Walking Into the Night Read online

  The Chief was waiting out on the drive. He looked like a ghost. He had forgotten to put on an overcoat and the rain was streaming down his large, white face. He waited while they lifted the bodies down from the back of the truck and looked away once he had identified them, then hurried inside, his movements awkward, unwilling to let his employees see his tears. Miss Davies was nowhere to be seen.

  The meat locker was down in the cellar, directly below the kitchen. At the back hung carcasses of lamb and beef, while buffalo and reindeer were nearer the door. It was cold in the locker and Kristjan switched on the ceiling light before they spread out the tarpaulin on the floor and laid the bodies on top of it. He leaned over her, taking one more look. When he straightened up he thought he felt a breath on his forehead.

  “Klara,” he said to himself. “Why do I sense that you’re here?”

  He turned out the light behind them. When the others had gone upstairs he fetched a padlock and locked the door.

  The doctor was traveling, wouldn’t be there until morning.

  It was already nine. The Chief and Miss Davies still hadn’t emerged from their suite. The food grew cold in the kitchen as the good smells dispersed; the turtle soup and pressed duck, blood red in the center. Cheeses on boards, fruit in a bowl. The cream still waiting to be whipped.

  The storm had died down. He blew on the embers in the hearth, warming himself by the fire before removing the unused dishes and glasses from the dining table and clearing them away. All was quiet in the house and the wind made no sound. Walking with slow steps to the window, he pushed aside the curtains and looked out.

  In the pale illumination of the lamps out on the terrace, the wings of the angel drooped under the heavy evening shower.

  26

  “Kristjan, come here. Quick! Kristjan, come to me . . .”

  I started up. My heart was pounding. The sheets were damp with sweat and my thoughts were feverish. They attacked me without warning during the night, in the silence after the storm; fragments of thoughts and half-pictures, a voice which called when I closed my eyes, shadows stirring.

  “Kristjan, come here . . .”

  “Where?” I heard myself asking. “Where . . .?”

  I got up and went out on the balcony. The wind had died down and it had stopped raining. It was dark. I couldn’t tell where the plane had crashed.

  A moment ago I thought I was in my office down by the harbor in Reykjavik. I was putting away some papers in my briefcase and had relit a cigar that was smoldering in an ashtray on a table in the corner. The ashtray was made of green amber, in the form of a serpent biting its tail. I bought it in New York on my first trip there. “I wonder where it is now?” I said to myself as I sat up in bed. Then I realized where I was.

  In my dream it had begun to rain and when I looked out of the window I saw you dash across the street. You were in a hurry. I wasn’t surprised as you always seemed in a rush when you left the house. I put my passport in my briefcase because I was going to New York the following day, for the second time that year, 1917.

  You appeared in the doorway. Water was splashing off the brim of your hat, but you didn’t seem to notice. You weren’t in the habit of visiting me at the office, so I was afraid something was wrong—an accident, maybe. The children, I thought immediately, feeling my heart lurch. I was relieved when all you said was:

  “Will you be away as long as last time, dear?”

  The light was sharp behind you and your shadow stretched across the floor towards me, stopping at my feet. I could even smell your scent, and when I jerked awake and sat up in bed, I thought my fingers were wet from stroking your cheek.

  Had you begun to suspect something?

  I went back to bed and tried unsuccessfully to fall asleep. I felt her presence.

  When I ran my fingers up her neck, I paused by the hollow at the base of her throat. It was deep, always filled with blue shadow. I dripped some water into it. Sipped it.

  “Klara,” I said, “the water trembles each time your heart beats.”

  I heard my name again. In my mind, someone was calling my name.

  “Kristjan, come here . . .”

  I couldn’t lie still any longer and climbed out of bed. The floor was cold, so I wrapped myself in a blanket and slipped my feet into a pair of shoes. The key to the padlock was hanging on a peg down in the pantry; there was a bright lamp burning in the kitchen, so I didn’t need to turn on the light in the pantry. The house was silent.

  When I had licked up the water, I watched the last few drops evaporate on her hot skin.

  There was a low click as the key turned in the lock. When I opened the door I felt the sweat grow cold on my forehead. I wiped it with the blanket before turning on the light. The bulb threw a pale corona on the sheets we had spread over the bodies.

  She lay towards the back and I had to step over the men to reach her. The blanket tangled in my feet so I let it fall to the floor. I saw the mold of her face under the sheet. Her mouth seemed to be open. Kneeling at her side, I carefully uncovered her face.

  They were so alike. When I said goodbye to Klara there was the same serene expression. I remember how I wondered at this. The grimace of suffering had vanished in a moment, her skin slackened and her mouth closed as if after a long kiss.

  I smoothed a lock of hair from her forehead. The cut that I’d dabbed with my handkerchief had stopped bleeding and I had to bend nearer to spot the scratch. Her neck was long, the veins already turning white. Her lips were slightly parted. I smoothed the lock from her forehead once more, before covering her with the sheet again.

  Before I left, I kissed her cold forehead.

  27

  Summer in New York.

