Walking Into the Night (13 page)

38

I waited.

Waited for him to leave.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Sometimes loitering on the other side of the street, hoping for a glimpse of her, in the lee of a wall, on the opposite corner, but I never saw her, never saw either of them. Empty days, long nights, moonlight crawling on the rooftops like a white cat.

I watched him leave on Monday morning. He was wearing a light-yellow suit and a light-brown hat. I waited for five minutes after he had gone before I entered the building.

There was new wallpaper in the living room, but the furniture had not been touched. The window behind her was half-open. On the mahogany table between the windows stood an opal-gray vase containing some kind of yellow flowers that I didn’t recognize. The wallpaper was blue. The sun illuminated it for a moment, then retreated behind a cloud.

I moved one step towards her, then stopped, resting my knuckles on the polished tabletop.

“You’re not pregnant.”

She smiled.

“Was that why you came?”

“I got your letter. Have you forgotten what you wrote me?”

“I thought you were never coming back.”

Silence.

“I had an abortion.”

She turned away. I stood still.

“Klara,” I said at last. “You wrote me in February. You’d have been six months gone if I’d been the father.”

“I’d already got rid of it. I thought you were never coming back . . . I wanted . . . You can’t believe how much I wanted . . .”

I was about to leave. I was a second from walking out the door, taking the elevator down to the lobby, running into the street, a free man. But then she reached out her hand and touched me. My fingers first, tentatively, then my arm.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said.

I jumped. I fell. And the sun shone on the blue wallpaper above us as we made love on the cool floor.

39

You mustn’t think I don’t realize how ironic all this is. I’m disgusted by the servile nature that I seem never to shake off, this need to make everyone like me. My heart still misses a beat when he calls me. I hurry to him along the cool passages. “Did he sound as if he was in a bad mood?” I ask myself, quickening my steps, hoping I haven’t done anything to annoy him.

But I’ve always been like this. When I first took over the business, your father said to me: “Kristjan, you’re the one in charge. It’s as if you forget sometimes that you don’t have to ask anyone’s permission. You’re the boss. Don’t go around seeking other people’s approval. You’ll never get anything done that way.”

I never liked being the boss. Not for one minute. I don’t know why.

Mr. Hearst can be unreasonable at times. At sunset yesterday evening he went for a stroll around the paths near the house, took a book and sat down under a lantern on a bench with a view of the bay. Miss Davies was resting, she had gone to lie down that afternoon after getting hold of some alcohol. How she managed it is beyond me, but she seems to have become more cunning than ever. The sun was a red globe on the horizon, the trees casting a row of shadows like royal lifeguards at attention on the terrace where he sat; he was silent, lost in thought, didn’t say a word to me on the way out. When I peeped cautiously through the window to see what he was up to, I noticed he had put down the book and the magnifying glass and was sitting absolutely still, gazing at the sunset until the lifeguards vanished and the twilight reached the bench where he was sitting.

When he came in again he called me on the internal phone system. I hadn’t noticed him return to the house.

“Someone’s broken off a rose from the bed in front of Casa del Monte,” he said.

“The dogs maybe?”

“You know it wasn’t the dogs.”

“It’ll grow back.”

“There are rules. I want you to find out who did it and fire them.”

You bully! I said to myself. You can be such a monster when you want to! And all for the sake of a single rose—which will fade away, one of a thousand roses in the gardens around the house. But I said: “I’ll do my best.”

“Without delay! I want you to find the culprit this evening!”

I knew it must have been somebody who didn’t know the Chief’s rules. I already had a pretty good idea who it was. For the past few days a new employee at one of his newspapers had been acting as a courier between Los Angeles and San Simeon, a cheerful young man whom I had noticed showing the cooks a photo of his girlfriend.

He had come up earlier that day, bringing papers and films, and was due to head back the following morning. I took him aside. He immediately confessed to having taken the rose earlier in the week, blithely unaware of the dreadful penalty for such a crime. I told him not to mention it to anyone and advised him to drive to Los Angeles that evening instead of waiting until the next day.

“I just wanted to give my girlfriend a rose when I got home,” he said, trembling. “Her name’s Rose. May I show you a picture of her?”

