Walking Into the Night

by Olaf Olafsson

  I don’t know how long the battle lasted. I had long since lost the sense of time. We had stripped to the waist and while three men ran to fetch water, two of us stood and beat the earth with our shirts and jackets. Although the fire had got across and taken hold on our side, we had managed to slow its passage.

  I waded into the flames, beating the earth. It was as if I were standing to one side, watching myself charging into the fire. I felt the heat on my body yet wasn’t burned. My helpers stood behind me; once when I emerged from the flames, they splashed water over me. They had thought I was on fire. I told them not to waste water.

  I have no explanation for my behavior. Later when I finally took thought for my skin, I saw that all the hairs on my chest and arms were singed, yet I had no burns anywhere.

  Gradually the fire began to lose its grip, first at our position higher up the slope. When I was sure I could contain it alone, I told my helpers to go down and give the others a hand. They hesitated, saying they weren’t sure it was sensible, the fire had tricked us before, flaring up just when we thought it was slackening. I assured them I could cope single-handed. “I’ll call you if I need to,” I promised. They went. I noticed that they kept looking back at me on their way down the slope.

  The flames stopped a few yards from the bank. They had spread downwards at first when their way was barred, then up the slope, but now they gradually lost momentum and sank, one after the other, into the ash they had created. I was hard pushed, but there was now no doubt of the outcome.

  Finally the moon appeared, a crescent in the eastern sky. When I smothered the last spark, I was abruptly engulfed in darkness. I was taken unawares and my eyes took a long time to adjust after the bright glare.

  Victory whoops sounded from down below, where the men had gone in for the kill. They had formed a ring round the dying blaze and begun to sing. Their shadowy figures rose and fell against the glowing backdrop, taking to the air, leaving the earth behind.

  Gradually the men began to drift off home. The head gardener had minor burns on his arms, so I urged him to get his wounds tended to while I made sure that the fire hadn’t sprung up again anywhere else.

  The ash crunched as I set off in the darkness. Its heat was welcome in the cooling night. I walked towards the moon, past the ravine where the fire had originated, across the gravel belt beyond and up the hillside. I didn’t look over my shoulder until I paused in a hollow at the top of the hill and looked back over the area where the fire had raged.

  I was calm. It was as if the fire that had been burning inside me all these years was at last dying down.

  66

  The man in the photograph is cheerful and tanned. He’s wearing a shirt, open at the neck, his thick hair combed back. He’s on the left, the head gardener on the right, and the boy who washes down the terrace in the evenings stands between them. Behind them a cypress is visible in front of the main house. “Christian Benediktsson, Mr. Hearst’s butler,” says the caption below the picture, followed by the names of the others. “FOREST FIRE AT SAN SIMEON!” shouts the headline, “STAFF WIN BATTLE AGAINST BLAZE.”

  The Chief took the photo himself, the morning after the fire; Kristjan couldn’t remember having seen him in such high spirits for a long time; he praised them to the skies, promising to pay a salvage award to all those who had taken part. Kristjan, however, hadn’t realized that the Chief intended to publish the picture in his papers—he had wanted to take them by surprise.

  It was only seven in the morning when the Chief banged on his door. Kristjan had already got up, been downstairs, and opened the door out onto his balcony. The Chief didn’t usually wake up this early, but he had ordered an employee to drive from Los Angeles with an early copy of the paper so that he could personally present it to his butler.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Kristjan when he opened the door.

  The Chief entered and spread the paper on the desk.

  “Front page,” he said. “You deserve it.”

  The Chief wasn’t surprised when Kristjan didn’t seem overjoyed—his butler was not in the habit of showing his emotions— but he was a little taken aback when he didn’t so much as smile.

  “You fought like heroes,” he said. “Who knows what would have happened . . .”

  The front page. Kristjan ran his eyes down the article.

  “. . . Christian Benediktsson, William Randolph Hearst’s butler, led the team of household staff along with head gardener, Nigel Keep. After battling the blaze for hours, they managed to halt the flames only a stone’s throw from a grove of trees standing right by Mr. Hearst’s hilltop ranch . . .”

  “The Los Angeles Examiner,” muttered Kristjan at last, as if to himself.

  The Chief adopted a portentous tone. “Not just the Examiner, Christian. Today when people wake up in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, New York . . . when they get up, rub the sleep from their eyes, and sit down to their breakfast of coffee or tea, eggs and bacon, fruit juice, cornflakes . . . when they sit down and spread out the paper in front of them, you’ll be the first thing they see. And they’ll be all fired up, if I can put it like that, start the new day reassured that mankind can overcome any challenge. News like this puts heart into people, Christian. When they read stories like this they start to believe in themselves.”

  He had said what he came to say and seemed pleased with how it had gone, so he just clapped Kristjan on the shoulder as he left, asking him to make sure that the head gardener and others who might be interested in the news got to see the paper.

