She went to greet Gunnar, who was resplendent in a red sweater and gray skiing pants. Then she gave me an embrace of equal warmth which left me standing stiffly with her arm about me. She sensed my lack of response and stepped back, though her expression showed only a faint amusement. She didn’t really mind.
Watching, I saw what Irene meant. There was no apathy left in this woman, but neither was there the keyed-up nervous energy I had seen earlier. Somehow, during the night Laura Worth had come together and was all of one piece, solid. She was a woman of confidence and assurance and gaiety—all of which were based on something she believed to be real in herself. Her ravaged face gave the illusion of youth, her movements were strong and sure, her voice filled with that smoky quality that had electrified her audiences. Gunnar saw the change at once, and he threw me a quick look that was questioning, perhaps a little suspicious.
“You look marvelous, Laura,” he told her. “You look like Maggie Thornton.”
He could not have paid her a greater compliment and I had a wish to pinch him, to make faces at him—to do anything so that he would not encourage her further.
“It’s all thanks to my daughter,” Laura said brightly. “Leigh has made me see that I mustn’t waste my life any longer. There’s an audience waiting for me in America. They know me. They will welcome me home.”
For once Gunnar was taken completely aback. She accepted his silent staring as approval and nodded her white-capped head in the assured manner I had seen so often on the screen.
“Yes! I’m going back to Hollywood—or to whatever its equivalent is today. There are those with influence I still know. I’ll begin writing letters at once. I’m going to let the world know that I’m available.”
Gunnar gave me a long, cool look and regained his quiet self-possession. “I do not like this, Laura. I do not think I will be happy to see Laura Worth playing character roles—grandmothers, dowdy old women, perhaps. You have given something special to the world which still exists. I think you must not take this magic away.”
His words convinced her not at all. “What nonsense! Gunnar, my dear, you don’t know picturemaking as I do. There are many fine starring roles for the mature woman. Of course I shall not take the first offer. I shall be very sure of the story and my role in it, and of what actors I shall play opposite.”
Miles, coming down the stairs with Donia behind him, heard her last words.
“Don’t fool yourself!” he said sharply. “Do you think you’d have any choice in the matter? Of course they’d give you a try. If you want to go back, there’ll be a huge buildup. They’d exploit you in one picture to satisfy the public’s curiosity. And after that—pfft! The sooner you get this idea out of your head, the better.”
For just an instant her confidence faltered, but she answered him with dignity. “Even if I have to go alone, I must do this. But I had hoped you might come with me.”
Miles said nothing more, but his dark look gave no consent, no approval.
For once, I found myself in full agreement with him. But it was clear that Laura was off on her own wild course, and no mere words were going to alter her direction. I had a sudden swift vision of myself as I might become—a woman who rode headlong, whose wearing of a bit was sure to be between her teeth. The picture did not flatter me.
Donia, her small person enveloped in an oversized plaid jacket and yellow trousers that were slightly baggy at the knees, had come bouncing down the stairs behind her brother. She looked from face to face with the alert air of the born troublemaker, and when she spoke she took us all by surprise.
“Don’t listen to them, Laura. Of course you’ll be stupendous in pictures—as you always were. You mustn’t let anyone discourage you.”
Laura accepted this strange bedfellow calmly, without being impressed. Her manner told us that she needed neither encouragement nor discouragement now. She knew her own course and she meant to follow it. Watching her, I felt a little sick inside. I remembered the ugly note I had found last night in the sandalwood box. It was in the pocket of my jacket now. I wondered even more sickly which one of them had left me that scrawl.
Irene had packed a lunch basket for us to take up the mountain, and we all trooped out the door, with Gunnar carrying the basket. Laura ran ahead toward the steps, her lithe movements contrasting astonishingly with those of that apathetic woman I had first seen leaning on Miles’s arm. Gunnar stayed behind to wait for me as the others went ahead.
“So you have done this?” he said gravely.
