‘The two will be fine.’
‘Coming right up.’ With exaggerated care she poured him a glass of vodka. From one of the three cabinets glittering with gold she solemnly lifted out an ice cube, using a pair of tongs. A harsh chill billowed out from the cabinet. She was wrapped in a frosty vapour and struck a comical pose.
She served his drink, leaned over the counter, and said in a much lower and deeper voice, ‘So you just happened to drop by . . . travelling over Yme’s blood, the briny sea and the haunter of the gods . . .’
Hanck felt his face tighten. He heard someone laugh. It wasn’t Bora, that peculiar person behind the bar. He glanced in the mirror behind the bottles. He saw himself. He was the one who was laughing.
‘Oh, oh, oh . . .’ She clapped her hand to her mouth and opened her eyes wide. ‘I certainly think that, er . . . I’m afraid there’s been a slight mistake.’ She suddenly looked seriously worried. ‘Did I open that cabinet over there?’
‘No,’ said Hanck. ‘The one on the right.’
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘That’s the expensive one.’
At that moment resolute footsteps could be heard approaching across the stone floor in the next room. It was Kolga, the cold, hard woman from the front desk. ‘What are you doing here?’ She went around the counter to take her sister’s place. ‘You’re not supposed to be here! You’re supposed to be cleaning up!’
‘I just . . .’
‘Which kind of ice did you take out?’
‘The kind he asked for.’
‘So what kind did he order?’
Hanck made a quick decision. ‘The cheap kind, on the left.’
Kolga gave him a malicious look. She hadn’t asked him. But she accepted his explanation. ‘Get out of here,’ she said to Bora. ‘You have to clean up the staff quarters.’
The reprimanded woman in the sealskin cap gave Hanck a strained smile and said, ‘That’s life.’ And then she left.
‘I apologise,’ said the cold woman. ‘She’s a bit . . .’ She touched her temple with her index finger, moving a long, dark red fingernail in a circle. The nails were new. She had definitely not had them on before. Hanck hadn’t seen such long, dark red fingernails in a very long time.
But he had no intention of admitting such a weakness to this particular woman, since he had decided not to like her. ‘We would like to apologise,’ she said, ‘for what happened down at the dock.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Hanck.
‘She’s also a bit . . .’ A long, painted nail circled at her temple again.
‘Are you related?’ asked Hanck, feigning ignorance.
‘Sisters,’ said Kolga. ‘Nine of us. But only two are . . .’
She didn’t know what to say. Hanck waited. She said, ‘You understand . . .’
Hanck nodded. ‘Broken hearts.’
She gave him a look as if he had touched on something sensitive, or something that was best kept under wraps. She said, ‘Yes, something like that.’ She pretended to take stock of the shelves, turning bottles so that the labels were visible, wiping off the counter which was already perfectly polished. ‘Apropos that topic,’ she said, ‘have you decided . . . what you would like this evening?’
Hanck was expecting this. He calmly emptied his glass. ‘Not yet,’ he said. And then he added, just to provoke her, ‘She has a nice perfume, your sister.’
Kolga heard him but chose to ignore the remark. She gave him a strained smile and asked if he’d like another drink.
He declined and said that he was going to take a walk before dinner.
She asked if he’d like to take a lantern along.
He said that he could see fine in the dark.
He went up to his room to get his hat and overcoat, feeling a bit deflated. He took another pill that was compatible with the previous one but this one would speed him up.
It was dark outside, very cold. He lost all desire to take a long walk and decided just to take a stroll around the property. He made it only halfway round because as he passed one long and narrow wing he saw Bora come out of a door. She was wearing overalls.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
Hanck was about to say something like ‘taking a walk’ or ‘getting some fresh air’ when he realised that she was just imitating her stern sister. So instead he ended up mustering a smile of sorts.
‘Thanks. For what you said about the ice cubes,’ she told him.
‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘She seems rather stern, your sister.’
‘The worst of the lot,’ she said. ‘She thinks that she can order everybody around as she pleases just because father is on a binge.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Hanck.
‘Everything is going to hell.’
‘What do you mean?’ The wind was blowing hard, and he noticed that she was cold. Maybe she wanted to go back inside and continue with whatever she was doing. ‘Where are the staff ?’ he said, to change the subject.
‘They’re off,’ she said. ‘Those who haven’t quit, that is.’
‘Quit for the season?’
‘Quit for good,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it all over town by now?’
‘What?’ asked Hanck. ‘All I’ve heard is that this is supposed to be a luxurious place.’
‘That was before,’ she said. ‘I’m freezing.’
She went back inside, and Hanck got the impression that she wanted him to follow.
‘But the chefs are still here, aren’t they?’ he said.
‘Nobody’s still here,’ she said. ‘So we have to clean and cook and make the beds and put up with people that you wouldn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.’ She stopped herself and again said, ‘Oh, oh, oh . . .’ She had probably revealed too much; she began fluttering her eyelashes, put her hand to her forehead. ‘But you don’t need to worry. My sisters . . . They know how to cook. I can promise you that.’