  He hurried into the building, pausing in the lobby to adjust to the cool shade. Outside the sun shone white on the trees lining the sidewalk, the clatter of hooves and the rattle of carriages entered with him. The door swung shut with a sudden slam, followed by silence. He removed his hat and took a note from his jacket pocket to remind him which floor the apartment was on. He heard a snatch of laughter outside and turned to see through the glass a young girl running down the street with a bandbox in her hand. A yellow ribbon trailing behind her had snagged on the wrought-iron railing around a sidewalk flowerbed. As she bent to retrieve it he noticed that her neck was pink from exertion.

  Andrew B. Jones, Jr., 310 Park Avenue, apartment 10B.

  He had noticed the scent of a woman in the lobby and stood still, breathing it in. He guessed that she must have come in just before him, pausing like him to allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the half-darkness, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek and glancing in the elevator mirror before entering. She had no need to remind herself of the apartment number.

  He was filled with anticipation but remained standing in the lobby, wanting to savor the sensation while it lasted. His face was ruddy from the voyage and glowing with vitality; when he clenched his fist the knuckles whitened and the veins swelled.

  He was free. Outside there was the smell of hope and blue skies, sunshine on a pink neck and people who smiled at you and said: “Welcome back to the Waldorf-Astoria, Mr. Benediktsson. Same room as last time. We’ll send up your bags.”

  The smell of a new world while the old one burned. The Great War had lasted for three years already and there was no sign of an end. Trade with Europe continued to decline, both imports and exports. The Icelandic Home Rule government had signed a treaty with the British that no ship would receive permission to sail from Iceland to Europe unless it went via a British harbor. He could still export saltfish to Spain, but the ships were more intermittent than before and he could no longer rely on being paid for the cargo.

  But here there was no war, no trenches, no killing, and ships sailed freely between Iceland and New York. Every now and then some lunatic got the idea of trying to urge American participation in the war, but, of course, that sort of madness found no support. There was spring in the air as early as March.
The buds appeared on the trees a month earlier than usual. People’s footsteps were light, their faces full of optimism. The days were getting longer, the evenings merry, the short nights passed in dreamless sleep. The streets were washed early in the morning when the smell of bacon wafted from the windows and mingled with the sea-smell from the river. At dawn, birds flew with sparks of light on their carefree wings.

  Here nothing burned but one’s fetters.

  “Will you be away as long as last time, dear?” was all she had said. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember how he had responded. He had taken a hot bath before setting off for the party, ordering a whiskey from room service and sipping it slowly as he soaked in the tub, enjoying the sensation as it burned its way through his mouth and throat. He had left the window open so he could listen to the thrum of the city outside. In the distance someone was playing music. “By the light . . . of the silvery moon,” they sang; he recognized the tune and whistled softly so as not to drown out the faint notes that entered on the light wind.

  A deep sense of well-being that arrived without warning and needed no analysis. He had dried himself in the warm breeze from the window and dressed in a leisurely way in white shirt and dark blue suit, flicking a duster over his shoes and running a comb through his thick, fair hair. “The silv’ry moon is shining through the trees . . .” The party began at six.

  She was wearing a white dress the first time he saw her. “This is my friend, Klara,” Andrew B. Jones, his agent, told him and kissed her on the cheek. “Swedish. Dances like an angel. Klara, this is Christian Benediktsson from Iceland. We call him the Icelandic Baron.”

  He knew at once. As he looked into her eyes. Knew what would happen. He was filled with fear and anticipation, held out his hand to her, releasing hers after the briefest touch. He knew right away, even pictured it in his mind.

  They first made love the day before he sailed for Iceland. It was hot in his hotel room, and afterwards they lay in silence side by side, watching the curtains billowing in the breeze.

  Now he was back in New York again. The Gullfoss had made its sedate progress up the East River just before dawn the previous day. The city was wreathed in white fog as the ship drew near. Here and there the buildings pierced the mist.

  And somewhere she was sleeping, under this white blanket. Perhaps Jones lay beside her, her lover, a cheerful young man, practical and eager to please. Maybe she would sense his arrival and toss on the edge of consciousness, smelling the fog outside the window; the fingers of one hand would contract, then relax one by one, her hand resting on the quilt as her lips parted.

  The ship sailed beneath the fog. He had arrived.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Benediktsson. There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the coffee lounge.”

  Andrew B. Jones, Jr., was an early riser. He got to his feet, putting down the paper he’d been reading, and greeted Kristjan warmly. At breakfast, he gave Kristjan the rundown on business: he had managed to get hold of all the wheat Kristjan had asked for and a little fruit, too, and almost all the sugar, though the iron wouldn’t be ready until later. Timber and paper would have to wait until the next consignment. There were plenty of textiles to be had, but it made sense to stock up, as the situation could change.

  The Waldorf-Astoria, Fifth Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street. While the city was awakening outside, deals were being done at every breakfast table. No one had time to waste: around the next corner another opportunity was waiting, the promise of a quick profit. There was a bird singing in a cage in the lobby. He was called the money bird.

