Walking Into the Night Read online

When he awoke and looked outside he thought at first that there had been a frost during the night. It was dawn; a veil of fog unfurled from the sea and rolled up over the sand dunes that lined the shore and the meadows which seemed gray with rime in the early-morning light. The remnants of a dream still echoed in his head so he couldn’t immediately remember where he was. When he finally got his bearings, it occurred to him that it was dew, not frost, that bowed the grasses. He moved slowly, tugging a warm sweater over his head before opening the window and inhaling the chill air.

  He heated himself water for tea in the silent kitchen. The Chief and Miss Davies had been away for a week; he didn’t know when to expect them back. The uncertainty troubled him.

  The Chief had abruptly been called away. His advisers had sent a telegram an hour before the costume ball, announcing their arrival the following day. Kristjan brought it immediately to Hearst, who hardly looked at it.

  They wasted no time. It was just past ten when their car appeared at the bottom of the hill; they had left Los Angeles in the middle of the night. Kristjan brought them coffee while they waited in the billiards room. They seemed on edge. The Chief kept them waiting nearly an hour. Miss Davies was still asleep; some of the weekend guests were up, having breakfast on the terrace.

  He was wearing a silk robe when he finally came downstairs, holding a copy of one of his newspapers—the San Francisco Examiner, Kristjan concluded after a quick glance. Instead of coming directly into the room, he paused in the doorway and regarded them in silence.

  “Christian,” he said after a moment, “could you bring me some fruit juice?”

  Without waiting for his butler to move out of earshot, he addressed his visitors:

  “I thought we hired Walter Winchell to write a gossip column about actors and entertainers. Since when did he become our expert on the Spanish Civil War?”

  He flung the paper onto the table in front of his advisers. Kristjan closed the door behind him.

  In the kitchen he prepared the Chief’s morning drink, a mixture of carrot and orange juice. A bee had wandered in through a gap in the window and was buzzing from one pane to the next. Kristjan watched it for a while, then opened the window a crack and let it out.

  He could hear the Chief’s voice out in the passage as he approached the billiards room:

  “It’s none of our business if Fascists and Communists are killing each other in Spain. We don’t support either side. I thought everyone knew that. At least the people on our payroll. Then I open my own paper and read this nonsense! Walter Winchell urging the nation to go to war in Spain! Walter Winchell, who was hired to keep our readers informed about who’s feuding with whom in Hollywood and who’s marrying whom on Broadway. Walter Winchell of all people . . .”

  He frowned heavily at his guests, adding, after a moment’s pause:

  “And on top of that he has totally neglected to write about Miss Davies recently. Totally neglected her . . . Perhaps he should be looking for another job.”

  Kristjan handed the Chief his glass of fruit juice. The Chief beckoned him to stay. There were three of them. Kristjan knew Jack Neylan by name but he’d never seen the other two before, both men of around thirty. They were obviously nervous and their eyes flickered to Neylan in the hope that he would break the silence and state their case quickly. The Chief drank his juice slowly.

  “We’re in trouble, Chief,” said Neylan at last. “It’s worse than before.”

  It wasn’t the first time Kristjan had heard the Chief’s advisers complaining about his spending, and urging him to abandon his endless purchasing of works of art and antiques.

  “Even if it was just for a few months,” he remembered Neylan saying over and over again one evening in New York.

  The Chief normally listened patiently but let their talk and their worries wash over him, changing the subject and ending with: “You’ll take care of this for me. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Kristjan had also heard Neylan say that the Depression had hit the Chief’s companies so hard that some of his papers and magazines were now struggling. Circulation had dropped in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, and Boston, and in addition papers like the New York American, the Evening Journal, and the Sunday American had all lost readers during the last four years. He knew, too, that the Chief had financed the buildings on the hill and the purchase of a castle in Wales and a mansion on Long Island with loans that he sustained by issuing debt and shares in his companies before taking out new loans to pay off the old ones. The antiques and works of art were paid for in the same way, that is to say when Hearst remembered. It had not escaped Kristjan that he had debts all over the place.

