for the suitcase she was carrying around with her. Then she said she wanted a bottle of
Poison
. It was very expensive, but who cared.
    She went out on the street. A man walked by, dressed like an orange. Kathrine was relieved when she saw the steps down to the metro. She was relieved that she knew where she was going. She was looking forward to seeing Christian, and hoped he would be pleased at her visit. She was annoyed she hadn’t traveled through to Boulogne.
    She imagined how Christian would touch her, how he would kiss her neck, push his hand under her fleece, under her T-shirt. He was lying next to her, kissing her, his hands were everywhere, he was whispering in her ear, he was lying on top of her, she sat on him. The room was furnished with beautiful antiques. There was even an open fireplace, with a fire burning. It was warm, and there were lots of blankets and sheets on the bed, and a very soft mattress that squeaked when they moved.
    Kathrine took the metro back to the Gare du Nord. The Russian singer and her accompanist, her father or her lover, weren’t there anymore, but maybe that was a different tunnel than Kathrine was going through this time, she couldn’t be sure.
    Dusk was falling as Kathrine arrived in Boulogne. She asked a taxi driver for directions to the Hotel du Vieux Matelot, and then walked there, even though it was raining, and it was a long way. The hotel was an ugly modern building. The door was locked. Kathrine rang. It took a long time for someone to answer, then a young man came along. Before letting her in, he scrutinized her through the glass door. She asked whether Christian Nygard was staying at the hotel. The young man nodded, and asked whether she wanted a room. Yes, she said. The man had her fill out a form, and handed her a key. She asked what Christian’s room number was. Seventeen, said the young man, he had put them both on the same floor. But Monsieur didn’t get back from work until very late. The