When he had left, I called together the cook, the housekeeper, and the head gardener and explained what had happened and the Chief’s orders. The way they looked at me! Particularly her. The contempt in their faces! Does his dirty work without the guts to object. As if nothing were more natural . . .

Only the head gardener deigned to speak to me.

“That’s crazy,” he said. “Couldn’t you have said something to the old man?”

I was on the verge of losing my temper.

“Why don’t you just do that yourself?” I asked. “He’s up in his room. Why don’t you just go up and give him a piece of your mind?”

Silence.

“He wants an answer by this evening. You’d better get moving.”

Of course they found out nothing and no doubt would have concealed the truth even if they had known. But in order to pacify the Chief I didn’t dare not to pretend.

“Have you found out who broke off my rose?” he asked as I served them at table that evening.

“No, inquiries are still being made,” I answered.

The sat opposite each other at the long table in the huge refectory; I had set the table in the smaller dining room but the Chief was displeased. They seemed so tiny at the vast table, six empty chairs on either side; she quiet, with no appetite, merely toying with the meat on her plate, listlessly pushing bits around with her fork, only a few peas actually making it to her mouth; he hunched in his chair, his eyes mostly lowered. Not a word for the first few minutes. The silver made the only sound in the room. I coughed and he looked up.

“This meat isn’t right,” he said. “It’s supposed to hang for eight weeks, minimum. Eight to twelve weeks. This has been hung for no more than a week or two.”

It was approaching midnight when the staff informed me that the disappearance of the rose was still a mystery. The Chief and Miss Davies had taken seats in the theater to watch her new movie. They had watched it the previous day, as well. It had been savaged by the critics; the Chief was apoplectic, Miss Davies resorted to the bottle.

I entered the room quietly. Miss Davies was dozing. The Chief didn’t notice me until I was right next to him.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, “I just wanted to let you know that we can’t find the culprit.”

He frowned and I thought he was about to reprimand me when Miss Davies said without opening her eyes:

“Good.”

I seized my chance.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll bid you good night.”

I felt pretty damn pleased with myself as I climbed up to my room. I’d got the better of him this time; whatever anyone said, I hadn’t given way. It wasn’t until I sat down at my desk and pushed open the window that it occurred to me what a hollow victory this was.

They came upstairs shortly afterwards. Miss Davies went to bed but he walked into his office. I was wary, but fell asleep in the end.

It was after three when he summoned me. I leaped out of bed, dragged on pants and a shirt and hurried to his room. He lay on a sofa in the gothic library, covered with a blanket.

“Read to me, Christian,” he said. “I can’t sleep.”

“What would you like me to read?”

“
Oliver Twist,
the beginning, just the first few pages. That should do it.”

“That’s the book that got burned,” I said.

“Burned?”

“By the swimming pool last year.”

“Something else, then,” he said. “Anything.”

I read the beginning of the
Arabian Nights.
As so often before, I imagined I was reading to a child. A lamp was burning on a table behind me, the other lights were off. When I stood up and went out, he lay still as death on the sofa, his eyes closed, his face long and white, like the marble heads on the statues outside.

40

I don’t know what’s come over me lately. I didn’t even have to look at the letter I wrote you yesterday to recall what nonsense I’d written; every word was fresh in my memory when I woke up. You’ll have to forgive me my ramblings. I should have been more thoughtful when I told you about the finances. A lot more thoughtful.

I wasn’t myself yesterday, plagued by a headache and upset stomach, but in spite of that I’m taken aback by the way I sounded off. In fact, I’m frightened by it. I opened the desk drawer as soon as I was dressed, grabbed the envelope containing the letter (it lay on top of the other letters I’ve written you), tore it up and flung it in the trash.

Now it’s calm and sunny and the birds are teasing each other in the hedge outside the window. I feel lighthearted, well slept, and sense it’s going to be a good day.

To tell the truth, I have nothing to complain of. I shouldn’t go on about the Chief the way I did in that letter. It’s bad form. He may not be perfect, no one is, but I’m indebted to him. He’s under a great deal of pressure these days, so it’s no wonder if his conduct sometimes leaves a lot to be desired. I can’t let it rile me. And I should take more care over what I write in my letters to you. After all this time, I shouldn’t waste time charting my daily ups and downs.