  Yet he had never thought it would come to this and was stunned when Neylan described why the profit from the Chief’s business ventures was not sufficient to cover either the interest on his loans or to pay the dividends on the shares. He said it had come to the point where the banks were not only refusing to refinance their outstanding loans but also demanding that he pay them off.

  The morning sunshine filtered in through the corner window, onto the billiards table, next to which the Chief stood. With his forefinger he slowly and deliberately traced the sunlight, his thoughts elsewhere. Finally his finger came to a halt. Without lifting it, he looked over towards the window.

  “You must come with us to New York as quickly as you can,” said Neylan. “Preferably today or tomorrow. We have to start negotiating with the banks.”

  The Chief continued to stare at the sunlight.

  “What do we need to give them to make them happy?”

  “A million dollars immediately. And that’s before we start selling assets.”

  He removed his finger from the table.

  “Sell assets? Out of the question.”

  “We can’t avoid it any longer. We can’t even scrape together a million dollars without sacrificing some assets.”

  They didn’t notice when she entered the room. She stood in the doorway behind Kristjan. He sensed her presence on the nape of his neck.

  “I want you to sell everything I own,” she said, clearly taking them aback. “That ought to cover it.”

  She departed as silently as she had arrived. The Chief left in pursuit. His advisers looked at one another, then hastily took their leave as well.

  Later that day the Chief and Miss Davies drove to Los Angeles, where they took the Super Chief to New York. There was not a breath of wind as they disappeared down the hill, and the dust cloud thrown up in their wake hung in the air like a memorial long after they had gone.

  That was a week ago. How time flies, he said to himself as the kettle whistled to let him know that the water had boiled. He moved slowly, rubbing his hands together over the steaming cup to warm them. It was an unusually cold morning and the grass was still wet with dew, no longer gray but yellow where the pale rays of the sun touched it, blue in the shade. He was the only one up; there were fewer staff in residence than usual. The day after the Chief left for New York, Kristjan had informed the temporary staff that they would not be required for the next few weeks.

  The tea warmed him. When he had finished it, and the slice of bread he had buttered for himself, he meant to go round behind the main building to the workmen’s huts. He had promised to help them take the hay to the stables and was looking forward to sitting on the back of the truck with the pitchforks as they drove along the dirt tracks to the barn. He was looking forward to the sweet smell of dried grass, and to seeing the whites of the horses’ eyes as they watched him fork the hay down from the truck. And most of all he was looking forward to the physical exertion of a long, sweaty day laboring under the sun.

  He opened the door and stepped slowly out into the shimmering morning, cautiously, as if not to disturb an unaccustomed peace of mind. He closed the door quietly, leaving the empty rooms behind.

  12

  I don’t have much to tell you tonight. Don’t take my words to mean that I hadn’t been wondering what I should wr
ite to you when I finally sat down at my desk this evening. But for some reason I couldn’t summon up the energy to reach for the pen and unscrew the cap. Pen, I write, but, to be more accurate, it’s the pen you gave me when I turned thirty. I’ve carried it with me ever since. I had fetched a snow-white sheet of paper and placed it in the center of the desk, adjusted its position a couple of times and brushed off some pollen that had blown in the window when suddenly I was overcome and all the words seemed to have lost their meaning. It was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud and a shadow had fallen across my mind. At that moment it seemed to me that everything I’d written to you over the past few months was empty and pointless.

  I sat as if paralyzed in my chair, for this melancholy had struck without warning. Ever since this morning I had been looking forward to telling you about the mouse I found in a plant pot down in the living room the day before yesterday; all of a sudden it seemed so strangely dear to me. I dug a little hole in the garden and covered it with some bits of twig and leaves to make it cozy. I was going to describe to you how terrified it was when I took it out of the plant pot, because Helena had found it and was barking loudly and shoving her snout at it. How its little heart pounded as I carried it outside; it quivered in my hands but didn’t try to struggle, and I wondered whether it could sense—or, rather, whether it could sense in me—that I wouldn’t do it any harm. I had even begun to convince myself that I’d managed to communicate through my hands alone that I wished it well and would take care of it.

