Walking Into the Night (11 page)

32

The man in the picture is resting his cheek on his hand and looking straight ahead. There is concentration and firmness in his expression, an awareness that he is being observed, but a certain nonchalance as well, as if he is used to it. The hair is thick over his high forehead and the fingers under his hard jaw are long and strong, his eyes inspire confidence. The girl he stood up for whispered to her friend when she reached her and turned to look in his direction. He knows they’re talking about him but he continues to look straight ahead, his suit comfortable on his sun-baked body, light and soft in the summer heat.

The window beside him was open; the damp heat rose from the street. He watched people moving slowly in the heat, seeking out shade. He imagined their bodies hot and damp. Someone outside was whistling a familiar tune and he listened because he had by now lost track of the lecture. “I would also like to mention that the economic indicators, in particular . . .” The whistle faded into the distance, the notes lazy and intermittent, “Skies are weeping, while the world is sleeping . . .”

His thoughts were drawn back to the previous night; he traced his scar distractedly through his shirt in a quick movement, then rested his hand in his lap.

“When did this happen?”

“When I was a child.”

“How?”

“I fell.”

“You fell?”

“Or jumped. I don’t know.”

She ran her finger along the scar. Just as you used to, Elisabet, down my back, under my arm, over onto my chest.

“You jumped?”

“Yes, I suppose I jumped.”

“That’s no answer, Kristjan. You have to say something more than ‘I suppose I jumped.’ ”

And so I told her what I had never been able to bring myself to tell you. Not because it might reveal something I had hidden from you, but because I thought you wouldn’t understand. I didn’t dare to tell you about some insignificant childhood escapade for fear of your pity. Not that you ever asked. You stroked the scar with your finger, crossing the border, but never asked.

I didn’t fall. I jumped. I stood on the brink of the ledge, above the village and the sea and the hayfields between the houses and the mountain, spread out my arms, and jumped. I meant to fly, I meant to show everybody what I could do. But the birds, which were supposed to lift me, remained high in the sky, and the sun, which was supposed to shine on me, slipped guiltily behind a cloud.

“Poor boy,” she said and kissed the scar on my chest. “Did you try to fly away?”

The scar was damp from her kiss.

“Klara,” I said, “didn’t you ever do something like that?”

Suddenly I was convinced that she was about to tell me something I had begun to suspect, but then she stopped and instead continued to stroke my scar.

I was a child. Yet I’m still ashamed. The scar is a reminder.

The man in the picture has decided to return home. This time nothing will prevent him; he has made up his mind, once and for all. He looks straight ahead and wonders whether there is any chance of his wavering. He has made the decision to end their affair before, especially in the emptiness after sex, only to be overcome a moment later with regret and shame. But he has never actually done it, he’s never been able to. Now, however, he is calm; when he woke by her side this morning he found that for the first time he was in command of his feelings. She was sleeping peacefully and he told himself that he would always think fondly of her. He even tried to convince himself that it would be a relief to him to know that Jones would marry her; that she couldn’t find a more reliable man.

No one will ever have to know, he told himself, and with those words he felt a surge of simultaneous relief and excitement.

33

I’m making good progress, better than expected, as I’ve had more free time than usual recently. The Chief and Miss Davies have been away since the beginning of the month and it’s uncertain when they’ll be back. The weather has been unexceptional, as usual for August, the days hot and still, the nights cloudless. The hillsides have turned yellow. It’s been dry for weeks and the leaves have long since lost their spring freshness. In the gardens around the houses, however, the colors are still vivid and intense, the lawns, watered twice a day, still green.

The wreckage of the plane has been removed. When the doctor came the morning after the crash to sign the death certificates, I took him down to the meat locker. The girl was unchanged, yet I’d dreamed in the night that she had woken up and begun to roam. I jerked awake and almost went downstairs to reassure myself that it had been only a dream, but couldn’t summon the courage. I lay wide awake till dawn and stayed away from the cellar until the doctor arrived.