I’m still amazed, even today, that he ever offered me this job. I’m sure that men much better qualified than I am would have fought for it, but I know he didn’t talk to anyone else. We had only known each other a couple of months; when he was a guest at the Waldorf he always asked specially for me to serve him.

Our first meeting came about when I was sent up to his room with tea. This was when I had just started. He was alone. It was ten at night. The moment I knocked, I sensed something was wrong.

I heard him retching as soon as I opened the door. I guessed it was food poisoning. He lay on the bathroom floor in a terrible state, desperately weak. I called for a doctor immediately, helped him into bed (he was heavy even then), washed his face with a wet cloth and dressed him in a clean shirt. It must have taken at least ten minutes for the doctor to arrive. I ran cold water onto a small towel, wrung it out and placed it on his forehead. He was burning hot yet his body shivered and trembled. I had never seen anyone this sick since our little Einar had pneumonia. Do you remember how scared we were then?

After that he always asked for me, and my duties were to attend to him exclusively whenever he was staying at the hotel. Just as well, since he never took a breather. In those days he was happier than he is now and would sometimes say to me before we bade each other good night: “Another day over, Christian, and I haven’t thrown up.”

I try to do as well as I can and most days I feel just fine up here on the hill. I have nothing to complain of and I’m fit as a fiddle, thank the Lord, and still quick on my feet. Yesterday, admittedly, I wrote something about having been servile all my life, but the truth is that chance alone led to my becoming a waiter at the Waldorf-Astoria. I never meant to stay in the job, and no doubt I’d have turned to something else if Mr. Hearst hadn’t spoken to me. But during those years everything was so topsy-turvy that the days turned into weeks and the weeks became months—time was a leaf in the wind.

I well remember the hotel manager’s expression of astonishment when I entered his office.

“Mr. Benediktsson,” he said, “I’m surprised to see you again.”

I won’t hide the fact that I’d had a stiff drink at lunchtime to pluck up courage, but I’m certain no one could tell.

“I’ve come to pay my debt,” I said.

It was almost a year since I had left the hotel without settling the bill for my last six weeks there. I had always intended to pay it; you know I’ve never liked to owe money to anybody.

He raised his eyebrows.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said and offered me a seat. “I always expected you would.”

I can’t help smiling when I remember his reaction to my proposal.

“Work off your debt? You? In service?”

He was a splendid fellow. Though I was probably the only member of staff he treated as an equal, he was still a good boss to everyone who deserved it. I had just finished paying off my debt in full when Mr. Hearst invited me to move to California, and I can say with some pride that I know the manager regretted losing me.

I only once saw Jones there during my stay; I hurried away before he noticed me. He was having lunch with someone in a blue suit. I didn’t see the man’s face. Jones did the talking.

“You? In service?”

The manager obviously had a hard time reconciling the man who now stood before him with the Mr. Benediktsson who had been a valued guest at the hotel. As I was about to stand up, he asked:

“Where have you been these last few months, anyway? We tried to track you down . . . ,” adding: “We thought maybe something had happened to you.”

I hesitated, then told him I’d been staying in Sag Harbor on Long Island, doing this and that.

“This and that?”

I thought it unnecessary to list the casual jobs I had taken during those months that I wanted to forget.

“I worked in a torpedo factory,” I said. “Most of the time.”

“Well,” he said, having decided that this was probably the only way he was likely to get any money out of me. “It’s a good thing you’ve returned to civilization. We’ll give it a try.”

I opened the door.

“Someone came and asked after you a couple of months ago,” he said as I was leaving. “A woman. She didn’t give her name.”

I didn’t pay much attention, simply nodded and told him I’d report for duty the following Monday. Later, when I mulled it over, I realized that it must have been one of Klara’s friends from the theater. I had no interest in seeing any of them.

No, I don’t know what came over me yesterday. But it’s passed now and my thoughts are cloudless, a good smell of coffee wafting up from the kitchen. The gardener is hosing down the terrace, the sun drying the stone. I feel in high spirits.

It’s going to be a good day.