Walking Into the Night Read online

  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.

  60

  They arrive tomorrow.

  Since Mack left five days ago, I’ve been busy in my room early in the mornings and late at night. There are so many bits and pieces one collects over the years. I have absolutely no recollection of some of the things I find on shelves or in cupboards: magazine articles and newspaper clippings, all kinds of birds’ feathers that I picked up when I first came here. I remember how exotic I found some of them—in color, flight, and behavior—and I had trouble fixing them on paper during those first months, even though I had them before my eyes most days. I remember once I had been watching a hummingbird for weeks, but when I sat down to draw it, all that emerged from my pencil was a meadow pipit. I was taken aback. I hadn’t set eyes on one for years.

  I realized just now when I pulled out my desk drawer and happened to glance out of the open window that I have never described my room to you. I picked up the letters I had written— I had no idea there were so many until I took them out of the drawer—and leafed through a few to check if I’d remembered right. No, it was just as I thought, I had never put in writing anything about my apartment, the room I’ve grown fond of after all these years. I don’t know whether I was surprised; often one forgets the things that are closest. From my first day here on the hill, this room has provided me with a refuge and, if you can say this about a room, been a dear companion.

  It’s not a big room, fifteen by twenty feet at most, but it contains everything that matters to me. The things I brought from home are either here in the desk or in the drawer of the bedside table. Once I kept the boat that Einar had carved and painted blue up on my shelf, but I put it away in a drawer the day Miss Davies asked me about it. I remember being flustered and ending the conversation as quickly as I could; though there’s no doubt she formed her own ideas.

  The bed is against the northern wall, the balcony to the east, my desk opposite the bed, bookshelves between, and a chest of drawers by the door, which faces west. The windows are tall, reaching almost down to the floor. You can open both sides and I often do so when my room is stuffy. The balcony door has a glass panel. It’s a bright room.

  The furniture is of good quality, though unassuming. The bed and desk made from some red wood, the chest and bookshelf darker. Above the chest is an old map of Cairo that I long meant to take down, then changed my mind after I dreamed about the city one night.

  I saw a cloud approaching over a pale desert; when it drew near it changed color, turning red and green, before dispersing into a thousand wings. The birds flew silently towards an open square in the heart of the city. When they alighted, they turned into flowers. I forced my way through the throng (the people were speaking loudly in some foreign tongue), pulled one of them up and examined it. It was hot. Its petals were soft and downy. I felt its heart beating in my palm. When I raised it to my face I awoke.

  For a moment I felt a deep sense of bliss before the dream released me. I had touched beauty.

  I have never dreamed this dream again. Yet often when I go to bed I try to recall what sort of mood I was in when I lay down to rest that evening. Then I lie still in the twilight, the picture hidden on the wall, the desert cold under white starlight. But I haven’t found my way back there yet and know it is highly unlikely that I ever will.

  Sometimes I’m awakened by the light in the mornings, sometimes by birdsong, sometimes by a din in the kitchen or footsteps on the terrace below. There’s a rustling in the forest, a gust of wind wakes the leaves. I stretch, receiving the dawn through the open window. If I’m lucky this might be one of my good days.

  Yes, it’s strange that it’s never occurred to me to describe my room before, seeing as I’ve become so fond of it. Strange I should do so only now, when I’m beginning to suspect I won’t be here forever.

  61

  The car came up the hill later than expected; it was nearly four. I went to meet it, stopping as usual a few steps short and waiting for the chauffeur to get out and open the doors for them. I saw the Chief’s white head through the window, he was looking in the other direction.
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  Miss Davies got out first. She walked over to me. She looked unusually frail. He remained sitting in the car.

  “Come with me,” she said and put her arm through mine.

  “Shouldn’t I take the baggage first?” I asked.

  “It can wait. Let’s go inside.”

  I looked round as we walked up the steps to the lower terrace. He was still in the car. The chauffeur was standing by the rear door.

  “So,” she said as we entered. “You look well.”

