Travelling Light (8 page)

Everything was in the past now, gone, of no
significance
; nothing mattered any more, no one was important. No telephone, no letters, no doorbell. Of course you have no idea what I’m referring to, but it doesn’t matter anyway; in fact I shall merely assert that everything had been sorted out to the best of my ability, thoroughly taken care of down to the smallest detail. I wrote the letters I had to write – in fact, I’d done that as long ago as the day before, announcing my sudden departure without explanation and without in any way accounting for my behaviour. It was very difficult; it took a whole day. Of course, I left no information about where I was going and indicated no time for my return, since I have no intention of ever coming back. The caretaker’s wife will look after my houseplants; those tired living things – which never look well no matter how much trouble one takes over them – have made me feel very uneasy. Never mind: I shan’t ever have to see them again.

Perhaps it might interest you to know what I packed? As little as possible! I’ve always dreamed of travelling light, a small weekend bag of the sort one can casually whisk along with oneself as one walks with rapid but unhurried steps through, shall we say, the departure lounge of an airport, passing a mass of nervous people dragging along large heavy cases. This was the first time I’d succeeded in taking the absolute minimum with me, ruthless in the face of family treasures and those little objects one can become so attached to that remind one of… well, of emotional bits of one’s life – no, that least of all! My bag was as light as my happy-go-lucky heart and contained nothing more than one would need for a routine night at a hotel. I left the flat without leaving instructions of any kind, but I did clean it, very thoroughly. I’m very good at cleaning. Then I turned off the electricity, opened the fridge and unplugged the phone. That was the very last thing, the definitive step; now I’d done with them.

And during all this time the phone never rang once – a good omen. Not one, not a single one of all these, these – but I don’t want to talk about them now, I’m not going to worry about them any more, no, they no longer occupy even a single second of my thoughts. Well, when I’d pulled out the phone plug and checked one last time that I had all the papers I needed in my pocketbook – passport, tickets, travellers’ cheques, pension card – I looked out of the window to make sure that there were some taxis waiting at the stand on the corner, shut the front door and let the keys fall through the letterbox.

Out of old habit I avoided the lift; I don’t like lifts. On the second floor I tripped and grabbed hold of the banisters, and stood still a moment, suddenly hot all over. Think, just think – what if I’d really fallen, maybe sprained my ankle or worse? Everything would have been in vain, fatal, irreparable. It would have been
unthinkable
to get ready and gather myself together to leave a second time. In the taxi I felt so exhilarated I carried on a lively conversation with the driver, commenting on the early spring weather and taking an interest in this and that relating to his profession, but he hardly responded at all. I pulled myself together, because this was exactly what I’d decided to avoid; from now on I was going to be a person who never took any interest in anyone. The problems that might face a taxi driver were nothing to do with me. We reached the boat much too early, he lifted out my bag, I thanked him and gave him too big a tip. He didn’t smile, which upset me a bit, but the man who took my ticket was very friendly.

My journey had started. It gradually got cold on deck; there was hardly anyone else there and I presumed the other passengers must have made their way to the
restaurant
. Taking my time, I went to find my cabin. I saw at once that I wasn’t going to be alone; someone had left a coat, pocketbook and umbrella on one of the bunks, and two elegant suitcases were standing in the middle of the floor. Discreetly, I moved them out of the way. Of course I had demanded, or more accurately expressed a desire to have, a cabin to myself; sleeping on my own has become very important to me and on this journey in particular it was absolutely essential for me to, so to speak, savour my new independence entirely undisturbed. I couldn’t possibly go and complain to the purser, who would have merely pointed out that the boat was full, that it was a regrettable misunderstanding, and that if the
misunderstanding
were to be rectified I would be aware all night as I lay on my solitary bunk that the man who was to have shared my cabin was having to spend the night sleepless on a deckchair.