The Chief had a grove of Italian cypresses planted on the site of the crash. It was an odd choice, but I understood when the head gardener pointed out to me that the tradition of planting these trees in cemeteries stems from what he called their “sacred association” with the Roman god of the underworld, Pluto. It’s strange seeing them standing forlornly down on the plain; I don’t suppose the Chief realized that they would draw the eye to the site rather than obscure it. Miss Davies not only closes her eyes when driving past the spot, she actually turns her head away. The chauffeur who brought her up from San Luis the other day made fun of this when he dropped into the kitchen for a coffee. I advised him to keep his thoughts to himself.

Yesterday I went horseback riding around the property with two young men who happened to be staying here at the same time. One of them was Karl von Wiegand, a reporter who worked for the Chief in Europe, the other John Mack, assistant to Judge Shearn, the trustee now in charge of the Chief’s entire empire. I don’t dislike Mack. Far from it—he’s more polite than many of the judge’s other errand boys, who seem to enjoy waltzing around the establishment and behaving as if they can do whatever they please. The words they let slip about the Chief, even in my presence, show that they’re too young to understand. But Mack is a genial fellow, and even though he sometimes makes fun of the Chief, he’s never malicious and never goes too far. I can tell that he respects him.

Von Wiegand has been here for several days; he’s recovering from a bad bout of influenza, and the Chief suggested that he should recuperate here on the hill. He sits outside for most of the day, reading or writing. He looks much better now than when he arrived, and it’s been a source of pleasure to us staff to see his appetite improving by the day.

Anyhow, Mack asked me to get two horses ready, and I had the bright idea of suggesting that von Wiegand should join us. They had eaten together the evening before and—to tell the truth— drunk more port after the meal than was good for them. When I said good night they were still sitting, talking; clearly getting along well. They were looking at photographs from the Chief’s vacations which lay in a porcelain bowl on the table in front of them. The Chief had been going through them the evening before he left; he had sat up very late, deep in thought. Most of the pictures were taken in Europe—Venice, Nuremberg, Bad Nauheim, Switzerland.

“Remarkable,” I heard Mack say, before I closed the door behind me. “It’s as if he doesn’t belong in these pictures at all, as if they weren’t taken of him but of a church or fountain or that crumbling wall, as if the old man has been pasted onto the pictures afterwards, the same expression in all of them, no sign of pleasure or indication that he’s thinking about anything different than when he left home. No sign that he’s on holiday seeing the wonders of the world.”

The next morning we set off after breakfast. Mack couldn’t keep from making fun of the room he’d slept in.

“The room’s octagonal!” I heard him tell von Wiegand. “Between the beams on the ceiling—gold-painted, naturally, just like everything else—there are motifs of flowers and fishes, birds and coats of arms. Do you know why I noticed every tiny detail so clearly? Because I couldn’t turn off the bedside light. It was impossible. I would have thought he could afford a lamp that worked.”

They laughed.

“The bathroom’s gold, too. And there’s a huge closet, a carved, gothic replica, like the Riemenschneider altars in southern Bavaria, I’m told, with a bust on top and a Greek vase next to it. The door frames are carved, as well, and the faucets are gold, and the frames around the mirrors are gilded and carved. But there’s no tub in the bathroom and hot water comes out of both faucets in the shower. I had to wet a towel and wait for it to cool down so that I could wash. I was going to call downstairs for help, but found there was no phone in the room. And then I discovered just how lonely it is up here. You could yell and no one would hear you. I couldn’t even see out of the window for all the gilt ornamentation blocking the view. And on top of all that, there’s a notice hanging on the wall: ‘Please do not open the window.’ It’s like living in a prison. Isn’t that right, Christian?”

I’d been amused by his description of the room, but I was brought up short by his last comment. A prison.

I didn’t answer immediately and it was lucky that at that moment we entered a grove of acacias.

“Do you know why these trees are planted here?” Mack asked me.

