“When I’m working, I’m happy. I’m satisfied.”
Again he gave me his grave, rather winning smile, and now I saw that his brown eyes could twinkle a little.
“Perhaps you are only happy because you have not taken time to taste the other things. Perhaps while you are here you will let me introduce you to some of what we enjoy.”
“Thank you,” I said, and knew I sounded unenthusiastic. Gunnar Thoresen was not part of my purposeful concentration. It was Laura upon whom I must focus, and I had no time for distractions. It didn’t really matter whether he liked me, or I liked him, providing he helped me. I assured myself of that quite firmly, resisting any appeal he might have for me. I had no time for anything but Laura.
We walked back to the hotel through an evening that was just beginning to grow a little dark, and we parted in the lobby with the word that Gunnar would call for me at nine-thirty the next morning.
I went upstairs to my room feeling unduly weary, and knew that the change of time, the little sleeping I had done on the plane, all were beginning to catch up with me. Plus a depression that I didn’t altogether understand. A depression that seemed to grow from the effort it took to be my individual self, purposefully and unwaveringly. Gunnar, if he knew my intentions, would try to sway me from them—or simply stop me entirely. It was difficult to be constantly on guard, as I must be.
After a steaming hot bath, I went gratefully to bed, discovering for the first time the luxury of a Norwegian eiderdown which tucked me in like a sleeping bag and lulled me quickly to oblivion.
Chapter 3
Apparently the university students roaming the streets stayed up a good deal later than the rest of Bergen. Until early in the morning there were outbursts of laughter, shouting, snatches of song. But I heard them dimly through my dreams and came wide awake only once during the night. Then I thought it was morning because of daylight that flooded through my window. My watch told me it was three-thirty, and I got up and closed the draperies, went back to my eiderdown.
By seven-thirty I was refreshed and ready for the day. I found there was a certain brisk lift to my steps as I moved about the room, dressing. My depression was gone and I was ready for the meeting with Laura Worth. Today I would make sure that I saw her only as an actress, and I would lull her into accepting me as a writer. That must be the relationship between us at first. There would be no more shivering and trembling at the sight of her. No more “blood line” betrayal. No weakening of my original purpose.
I dressed in a plaid skirt and woolly white sweater, and slipped my feet into sturdy brown walking shoes. I was hungry by the time I went downstairs to breakfast.
The breakfast room was on the second floor, and already there were English and American hotel guests lining up to serve themselves from the koldtbord. I found I could have all I cared to eat of an assortment of cereals, breads, meat, herring, cheeses, and a choice of fruit juice, and coffee and tea.
I filled my plate and found a table near a window, where I could watch my fellows as they moved about the room. Early May was still well ahead of the real tourist influx, but there were already a number of visitors in Bergen, aside from businessmen who were here from Oslo or other parts of Scandinavia. Bergen was a busy commercial city, with shipping and fishing its main industries.
Breakfast, including the goat cheese, which I liked, girded me further for the day, and when Gunnar called me from the lobby I went downstairs cheerfully to greet him.
I knew at once that he had read my father’s letter, and that whatever it contained had set him on guard against me. In a way, I was sorry for this. I had liked Gunnar Thoresen, but I could not afford to let the wary change in him defeat me. Undoubtedly my father had written something about my attitude toward Laura, and Gunnar was ready to ally himself against me at my first betraying word. But I knew how to meet the danger. I set myself to being wholly a writer this morning, my senses alert to everything around me, my notebook ready to take down impressions. I used it once or twice on the drive to Fantoft in Gunnar’s Mercedes, and it seemed to allay his suspicions of me to some extent. I was not wholly fooling him. I was a writer.
The drive proved to be a pleasant one. The road ran around the base of Ulriken, the great hulk of black mountain next to Flöyen. That was where the cable cars went up, Gunnar told me. They were still skiing on Ulriken, and he had a hut up there that had belonged to his father.
“It is not permitted for private persons to build up there any more,” he told me. “But I am able to keep my father’s hut. We will go up there before you leave Bergen. Perhaps we will even take Laura with us.”
So at least he was not going to back away if I tried to form a continuing relationship with her. Now and then as we drove, I glanced at his rugged profile, and saw in him more than ever the strong crags of rock that were Norway. I must move carefully now, very carefully.
The countryside was still brown and sere, but little lakes shone blue under the morning sky, and small houses graced the islands that floated in them. When we reached Fantoft, Gunnar drove at once to the stavkirke and parked his car in a clearing. We got out and he stood beside me in the strong sunlight that fell between leafless branches, looking even more lean and tall than I’d remembered him from yesterday.
“We are early,” he said. “I wanted to show you the church first. It is something you will see nowhere else in the world. I believe a copy has been built in your Middle West, but this is one of the ancient buildings.”
I was keyed for my private war, not for sightseeing, but I had no choice. The church was hidden from us over the brow of a hill, and together we climbed among pines and gray beeches, with the earth still brown from winter on either side of the steeply winding path. Except for a single outdoor workman, there was no one about. These were not sightseeing hours, and the church would not be open until afternoon, Gunnar told me.