‘I’m sure they do,’ he said. ‘But why doesn’t anyone want to work here?’ He tried to sound suitably concerned.
‘I thought the whole city would be talking about it,’ she said. ‘But obviously they’ve clamped a lid on the situation.’
‘I haven’t heard anything,’ said Hanck. And that was largely the truth. He had heard so little that he had been forced to come out here to find out more. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘About what?’ she said.
‘What you said,’ he replied. ‘About putting up with people . . .’
‘I don’t want to put up with anything,’ she said.
‘So don’t.’
‘They say that I have to, and if I refuse, they get mad and yell at me. Did she tell you that I was crazy?’
‘Something like that,’ said Hanck.
‘Did she really?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Don’t believe her.’
‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘You don’t seem the least bit crazy.’
But she peered at him with suspicion, shaking her head. ‘You’re just sweet-talking me because you want me.’
‘Not at all,’ he said.
‘I can see it a mile away.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can see you checking.’
‘Checking what?’ he said. ‘You?’
‘All around,’ she said. ‘To see if there’s anyone here. Because you don’t know whether you dare . . .’
Hanck looked at her. She was quite serious. Maybe her sisters were right when it came to her state of mind. There was nothing wrong with her observations in and of themselves, but her conclusions were way off the mark.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should go.’
‘Just look around you!’ she said. ‘Nobody’s here. Not a soul in the whole building. There’s no one around to hear me scream.’
‘Is that what you’re going to do?’ he said. ‘Scream?’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Maybe not.’
The pill that Hanck had taken was having an effe
ct. Things were happening fast now. Her misunderstanding offered an opportunity. ‘So you have nothing against it if I . . .’ and here he deliberately paused, ‘. . . have a look around?’
‘You don’t believe me?’ she said. ‘Go ahead, take a good look. I’ll stay right here. I’m not going to budge an inch. I’m under your spell.’
Hanck walked down a corridor with doors along one wall. The doors were ajar, the rooms were small, simply furnished, all with the same furniture. Typical staff quarters. He peeked into six rooms, tidied up without any personal belongings whatsoever, before he opened a door and saw something lying on the floor.
There was a bed stripped of its covers and pillows, a small table, an armchair, a window facing the village and an empty wardrobe. In the middle of the floor lay a dustpan with a long handle. In the dustpan was dust, hair, a length of string and a piece of brick.
Hanck went into the room, leaned down, and picked up the piece of brick. He blew off the dust and hair and looked at it. It was Toby’s piece of brick. A chunk from an old chimney stack that was once part of the ruins of that house, near a windswept, toxic field in no-man’s-land.
He was positive. He didn’t have the slightest doubt. He recognised the shape, the weight, an almost human presence in the oily, glistening sheen it had acquired. He didn’t know how many times he had fished that piece of brick out of the boy’s trouser pocket when his clothes needed washing. He would put it on his son’s nightstand in the evening, and in the morning Toby would stuff it in his pocket again. The boy had carried it around like a lucky charm.
Hanck clasped the piece of brick in his hand, as if to feel some sort of closeness. But it merely felt like a confirmation that Toby really was gone.
He stood there in that shabby room for a good long time before he heard Bora’s footsteps out in the corridor. He stuffed the piece of brick in his pocket, turned round, and met her in the doorway.
‘Are you thinking of molesting me on that bed without sheets?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not thinking of doing that.’ His voice was gruff, almost hoarse.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Are you crying?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘You’re sad . . .’ He admitted as much, nodding, unable to say a word. ‘We all are. This is Fimafeng’s room.’
‘Who?’
‘Our best chef. That’s what we called him. I don’t know his real name.’ Hanck nodded in silence, swallowed a big lump in his throat, turned his back to her, and looked out the window. ‘I liked him,’ she said. ‘He was nice, and kind.’ Hanck was afraid of having another attack. Anything might happen. ‘I think I must have put on several pounds while he was here. This dress is about to burst its seams.’
‘Where . . . ?’ said Hanck. ‘Where did he go?’
Bora came into the room, looked in the same direction as Hanck, out the window. Lights were shining in the small houses down in the village. A navigational light was gleaming down by the dock. ‘He’s no longer alive.’
‘Was he old?’
‘He . . .’ said Bora. ‘He was younger than me.’
‘So how did he die?’ Only someone who was tone deaf could avoid hearing the emotion in his voice.
‘There was a party,’ she said. ‘The annual party. He was killed.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It was so stupid.’
‘Stupid?’
‘I wasn’t there,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t there when it happened.’
‘Where was that?’
‘In the gold hall. It’s a protected place. They’re the only ones who are allowed inside.’
‘Who do you mean by “they”?’
‘The Clan. Father invites them to a bribe party once a year. They’re allowed to drink and behave like pigs.’
‘And then they killed . . . the best chef ?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Because he sneezed.’
‘Because he sneezed?’
‘At least that’s what they said. That he just sneezed, right into the air. Without apologising. A chef really shouldn’t sneeze. If he does, he ought to apologise.’
