Travelling Light (13 page)

X shrugged and said, “For a long time I cared for an elderly relative. When she died I inherited her house.”

“Do you ever feel homesick?”

“No. But I do sometimes think about lawns.”

“Of course, lawns!” Viktoria energetically agreed. “And meadows. Here you can’t get onto the grass; it’s reserved for the orange trees. Of course, you could go into the mountains – there are no fences up there.”

“It’s nothing but stones,” said Josephine. “I tried.” She broke off as José came out on the terrace to serve them. When he’d gone, she repeated herself impatiently. “Nothing but stones. And it’s so dark indoors. Always dark.”

“Yes,” said Viktoria. “But all you have to do is go outside. Am I right?”

Her guests didn’t answer. There was a long silence. X was eating but Josephine merely toyed with her food.

Viktoria tried again. She told some amusing stories about her students, about her own impracticality, how they’d always lent a hand, the same way Josephine had helped her build a fire or the way Miss Smith had let her rest that time she was tired and feeling ill.

“You weren’t feeling ill,” X interrupted calmly and confidently. “You were perfectly fine. You were out sniffing around on her behalf.”

“Quite true, Miss Smith,” Viktoria answered lightly. “I behaved badly. But in all honesty, do you think it’s proper to go around threatening to kill people and making faces at their cleaning lady?”

Josephine laughed and finally began to eat her food.

“As for you, Josephine O’Sullivan,” continued Viktoria, determined to be fair, “is opera really the only music you’ve got?”

“No,” said Josephine angrily.

José was there again, fussing about and asking if
everything
was satisfactory. “Thank you, absolutely perfect,” Viktoria said. “Could we have another bottle of your excellent wine?” He bowed and went away. The wine came.

Viktoria looked out across the valley and said, “How quiet it is.”

“Quiet,” X remarked. “You’ve a weakness for quiet, haven’t you? And there’s no real need to talk if people are comfortable with not expressing every little thought. Wasn’t that how you put it?”

Viktoria went red. “Any statement can lose its meaning if it’s repeated in a distorted form,” she said stiffly.

Josephine gave Viktoria a meaningful look, smiled sourly and shrugged.

The meal continued.

The oranges were beautifully arranged, each fruit still with its own green leaves. Viktoria picked one up and remarked that José had really done his best with them.

“An affectation,” said X. “Does he think we’re tourists? Nobody here eats oranges.”

Viktoria said, “It was my idea, not José’s. Think of the oranges as a decoration, a sort of symbol.”

“Of what?”

“A dream perhaps, a symbol of the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden. Something unattainable. I absolutely believe in oranges.”

“I so understand,” Josephine exclaimed. “There’s nothing wrong with having oranges on the table! In Russia they had apples. I know what Viktoria means. She’s unusual.”

“To put it mildly,” said X very drily.

On the main road below the terrace, several small boys stopped and started pointing, shouting something in Spanish again and again.

“What do they want?” Viktoria said.

X looked at Josephine and explained carefully. “They’re saying there’s that woman who made a scene at the carnival, the one by the bandits’ car.”

“They don’t mean me, they mean her!” Josephine shouted. “She was the one who went wild! Viktoria, you saw what happened!”

Viktoria had a sudden impulse to scold them. Girls, girls! she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. José came out and chased away the youngsters with a flood of animated Spanish.

The sun had dropped behind the mountains, and the evening chill set in as soon as it was gone. Viktoria was suddenly angry. “Ladies,” she said, “for me the carnival was unbelievable. And I understand how the excitement could make anyone lose their head and go a bit wild. Believe me, I’ve lost control of myself more times than I like to remember. But afterwards I try to forget and hope others can do the same.” She signalled to José to bring another bottle. “This is a very good wine. It should be drunk in a calm and thoughtful atmosphere. Ladies, what shall we drink to?”

“To you,” Josephine burst out. “To justice! The justice that always wins out over foul play!” She had already had a few drinks before leaving home, just to be on the safe side.

“And how do you like her new hairdo?” said X, not touching her wine.

