Walking Into the Night Page 12

  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.

  41

  Though I don’t know how or when you found out, I think it only right that I should tell you when I discovered that you knew I’d lied about my education.

  I remember how happy I was that day. It was in the spring of 1915; I hadn’t yet begun my visits to the States. I’d worked hard for years to secure contracts to export saltfish to Spain and only that morning I’d received confirmation from my clients in Barcelona that they’d signed the papers and mailed them to me. This was a great relief, as I’d already made investments in order to fulfill my obligations according to the agreement.

  God, I was glad! This contract marked a turning point. At last I felt free of the burdens that I had inherited from your father. I told Stefan we should take a break, though it was only just after eleven, and walk down to the harbor, something we both enjoyed, before taking a long lunch at Hotel Iceland. It was no less of a relief to him; he knew about the commitments I had made and, being cautious by nature, thought I’d taken a big gamble.

  We’d barely reached the next street corner when I bumped into Svensen from the drugstore. We were on good terms, though we’d never spent much time together; he was a decent fellow, and his elder son had worked on the boats for me in the summers during his school vacations.

  “Thanks for your help,” Svensen said as we shook hands.

  I assumed he was referring to the place on the boat that I had arranged for his son, but fortunately he continued before I could reveal my misunderstanding.

  “No doubt your reference had an influence. He’s been accepted by the college.”

  What I discovered after a brief talk with Svensen was that the previous winter he had knocked on our door requesting that I write a letter of reference for his younger son, who had applied for a place at the Commercial College in Copenhagen, as he believed I was a graduate of the school. I was in Spain at the time, due back in a couple of weeks. You promised to relay his request to me, took the directions about where I should send the letter, and assured him that I would gladly provide the reference.

  Before we parted he took my hand in a firm grasp and thanked me again. Stefan and I walked down to the harbor. The high spirits that had raised me out of my chair a few minutes earlier had now dissipated, and when we reached the docks all I wanted to do was jump on board one of the ships and sail away.

  Could it have been a coincidence that the very day I finally thought I’d saved the company your father had almost bankrupted, I discovered that you knew about the lie which had been intended to make me seem more interesting than I really was? Yet again I had been put in my place. I could work like mad, slave day and night to salvage what your family had ruined, but when it came down to it I was still nothing but a country boy, uneducated, naïve, useful, but not good enough for you. And you wanted to protect me from facing this fact because you knew it would destroy the pretense that our marriage was built on.

  Did you think I would never find out? I don’t know. Perhaps you never considered it, perhaps you didn’t care, perhaps you thought it was best for me to find out like this. No matter how hard I try, I can’t understand what you were thinking.

  We were never equals, Elisabet. Not even when we made love. Even then it was as if you were placating a child.

  42

  Across the street, washing flapped on a line strung between two fire escapes on the fourth floor, but he didn’t notice it as he stared out of the window. The street was coming to life but she was asleep. They had been out late last night. Dancing. They had drunk more than usual. She moved restlessly in her sleep but didn’t surface. He watched her for a long time, trying to imagine what she was dreaming.

  The war was over. He could already sense the change that was starting to take place in the city. The parties were bigger, the pace faster. And business was booming. Stocks were all the rage. All of a sudden everyone owned stocks, which only seemed to increase in value. At parties people compared how much their portfolios had gone up since last week, since the day before, since this morning. And they didn’t have to lift a finger. Up ten percent. Up twenty percent. And the hemlines raced upward, as well, from ankles to knees.

  Yet he didn’t feel drawn to take part in the boom. He kept a casual eye on the latest novelties that were being invented and advertised, but it didn’t occur to him to acquire the agency for these goods and import them to Iceland. It didn’t occur to him to join in the game; he didn’t even try to ponder the cause of his indifference, but went out carousing every evening with Klara, slept late, made no attempt to do anything practical in the midst of all that frantic wheeling and dealing. Sometimes he vanished for two or three hours after lunch. When she asked him where he’d been, the answer was always the same: to the library to look at the papers. He failed to mention that he spent just as much time reading about birds. All kinds of birds. Especially the more exotic species.

  The hotel was cheap but clean, a week cost the same as a night at the Waldorf-Astoria. They’d moved here two weeks ago. She suspected he hadn’t paid for the last few weeks at the Waldorf— at least, their hasty departure gave this impression. He had moved their bags one by one, unobtrusively, over several days, and when they walked out of the main entrance for the last time, he joked as usual with the doormen, slipping them tips and asking them to make sure that the weather held fine that day. It was obvious they liked him. He made himself popular everywhere.

  His mood hardly ever altered but his eyes could take on a strange look when he’d downed a few drinks. Yesterday evening he’d insisted on introducing her to some Swedes he’d met at a bar, though he knew that she never liked to mix with her countrymen.

  “Klara, don’t be like that,” he said. “They might know your uncle. They say they’re from an old Swedish family. From Stockholm, I think they said. They’re amusing chaps.”

  “No,” she’d said, “I don’t want to meet them. Why are you doing this? You know I don’t want to.”

  “I thought it would amuse you. Your countrymen . . . from an old family like yours. I only suggested it for your sake . . .”

>   There was a strange expression in his eyes when he said this, as if his thoughts were quite different from his words. She was about to leave when he suddenly put his arms around her.

  “Do you hear . . . do you hear what they’re playing?” he said. “Come on, let’s dance!”

  She had never seen him lose his temper. He seemed incapable of quarreling, and she knew he would say things he didn’t believe in order to avoid an argument. Which is why she had difficulty believing that he had really been to see Jones just over a week after he had learned of their affair.

  “Who told him?” was her initial reaction.

  “It doesn’t matter,” answered Kristjan.

  She hadn’t seen Jones since it happened; when she had come home that evening her bags were waiting for her down in the entrance hall. She opened her suitcases in Kristjan’s room at the Waldorf-Astoria as soon as she arrived. She was taken aback when she saw how carefully her clothes had been packed. There was no question in her mind that he had done it himself. Shirts and blouses folded in one case, dresses next to them, her cosmetics in a bag in the second, along with her shoes; underwear, scarves, and knick-knacks in the third. Everything so neatly packed and nothing missing except the necklace her uncle had given her when she was confirmed. The doorman carried her cases out to the taxi. She hurried away; Kristjan sensed how relieved she was no longer having to look her lover—her former lover—in the eye.

  Kristjan was restless that night, pacing up and down silently. When she went up to him to put her arms round him, he pushed her away. Gently, but still pushing her away. She broke down. She thought she had lost them both.

  “You don’t give a damn about me. You’re just worried about what he thinks of you. That’s the only thing that matters to you. You can’t stand it if someone doesn’t like you . . .”

  Instead of sitting down beside her, he continued pacing and stopped only to say, as he stood by the window: “Don’t talk that way, Klara dear, don’t talk that way.” But she could see that his mind was elsewhere.