  A waiter wearing white gloves placed a silver spoon on the table, bowed and retreated silently.

  Jones stood up. His business was done. They engaged in a long handshake.

  “And I don’t need to ask whether you avoid doing business with other Icelanders,” said Kristjan.

  “I only do business with the Baron.”

  “And I only with you.”

  “You have my hundred-percent trust.”

  “Likewise.”

  They smiled.

  “I’m having a party tomorrow at six. At home. I hope you can come.”

  “It would be a real pleasure. Six o’clock.”

  “Just close friends.”

  “Thank you.”

  Silence.

  “Klara and I have just become engaged.”

  Three-ten Park Avenue, apartment 10B. He glanced in the mirror and adjusted his tie. The woman’s scent was stronger in the elevator than down in the lobby. He had two gifts in a bag: a tie pin for his agent, a necklace for her, a white sapphire on a slender chain.

  The elevator doors opened. Noise carried out into the corridor. He heard the sound of her voice and walked faster.

  When she fastened the chain round her neck, the sapphire gleamed on the swell of her breasts.

  28

  Jones spoke with the childish fervor of a man in love.

  “The first time I saw her I stood up without realizing. She entered the stage from the left holding a basket, then laid it down on a small table and began to dance. The stage was covered with blue petals and she tiptoed between them without treading on them. They didn’t stir, it was as if her feet didn’t touch the floor. I thought she was going to float over to me.”

  He laughed.

  “This was no Carnegie Hall, my friend, but I would have stood there for a long, long time if the woman behind hadn’t nudged me and told me to sit down.

  “When she looked out over the audience, I felt as if she was looking at me.”

  Jones fell silent, then added:

  “Christian, I never knew a man could feel this way.”

  He seemed unable to stop talking about her. They were standing in a corner of the study, most of the other guests were in the living room. It was evening. Outside electric lights seemed superfluous in the soft spring. Inside were noise and laughter. He was intoxicated, but not drunk. Kristjan listened. There was no way out.

  “There’s no happiness like waking up beside her in the morning. Rain or shine, I don’t notice the weather. I’ve even started to feel bad when I’m away on business. Imagine, I wake up in the middle of the night in some hotel room and can’t get back to sleep, feeling something’s missing, tossing and turning till dawn, getting up the moment I see the faintest light through the curtains. Sometimes she talks in her sleep, but I don’t understand a word. Is it hard to learn Swedish?”

  Kristjan couldn’t stand it anymore. He looked at his watch.

  “Sorry to run on like this. I can’t contain myself.”

  Kristjan smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. They went into the other room. She came towards them, tall and dark, with a slender waist and long neck, her breasts warm and soft. Her lover held her against him. She looked over his shoulder at Kristjan who was standing behind him. When he finally let her go, she said to his guest in Swedish:

  “I’ve missed you.”

  Her lover was away on business.

  Kristjan was jittery when they entered the hotel together, so he went ahead and waited for her in the room. He knew she didn’t like it. She took such a long time to come up that he was afraid she’d left. Just before she appeared in the doorway, he’d convinced himself that he had lost her.

  Outside on the street he tried to keep to the shadows. They quickened their pace in the dusk, hand in hand beneath the cold church walls. From the open door came the sound of an organ. Then singing. They paused.

  An old woman came out of the church and looked at them. He glanced away.

  Klara turned around.

  “Let’s go into the church,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “ ‘I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys . . . for I am sick with love . . .’ Isn’t that what it says in the Bible? Let’s go inside.”

  The music enveloped them between the cold walls, the candlelight flickering in the draft. Above the altar Christ leaned against a pillar, his hands bound behind his back, the
whip raised for the blow. The cross towered against a painted sky, in the distance a glow presaged the dawn.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Why? It’s so beautiful.”

  He tore himself away from her and hurried out into the street. The hum calmed him.

  The window was open. They had turned off the lights, but it was still bright from the moon. She got out of bed and went to the window, listening to the din from a kitchen somewhere in the courtyard below, reaching out her hand absentmindedly to the moonbeam which fell onto the middle of the floor.

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  He obeyed.

  “Come here. Come to me.”

  Naked, he rose hesitantly to his feet, took one step forward, then stopped.

  “Take my hand. I’ll guide you.”

  When he had taken three steps towards the window, she stopped.

  “Here. Right here. And keep your eyes shut.”

  He stood still. She ran her finger over his abdomen as if tracing a line.

  “Can you feel this?”

  “What?”

  “Above this line the moon’s shining on you, but it’s dark below. Can’t you feel it?”

  She stood beside him.

  “I can feel it,” she said after a brief pause. “It feels colder where the moon is shining on me.”

  He woke up in the night. She was standing in the middle of the room, facing the window.

  “Klara,” he said.

  She didn’t answer, just kept moving towards the door. He got out of bed and went to her. She was asleep. He led her back to bed.

  In the morning, when he told her, she smiled.

  “So I’ve started sleepwalking again? I always do it when I dream about my sister Lena.”