Viktoria corrected her. “How do I like Josephine’s new hairdo? I think it makes her look younger.”

She was rather tired now and decided to turn the party over to her guests. She excused herself and took refuge in the ladies’ room. The view from that window was no less beautiful, but she hardly noticed. It was a bit cruel to leave the two of them together, she thought. I could have stayed. Now they’re sitting there in silence. I’ve failed. I should have learned by now to let people sort out their own problems. I’m like some kind of sheepdog, running myself ragged to round everyone up and get them
organised
. The thought amused her. She decided to order some cognac with the coffee.

As she was going back through the café, José came up to her conspiratorially and whispered, “How’s it going?”

“It’s going fine, I think,” Viktoria said. “It’s working out. The food, the wine, the decoration – everything was perfect. I think we’ll have some cognac with our coffee.”

Her guests were sitting bolt upright. They had clearly been having a discussion.

“Dear Viktoria,” said Josephine, breathless with excitement. “We’ve been thinking…”

“Thank her first,” X broke in.

“Yes, of course. We’d like to thank you for your extraordinary kindness and generosity. A wonderful meal, so well thought out in every detail.”

“Not so fast,” said X. “Get a grip on yourself. Quite simply, Viktoria, you’ve given us a chance. But don’t you think Josephine and I could just go on disliking each other?”

“It’s possible,” answered Viktoria. “Indeed, why not? But here’s the cognac. What shall we drink to this time?”

“Nothing,” said Josephine. “I’ve been talking too much. I really ought to go home. The dogs have been alone all evening.”

“Their legs are too short,” said X.

Viktoria raised her cognac and said, “Ladies, you waste your time on inessentials. When we’ve finished our coffee, I think we should devote ourselves to the
contemplation
of nightfall.”

They walked through the café, where all conversation stopped, and came out onto the square.

“It’s cold,” said Josephine, trying to fasten Viktoria’s chinchilla for her.

“Leave it alone,” said X. “Viktoria knows whether she’s cold or not. Stop fussing.”

“You always know better than anyone else!” Josephine snapped. “But you don’t know a thing about Viktoria, not a thing!” And she walked on ahead up the lane.

“Take no notice,” said Viktoria. “She’ll see things more clearly in the morning.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. Everything can change.” Viktoria did not explain in more detail that for her every new morning was a kind of happy challenge, just as it was with new opportunities, surprises, maybe even insights, yes, and plain excitement. In fact she’d done more than enough pontificating for one evening, and now she simply mentioned that José had promised to bring some firewood after nine. So she would sweep the patio and ask him to pile the wood in a different corner so it wouldn’t disturb the bougainvillea.

X smiled. “Inessentials, my dear Viktoria. You mentioned inessentials, I think? All those tiny tasks and worries. Every new day filled with one thing or another. Look at Josephine up there. She spends half her day walking her dogs and playing her operas and the other half running to meaningless parties, and it’s hard work being insulted, making yourself popular, clinging hard to what little pride you’ve got… And you, a real Viktoria, you condescend to display a well-meaning tolerance. Oh yes, I saw you in that car! Wait, don’t say anything. I know for someone like you it’s hard to say no, but you have no real principles, not guiding ones that run
consistently
through everything you do. None of you have. You water down your drinks and your feelings. Do you
understand
what I’m saying? No single, firm, undiluted beliefs.

Walking on, they caught up with Josephine, who was sitting on the long flight of steps leading up to her house.

Viktoria said to X, “There are beliefs and beliefs. Hating the colony is not a particularly interesting one, and besides it’s pretty diluted too by now, don’t you think? You should find yourself a new one, a more useful one if you can. Or just forget it, of course.”

“What do you mean, forget it?”

“Well, you could accept the fact that you’re ordinary. I always find that quite exciting enough.”

“Ha, ha, there you are,” said Josephine. “Totally ordinary – like Viktoria. That’s rare.”

X helped Josephine to her feet and said, “Yes, yes, come on, let’s go. Good night, Viktoria.”

“Good night.” For a moment Viktoria stood watching them climb the long, laborious flight of steps.