The place had a somber mood of its own, wild and lonely and set apart, with all the tawny, bleak color of a time when snows are gone, and the earth has not yet quickened to green life. Only the pines gave an accent of green, and they were dark and austere.
As we neared the top of the hill, the church came into view. It was set in an enclosed rectangle, with a mound of rock frowning upon it from one side, and the hilly ground slipping away unevenly on the other three. I stopped to stare in astonishment at a past that had only just supplanted the pagan in Norway. The building was a tall, narrow structure made entirely of wood, and painted dead black. It rose thinly toward the sky, with its steep, shingled roofs overlapping one another like layers of armor, from the pointed rod at the top of the tower to sturdy supporting pillars which rose from the ground—the staves which gave these churches their common name.
It was all that lightless black which disturbed me most—so unexpected in a church. Everywhere there was hand carving. Every shingle had been lovingly carved to channel the rain, and from high ridges carved ornamentation thrust the heads of dragons and serpents into the air. Outside the walled enclosure beeches raised bony branches, as if in mimicry of dragon and serpent. I was stopped by some feeling that oppressed me, held me disquieted. There was a sense throughout this place of evil warring with good. That, of course, was why the building had been raised—to combat the thronging evils of a pagan world.
“Tell me about it.” I spoke softly, not wanting to disturb the hush.
Gunnar answered as quietly. “The building was moved here—I believe in 1884, when it was about to be torn down in another place. But much of it probably dates from the twelfth century. Norwegians have always loved wood, loved to work with it, and carve it, and their skills were very great, even in those times. When there is a gale, the building moves with the wind like a good ship, but no wind have ever damaged it.”
“Why is it black?”
“That’s only the tar with which it has been coated to preserve the wood. Otherwise it would disintegrate.”
“And the serpent heads? The dragons?”
We went up the path and around to the shingled entrance gate of the enclosure. Inside, at the left of the gate, was a brown mound of earth with a huge black stone cross surmounting it.
“That cross belongs to a time when Christianity was fighting paganism in Norway,” Gunnar said. “There were no churches in the year 1000. People used to gather to worship in the open about such crosses long before churches were built. At one time there were many of these stavkirkes, but now there are only about twenty-eight left. We preserve them lovingly.”
A narrow, arched walk had been built around the outside, close to the walls, and protected by the lower roofs. The front door was closed against us and we moved out into the chill, sunny morning to sit on a low stone wall that surrounded the enclosure.
I looked doubtfully down upon the path we had just climbed. “If Laura is ill, how will she ever get up here?”
“If necessary I will help Irene bring her up. But I suspect she will rouse herself to make the effort. Perhaps her apathy and weakness are an armor she wears. She may be curious about you. Remember that you are Mary Thomas.”
I was content with the masquerade. It might be better for my purpose if Laura had no warning about my identity ahead of time.
We waited in silence in this silent place, and I raised my face to the warming touch of the sun, as though it might heal me of disquiet. I felt no peace in this quiet haven. It was as if the evil dragons and serpents found their counterparts warring inside me, and would not let me be.
In a few moments we heard the sound of voices on the path below, and I felt the quickened thumping of my heart. But today I was prepared. I would not be shaken. I steeled myself against any betrayal of the blood.
She came ahead of Irene up the path and she leaned on no one’s arm. She wore brown slacks and a gaily figured Norwegian sweater that set off her still remarkable figure. Her dark head was bare and no fur collar shielded her face from view. She wore her hair waved slightly back from a central part and wound into a Grecian coil on the back of her head. No traces of gray had been permitted to show in the dark brown strands. Above the rolled neck of the sweater her head rose proudly, the chin lifted, delicate, slightly flared nostrils breathing the clear, piny air, luminous eyes raised to search the enclosure above her. Today she wore lipstick and there was a faint blush of rouge on the wide cheekbones, brightening her deep-set eyes. She saw us and waved, then came on more briskly. Irene, who was far younger, followed her, puffing.
“She’s marvelous,” Gunnar said softly. “I have never seen her fail to rise to a challenge. As I thought, you will be good for her. Let her know your admiration quickly. Give her a fresh audience.” There was a certain command in his tone. He didn’t mean to let me get out of hand.
I too marveled that the weak, helpless woman I had seen yesterday, a woman barely able to descend a flight of steps and get into a car, should turn into this radiant person who climbed the hill toward us. I realized what she was doing. She was making an entrance, putting on a performance for my benefit, and it was doing her a great deal of good. In spite of myself, I was forced to admire the effort.
She reached the summit and came through the gate as though she wanted to escape the worried pursuit of Irene Varos, who hurried after her looking thoroughly distressed. I had time for only a glance at this companion and saw the thin, quiet woman in a brown coat, with a brown beret pulled over black hair that was drawn into a smooth bun at the back of her neck. She was probably less than forty, yet for the moment Laura Worth, by her manner of moving, seemed the younger of the two.
“My dear Gunnar!” Laura said, as she came toward him with both hands held out. I knew her voice at once.