  The next few days crept by. Kristjan was on edge during the daylight hours, slept little at night. Fortunately for him there was plenty to do—the Chief had decided to throw an extravagant party in honor of Miss Davies’ homecoming; she was expected in just under two weeks’ time. He had confided in Kristjan that he regarded the forest fire as marking a turning point in his life; recently he had had to retreat before one attack after another, but this attack had been repulsed and he had sensed when he came home that evening and saw the last flames extinguished in the distance that now the tide had turned.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences, Christian. It’s time to take action. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long while.”

  “A big party,” he said. “A hundred guests. Like in the old days, Christian.”

  The first few days were slowest to pass, but when nothing happened, Kristjan’s fears were gradually put to rest. Yet at times it was almost as if he wanted to be found, so that he could make a clean breast of things. But his eagerness faded when he couldn’t answer what he meant by making a clean breast of things, and then the fear tightened its hold again, though he tried to immerse himself in the preparations for the party.

  A week passed and he began to relax. One morning when he awoke he even thought he’d dreamed about the birds in the desert, but when he tried to recall his dream he realized that it had been wishful thinking. Yet he took it as a good omen, all the same.

  Jon Sivertsen laid down the newspaper, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The man in the photo had barely changed, though Jon didn’t remember him being so tall. Perhaps it’s just that the men beside him are short, he thought. Nigel Keep, head gardener. An unnamed houseboy. He put his glasses on again, stood up, and looked in the mirror. He was sure that he himself had changed more in the intervening years, his hair had thinned at the temples, the pounds piled on. And his sight hadn’t improved either; the glasses were, unfortunately, brand-new. Kristjan doesn’t look as though he’s had too hard a time of it, he said to himself.

  He sat down again and picked up the phone on his desk. It was four years since he’d received the letter from Hans Thorstensen of North Dakota asking him to let the sender know in the unlikely event that he should hear any news of Kristjan Benediktsson. He still had the letter, was mildly amused by it. Hans talked at great length about the weather, like any Icelandic farmer. He also relayed news of family members, both those
Jon knew of and others he had never heard mentioned. This naïveté was refreshing in a city where people tended to be brusque and sarcastic. Perhaps I’ve been here too long, Jon remembered thinking to himself when he finished reading the letter.

  He wasn’t used to the glasses yet, taking them off and putting them on again before he made the call. His eyes fell on the painting on the wall opposite. He remembered as if it were yesterday the time she had come here to look for her husband.

  67

  Miss Davies was due on Thursday. It was now Tuesday.

  The preparations for the party had gone better than expected. Tents had been erected on the terrace and in the gardens round the main house; the menu had been completed and the cooks were already making arrangements for the dinner—boning meat and trussing birds; a fleet of cars had been ordered to drive guests from the station at San Luis Obispo; around eighty people would be staying for the weekend. The Chief had decided to screen only movies starring Miss Davies; Kristjan was surprised when he consulted him about which movies he should show and was almost proud of himself for having had the courage to suggest Show People, though he knew it wasn’t one of the old man’s favorites.

  “Do you really think so?” he’d asked. “Show People?”

  “I’m sure it would make Miss Davies happy. She was very funny in it.” And when the Chief nodded, he had plucked up the courage to add: “I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, that it would be better to show only the movies that were well received.”

  The Chief nodded again.

  “You’re right, my friend. Yes, you’re absolutely right.”

  When Kristjan received the letter that afternoon, he had been rushing around since the early morning. It was a long time since a party had been so eagerly awaited on the hill, by the staff just as much as the Chief. The old man didn’t relax for a moment, summoning Kristjan several times a day to go over this and that, consulting him on various details, who should have which room, whether they should have a horseback trip on the program for Saturday, and so on. His main concern, however, was when he should tell Miss Davies about the party, because it couldn’t be kept a secret once she arrived.

  “Could we perhaps take down the tents before she arrives?” he asked, then shook his head without waiting for Kristjan’s reply. “No, that won’t work. Perhaps I’ll tell her about it as we drive up the hill. When she catches sight of the tents. What do you think about that? Or perhaps I could blindfold her and have the band start playing in the tent in front of Casa Grande as soon as I take off her blindfold? Well, don’t you think that’s a good idea? What do you think, Christian, wouldn’t that be perfect?”

  Kristjan had just finished explaining this new plan to the band leader when the letter was handed to him. He didn’t often get letters—no, it was a rare event, and then generally from people who’d been guests on the hill, wanting to thank him. But this wasn’t a thank-you letter, they were slim affairs, written on small cards, a few lines; this envelope was bulky, the handwriting that of someone who was getting on in years. He was relieved to see that it wasn’t Elisabet’s writing, and this made him ashamed.

  He was alone in the pantry when the boy brought him the letter and he stood still for a long while before looking at it. When he finally got up the nerve, he stuck the letter in his pocket and went up to his room. There he shut the door, sat down on his bed, and took out the envelope. He hesitated for a moment before he read the name of the sender: Hans Thorstensen, North Dakota. He recognized the name, and, carefully opening the envelope, began to read.

  It’s with mixed emotions that I take up my pen on this fine fall day to send you a few lines. You’ll know the reason, though no doubt you’ll wonder why I should be the one to get in touch with you. I assume you’re ignorant of the fate of your family, unless you have made inquiries about them without their knowledge, which I find unlikely. I’m aware that I’m doing you no favors by writing to you. You would have got in touch with your family long ago if that had been your intention . . .