  I didn’t answer, but nodded in thanks, if I remember right. She was rather pale and weary, so I couldn’t return the praise.

  She asked me to wait while she went to her room and cleaned off the dust from the journey, as she expressed it. When she returned she had removed her hat and applied some scent. She’d also had a nip of spirits. She could tell I knew.

  “It was a long journey,” she said, with the emphasis on long. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be here when we arrived. Did Mack talk to you?”

  I told her we’d talked.

  “About the rose?”

  “Yes, he mentioned the rose.”

  “And?”

  “He said the Chief wanted to fire me.”

  She sighed. Helena came and jumped up at her. She scratched the dachshund behind the ears, then pushed her away.

  “It’s all my fault,” she said. “He’s been impossible ever since they started showing that damned movie. Do you know what the reviews have been like?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Fair,” she said. “I’m awful and it’s a terrible movie. But he doesn’t understand. He thinks everyone’s got it in for us.”

  “When should I leave?”

  “Stop it. You’re not going anywhere. He just got mad. He’s still sore, but it’ll wear off in a couple of days. The mountain air always has a good effect on him. Maybe you should ride out with him tomorrow morning,” she said after a pause. “I’ll suggest it to him.”

  I thanked her.

  “We’ve got enough problems,” she said. “I don’t want any upsets here. By the way,” she added as I was about to leave her. “The silver. I bought it back. It’s going to be delivered today. To your attention. Bring it out when you set the table tonight. And don’t say anything about me buying it. That’s our secret.”

  She stayed behind when I went outside. The Chief had come in and gone up to his room. Helena followed me. She was lazy in the heat and lay down in the shade under a tree. For some reason my conversation with Miss Davies had failed to ease my mind.

  I didn’t see him until at the dinner table. Earlier in the day he had summoned the chef and given him his orders for the menu. He usually consulted me, so the chef was taken aback when he was summoned alone. He was nervous.

  “What do you suppose he wants?” he asked me.

  “Food,” I replied.

  The old man seemed puzzled when he came down to the dining room. He paused in the doorway and looked round before sitting down. At first I thought he hadn’t expected to see me, then I realized he was looking for Miss Davies. He shot a glance at the clock, then sat staring ahead in silence.

  I stood motionless. We were alone together in the room. The table seemed larger than before; he looked tiny in his chair beside it. He reached out for the ketchup bottle in front of him, turned it so he could read the label, waited. If he noticed the silver, he didn’t mention it. I hadn’t expected him to.

  “Where is she?” he said to himself, without looking at me.

  “I’ll go look,” I said.

  She walked into the room just as I reached the door. She was unsteady on her feet. Clearly she had been drinking after I left her. I led her to the table. She sat down without a word. She hadn’t changed for dinner. It was very unlike her, and it made me uneasy.

  I hadn’t seen him this depressed since the plane crash. There was misery in his eyes when he looked at her, yet he said nothing. It was she who began to talk.

  “You’d be much happier if you were rid of me. I’m nothing but trouble. So it’s best I go. We’re not even married, so it wouldn’t have any”—she searched for the word—“consequences. No consequences.”

  “Marion!”

  I had never heard her talk this way before. Never heard her mention one word about the fact that they weren’t married. My heart sank listening to her.

  He stood up and reached across the table for her hand.

  “You must eat. Where’s the food?” he asked loudly.

  I hurried out to the kitchen. He was standing over her when I returned, trying to calm her down. Unsuccessfully, it seemed. Her tone was mocking.

  “You can’t live with a woman you can’t even have a child with. These endless abortions. Hard for you. It must be so hard to be with a woman who’s so . . . What was the word you used—careless? I should have written it down so I wouldn’t forget . . .”

  She finally stopped, but didn’t touch her food. Just sat in silence, watching him trying to eat. He had no appetite. I invented a reason to leave the room. I saw he was relieved when I went.

  It’s a mystery to me why he took her into the projection room after dinner.