‘But he didn’t do that?’
‘Apparently not,’ said Bora. She smiled sadly. ‘He just grinned and looked incredibly happy. So typical for him. I can picture him smiling. It’s impossible to describe. You’ve never seen a smile like that.’
Hanck thought: at least Toby saw his mother. That was some small consolation. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I probably haven’t.’
‘It was Loki.’
‘Loki?’
‘Who killed him.’
The door to the annex stood open, creating a draught that swept a few leaves into the house, across the entrance floor and into the corridor. Big brown leaves that were withered and dry. Hanck looked at them in surprise. He hadn’t seen a single tree outside. Bora looked at them with the eyes of a cleaning woman, as something disruptive, an extra bother. But when the leaves came rustling across the floor with erratic little lurches, she looked at them almost with love.
‘Father has been looking after that tree for all these years,’ she said. ‘But now it will just have to fend for itself. He has given up. Everything has degenerated.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It turned into a hurricane party. That probably wasn’t intended. It just happened that way.’
‘What hurricane?’ said Hanck. He hadn’t heard of any for a long time.
‘It will come when it comes.’
‘I’d like . . .’ He stopped himself. Thoughts were racing through his mind, and he realised that he shouldn’t explain what he would like. He was certainly prepared to make use of any possible means to find out what he needed to know. Violent or not. But he had to avoid honesty, until it was needed as a last resort.
She had apparently been forbidden to talk, and had already said far too much. But there was more, and he didn’t know how he was going to get it out of her. Everything he had learned about interrogation techniques, the roundabout routes a conversation could take before it approached the central issues, the diversionary sidetracks that might seem irrelevant but would later turn out to provide a shortcut – all of that was gone. He felt lost and clumsy, like a beginner.
She could see it in his face. For a moment he had felt or imagined feeling some sort of desire, as if he were standing before a woman who was just about to say: ‘Once upon a time . . .’ and start something, create something, a chain of events which, once it had started, would be difficult to stop.
But she never said that, not there, not then. ‘Well?’ she said instead. ‘What is it you would like?’
He felt completely disarmed by her words. He said, ‘That chef ’s smile that you mentioned . . . You said it was impossible to describe . . .’
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘What about it?’
‘Do you know when I saw it for the very first time? No, you wouldn’t know. It was twenty years ago, on a sunny day in May. The first smile. A person never forgets it. He was my son. His name was Toby.’
For some reason he didn’t regret telling her. He had made an about-turn, put his cards on the table. Maybe he was tired of all this pretending, tired of denying the one truth that meant something. Maybe he simply couldn’t stand there in his dead son’s staff room and pretend to be somebody else.
Bora said, ‘I can see it.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Hanck. ‘He got that smile from his mother.’
‘So you didn’t come here looking for love? Like all the others?’
‘I just wanted to know.’
‘And seek revenge?’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Forget about that.’
‘It’s impossible to forget,’ he said.
‘If we could have sought revenge, we would have done it ourselves. But Loki belongs to a different world. They can’t be touched. You’ll never get near them.’
‘At least I now know a name,’ s
aid Hanck.
‘The name of an absolute shit,’ she said. ‘He’s distorted my sister’s sight. She even thought that you were him down there on the dock when you arrived.’
‘The sister with the bloody hair?’
‘He appears to her in all sorts of guises, as every fly that buzzes past. We’re not allowed to kill a single insect. If she hears a fly swatter she threatens to take her own life. The whole house is crawling with cockroaches. Her scalp is swarming with lice, she scratches at open sores, and if she sees a flea she loses all control. Every bite is proof of his love. It makes no difference what anyone tells her, that he has a wife and children, that he’s deceitful and unreliable, that he’s homosexual or anything else.’
‘An outstanding representative of the Clan,’ said Hanck.
‘Even they have grown tired of him. He knows that, so he’s gone underground. You don’t have a chance; just so you know.’
‘I got myself here,’ said Hanck.
‘You won’t get any further.’
‘Why not?’
‘Their world is closed. Inaccessible to ordinary mortals.’
‘I want to try.’
‘It’s pointless. Besides, everything will be over soon.’
‘I want to see my son.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘I want to see remorse.’
‘Give up.’
‘Never. If I could stand here on the dock one day . . . With Loki’s head in a box . . .’
‘. . . then my sister could live in a perfect marriage with that box for the rest of her life. Unfortunately, there’s no chance of that.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘I know enough.’
He didn’t believe her.
She gave him a cold, appraising look. ‘Describe a spring day.’
‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Describe a spring day.’
‘I . . . I can’t,’ he admitted.
‘Try a summer day, then.’
‘Er . . .’ he said. ‘It’s hot . . . and sunny . . . and the flowers . . .’
‘What kind of flowers?’ Hanck was at a loss. She knew it. He didn’t understand what she was getting at. ‘What about autumn?’
‘That’s when the leaves fall from the trees . . .’
‘And?’
The Hurricane Party Page 13