“For the giraffes,” I replied.

“Giraffes?”

“Yes, we had problems with them at one time. Two of them died and no one knew why. We had to send for a specialist from New York because our vet was at a loss. The specialist found that their stomachs were full of stones. He explained to us that giraffe’s mustn’t eat from the ground because their necks need to be upright for them to swallow and digest properly. When the Chief heard this he ordered the tallest acacia trees available but they still weren’t tall enough. While they were growing, we had troughs built on platforms and filled with leaves so the giraffes could eat in a way that’s natural to them.”

“Where are they now?” asked von Wiegand.

“Most of the animals have gone, thank God,” Mack answered. “Except the bison you can see down there in the valley, and some deer and zebras. The first time I came here, the zoo was full of all kinds of creatures. I felt sorry for them,” he added. “They didn’t belong here.”

I was silent. It had been a good day when they started taking the animals away. I knew the life that awaited them was likely no better than their life here on the hill, but I still was relieved to see them leave their cages.

We rode on. To the east the hill cast its shadow on a long, deep valley. Directly below us was San Simeon village with its post office and diner, its jetties and warehouses, railroad tracks, and the cranes that used to hoist containers full of statues, animals, even whole walls and ceilings, but were now idle. Beyond the village the sea glittered in the bright sun.

“That place used to be busy,” said Mack. “But you’d know more about that than me, Christian.”

His question depressed me. I cleared my throat and said something to the effect that I hoped the building work would start again before too long.

“Hope for the best,” said Mack. “It’s all we can do.”

They ate lunch out on the tea terrace and drank fruit juice. I had the lamp in Mack’s room fixed and called a plumber to get the cold water working in the faucet.

Before he took his leave this morning he took me aside.

“Christian, it’s been pointed out to me that there’s no record of you anywhere on the old man’s payroll. And there are no entries in the books to show you’ve ever been paid. One might think you didn’t exist, my friend. We don’t even know what your salary is.”

He can’t have failed to notice my shock. Without waiting for an answer, he added:

“You haven’t been paid since we began to look after the old man’s finances. It’s been months. You haven’t said a word.”

“I haven’t gone short,” I heard myself say.

“Christian, could it be that you don’t have a work permit?”

I nodded.

“I guessed. So the old man’s been paying you under the table?”

I nodded again. “At my request. It’s always been like that.”

“How much?”

I named the sum.

“Don’t you worry,” he said then. “I’ll see to this. It’s a shame I didn’t know before.”

“There’s no rush,” I said.

“But you haven’t been paid for months.”

I tried to wave his concern away.

“Don’t you worry,” he repeated. “This is just between us.” I’m making good progress. This morning I woke up early because I’d made up my mind to try to draw the hawk today. The bird is lying on my table; I shot it yesterday. It had been making a nuisance of itself up near the house for the last few days, stealing food from the outdoor fireplace, so we had to get rid of it. It’s strange how its nature is still clearly visible in its eyes, as if death made no difference.

I enjoyed watching the dawn, and before I knew it, my thoughts were as cloudless as the sky and even contained a hint of purpose. There was a creaking sound from the forest and the sprinklers started up in the gardens, the spray soothing the trees and flowers. I took a pencil in my hand, poured a cup of coffee, and sat undisturbed at my desk for more than an hour. The sheets of paper are lying here on the table in front of me, and when I examine the bird now, I’m even more convinced that this was truly a period of grace. I’ve colored in most of the head, and when I look into the bird’s fierce brown eyes, with their black rims, I think I can understand how its mind works. Since I started painting birds again, I have been making steady progress; I believe this is the first time I can boast that I’ve captured my own thoughts and those of the bird on paper so well that I don’t feel the need to change anything.