I could not meet his eyes. I felt ashamed and abashed, and I hated feeling so.
“I didn’t expect her to react in such an extreme way. At first she didn’t take it up so seriously.”
“Then you must undo the damage, must you not?” he asked me. “She looks wonderful for the moment. But there is terrible disaster and disillusionment ahead.”
I turned from him and went toward the steps to the street. This was what Irene had said—that I must undo the damage. I had caused Laura to take this course, and now, impossibly, I must change the flow of a torrent.
Gunnar spoke at my shoulder. “There is such a thing as carrying malice too far. I did not expect this extreme from you.”
I couldn’t answer him. Anger was rising in me and I could feel my cheeks burning hot, feel the tension of my own body. Yet at the same time there was a stinging behind my eyelids. I blinked fiercely. Once I had wanted this man’s approval and liking. Yet all I could do was move farther away from winning either. They were all blaming me—except Donia—and yet I had not really been as guilty as they thought. I had started the torrent on its course, but I’d done it impulsively, sincerely—and now there was no way to turn it about. I had only to watch Laura to know that.
Gunnar’s car waited at the foot of the steps. Laura and Miles sat with him in front, while the lunch basket, Donia, and I were packed into the rear. As the car started off, Donia nudged me slyly.
“You’re doing very well,” she whispered. “You want her to destroy herself, don’t you? This is the best way of all!”
I said nothing, detesting her, fixing my attention on the glimpses of Bergen slipping past. I no longer knew what I wanted with the cool reasoning of my brain. Unpredictable emotions seemed to be taking over, leaving me shaken and at their mercy.
We drove along the hillside to the Ulriksbanen—that small building with the strikingly slanted red roof, which housed the cable cars that ascend Ulriken. Laura’s and Gunnar’s skis and ski poles had been strapped in a holder on the roof of the car, and when he parked he took them down and carried them upright into the station house. There was no need to be burdened with clumsy ski boots, since one wore soft, easy boots for ski touring.
We stood in line with others on the platform, waiting for a car to come down. Behind the station house a waterfall tumbled down black rocks and washed away in a stream. Above, the cables mounted in silver lines straight up the mountain. Once more we had “festival weather,” with the sun bright in a clear blue sky and a day that verged upon spring. Already, Laura said, there were crocuses pushing up in the garden.
The small yellow cable car that was to take us to the top slid down into the station with a clashing of machinery, and as many of us as the car would hold got inside. There was a bench at either end, with varnish well worn, but no one sat down. We all stood up to watch the ascent, the skiers with their skis held vertically beside them. Miles, reluctantly, had taken over the lunch basket.
Gunnar saved a place for Laura and me beside a window and we pressed close to the glass. The sharp peak of Ulriken rose black and forbidding out of the snowfields high above us. Its modern communications tower was a landmark that could be seen from all over Bergen, and it seemed to grow larger as we lifted toward it. Beneath the car as we rose precipitously, the lower slopes of the mountain lay brownish-green with gorse and other stubby growth from which humps of black rock protruded. As we rose, we could see the foot trail that wound up the mountain to o
ur right, with climbers already out in their high boots, some of them with staves in their hands.
The group going up in the car was mainly young, with the healthy attractiveness of Norwegian youth. The girls were bareheaded, and long-haired, and the boys often wore beards of various trims and lengths. Laura stood beside me, watching the ascent with the eagerness of a young girl who might never have gone up the mountain before, and I saw the young people look at her and exchange smiles that she returned readily. I doubted that they knew who she was, but there was an arresting quality about her and they responded to the youth she wore like a flag, and which denied the evidence of one’s eyes. For the first time, the claim that chronological age had no meaning came home to me.
The height of the mountain was about two thousand feet, Gunnar said. Norwegian mountains were not nearly so high as they looked in pictures, but since they rose straight up from sea level, the impression of height was great. The car moved smoothly as we passed a red gondola coming down, and we waved at the occupants. At least Laura and I waved. The Bergensere in our car took the other car for granted.
