“Poor boy,” she said and kissed the scar on my chest. “Did you try to fly away?”
The scar was damp from her kiss.
“Klara,” I said, “didn’t you ever do something like that?”
Suddenly I was convinced that she was about to tell me something I had begun to suspect, but then she stopped and instead continued to stroke my scar.
I was a child. Yet I’m still ashamed. The scar is a reminder.
The man in the picture has decided to return home. This time nothing will prevent him; he has made up his mind, once and for all. He looks straight ahead and wonders whether there is any chance of his wavering. He has made the decision to end their affair before, especially in the emptiness after sex, only to be overcome a moment later with regret and shame. But he has never actually done it, he’s never been able to. Now, however, he is calm; when he woke by her side this morning he found that for the first time he was in command of his feelings. She was sleeping peacefully and he told himself that he would always think fondly of her. He even tried to convince himself that it would be a relief to him to know that Jones would marry her; that she couldn’t find a more reliable man.
No one will ever have to know, he told himself, and with those words he felt a surge of simultaneous relief and excitement.
33
I’m making good progress, better than expected, as I’ve had more free time than usual recently. The Chief and Miss Davies have been away since the beginning of the month and it’s uncertain when they’ll be back. The weather has been unexceptional, as usual for August, the days hot and still, the nights cloudless. The hillsides have turned yellow. It’s been dry for weeks and the leaves have long since lost their spring freshness. In the gardens around the houses, however, the colors are still vivid and intense, the lawns, watered twice a day, still green.
The wreckage of the plane has been removed. When the doctor came the morning after the crash to sign the death certificates, I took him down to the meat locker. The girl was unchanged, yet I’d dreamed in the night that she had woken up and begun to roam. I jerked awake and almost went downstairs to reassure myself that it had been only a dream, but couldn’t summon the courage. I lay wide awake till dawn and stayed away from the cellar until the doctor arrived.
The Chief had a grove of Italian cypresses planted on the site of the crash. It was an odd choice, but I understood when the head gardener pointed out to me that the tradition of planting these trees in cemeteries stems from what he called their “sacred association” with the Roman god of the underworld, Pluto. It’s strange seeing them standing forlornly down on the plain; I don’t suppose the Chief realized that they would draw the eye to the site rather than obscure it. Miss Davies not only closes her eyes when driving past the spot, she actually turns her head away. The chauffeur who brought her up from San Luis the other day made fun of this when he dropped into the kitchen for a coffee. I advised him to keep his thoughts to himself.
Yesterday I went horseback riding around the property with two young men who happened to be staying here at the same time. One of them was Karl von Wiegand, a reporter who worked for the Chief in Europe, the other John Mack, assistant to Judge Shearn, the trustee now in charge of the Chief’s entire empire. I don’t dislike Mack. Far from it—he’s more polite than many of the judge’s other errand boys, who seem to enjoy waltzing around the establishment and behaving as if they can do whatever they please. The words they let slip about the Chief, even in my presence, show that they’re too young to understand. But Mack is a genial fellow, and even though he sometimes makes fun of the Chief, he’s never malicious and never goes too far. I can tell that he respects him.
Von Wiegand has been here for several days; he’s recovering from a bad bout of influenza, and the Chief suggested that he should recuperate here on the hill. He sits outside for most of the day, reading or writing. He looks much better now than when he arrived, and it’s been a source of pleasure to us staff to see his appetite improving by the day.
Anyhow, Mack asked me to get two horses ready, and I had the bright idea of suggesting that von Wiegand should join us. They had eaten together the evening before and—to tell the truth— drunk more port after the meal than was good for them. When I said good night they were still sitting, talking; clearly getting along well. They were looking at photographs from the Chief’s vacations which lay in a porcelain bowl on the table in front of them. The Chief had been going through them the evening before he left; he had sat up very late, deep in thought. Most of the pictures were taken in Europe—Venice, Nuremberg, Bad Nauheim, Switzerland.
“Remarkable,” I heard Mack say, before I closed the door behind me. “It’s as if he doesn’t belong in these pictures at all, as if they weren’t taken of him but of a church or fountain or that crumbling wall, as if the old man has been pasted onto the pictures afterwards, the same expression in all of them, no sign of pleasure or indication that he’s thinking about anything different than when he left home. No sign that he’s on holiday seeing the wonders of the world.”
The next morning we set off after breakfast. Mack couldn’t keep from making fun of the room he’d slept in.
“The room’s octagonal!” I heard him tell von Wiegand. “Between the beams on the ceiling—gold-painted, naturally, just like everything else—there are motifs of flowers and fishes, birds and coats of arms. Do you know why I noticed every tiny detail so clearly? Because I couldn’t turn off the bedside light. It was impossible. I would have thought he could afford a lamp that worked.”
They laughed.