He took her hands in his and bent to kiss her cheek. “You are looking splendid, Laura. I have brought someone to meet you. This is Miss Thomas from New York.”
She turned to me, graciously charming and welcoming, yet not overdoing the welcome. I was the suppliant, not she.
Her hand felt cold in my warm hand from which I’d quickly stripped the glove. Her thin face wore the ravages that I had glimpsed yesterday, but rouge and lipstick and delicately applied eye shadow gave a surface illusion of youth that her manner supported. Laura Worth, I sensed, could, if she chose, fool the beholder into thinking he saw what was no longer there. I felt no pity in clasping her hand, no shock of dismay. This was Laura Worth the actress who greeted me, and I was glad that it should be that way.
“Miss Thomas—how very kind that you wanted to meet me. That you believe I am remembered.”
I was on safe enough ground now. “But of course you’re remembered. There’s a Worth Festival of your pictures running in New York now. I saw The Whisperer again only a few days ago. I’ve always thought you were magnificent in it.”
“Thank you. As you might guess, it is not my favorite picture. Its associations are too painful. Have you seen any of my others?”
“As many as possible,” I told her. “There have been several revivals. I think I was ten years old when I went to see my first picture of yours. My father took me. He was a great Laura Worth admirer.”
Gunnar coughed gently and I glanced at him and went on. “Of course you’ve been popular on television too, so you’re remembered even outside of New York where there are no Worth revivals.”
“You’re very kind. We must talk a bit. I want to know about this book which Gunnar tells me you are writing. Come and sit here beside me.” She patted the stone wall as she seated herself upon it. Then she waved a gently imperious hand of dismissal at Irene and Gunnar. “You don’t mind leaving us alone for a little? I want to talk to this charming young woman from New York.”
I caught Gunnar’s warning glance as I sat on the wall beside her. I was quite content to have her think me “charming.” Content to have her trusting and unsuspicious.
“Now then,” she said, “tell me what it is you want of me. You know it has been my rule for many years never to be interviewed.”
“Perhaps it’s time for that silence to be broken,” I said. “Among young people at home there’s a growing Laura Worth cult. And of course you’re remembered by the older generations. Perhaps this is the time to let the world meet you again.”
“Through you?” She smiled at me, but she was not quite so trusting as I had thought. I must remember that this was a sophisticated, knowledgeable woman. There was a slight skepticism in her eyes, and I bristled.
“I’ve had a number of pieces published in papers and magazines,” I said. “Even though I’m young, I’m not a beginner. Several famous women stars who know my work have agreed to let me interview them.”
“I see. Mary Thomas? I don’t believe I’ve read any of your writing. But then, I don’t read many American papers or magazines any more.”
“My book wouldn’t be complete without you.”
There must have been a ring of sincerity in my voice, for she reached out and touched my arm in the sort of endearing gesture I had seen her make on the screen so many times. My flesh seemed to burn at her touch and I had to make an effort not to draw away.
“You must remember that I’ve sometimes been badly treated in print,” she said. “That’s one reason I’ve made the rule of no interviews. That and the fact that I was bothered so much for a while that reporters became a great nuisance for me. I’m not altogether sure I should break my own rule now. Gunnar has been persuasive. That’s why I’ve agreed to see you. He persuaded Irene, who talked to me. He’s a good friend, and if he thinks this is wise—then perhaps—”
“You will do it, won’t you?” I said.
Her warm smile lightened the lines of her face and made it momentarily young. “Then begin,” she said. “We’ll try this out. What is it you want to ask me?”
“Not here.” I shook my head. “I’ll nee
d more time. I’ll need the opportunity to sit down quietly with you where we can talk and I can make notes. Can that be arranged?”
Her smile trembled into uncertainty and the lines deepened once more. “I’m not sure that would be possible.”
“Why not?” I asked bluntly.
She looked away from me, looked at the black, peaked church rising above us, her eyes moving to the nearest dragon’s head. Then she shivered and gestured toward Irene.
“May I have my jacket, please? It seems a little cold. I’m sorry, Miss Thomas, but I haven’t been well, and I’m afraid what you ask is impossible.”
Gunnar heard her and came forward as Irene put the jacket around Laura’s shoulders.
“Nonsense! Whatever it is you are being asked to do, I am sure you can manage it. Miss Thomas will be good for you. In this little while she has made you seem like the Laura I remember. Give her what she wishes. Share yourself with the world. You are part of a time that must not be lost.”
Her thick lashes fluttered briefly and she flung him a sidelong, upward glance that was age-old in its charming coquetry.
“I suppose I have lived long enough to be historic. But do you really think I’m that old?”
“I think you are eternally young.” He was not mocking her, or teasing. His eyes were warm with admiration and affection. “Nevertheless, you have grown a great deal as a woman since the time when you were a star. You have more to give in an interview then you had then. You have the judgment with which to look back. I have no knowledge as to whether Miss Thomas can do you justice. I, too, have not read her writing. But you must let her try.”
Listen for the Whisperer Page 5