  I dug the hole in the flower bed outside Casa del Monte. It looked as if the wind was going to pick up during the evening, so I found a place between two stones where I knew it would be safe. During the night it began to rain, the branches of the palm tree outside my window lashed the house, and the rain battered the windowpanes. I couldn’t sleep, so I dressed and went down to the kitchen, stuck a piece of cheese in my pocket, and went outside. I was drenched within seconds as I hurried down the path. I was worried that the mouse might be out in the storm, so I was mightily relieved when I lifted the leaf from the hole.

  It was as if it knew I would come back. I took care not to shine the flashlight I’d brought with me in its eyes, but I couldn’t help noticing that its gaze showed unconditional trust.

  I can’t explain the moment of happiness I experienced as I knelt there beside the hole in the darkness. Why a tiny mouse should have such an effect on me . . . It ate the cheese out of my hand and didn’t move even though I stroked its back over and over. Thunder shook the sky and lightning tore it apart but the mouse remained calm under my finger.

  The following morning the sky was cloudless and the air smelled sweet after the rain. I knew even before I reached the hole that the mouse had gone.

  That’s what I meant to write to you when I sat down in my chair this evening. I hadn’t read anything into these events but I was looking forward to telling you about them. The sheet of paper waited, blank and snowy, before me, but suddenly I was snatched away, my fingers lost their grip on the pen, and I didn’t come to myself until the cap fell to the floor with a click.

  I stood up and went over to the window. Before I knew it I had begun to breathe on the glass like I used to as a boy. A circular patch of mist formed; I put out my finger and drew a little bird in it. A few seconds later it was gone.

  13

  She sat up in bed and stretched a slender finger towards the window by her head. A sudden shiver ran through her when its tip touched the icy pane, but instead of withdrawing her hand, she wiped the mist from the glass and put the wet finger into her mouth. The room was warming up; she had been asleep when the maid came in and lit the stove. All was quiet and she lay back, pulling the down comforter up to her chin, turning her head so that she could see out of the window, and waiting as she did as a child for a bird to fly past. She guessed it would be a tern—no, a sandpiper—and lay still to see if she was right.

  She had arrived home in Eyrarbakki yesterday morning after being abroad for a year and a half, having left in the fall of 1907. Her father came down to the jetty to meet her, while the maid, Katrin, hung back, half-hidden, peeping shyly now and then from behind a stack of empty barrels. She had been with the family since Elisabet was a small child and had missed her every day that she was away.

  She thought her father had aged during her absence. His cheeks were wet when he hugged her at the foot of the gangplank, his hands cold and the look in his eyes more distant than before, as if some part of him had taken its leave.

  “My sunbeam,” he kept saying. “My sunbeam has come home.”

  She was home, yet her mind roamed ceaselessly. She smiled absentmindedly when Kristjan appeared in her thoughts, brushed the hair off her brow and stood still, remembering every detail of his face.

  Wood crackled in the stove. The silence in the house seemed more marked after the dancing yesterday. It was heavier, more uncompromising than usual, as if making sure that the echo of the party would not dispel it. The celebration had gone on past midnight; Elisabet was tired after her journey but her father couldn’t contain his joy and gave the same speech three times, the last time standing on the long dining-room table, breaking off only when he lost his footing.

  “And now my sunbeam has come home and it’s as if a light has been brought into the house and now everything will be bright and beautiful and good. Lisa, my dear, come here.”

  “Father . . .”

  “Now, now, come to your old man because I’m going to tell our guests—now I’m going to announce to our guests—that you’re engaged.”

  The guests cheered with excitement.

  “Don’t be cross with me, Lisa dear, I just couldn’t wait.”

  “Who’s the lucky man?” called out Paulsen the pharmacist.

