The Steady Running of the Hour: A Novel (14 page)

—You don’t like crayfish? Karin asks.

—I’m vegetarian.

—Then have another beer, Christian says. There’s your dinner.

We drink beer and vodka and more aquavit. At every toast the Swedes insist that we look one another in the eye. They talk in English at first, asking me questions about San Francisco and my Swedish relatives. But as the dinner goes on most of them switch back to Swedish. Karin is on the far side of the table and our eyes meet a few times, but she never speaks to me.

After dinner we walk down to a fire pit beside the shore. Christian and I light a bundle of newspaper under a teepee of spruce logs. We begin to drink the aquavit in earnest, for we’ve finished everything else. Someone staggers drunkenly into the woods. A second person sent to find him never returns. I throw more logs onto the fire and it grows larger and hotter until we all have to move a step back. Suddenly I realize it must be after midnight. That makes it August 28.

—It’s my birthday, I say. I’m twenty-three.

The Swedes cheer and congratulate me. Christian gives me a bear hug and Karin gently scolds me for not telling her sooner. They sing to me in Swedish and we swig the aquavit in a toast. I throw more wood onto the fire, watching the smoke spiral up to the sky, the stars seeming to go in and out of focus. Twenty-three. I’d come here at least, and that was something. I break a branch in half and throw it onto the fire. Karin nudges me with her elbow.

—How’s it feel, spending your birthday with a bunch of strangers?

—I don’t mind. It’s really beautiful up here.

She nods. —Sorry I was weird this morning, it just spooked me when you showed up—

—I’d be spooked too. It scared the hell out of me when I was coming up from the lake and I heard you guys. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here.

—What were you expecting?

I shake my head. —Nothing. I figured I’d come here, the house would be gone, and I could forget—

—The house, she gasps. I totally forgot.

Karin grabs the bottle of aquavit and we start up the hill. She takes her cell phone from her pocket and selects a number, holding it to her ear. She winks at me.

—My uncle.

As she talks on the phone in Swedish, we walk up to the new house and go into the kitchen. She kneels down and pulls out the lowest drawer, fishing out a jar of keys. She finishes talking and puts the phone back in her pocket.

—He wasn’t even asleep, he watches TV all night. He said there used to be a few boxes from the old owners. Come on—

I follow her down the sloping field between the two houses, the stars bright above the trees. We reach the old house, its pine planks stained dark red, weathered by centuries of frigid winter and evening sun. Karin wiggles the key in the lock and pushes open the small wooden door.

—Happy birthday.

The inside is a mess. A dark mass of boxes and furniture stacked high, in some places nearly to the ceiling. We search for the light switch, but the wall is blocked by a huge table covered in boxes. I leave to get my headlamp from my bag, but when I return Karin has cleared a path to the light switch. She flips it on and off. Nothing happens.

—Maybe the bulb’s out. Or the fuse.

I switch on my headlamp, directing the beam over plastic crates and stacked chairs. A chain saw, a pile of wooden oars and planks leaning against the wall.

Karin laughs.—Ever seen so much junk?

—Sure. My parents’ garage used to look like this.

We take down a storage box and pull off the lid. A vacuum filter still in its dusty package. Cans of wood stain, boxes of white packing plaster. A thick catalog of SKF ball bearings. There’s a knock behind us as Christian appears in the doorway, saying something to Karin in Swedish. She turns to me.

—We’re going for a swim in the dark. Want to come with us?

—Maybe later. Is it all right if I look around here a little?

Karin shrugs. —Sure. Just let me know if you find anything. And don’t make a mess—

—Birthday swim, Christian interrupts. Let’s do it.

—I’ll be down later.

They walk out leaving the door open behind them. I shine my headlamp over the crevices of the room. The ceiling and walls are all dark wood, the roofbeams hanging low. There’s some kind of decorative textile hanging from the far wall, but it’s covered in dust and I can’t make out the subject. I pull another storage box from the table and look inside. Automobile repair manuals from the seventies. Yellowed composition books filled with longhand notes in Swedish. Brittle picture magazines. I stack the boxes behind me and start clearing a path to the staircase.

19 August 1916

The Regent’s Park

Marylebone, Central London

They cross the street and enter the park through a green wrought-iron gate. The grounds are pitch-black, only the searchlights weaving tracks among the clouds above.

—We’re lucky there aren’t sentries, Ashley says. If anyone sees us they’ll take us for spies.

—They’ll take us for what we are.

—Which is?

Imogen smiles but she does not answer. The sky mists dark rain upon their shoulders and they step in shadow through a curtain of hedges. Imogen trips on a root and tumbles, laughing as Ashley helps her to her feet. They come out onto a lawn and Imogen spreads her arms, trotting forward under a huge willow.

—Here it is. This is the tree.

—You’re certain?

Imogen nods and points authoritatively.

—The French gardens were to our left, the houses to the right. You were asking whether I was properly English or not—

Ashley kneels on the damp grass, running his hands through the foliage.

—It isn’t here. I don’t see it.

They circle the tree, each following the other as they scan the grass, kneeling, their fingers groping among shadows. After a few circuits Imogen sighs.

—I suppose you were right. We shan’t find it here.

Imogen lifts her face to the rain and puts her hands out to feel the gathering droplets. She crouches at the foot of the willow, testing the dampness of the earth.

—You’ll get wet if you sit there, Ashley warns.

—I don’t mind.

She sits down and leans back against the tree trunk. Ashley continues to inspect the grass, orbiting the tree with his eyes fixed upon the ground.

—Mr. Walsingham, Imogen calls. Ashley. Sit with me.