“The bathroom’s gold, too. And there’s a huge closet, a carved, gothic replica, like the Riemenschneider altars in southern Bavaria, I’m told, with a bust on top and a Greek vase next to it. The door frames are carved, as well, and the faucets are gold, and the frames around the mirrors are gilded and carved. But there’s no tub in the bathroom and hot water comes out of both faucets in the shower. I had to wet a towel and wait for it to cool down so that I could wash. I was going to call downstairs for help, but found there was no phone in the room. And then I discovered just how lonely it is up here. You could yell and no one would hear you. I couldn’t even see out of the window for all the gilt ornamentation blocking the view. And on top of all that, there’s a notice hanging on the wall: ‘Please do not open the window.’ It’s like living in a prison. Isn’t that right, Christian?”
I’d been amused by his description of the room, but I was brought up short by his last comment. A prison.
I didn’t answer immediately and it was lucky that at that moment we entered a grove of acacias.
“Do you know why these trees are planted here?” Mack asked me.
“For the giraffes,” I replied.
“Giraffes?”
“Yes, we had problems with them at one time. Two of them died and no one knew why. We had to send for a specialist from New York because our vet was at a loss. The specialist found that their stomachs were full of stones. He explained to us that giraffe’s mustn’t eat from the ground because their necks need to be upright for them to swallow and digest properly. When the Chief heard this he ordered the tallest acacia trees available but they still weren’t tall enough. While they were growing, we had troughs built on platforms and filled with leaves so the giraffes could eat in a way that’s natural to them.”
“Where are they now?” asked von Wiegand.
“Most of the animals have gone, thank God,” Mack answered. “Except the bison you can see down there in the valley, and some deer and zebras. The first time I came here, the zoo was full of all kinds of creatures. I felt sorry for them,” he added. “They didn’t belong here.”
I was silent. It had been a good day when they started taking the animals away. I knew the life that awaited them was likely no better than their life here on the hill, but I still was relieved to see them leave their cages.
We rode on. To the east the hill cast its shadow on a long, deep valley. Directly below us was
San Simeon village with its post office and diner, its jetties and warehouses, railroad tracks, and the cranes that used to hoist containers full of statues, animals, even whole walls and ceilings, but were now idle. Beyond the village the sea glittered in the bright sun.
“That place used to be busy,” said Mack. “But you’d know more about that than me, Christian.”
His question depressed me. I cleared my throat and said something to the effect that I hoped the building work would start again before too long.
“Hope for the best,” said Mack. “It’s all we can do.”
They ate lunch out on the tea terrace and drank fruit juice. I had the lamp in Mack’s room fixed and called a plumber to get the cold water working in the faucet.
Before he took his leave this morning he took me aside.
“Christian, it’s been pointed out to me that there’s no record of you anywhere on the old man’s payroll. And there are no entries in the books to show you’ve ever been paid. One might think you didn’t exist, my friend. We don’t even know what your salary is.”
He can’t have failed to notice my shock. Without waiting for an answer, he added:
“You haven’t been paid since we began to look after the old man’s finances. It’s been months. You haven’t said a word.”
“I haven’t gone short,” I heard myself say.
“Christian, could it be that you don’t have a work permit?”
I nodded.
“I guessed. So the old man’s been paying you under the table?”
I nodded again. “At my request. It’s always been like that.”
“How much?”
I named the sum.
“Don’t you worry,” he said then. “I’ll see to this. It’s a shame I didn’t know before.”
“There’s no rush,” I said.
“But you haven’t been paid for months.”
I tried to wave his concern away.
“Don’t you worry,” he repeated. “This is just between us.” I’m making good progress. This morning I woke up early because I’d made up my mind to try to draw the hawk today. The bird is lying on my table; I shot it yesterday. It had been making a nuisance of itself up near the house for the last few days, stealing food from the outdoor fireplace, so we had to get rid of it. It’s strange how its nature is still clearly visible in its eyes, as if death made no difference.
I enjoyed watching the dawn, and before I knew it, my thoughts were as cloudless as the sky and even contained a hint of purpose. There was a creaking sound from the forest and the sprinklers started up in the gardens, the spray soothing the trees and flowers. I took a pencil in my hand, poured a cup of coffee, and sat undisturbed at my desk for more than an hour. The sheets of paper are lying here on the table in front of me, and when I examine the bird now, I’m even more convinced that this was truly a period of grace. I’ve colored in most of the head, and when I look into the bird’s fierce brown eyes, with their black rims, I think I can understand how its mind works. Since I started painting birds again, I have been making steady progress; I believe this is the first time I can boast that I’ve captured my own thoughts and those of the bird on paper so well that I don’t feel the need to change anything.
34
In August of 1918, I came home for good. It was my sincere intention to stay put. You can see from the bird pictures I painted during the first two months that I had settled down. The shade of chestnut on the godwit’s breast and head is witness to the fact, and when I had finished the picture of the snipe, I felt it might start its drumming right there in our living room. I was determined to avoid anything that I knew would depress me; I kept away from the Mozart evenings, for example, inventing business in town or staying late at the office and playing chess with Stefan, who had kept his eye on everything while I was in New York and proved a trusty employee and friend.
Those Mozart evenings—I shudder every time I hear his music. Fortunately that’s not often, but I’m surprised the discomfort should have stayed with me all these years.