  “Christian!” a voice called and he jumped. They were looking for him, the band wanted to rehearse the tunes they were to play when Miss Davies arrived and the band leader thought it safer to ask permission to play out on the terrace before they began. Kristjan laid the letter on his bed, went down and delayed his return upstairs, but in the end he could stay away no longer.

  . . . I’m an old man now and use every spare moment I have to tie up any loose ends, as no one knows when the end might come. When we heard about the newspaper article, I suggested to your son Einar that he should get in touch with you himself. However, I was not surprised when he put of doing so, so I decided to write you myself.

  Einar has lived with my wife and myself ever since he came to this country as a boy with his mother . . .

  Kristjan sat on the bed and read. Hans was painstaking, leaving nothing out, taking his time. He wrote that he had learned his style from the Icelandic sagas, which he read every night before going to sleep. Outside the band played “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”

  Einar is married to a girl from an Icelandic family and they have two children, Hans and Elisabet. He took over the farm from me several years ago; he’s a hard worker and down to earth, trustworthy, a man of few words but to the point, a good man. He has been like the best of sons to me . . .

  Kristjan lost the thread, stared into space. The band continued to play the same tune over and over, louder each time, it seemed. The blaring of the trumpet echoed in his head along with the words which accompanied the tune: “. . . when skies are grey . . .”

  Maria returned to Iceland with Elisabet, studied needlework—she has inherited her mother’s skill—and is now carrying her first child, having got married last summer . . . The twins . . .

  He stood up but immediately sat down again, feeling faint. “Christian!” he heard someone calling far away, but the cries were drowned by the noise of the band, which struggled again and again with the same phrase, the drums like the pounding in his chest, “my sunshine, my only sunshine . . .” “Christian, where are you? Christian!” Carrying her first child . . . a fine man . . . the twins . . .

  Elisabet died nearly five years ago. She had a peaceful end.

  68

  By the turn-off to the fishing village, a gray horse was standing under a tree. The day was hot, the sun at its zenith. Kristjan had been walking for over an hour. He had left the car where it would be easy to find; drove past the turn-off so that no one would guess he had headed that way, and parked next to a green shack where they sold fishing tackle.

  The horse swung its head in his direction, then went back to grazing under the tree. He put down his satchel and canvas bag and walked over, stopping a couple of paces away so as not to alarm it. Its white back was mottled with the shadows of leaves, which hung unmoving in the noontime calm, and the silhouette of a bird hidden in the foliage—when it raised its wings, the leaves next to it stirred.

  Kristjan put a hand to his brow to shade his eyes from the sun and peered up into the tree but couldn’t see the bird anywhere.

  The short stretch of road to the village ran down a descending series of hills, swinging to cross a stream in one place but otherwise straight. It was little used; Kristjan had been waiting for awhile with no sign of a car. He could see part of the village where it ran out at the foot of the slope, the canning factories and docks in front of them, the bay beyond. Gulls came screaming in from the sea ahead of ships heavily laden with sardines; they sailed out in the evenings and fished until morning.

  In the note he left for the Chief, he wrote that he wasn’t sure when he’d return. If anyone made inquiries after him, he asked the Chief to see that they were given a shoebox he had left behind containing a few small odds and ends, tied up with string. He wasn’t sure why the string had seemed necessary. He had reorganized the contents of the box, adding the boat Einar had given him and leaving untouched the photographs, pebbles, and the swan’s feather that hi
s son had painted blue and presented to him as a bookmark. He doubted he would even remember it. But perhaps he’ll remember the boat, he thought to himself, he took enough trouble over it.

  I’ve asked Einar to come with me to visit you, Hans Thorstensen had written. He’s reluctant, I won’t hide the fact from you, but I know he’ll do it for me. I don’t want to leave this world without having seen you two meet, and I know that this will not happen without my intervention. I’ll call you beforehand on the telephone, although I abhor the contraption. Sooner rather than later, as I am not only old but in poor health as well. Yet I have nothing to complain of . . .

  Hans had phoned the previous morning; the guests were still asleep, having traveled up from Los Angeles overnight. Kristjan claimed he was busy and asked the operator to take a message. But he had made his decision before the phone rang, had been up all night packing his bags.

  No one could have guessed during the party that he was short of sleep. He bustled around indoors and out, keeping an eye on everything, making sure that nothing went awry. The Chief was in top form, Miss Davies in the highest of spirits, and the guests seemed infected by their gaiety, singing and dancing till the early hours.

  “I feel much better,” Miss Davies told him when she arrived and the band had finished playing for her. “So much better, Christian.” She had tried to have a word with him before the party but he made sure he was too busy, keen to avoid a longer conversation. He had already taken his leave of her.

  He left when all the clearing up was done and everyone had gone to bed. Tatters had torn off the veils of fog that lay along the shore and when he drove down the hill they came sailing towards him, glowing white in the moonlight. Dawn was breaking in the east, the first glow catching on the mountain peaks. He stopped halfway down the hill and looked back. The castle windows glittered in the morning light.