Now there were snow patches along the mountain, and the gray-black rocks protruded in sharp contrast. The air was colder, but there was only a little wind at this level. When it was very windy, Gunnar said, the cable cars did not run. Beneath us the great panorama spread out more impressively than ever, with the mountains all around taking on new characteristics as viewed from this height. We could see the distant lakes of the countryside, and follow the winding fjords out to the North Sea. These were not the fjords I’d seen in pictures, with their steep, mountainous sides, but the gentler indentations that belonged to this Bergen coastline. Between Ulriken and Flöyen, the Ice Valley, Isdalen, cut its way, with Svardiket Lake gloomy at its base.
With a slight jerk, the car slid into the station at the top, the doors were opened and we filed out. When we’d climbed a flight of stairs we found ourselves upon an open observation platform, from which snow had been cleared, and now the higher force of the wind struck us. There was a small restaurant and gift shop adjacent, and those who had come up with us scattered in every direction—some into the restaurant, others to observe the view from another platform, some eager to be at their skiing, marching away through the snow with their lightweight touring skis over their shoulders.
Donia had apparently never been up this mountain before, and she bounced about like a child, running from one vantage point to the next. Miles frowned at her childish eagerness and stayed with Laura, Gunnar, and me.
Gunnar had not spoken directly to me since we’d left the house, but now he strove with cool courtesy to point out various spots of interest, and I listened to him politely, hating the barrier that had risen to stop our growing friendship, and helpless to break it down.
“Over there on the left, out beyond Fantoft, you can see the lake on which Grieg built his summer home. The house is a charming museum now. You must see it before you leave Bergen.”
Laura smiled at me. “That must be soon. If you’re to write that book, you’ll have to come to Hollywood with me, you know. Now that I’ve made up my mind, I want to act as quickly as I can. Perhaps I will take a house in the hills above Los Angeles and stay there while I read scripts. It’s much better if I can be close at hand during this time of preparation. So of course you must come with us, Leigh.”
Neither man said a word. Gunnar and Miles looked at me with distaste, and I detested them both. But this time I made an effort to join the opposition.
“I’m not going to Hollywood,” I said. “And you’re not either, Laura. As you said yesterday, this is a dream. It’s too late to make it come true.”
She threw me a look of surprise—rather sorrowful surprise—as though I had betrayed her. “But you’re the one who said—oh, never mind! I don’t need your assurances, or anyone else’s now. A few days ago I was ready to give up—to die. Now I’m ready to live. I mean to have my chance to live. Nothing is going to change that.”
Miles made a growling sound in his throat and walked away from us on the platform. Laura watched him go with a look of sorrowing affection.
“He disapproves,” she said sadly. “I’d like him to go with me, but I’m afraid he won’t.”
Gunnar put his hands on her shoulders and swung her gently around to face him. “Laura, Laura! If you feel you must run away from something, then there is still my house, and my mother waiting to welcome you. You will be safe there. You can rest and become strong again. And nothing you fear can touch you.”
She shook her head at him. “No, my dear. That’s not the way for me. I know what I want now. I know what I must do. But first I must placate Miles a little. He’s displeased with me and he mustn’t stay that way. Wait for me here.”
She followed her husband across the platform, walking with that grace which was characteristic—an arresting figure in black and white. Heads turned as always. There was a lump in my throat and again that hotness behind the eyes.
“What if you’re all wrong?” I cried to Gunnar. “What if she’s right and ought to have her chance?”
He shook his head at me. “You know better than that. But I am disappointed in you, Leigh Hollins. I had hoped that knowing Laura would change you, make you more forgiving.”
I choked on my own tears. “There’s too much to forgive!” I cried. Let him believe what he pleased. What did I care what this stubborn Norwegian thought!
