Walking Into the Night (18 page)

57

The plains behind, yellow fields and paddocks in the distance. She woke as the train was crossing a river; cattle wallowed in the channels, while farther down the current was stronger and the sand was red on the banks.

The sky was a long way off and the swallows which flew downstream seemed to float beneath it; her gaze followed them until her lids drooped again and she slept.

Cousin Hans met her at Grand Forks station. Maria was with him; she ran to her mother and wouldn’t leave her side. Einar had stayed behind at the farm with Hans’s wife. Their own children were grown up, except for one teenage girl. There was a white church in the field. Beyond it cows were grazing.

Einar was out in the meadow when they arrived. He came up to her and she stroked his cheek.

“My boy,” she said. “You’re so brown.”

The wind sent ripples over the field, the sky arched impossibly high over the farm, the church tower stretched humbly towards it, a long way from the Almighty.

At night the stars hung like cheerful lanterns in the sky. The meadows were blue in the moonlight, the stars mirrored in the pond below the farm. The mornings were long and white, but in the evenings the brightness dimmed imperceptibly, and suddenly it was dark.

Nobody asked about her trip to New York. They didn’t need to. Even Maria was quiet.

“There’s enough food for everyone,” said her cousin. “Stay as long as you like.”

“Perhaps a few weeks,” she said. “In case . . .”

He dropped his eyes.

“Just in case we hear anything.”

She played the organ in church. On Sundays there was a service at eleven. The congregation numbered between fifty and sixty; Hans preached in English but sometimes read aloud from the Icelandic Hymns of Passion. There was a great deal of singing and afterwards people drank coffee. The dogs fought outside in the yard, then sprawled in the sunshine.

As fall turned to winter, the goldenrod and cattail withered, the sunflower disappeared and the meadows turned a pale dun. The children went to school. They had both begun to speak English, but it was difficult to get Maria to leave her mother in the mornings. The first few days she cried, then she stopped but said in parting: “You won’t be gone when I get home from school, will you?”

Einar refused to speak Icelandic unless forced to. His English got better by the day.

Elisabet knitted and embroidered; her cushions and panels were sold down at Grand Forks, along with her sweaters, woolen hats, and scarves. The money went towards the household expenses.

She sat at the window as she worked. Sometimes when she looked out and glimpsed the pond she thought she was back at Eyrarbakki. She even imagined she could hear the pounding of the surf on the shore and see ships entering the bay. If she closed her eyes, she could see a gull.

She received a letter from Uncle Tomas. He told her news of Katrin and the twins, and asked what was keeping her. He hinted that the man who bought the company had not paid on time and was claiming that the business was even more rocky than he had been told when he signed the contract.

“I don’t know if you’ll ever see another krona from this man,” wrote Tomas. “Unfortunately, I suspect he is in the right. But I will still provide Katrin with the little allowance she needs to look after the house and the twins,” he added. “When you come home you ought to consider reducing your expenses. It’s a big house.”

The goldenrod’s baskets found their way into the panel she was embroidering, and the pale blue of the sky was also there. At the top stood the year: 1920. In the evenings Hans read aloud and the family sat and listened. Einar was drawn to Hans and stayed close to him. He woke at the same time as Hans in the mornings and went out with him at daybreak, down the slope to the barn. When they opened the doors, the warm smell of the animals greeted them.

Late in January she rose from a half-knitted sweater and went into the room she shared with Maria. She was alone in the house. She took out the bag in which she kept what was left of their money, counted it, then closed the bag again. Outside there was frost on the ground. Here and there a blade of grass poked through. There was ice on the pond, in some places pale with snow.

She was standing by the window when her cousin came in. He was alone.

“I’ve never been very good at arithmetic, cousin, but it seems to me that I can only afford to take one of the children home to Iceland with me.”

He looked down at the sweater, which she had left on the chair by the window. The needles lay on top of it.

“Now?”

“On the next ship. I’ve already stayed too long. The twins . . .”