  “I really want to watch it with you,” I heard him say. “It’ll make you feel better. Such a wonderful movie. You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

  “No,” she said. “Please.”

  “Come on, take my hand.”

  I looked in on them half an hour later. They sat in darkness, images flickering on the screen in front of them, his head sometimes illuminated, sometimes in shadow. She sat slumped at his side.

  Ever Since Eve, the movie was called. She played a stenographer who becomes tired of men chasing her and goes into disguise as an ugly duckling. In the end, the man she loves discovers her natural beauty and marries her.

  “Look at that,” he said and nudged her. “That was terrific.”

  I thought at first that she was asleep, then heard the gasping sobs.

  “Stop it,” she begged, “stop the picture . . . you fool . . . I can’t . . .”

  I hurried away.

  62

  I had a hell of a time getting to sleep that night. Everything seemed to be collapsing. The waning moon cast a thin light into my room and when the leaves of the palm trees brushed against the wall it was as if someone was breathing outside the window. They had retired early; I left my door open in case anyone called me.

  When I got out of bed I thought I’d probably misheard. The wind had picked up outside and the branches of the trees beat against the wall from time to time as if their hearts were heavy. The moon threw their moving images onto the floor and up the wall; there was wildness in the weather. Nevertheless, I thought I heard a crash somewhere in the house, and pulled on my pants and undershirt before going out into the passage. The door to their suite was shut, so I turned and went downstairs. The faint luminescence of the wall lamps lit my way—the moonlight couldn’t penetrate this far. I heard footsteps and paused, then realized it was the echo of my own feet.

  I checked first whether anyone had left a window open in the kitchen or pantry, then headed straight for the reception rooms. It was as if something was pulling me, some force I didn’t understand.

  She lay on the floor by the terrace door. She was wearing a white silk robe; the moonlight enveloped her and the shadows of the trees raged over her like wild beasts. It seemed likely that she’d been on her way outside; her hand was stretched out towards the door. She was deathly pale, with foam at the corners of her mouth. I bent and lifted her head, it was heavy, her body limp. I felt a weak heartbeat.

  By the time the doctor arrived, it had started to rain. I was waiting for him by the main entrance. He wore a dark overcoat that was already drenched when he reached the house. I helped him out of the coat. He looked me in the eye.

  “Upstairs,” I said.

  I had carried her there. She was light. I’d never realized how delicately built she was; it was like carrying a bird.

>   I laid her on her bed before alerting the Chief. When he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes, I could see nothing in them but pain.

  “I’ve called the doctor,” I said. “I’ll wait for him downstairs.”

  I hurried away. Behind me I heard his footsteps as he went into her room. I thought I heard him say: “Marion, what have you done?” but paused on the staircase when he repeated the words: “Marion, what have I done?”

  The doctor’s shoes were wet. He left damp footprints along the passageway. I waited outside while he went into her room.

  I heard her retching. They called me. I ran downstairs to get a bowl. She was slumped on the floor by the toilet, the doctor holding her head. I wet a towel and washed her face, then helped her back into bed. She opened her eyes once, tried to raise her hand to touch my cheek but couldn’t manage it. I left the room again. The doctor stayed with her for twenty minutes. He came out alone. I escorted him downstairs.

  “That was a close call,” he said. “Where was she when you found her?”

  I told him.

  “And the pills?”

  “They were in her room.”

  “She didn’t have them with her?”

  “No, the bottle was on her bedside table, empty.”

  “It was a very narrow escape,” he said. “If you hadn’t . . .”

  He fell silent and I helped him into his coat, then put on my boots and fetched an umbrella.

  “It’s still raining,” he commented.

  We went outside.

  “You don’t need to come with me,” he said. “You’ll only get soaked too.”

  I went with him. The sea was audible in the distance. We walked towards the headlights of the car, which was waiting for him. The rain poured down. The lights flickered in the sheets of water.

  “They’ll come and fetch her in the morning,” he said. “When she’s awake.”