Ashley screws his face up to the sky. It is raining harder now, the droplets drumming a quick rhythm against the leaves.

—We’d as well wait it out here, she says.

—This tree won’t keep us dry forever.

—We don’t need forever. Sit down.

Ashley takes a seat beside her, leaning his swagger cane against the inside of his knee. He picks a few twigs from beneath his legs and tosses them away. He smiles.

—Did you really lose the key?

—Yes.

—Under this tree?

—I think so.

—Couldn’t you find some other way to get in?

—I’d rather not.

—You’d get in trouble?

—I’m already in trouble, she says. I’ve neglected certain plans tonight. You make me terribly irresponsible.

The rain quickens. A few large drops sink between the leaves, landing cold on Ashley’s neck. Imogen leans her head upon his shoulder, her fingers brushing the knot of his khaki necktie.

—But I’ve no regrets, she adds.

—Nor I.

Ashley puts his hand to her bare forearm. Her skin is damp and cool. He can feel the fine goose bumps on her arm. Imogen kisses the bottom of his chin and moves up toward his mouth, her lips skirting his.

—I knew you’d be at the concert, she whispers.

She takes his swagger cane and tosses it aside. Ashley brings her close and they kiss softly at first, then harder. Imogen pulls back and looks at him. She smiles, then takes his hand and lays her head upon his chest.

—I suppose you shall think me the sort of girl to kiss a man she scarcely knows.

—I expected so. For heaven’s sake, why do you think I came—

—Ashley!

He laughs as Imogen elbows him. He runs his hand over her hair, smoothing it, spreading the raindrops into the glossy band above her face.

—You aren’t any sort, he whispers. You’re only yourself.

—Darling. You know I’ve never done anything like this. It’s only that I felt we had to. There isn’t time enough for you to take me on strolls once a week—

She looks up at him.

—You leave on Thursday?

—Yes.

She nods. —Five days.

Ashley strokes her neck, bringing her close until he can feel the warmth of her body through her wet dress. They kiss on and on with mad abandon, trying to satisfy something that will not be satisfied. Imogen leans back against him. Ashley wraps his arms around her shoulders.

—I’ve seen you before, he says suddenly. I didn’t tell you, but I knew
it the moment I saw you at the lecture. It was in Snowdonia, the Gorphwysfa Hotel. The last Pen y Pass party before the war. You were with a group motoring by—

Imogen springs up.

—You were there? she gasps. I’m sorry—

—We didn’t meet. I only saw you. You play the piano, don’t you?

—A bit. But how could you remember that? It was years ago.

—It’s not the kind of thing one forgets.

Imogen laughs and puts her arms around his neck. She kisses him on the cheek and tells him that this is wonderful news.

—It wasn’t any accident that brought us here.

—With only five days?

—Five days, she repeats. We’ll spend them all together.

—I’m meant to go to Berkshire tomorrow. I have to see my people before I cross—

—I’ll go with you.

—To Sutton Courtenay?

—Why not? I’ll stay in a hotel nearby. In the evenings you’ll say you’re visiting school chums and you’ll sneak out to see me. You’ll go out your bedroom window and climb down a trellis. You do love to climb.

—You’re so certain of this already?

—Already?

—It’s been only a day.

Imogen lies back with her head on his chest. She looks up to the canopy of leaves above, all of them humming in the rain.

—But we’ve known each other for years, she says.

—You didn’t remember me.

Imogen plucks a wet blade of grass from the lawn and lifts it before her eyes. She studies the blade, turning it in her hand.

—No, she says. But you remembered me.

It is late. I know this from the brightness of the stars in the open doorway, and because the shouting and singing outside ended long ago. Everyone must have gone to sleep by now.

I went through the boxes one by one, sifting through contents and stacking, moving chairs and garden tools and old appliances to clear a path. All the documents and mail here are addressed to the Sjöbergs, which must be Karin’s family.

Finally I reach the staircase and I begin pulling out the boxes. Rusty old socket wrenches, tubes of grout, paintbrushes and scrapers. At the top of the steps there’s a roll of fiberglass insulation and a heavy box full of hardcover books. I move the insulation and step over the box.

Moonlight pours through windows onto the warped floorboards of the hallway. As I walk I have the sensation of leaning sideways. The floorboards groan. My feet make tracks in the thick dust.

I enter the bedroom facing the woods. More boxes everywhere. I push them aside until I reach a short bed of ancient oak, the bedposts decorated with elaborate carvings. Against the opposite wall there is an
antique writing desk stacked with old linens and bedspreads. I move the linens to the bed and go through the desk drawers. Paper clips; rolls of undeveloped film; rusted keys on a ring; steel sewing bobbins still wound with thread. In a bureau wedged below the desk there is a heavy case of stained walnut. I flip the brass latches. A butterfly collection under glass, the insects speared with pins and labeled in Latin and Swedish.
Danaus plexippus. Monarkfjäril.

—The monarch butterfly, I whisper.

A paper tag is affixed inside the lid of the case.
Per Andersson. Svartmangatan 11, Uppsala.

A shiver passes through me. I sit on the floor to take a breath and think. A few minutes later I cross the hall to the opposite bedroom. More boxes, a pair of twin beds covered in hand-knitted throws. No doubt once snow-white, the throws are grayed with decades of dust. Inside the boxes are folded linens and porcelain plates wrapped in brittle newspaper. I move the boxes and sit on one of the beds. Beside me is a red nightstand, its year of manufacture painted in florid numerals:
1663
. The nightstand has a large drawer. I pull on the handle, but it is stuck shut. After a few jerks it pulls open.