“You know I’d lend you the money if I could.”

“Einar is happy with you. Happier than with me. I hope I’ll be able to send for him soon. Unless . . .”

She hesitated, turning away from him. When she started shaking he took her in his arms.

“Forgive me,” she said.

He held her gently, in silence.

“I don’t dare part with Maria.”

In the afternoon she walked down to the pond with Einar. The ice was like a mirror. They came to a stop on the bank; she pointed out to him some flowers frozen in the ice. Their petals had not lost their color, they looked as if they were stretching towards them, happily, as if towards a great source of light.

“My boy,” she said, “how you’ve grown.”

She took his hand.

“Let’s go in, Mother,” he said. “You’re cold.”

The train whistled as it set off. Hans waved with his left arm until it was gone, his right laid around Einar’s shoulders. The column of steam left behind by the train rose straight up into the cold winter air and slowly dispersed.

Then there was silence.

58

This is how I see you in my mind’s eye—

You’re sitting at the piano in the living room, it’s sunny outside. Einar comes in, you look up to greet him. How old would he be now, I ask myself from habit. Twenty-eight, if I’m not mistaken. Twenty-eight years old, imagine! The years run together in a single thread and I forget what came first and what happened later. He looks like me—yes, in fact I see myself as a young man as he puts down his briefcase in the hall and takes off his light-colored coat. Why should he be carrying a briefcase? I can’t explain it. But I’m always relieved by the sight of it.

You, on the other hand, have not changed. You’re always the same. It’s strange when I see Einar go over to you: you as you were when we first met, he a full-grown man. In earlier versions you are playing Mozart on the piano, but now I’ve managed to break free of him. I succeeded in the end. It wasn’t easy. Now I see your fingers gently stroking the keys (I remember it always seemed as if you hardly needed to touch them), but all I can hear is the sound of a bird singing in the garden. “
Tschik, tschik
.” A wagtail, I guess.

I expect the twins are upstairs. There’s no way I can conjure up a picture of them and I no longer look at the photo in the drawer as often as I used to. It confuses me. Puts time out of joint.

Maria is wearing a red summer dress. I see her cheek, faintly, as if in a mirror. She is fair, with shoulder-length hair. Delicately built like you, but taller. She is on her way downstairs when Einar comes in. The light streams towards her when he opens the door. She vanishes in the brightness and I lose sight of her.

That’s how I picture you for myself. Sometimes while I’m awake. Sometimes in a dream.

Always the same.

59

Mack came riding up the slope, reined in at the top of the drive, then turned and looked out to sea. The afternoon sun shimmered above the waves, the horse’s sweating flanks seeming to catch fire in its rays.

I watched him for a moment, then went inside, through the cool rooms, glancing briefly into the kitchen before going upstairs. Mack was still in the same place when I left, his reins hanging slack, his horse bowing its head.

In the kitchen the staff’s evening meal of soup and veal was being prepared. They had begun to ladle the soup into bowls. It was green, the bowls blue. But I continued on up the stairs because Mack had invited me to dine with him. He had little to say when he arrived just after midday, seeming more serious than usual, even preoccupied. When I said jokingly: “I expect you’d like to stay in the golden suite again,” he did smile slightly but made no reply. I hoped that whatever was troubling him would be dispelled by his ride over the hills.

The picture of the wheatear was lying on the desk in my room where I’d left it, half-finished. I’d completed the white rump and ochre breast, but its back, tail, and head still remained. However, there were no birds to be seen when I sat down in my chair on the balcony; at this time of day they seem to disappear in the endless sky, but when the blue twilight falls they return, perching on trees and bushes, silent as if contemplating the things they’ve witnessed on their journey through the sky.

At six the boy arrived and began to wash down the stones of the terrace. The trickling sound of the water soothed me and before I knew it my eyelids drooped and I fell into a doze. Yet I didn’t completely lose awareness; I heard him finish the job and turn off the water. His movements were gentle and unhurried, his footsteps died away slowly as he dragged the hose round the corner. Then dusk fell and the sky descended to earth once more.