I noticed that his toilet articles were of exclusive quality, and I was particularly impressed by his
light-blue
electric toothbrush and a miniature case with the monogram A.C. on it. I unpacked my own toothbrush and the other things I had considered necessary from my ascetic point of view, laid out my pyjamas on the other bunk and asked myself if I was hungry. The thought of the likely crush in the restaurant put me off, so I decided to skip dinner and have a drink in the bar instead. The bar was pretty empty this early in the evening. I sat down on one of the high stools, propped my feet on the
traditional
metal railing which runs round every bar on the continent, and lit my pipe.

“A Black and White, please,” I said to the bartender, accepting the glass with a brief nod and making clear with my attitude that I had no inclination for
conversation
. I sat and pondered the Idea of Travel; that is to say, the act of travelling unfettered and with no
responsibility
for what one has left behind and without any opportunity to foresee what may lie ahead and prepare for it. Nothing but an enormous sense of peace.

It occurred to me to think back over my earlier journeys, every one of them, and I realised to my
astonishment
that this must be the first time I had ever travelled alone. First came my trips with my mother – Majorca and the Canaries. Majorca again. After mother went away I travelled with Cousin Herman, to Lübeck and Hamburg. He was only interested in museums, though they depressed him; he’d never been able to study painting and he couldn’t get over it. Not a happy trip. Then the Wahlströms, who didn’t know whether to divorce or not and thought it would be easier to travel as a threesome.

Where did we go…? Oh, yes, of course, Venice. And during the mornings they quarrelled. No, that wasn’t much of a journey. What next? A trip with a party to Leningrad. It was damn cold… And then Aunt Hilda, who needed a break but didn’t dare go by herself… but that was only as far as Mariehamn; we went to the Maritime Museum there, I remember. You see, when I went through all my life’s journeys in my thoughts, any fear I possibly could have had that the way I’d decided to do things might not be right disappeared. I turned to the bartender, said, “Another, please,” and looked round the bar, very much at ease. People had started coming in; happy well-fed people who ordered coffee and drinks to their tables and crowded round me at the bar.

Normally I very much dislike crowds and do
everything
I can to avoid being involved with them, even in buses and trams, but that evening it felt pleasant and sociable to be one among many, almost secure. An elderly gentleman with a cigar intimated with a discreet gesture that he needed my ashtray. “Of course, don’t mention it,” I responded and was on the point of begging his pardon but remembered in time: I’d finished with all that kind of thing. In an entirely matter-of-fact way, if with a certain nonchalance, I moved the ashtray to his side and calmly studied myself in the mirror behind the bottles in the bar.

There’s something special about a bar, don’t you think? A place for chance happenings, for possibilities to become reality, a refuge on the awkward route from should to must. But, I must confess, not the sort of place I’ve much frequented. Now, as I sat and looked in the mirror, my face suddenly seemed rather agreeable.

I suppose I had never allowed myself time to look closely at the appearance time has given me. A thin face with somewhat surprised but frankly beautiful eyes, hair admittedly grey but luxuriant in an almost artistic manner, with a lock hanging down over my brow giving me an expression of – what shall we say – anxious watchfulness? Watchful concern? No. Just watchfulness. I emptied my glass and suddenly felt an urgent need to communicate, but held it in check. At all events, despite everything, wasn’t this precisely an occasion when, at last, I would not be forced to listen but could be allowed to talk myself, freely and recklessly? Among men, in a bar? For example, entirely in passing of course, I might let slip information about my decisive contribution at the Post Office. But no. Absolutely not. Be secretive – don’t make confidences; at most, drop hints…

Sitting on my left was a young man who seemed extremely restless. He kept moving his position, turning this way and that on his stool and seemingly trying to keep an eye on everything that was happening in the room. I turned to the neighbour on my other side and said, “Very crowded this evening. Looks like we’re in for a calm crossing.” He stubbed his cigar in the ashtray and remarked that the boat was full and that our wind speed was eight metres per second, though they’d forecast it would get stronger during the night. I liked his calm matter-of-fact manner and asked myself whether he was retired and why he should be on his way to London. Let me tell you, my interest surprised myself; nothing has become so completely foreign, almost hateful to me, to be avoided at all costs, as curiosity and sympathy, any disposition to encourage in the slightest degree the surrounding world’s irresistible need to start talking about its troubles. This is something I really do know about; during a long life I’ve heard most things and I’ve brought this entirely on myself. But, as I’ve said, I was sitting in a bar on the way to my new freedom – and I was being a bit careless.