It was on one of those Mozart evenings that I received the letter. In fact, though it’s never occurred to me before, it’s a strange coincidence that it should have worked out that way. After a meal at Hotel Iceland, Stefan and I had returned to the office to play chess. I clearly remember that I was playing the Sicilian defense and had the upper hand in the first game. I was delighted, as I usually lost to Stefan, who was a cunning player, so I rose to my feet in triumph, saying I’d treat him to a drop of brandy in celebration of my unexpected victory. I did it to tease him, and he took it in the right spirit, as usual.
When I glanced out the window, over the rooftops on the other side of the street and out over the bay, I saw the Gullfoss in the twilight.
“She’s coming from New York,” said Stefan.
“Yes. Let’s go and get some fresh air,” I said. “I’d like to hear the news from New York.”
That morning everything had been routine, nearly perfect. I had slept well and got up late, past nine. You were up and I could hear you talking to Katrin and Einar down in the kitchen. Katrin was saying: “How well that sweater suits you, Einar dear.” And he answered: “Daddy bought it for me in America.” Katrin asked you what little Maria should wear today. You hesitated, then replied: “The red dress her father brought back last time.” You who were so far removed from such matters—I was amazed that you remembered the dress at all, let alone that I’d bought it on my last trip west. But I definitely heard it. You said those exact words: “The red dress her father brought back last time.”
I dressed slowly in the February gloom. In the east a pale gleam kindled a few clouds until one of them began to glow. I stared at it for a while; I felt it was moving away from me but then it drew closer again, cautiously, as if it knew it stood out against the sky. On the windowsill there was a dried flower in a vase; I moved it aside as I opened the window to breathe in the chilly air.
The aroma of coffee rose from downstairs. Katrin was grinding beans. And Einar said: “I’m going to be like Daddy when I’m big.” “Me too,” said Maria. “No, you can’t.” “Why not?” “Because you’re a girl.” “I can too!”
All I wanted. All I wanted was for this moment between darkness and light to last forever, this brief moment that enveloped us and protected us from everything, from ourselves.
The captain handed me the letter as soon as we stepped aboard.
“I was asked to take it the day we sailed,” he said. “Here.”
I could tell he knew what was going on. He said nothing, but I could see it in his eyes. Had she delivered it herself?
“. . . When my father died my uncle took us in. He was called Gustaf. Have I told you this already? I’m beginning to forget what I’ve told you and what I haven’t. Strange . . . just six months since you left. I’ve always thought Gustaf was a pretty name.
“That year summer arrived sooner than expected. The wind blew it over the lake and I went out into the garden in my nightdress as soon as I awoke and stood there in the warm rain. I was soaked, but didn’t feel the cold. ‘Come in, child,’ my uncle called out from an upstairs window. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia.’ ‘Summer’s arrived,’ I called back. The summer was yellow on the lake.
“We also used to spend Easter at the country house. The lawn was frozen and the snow crunched under our feet. The house was dark when we arrived, with white sheets draped over the furniture. The staff should have lit the fires but they were sometimes late. It was cold while we waited for the fire to get going. I didn’t take off my coat. I remember once when I stood in the blue light of the drawing room, waiting for the fire to blaze in the hearth, I glanced out of the window at the moon reflected in the frozen pond. I saw my sister Lena’s face. I ran out onto the ice and tried to find her but she was gone.
“I want to christen the child Gustaf if it’s a boy and Lena if it’s a girl. Do you have any objections?”
35
I left during the night.
I left while you were all asleep; there was a smile on your lips as you navigated your dreams. I left while a round moon shone in the dark sky; when I opened the door to Einar’s room I met it outside his window. The light fell on his face, his mouth half-open. One of the twins was sleeping with Maria; I paused by the bed and my shadow fell on the white blanket.
I didn’t take much with me; a few photographs, a bird’s feather that I used as a bookmark, the fountain pen you gave me on my thirtieth birthday. I took some clothes, as much as would fit into one suitcase, a pebble from my childhood home in the northwest which I carry in my pocket from habit, polished by years of contact with my thumb, and a bird which my father carved out of fish bone when I was a boy.
The day before, I had flung my “graduation certificate” into the trash. You probably wondered where it had gone. I didn’t want our children one day trying to find out about my studies in Copenhagen. I couldn’t bear the thought.
“Would it ever have crossed their minds?” I ask myself now. Probably not, yet I had begun to worry about it. I even pictured the moment when they found out that my entire education had been a sham. They stood, adults now, by a round table (what crazy things you think up), their backs to me; strange how my imagination made Einar look so much like me. “I don’t believe it,” I heard them say. “It can’t be true.”
My suitcase was waiting down in the hall. I’d packed it after you had all gone to bed. I got into bed and stared out into the darkness. You were all asleep. The darkness enfolded us like a blanket and your breathing was slow and regular.
The third step down creaked as usual as I descended the stairs. I moved my weight from one leg to the other to make sure the squeak was the same as ever, then continued downstairs. I remember marveling at how Einar had grown; I could see it so clearly when I stood by his bedside and watched him sleeping. He had kicked off his quilt, and before I tucked it back over him I took a good, long look at him. “He’s growing up fast,” I remember saying to myself as I went downstairs. “He really is growing up fast.”
Walking Into the Night Page 10