He began to talk to me quietly, impersonally, as though I were a tourist whose acquaintance he had just made, and his very manner helped me to blink away my tears.
“Do you know that every year Bergen has an event in which all who wish set out to climb the Seven Mountains? We meet at a certain place and each man and woman tries to complete the route—up one mountain and down, and then up the next. I have done it more than once and I have my blue and white certificate with the outline of the Seven Mountains to prove it.”
“I’m sure that’s very inspiring,” I said tartly.
He smiled at me without mirth. “You are angry. I think I am a little angry too. Come—let us start across the snow. We can walk to my hut. The crust is hard enough, and there are many ski and foot tracks. This high air is clearing to the mind—we will all feel better for moving about. Look—Miles and Laura are waiting for us.”
Laura and her husband stood at the edge of the platform where the snow began, and she was waving to us. Donia came bouncing across from another point, and we started over the snow together. I could not tell whether Miles had been placated or not. He looked rather sullen and still disapproving.
The bank plunged steeply down from the high point that gave Ulriken its frontal peak, to level out in a shallow, snow-filled valley. A second peak rose opposite, black and rocky and patched with snow. There were tracks to follow and Gunnar took the lead, now allowing Laura to carry her own skis in good Norwegian fashion. Miles followed Laura, who needed no help, as we marched in single file, with Donia and me bringing up the rear. Up here the skiing was all cross-country, or touring, as was most common in Norway, and several skiers went striding past us as we traveled the high valley at the top of the mountain. There was a club house up here, and many skiers were members.
Around a turn, and across a snowfield hidden from the cablecar platform, we came upon Gunnar’s small red hut. A thick blanket of snow quilted the roof, and long icicles hung from the eaves. He unlocked the door and when we were inside he went at once to light the waiting logs in the fireplace.
The hut was composed of one large main room, rustic in its furnishings, with a rug patterned in green and brown set diagonally across the rough floor. There was a rustic table and several chairs, and bunks along one wall. My eyes were drawn at once to a painting over the mantel, and I knew this was Gunnar’s work. This time it was a snow scene, with his own red hut glowing against a stormy sky.
“Do you always paint storms?” I asked as he worked at lighting the fire.
The kindling caught
, and tongues of flame licked upward to the wood, flaring brightly. He put the fire guard in place and stood up, dusting his hands.
“Perhaps I live too quiet a life,” he said. “Norwegians are naturally adventurous, so I like to get a sense of conflict and struggle into my paintings. In Norway we must always fight the elements.”
“That’s one of my favorite pictures, Gunnar,” Laura said. “Next to the one you’ve given me. Leigh, you should see some of his others. This young man has wasted his talent, just as I have done. But it’s never too late to change.”
Donia was moving with characteristic energy about the big room, examining everything, touching and poking. Miles dropped rather glumly into a chair, watching Laura. She turned to him suddenly.
“You won’t mind if Gunnar and I go off for a run, darling? This will probably be our last chance for this season. Perhaps the three of you can walk around a bit.”
“We’ll manage,” Miles said without enthusiasm, and I noted that the look Laura gave him was anxious.
Somehow, I had not pictured the fact that Gunnar and Laura would go off together and I would be left in this unwelcome company. I decided that I would go out on my own and plod about in the snow. In the open, away from the others, perhaps I could sort out my confused emotions.
Laura was impatient to be off, and when Gunnar had instructed us about keeping the fire burning, the two of them went outside, put on their skis and glided off across the snow, using their ski poles. I noticed that cross-country skis left the heels free, so they lifted at each stride. For a few minutes I stood at a small window and watched them go, feeling forlorn and uncomfortable. I was popular with no one at the moment.
Behind me, Donia had curled herself close to the hearth, warming her hands at the hissing blaze, her wizened little monkey face glowing in the firelight. She sat cross-legged, talking to Miles without turning around. As usual, she tried to make trouble.
Listen for the Whisperer Page 18