  “Kristjan Benediktsson, he’s called, from the West Fjords, a fine lad. Fine lad, I say. They met in Copenhagen.”

  “When you weren’t looking!”

  “Hey, Paulsen, I’ll get you for that, you rascal!”

  And then she was hugged and kissed.

  “Dear Elisabet, my darling girl, who are his parents?” . . . “When’s the wedding?” . . . “Is he still in Copenhagen?” . . . “When’s he coming over?”

  Her father flung his arms round his friend Paulsen and, waving to the harmonica player to strike up a tune, danced with him across the room.

  The party guests linked hands and formed a ring in the living room. Placing her in the middle, they surged up to her and away again by turns. She closed her eyes, imagining he was there with her, and danced alone, or rather floated until her father broke out of the ring and took her in his arms.

  The house seemed weary after the joyful night. Even the chimes of the dining room clock seemed slower than usual. But her room had warmed up and there was a comforting crackling sound from the stove; when she was small she used to believe she could understand the words it whispered to her as she was dropping off to sleep. It never failed to tell her what she wanted to hear.

  A black house with open sea to the south, behind it the moors and bleak open spaces, around it huts, outbuildings, and the fishermen’s bunkhouse. Eyes in the window upstairs and a clock striking in the dining room below; otherwise silence. There was no one about, the gravel path along the shore was empty; there was no movement except when the wind flattened the pale grasses by the path.

  A sandpiper flew by.

  14

  For centuries, Eyrarbakki, a small village thirty miles from Reykjavik, had been the main port and trading center for the southern part of the country. Elisabet’s father ran both the store and the fishing boats that operated from the harbor; Iceland belonged to the Danish crown and he held his agency direct from the king. He’d even persuaded Queen Louise of Denmark, wife of King Christian IX, to paint the altarpiece in the church that he’d had built in 1890. After a drop too much, he used to say that he’d done this in order to get an accurate picture of the Savior, for surely royalty must be better acquainted with Him
than the great unwashed proletariat.

  It was late in April that the first ships of spring arrived at Eyrarbakki, impressive vessels, two-masted schooners of eighty to a hundred tons, seldom crewed by fewer than six men. Lighters plied back and forth from their anchorage, ferrying coal, salt, and grain to shore. Rye was usually carried in the hold under the loose goods, while wheat and barley were shipped in sacks. Iron for horseshoes, roofing iron, and nails were packed in crates, as was cloth. Planks and boards were shipped separately. Floorboards and panels were hand-planed at her father’s workshop between the store and the warehouses where the coffee was kept alongside sugar and raw spirits. The alcohol was thinned with rainwater from the store roof before being poured into hogsheads with their three-way faucets; one for bottles, another for casks, and the third for barrels. One evening when her father visited the store after a drop too much, he mistook one of the hogsheads in the shadowy corner for an ox. Running home, he fetched a rifle, woke one of the workmen, and asked him to come with him. As they crashed through the door and rushed inside, he fired off a shot at the hogshead. After that, the hogsheads were known as ox-heads.

  Landing the cargo took up to a week, and then, in turn, work began on ferrying wool, saltfish, and cod-liver oil out to the ships. The wool was transported to Eyrarbakki by trains of packhorses, and the farmers often had to camp by the shop wall for two to three days before their turn came to be served.

  She liked the smell of the horses and opened the window by the piano to let it into the room. The music carried out into the stillness and the farmers edged nearer to listen. They caught a glimpse of a pale cheek in the window, through gauzy white curtains decorated with yellow flowers and butterflies flitting among them. Some of the farmers sat on the garden wall, silently chewing long-stemmed grass, putting their heads together now and then to whisper, so they wouldn’t drown out the rippling notes.

  Sometimes she looked up, yet they sensed she wasn’t looking at them but out over the bay at the white sails which the mild wind flapped occasionally as if to amuse itself. For a brief moment— then she would look down again, and the long, slender fingers would continue to send their songs out into the quiet afternoon.