The Chief and Miss Davies are due next week. It’s three months since they were here last. Unfortunately, Miss Davies’ latest film received no better reviews than her previous effort, so I doubt they will be in high spirits when they arrive. I’ll make sure that there is no alcohol concealed anywhere in the house.

I sat up in my chair when I heard footsteps on the path below. The lanterns had been lit. I must have dropped off; at least I wasn’t sure where I was when I opened my eyes. It was Mack coming in through the back door, still in his riding boots, taking off his hat and rubbing his hand over his head. Lights shone from the kitchen windows, accompanied by the aroma of woodsmoke and roasting meat; I heard him greet someone as the door banged shut behind him. He was well liked by the people in the house.

When he had gone, I reverted to my old game and imagined his footprints steaming up from the terrace, brining me a clue as to what he had been thinking about. Yet for some reason I was none the wiser. This surprised me as generally I can invent something, at least spin myself a yarn, hazard a few guesses. But Mack left nothing behind him but silence.

We dined in a small room off the kitchen, with a view to the south over the ridges and valleys. The last vestiges of daylight faded on the peaks of the mountains and their outlines vanished like a smudged pencil stroke. I told the maids we didn’t require their help—I would take care of serving and clear away myself. It was obvious that Mack didn’t want us to be disturbed. We watched the changing hues of the scenery, the meeting between light and darkness, until the sun finally set and the spectacle was at an end.

“Magnificent,” he said at last.

“Yes,” I agreed, “there’s no denying.”

“How long have you been here, Christian?”

I wasn’t surprised by the question, but had to pause and do some mental arithmetic before I could answer.

“Sixteen years.”

“Sixteen years, well I’ll be damned.”

“I came here in ’twenty-one. In the summer.”

“That early?”

“Yes, the first summer he stayed in the houses here on the hill. Work had hardly started on the main building.”

“There’ve been a lot of changes since you first came here.”

“You could say so.”

“Have you often had your differences?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You and the Chief.”

I replied that Mr. Hearst had a short temper but that we had always got on well, all the same.

“He’s never threatened to fire you?”

“Fire me?”

“When he’s lost his temper . . .”

“Yes, I suppose he has done that once or twice. But he cooled off and didn’t mention it again. Behaved as if nothing had happened. It’s many years ago now,” I added.

Mack seemed relieved. Finally he smiled and sipped his wine. I had begun to wonder whether he was ever going to touch it.

“Strange man,” he said then. “I was with him the day before yesterday in Los Angeles. He was in a bad mood. Miss Davies’ latest movie looks like a flop. He’s taking it hard. She was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t need this. It’s her fourth failure in a row. The old man was grumbling about everything. I had some things to go over with him—I’d put them down on paper so we could get it over and done with quickly, but he didn’t listen to a word I said. What do you think he wanted to talk about instead?”

I said I couldn’t begin to guess.

“Some rose he says was stolen from the hill here months ago. He reckoned he’d found a bush with a rose missing. Said he’d discussed it with you and told you to find the culprit. And what do you know?”

“What?”

“He says you lied to him.”

Silence.

Mack burst out laughing.

“He said he’d found out that you had discovered the villain and hidden the fact from him. Some kid who works for one of his papers and was a guest up here. Of course, the kid didn’t have the sense to keep his mouth shut, so the story got out and the old man realized that people were making fun of him. He told me to fire you.”

I rose to my feet and prepared to clear away the dishes.

“Can I offer you some more meat?” I asked.

“Told me to fire you the moment he knew I was on my way here. Couldn’t wait till next week when he’s coming here himself. There was no way I could make him change his mind and I’ve been worried sick ever since. But I feel better now. He’ll get over it like before. You’ll see. It’ll be forgotten when he comes here next week.”

He retired early. I heard him whistling as he went upstairs. I myself stayed up for a long time.