He said: “You’re going to London? On business?”

“No. Sea travel amuses me.”

He nodded in appreciation. I could see his face in the mirror, a rather heavy face somewhat the worse for wear with a drooping moustache and tired eyes. He seemed elegant, expensively dressed, continental, if you know what I mean.

“When I was young,” he said, “I worked out that it should be possible to travel by sea all the time, without stopping, meals included, for very much less than it costs to live in a city.”

I watched him, fascinated, waiting for him to go on, but he said nothing more. Thank goodness, this was clearly not a man to make personal confidences. Meanwhile, soft music was throbbing persistently somewhere up in the ceiling and people had begun talking with increasing animation, while trays heavily laden with glasses were being carried with impressive speed and precision between the tables. I thought: ‘Here I am sitting with an experienced traveller, a man who has taken the best from life and knows what he’s talking about.’ It was then he took out his pocketbook and showed me pictures of his family and his dog. That was a warning signal. A sharp sense of disappointment pierced me – but why should I be surprised if my companion was showing signs of behaving exactly like all the others? But I’d decided not to let anything whatever upset me, so I looked at his snapshots and said all the usual nice things. His wife, children, grandchildren and dog looked more or less just as one would expect, except that they seemed in an unusually flourishing condition.

He sighed – of course, I couldn’t hear him sigh in all that din, but I saw his broad shoulders rise and fall. Clearly not all was as it should be at home. I know; it’s the same with them all. Even this most elegant, cigar-smoking traveller with his gold lighter and his family posing in front of his swimming pool – even him! I hurriedly began talking about the first thing that came into my head, the advantages of travelling light, and made up my mind to detach myself gradually from the man; I mean, get away as quickly as possible without seeming brusque. I dropped a hint by taking out my cabin key, laying it beside my glass and trying to catch the bartender’s
attention
, naturally without success – the crush round the bar was worse than ever, increasingly impatient and loud, and the poor man was working like a maniac.

“Two Black and Whites,” said my travel companion in a low voice but with the sort of calm, powerful authority that ensures immediate results. He fixed his heavy gaze on me and raised his glass. Now I was caught.

“Thanks,” I said. “How nice – a little nightcap. It’s getting quite late, I think.”

He answered, “Not at all, Mr Melander. My name’s Connaugh.” And he laid his cabin key beside mine. “An incredible coincidence,” I exclaimed, most put out.

“Oh no. I saw you coming out of the cabin. Your bag’s very neatly labelled.”

Suddenly I was jostled by the young man on my left as he leaned aggressively forward across the bar to demand a Cuba Libre. He’d now had to ask three times but, no, everyone else must come first. Typical, just what you’d expect… Mr Connaugh gave the youngster a very brief and very cold glance and said, “It seems to be time to get out of this place.” But any relief I felt was destroyed by his next words: “I’ve got some whisky in the cabin and the night is long.”

What could I do? Say I needed something to eat? He would merely have waited for me in the cabin. Now I could see him clearly: a forceful, dominating man who radiated unshakable determination. Naturally I wanted to share the bill, but he dismissed the matter with a gesture and moved towards the door. I followed. We got into a crowded lift. The boat was teeming with people flocking round the fruit machines and sitting on the stairs. Their children were running all over the place and I was overcome by my old fear of crowds; when we finally reached the cabin I was trembling from head to foot. Mr Connaugh moved his luggage aside and took out a bottle of whisky, which he placed on the little table under the window. He had two silver cups as well. When he sat down the bunk creaked; it seemed altogether too puny and fragile for him. The cabin was first class, a bit of self-indulgence I’d allowed myself for this trip but which should have been reserved for me alone. It had a minibar, an elegant little arrangement which contained soft drinks, crisps and salted nuts. I opened its door.