Many other people had been watching, too.

The next week X was invited to the Wainwrights’. And later even to Lady Oldfield’s, though she wasn’t accepted into the Inner Circle until the colony had assured itself that Miss Smith had interesting
eccentricities
that could contribute pleasantly to enlivening its social life. But that didn’t happen till the autumn.

I
T WAS FIVE IN THE MORNING
and still overcast. The dreadful stink seemed to be getting worse. As usual, Emily walked down Robert Street as far as Blom’s grocery store. The shards of glass squeaked under her shoes and she decided that one day she’d have to make the place a little more approachable. So long as it didn’t interfere with her constant shopping. They had plenty of canned food in the kitchen at the moment, but you could never be sure these days, Emily thought. Surprisingly, the big mirror was still there outside Blom’s, and Emily stopped for a moment to tidy her hair. Really no one could call her fat now; plump might be more accurate – or Junoesque, as Kris liked to say. In fact her coat fitted a good deal better now; it was green and matched her shopping bags. She climbed a pile of rubble to get in through the window. Here it was rotting food that was smelling bad.

She noticed at once that they had been there again, because now the shelves were almost empty. They hadn’t bothered with the sauerkraut; she stowed away what was left of that and helped herself to the last packet of candles and, while she was about it, a new washing-up brush and some shampoo. There was no more fruit juice, so Kris would just have to make do with river water, like it or lump it. She could go on to Lundgren’s and have a look there, but that was quite a long way off. Another time. Wanting to make the most of her morning, Emily went into number six, left her bags near the entrance and walked up one floor to the Erikssons’ flat. That was as far as you could go.

Luckily the Erikssons had not closed their door when they left. Emily knew there was nothing important left to take; she had shopped for all she wanted from there a long time ago, but it was nice to sit on the fine living-room sofa and rest her legs. Although of course it was no longer so fine any more, since others had stained it and cut it with knives. But Emily had got there first. And she’d had such great respect for the beauty of the peaceful room that she had taken nothing from it but food. Later, when everything had been trashed and soiled, she saved a few more things to brighten up the kitchen at home and to surprise Kris. This time she helped herself to the rococo wall-clock which had stopped at five, her shopping hour. No one else was out at five in the morning; it was a good safe time.

She started for home. She wondered whether Kris could eat sauerkraut, especially now his stomach was delicate. About halfway home she put down her bags, which were very heavy, and looked out over the changed landscape, the shrunken suburb where she lived. There certainly wasn’t much left; on the other side of the river, nothing at all. Strange the trees hadn’t yet burst into leaf in the park.

And then she caught sight of them, right at the far end of Robert Street, only two specks but moving, quite clearly moving. They were coming. She began to run.

The kitchen she shared with Kris was on the ground floor. They had always eaten at the kitchen table and had been about to have dinner when it happened. The rest of the floor was totally blocked. Kris had pointlessly injured his leg. In Emily’s opinion he should never have rushed out, ending up with half the facade on top of him. It was nothing but idle male curiosity. He knew perfectly well what you were supposed to do. There had been warnings on the radio: “Stay indoors in the event of …” and so on. And now here he was lying on a mattress Emily had found in the street.

She had hung the rug up to cover the hole where the window had blown out, and later fixed the whole thing in place by nailing up boards from rubbish she found outside. Luckily the toolbox had been in the kitchen. Otherwise, absolutely anyone could have climbed in through the window. To be really safe she spent hours piling up camouflage on the outside as well. As Kristian lay on his mattress listening to Emily constructing their defences, he couldn’t help feeling that she was enjoying herself – at least up to a point. He took care not to alarm her. He spent a lot of time sleeping. This business of his leg didn’t seem too serious but it did hurt and he couldn’t rest his weight on it. The darkness distressed him more.

Now he was awake and groping for the candle and matches on the floor by the mattress. He lit the candle carefully so the match wouldn’t go out. He had the books from the Erikssons’ place, unread books from a world that had no meaning for him any more. He wound up his watch, as he did every morning. It was a little after six; she’d be home any minute. There weren’t many matches left.