All Days Are Night by Peter Stamm Page A

expression, it did give her a kind of security. She had no reason to play around now. If she did, and he found out, that would be the end of everything, of that she was certain. She couldn’t account for what it was about Hubert that attracted her. He dressed scruffily and didn’t seem to be interested in his appearance. And his laconic, even grouchy manner was enough to lead Gillian to expect coarseness or inattentiveness. She had had a brief relationship with a painter once before, and that had been a disaster. Perhaps she was in search of uncertainty, in the hope of being unsettled. She needed perhaps to be made to feel who she was. That sounded like something that would be more at home in a self-help book. Sometimes she and Matthias had giggled over the tips in magazines, techniques to keep a tired relationship alive, and even so he arranged for them to spend holidays in a spa hotel in the mountains where they would be pampered with massages and baths and good food. Then they slept together, as though that too was on the menu. Currently, Gillian found sex with him less satisfying than the fact that they had it at all. It was proof that their relationship was in good shape, and that things could go on as they were.
    The egg timer went off. Her pose had come to feel like a protective garment, but as soon as she got up she felt her nudity again. Even so, she walked over to Hubert who still had the charcoal in his hand. He took a step back to inspect the drawing, quite as though not to be too close toher. He was more careful of her altogether since she was naked. She turned to him, stood next to the drawing, and copied the uncertain expression on the girl’s face.
    Did I really look like that?
    She tried a big confident smile, but it didn’t come off. Hubert went over to the door and took down a thin kimono from the hook and passed it to her.
    I don’t want to be responsible for your catching cold.
    She looked at the sketch. Even though it was just a rough sketch, she could see the likeness, but it didn’t strike her as significant.
    Are you happy with it? she asked.
    Hubert shook his head. I get the feeling there’s nothing coming from you, he said. A bit of shyness at the start, but after that you were just gone.
    What do you expect from me? I’ve never done this before.
    Presence. You’ve got to be here so that something can happen between us.
    Gillian smirked.
    Get undressed, he said. Stand here. Feet apart. So that you feel solidly rooted. Do you feel the floor? Your weight?
    Gillian recalled the exercises in her first year of drama school, even then she hadn’t quite understood what they meant by presence. Hubert circled around her at a distance, stopped still behind her. She could feel his attentiveness.
    What are you thinking about?
    I was remembering drama school.
    How do you feel?
    I don’t know. Tired.
    Sit down.
    She had to sit on the cold floor, her knees drawn up, arms on her knees, one hand grasping her other wrist. She thought of a statue by Aristide Maillol in exactly that pose. Hubert wound up the egg timer, started drawing. Sometimes he groaned loudly, or hurled the charcoal on the floor. It’s not working. The timer went off, they split a beer, a new pose. The more it went on, the more taciturn Hubert grew. Sometimes he would crumple up a sheet of paper after a single line. Gillian was tired, her body cramped, she was hurting. In the next break, she did a couple of stretches, but Hubert had already wound the clock again.
    Get undressed.
    She opened the kimono. He stepped up behind her and almost ripped it off her.
    Lie down.
    She lay on her front, her head pillowed on her folded arms. She could feel herself getting goose pimples all over.
    I need to go to the bathroom.
    Not now. Arms down by your sides.
    The cold floor pressed against her cheekbones. Hubert stood close beside her, she could only see his feet and legs.
    Lie on your back.
    When Gillian turned over, bits of grit were clinging to