34

In August of 1918, I came home for good. It was my sincere intention to stay put. You can see from the bird pictures I painted during the first two months that I had settled down. The shade of chestnut on the godwit’s breast and head is witness to the fact, and when I had finished the picture of the snipe, I felt it might start its drumming right there in our living room. I was determined to avoid anything that I knew would depress me; I kept away from the Mozart evenings, for example, inventing business in town or staying late at the office and playing chess with Stefan, who had kept his eye on everything while I was in New York and proved a trusty employee and friend.

Those Mozart evenings—I shudder every time I hear his music. Fortunately that’s not often, but I’m surprised the discomfort should have stayed with me all these years.

It was on one of those Mozart evenings that I received the letter. In fact, though it’s never occurred to me before, it’s a strange coincidence that it should have worked out that way. After a meal at Hotel Iceland, Stefan and I had returned to the office to play chess. I clearly remember that I was playing the Sicilian defense and had the upper hand in the first game. I was delighted, as I usually lost to Stefan, who was a cunning player, so I rose to my feet in triumph, saying I’d treat him to a drop of brandy in celebration of my unexpected victory. I did it to tease him, and he took it in the right spirit, as usual.

When I glanced out the window, over the rooftops on the other side of the street and out over the bay, I saw the
Gullfoss
in the twilight.

“She’s coming from New York,” said Stefan.

“Yes. Let’s go and get some fresh air,” I said. “I’d like to hear the news from New York.”

That morning everything had been routine, nearly perfect. I had slept well and got up late, past nine. You were up and I could hear you talking to Katrin and Einar down in the kitchen. Katrin was saying: “How well that sweater suits you, Einar dear.” And he answered: “Daddy bought it for me in America.” Katrin asked you what little Maria should wear today. You hesitated, then replied: “The red dress her father brought back last time.” You who were so far removed from such matters—I was amazed that you remembered the dress at all, let alone that I’d bought it on my last trip west. But I definitely heard it. You said those exact words: “The red dress her father brought back last time.”

I dressed slowly in the February gloom. In the east a pale gleam kindled a few clouds until one of them began to glow. I stared at it for a while; I felt it was moving away from me but then it drew closer again, cautiously, as if it knew it stood out against the sky. On the windowsill there was a dried flower in a vase; I moved it aside as I opened the window to breathe in the chilly air.

The aroma of coffee rose from downstairs. Katrin was grinding beans. And Einar said: “I’m going to be like Daddy when I’m big.” “Me too,” said Maria. “No, you can’t.” “Why not?” “Because you’re a girl.” “I can too!”

All I wanted. All I wanted was for this moment between darkness and light to last forever, this brief moment that enveloped us and protected us from everything, from ourselves.

The captain handed me the letter as soon as we stepped aboard.

“I was asked to take it the day we sailed,” he said. “Here.”

I could tell he knew what was going on. He said nothing, but I could see it in his eyes. Had she delivered it herself?

“. . . When my father died my uncle took us in. He was called Gustaf. Have I told you this already? I’m beginning to forget what I’ve told you and what I haven’t. Strange . . . just six months since you left. I’ve always thought Gustaf was a pretty name.

“That year summer arrived sooner than expected. The wind blew it over the lake and I went out into the garden in my nightdress as soon as I awoke and stood there in the warm rain. I was soaked, but didn’t feel the cold. ‘Come in, child,’ my uncle called out from an upstairs window. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia.’ ‘Summer’s arrived,’ I called back. The summer was yellow on the lake.

“We also used to spend Easter at the country house. The lawn was frozen and the snow crunched under our feet. The house was dark when we arrived, with white sheets draped over the furniture. The staff should have lit the fires but they were sometimes late. It was cold while we waited for the fire to get going. I didn’t take off my coat. I remember once when I stood in the blue light of the drawing room, waiting for the fire to blaze in the hearth, I glanced out of the window at the moon reflected in the frozen pond. I saw my sister Lena’s face. I ran out onto the ice and tried to find her but she was gone.

“I want to christen the child Gustaf if it’s a boy and Lena if it’s a girl. Do you have any objections?”