Walking Into the Night (3 page)

7

I know you won’t be surprised to learn that I try to perform my duties conscientiously. As you’ll understand, I’m not writing this to boast—who would have thought that I’d ever become a servant again? But I devote myself to my job and often manage to lose myself in the day’s business, because there is plenty to do here and the Chief depends on me.

The nights are hardest, when silence surrounds me and there’s nothing to deflect the memories. I dread the quiet evenings and try to draw out my chores, sitting up late preparing for the next day, writing myself endless notes or adding to the shopping list, which I always carry, making yet another trip to the pantry to be sure we haven’t run out of something that I forgot to put on my list.

The Chief usually stays up late, and I’m happiest when he needs me. He often calls me after midnight, and that’s a relief because then I know I’ll have something to occupy me for a while. I think he realizes I don’t see it as an imposition.

Yes, I perform my duties conscientiously, and if you were like most people you would probably smirk if I described to you the menial jobs that I believe I can perform better than anyone else. But you were never the vengeful type, never tried to get even with those who had hurt you. That forbearance, where does it come from? Why wouldn’t you berate me, take pleasure in seeing me trapped in a web of my own making? Because that would make me feel better. One word from your lips, one word that stung me to the core, and I’d finally have some peace.

But I know you’d be incapable of such behavior. You would consider it vulgar.

Last spring there was a plague of insects here on the hill. At twilight the building was filled with them, starting with the entrance hall, as if they were respectable visitors paying us a house call. They settled on the dinner service and serving dishes, on bars of soap and flower arrangements; every morning they lay dead on all the windowsills, delaying the morning chores. They didn’t even let up at night, buzzing in the darkness and keeping everyone awake, the Chief most of all. They would settle on his face and a couple even tried to climb up his nose.

I tried to remember how I had got rid of the flies in our house in Reykjavik but couldn’t immediately recall. We had just moved in when the plague hit us; I clearly remember when it reached its peak. It was one evening in June; you were playing Mozart in the living room, you and your friends in the quartet, a woman whose name I forget—skinny, with a long nose—and two young men, one of them in love with you, though you didn’t realize. You all invited friends and relatives; people who shared the habit of talking down to me about the “Maestro,” as you all called the great composer. Chairs had been set out in the middle of the room; I sat at the back, a guest in my own home. Everyone but you wore a pious expression; you were smiling, your thoughts far away. I shifted in my seat, crossed and recrossed my legs, looked out the window. Then the flies came to my rescue. It was as if the room filled in an instant; the guests began to flap at them, first discreetly, then violently, as if warding off an attack. Your quartet persisted in playing longer than I expected, you longest of all. Finally the gathering broke up. It wasn’t until the last person had fled that I set about trying to get rid of the flies.

But now I couldn’t remember any longer what tricks I had used. I looked for advice in some old books that I’d found in the Chief’s library. Some of what I dug up was interesting in its way, but nothing really worked until I began to experiment myself, from memory. My tactics may not have been particularly scientific, but eventually I stumbled upon a solution that worked. I put half a teaspoon of ground pepper in a shallow bowl along with one teaspoon of soft brown sugar and a tablespoon of cream. I mixed them thoroughly, then put the bowl under the living room window. I changed the mixture daily. After two days the flies were gone.

It was the Chief himself who suggested I write down this tip, along with others which might be useful for the staff here on the hill. This has been a welcome diversion, a way of making time pass more quickly in the evenings and pinning down my thoughts so they don’t stray as far off as usual. I’ve almost finished one exercise book, having written sixty-four tips in it, some quite clever, though I say so myself. But I’ve plenty more to write, in reality I’ve only begun. I started indoors, describing things like how best to look after furniture made from mahogany and other types of hardwood, how to get grease stains out of tablecloths, how to polish silver properly, how to clean teapots and coffee mills. I’ve tried to categorize my thoughts as best I can, so they’ll be useful to as many people as possible and are easy to follow, though I reckon I could do better in this respect.

So that’s how I kill time in the evenings and early in the mornings when the Chief and Miss Davies are away. As I told you, I’ve also started picking up a pencil every now and then to sketch the birds here on the hill and down by the sea; sometimes I go down to the shore and sit on a rock with a little sketch pad. Though I’m still rusty, there’s no doubt I’m making progress with every week that passes. Next I’m going to try a hawk. And one day I might even have a go at a condor.

The other day the Chief asked me what I was up to. He was taking his evening stroll around the house with his dachshund, Helena, in tow, and put his head round my door. Perhaps he thought he’d find the corpse of a bird on my desk; the dog had been drawn by the smell a few days earlier, when I was attempting the bluebird. I told him I was jotting down my tips, as he had suggested. He asked to see them when I had finished because, who knows, it might be something for the readers of his papers. “We’ll see,” I said to him. I was thinking that there was plenty that would come in handy for the general public, though I’d have to adjust quite a few things which might seem pretty strange to those who aren’t familiar with the ways of rich men’s households. I even got quite excited about the prospect of doing this until the Chief said: “We’ll give you a byline. We can call the column ‘The Butler Suggests,’ or something along those lines. You think about it, Christian. It could work. People always want to upgrade their standard of living. Whether they can afford to or not.” I was silent. I hope he’s forgotten about this idea by now. If he brings it up again, I’ll have to tell him I’ve given up on the whole thing.

So here I am in the dusk, writing in an exercise book about how best to set a table. “
You,
Kristjan?” I hear you say. But I know you won’t take pleasure in the fact. You’ll just pity me.

8

They stood before him, three of them, their faces revealing nervous anticipation. It was two o’clock. There was no one else in the staff dining room; most of the household were busy preparing for the ball that evening. He wanted to speak to them in private and so asked them to step aside. The girl jumped when the bell tolled in the tower above them, then smiled shyly and looked down. She had started work a week before and was still unaccustomed. The boys had shiny shoes and slicked-back hair. They were new, as well. There was a clashing of pots and pans from the kitchen but it was muffled and didn’t disturb them.

“House rules,” he said.

They looked up.

“Three simple rules that the Chief’s guests must observe.”

Suddenly noticing that someone had forgotten to clean one corner of the table after lunch, he went over to the sink, fetched a wet cloth, wiped down the table, then took it back to the sink and wrung it out before turning back to them.

“Rule one: no drunkenness. You’re to watch the guests and let me know the moment you think someone has had too much liquor. Regardless of who it is or what they say.

“Rule two: no bad language or off-color jokes. If the first rule is observed, there’s generally no need to worry about people’s behavior. Again, you let me know as soon as you believe this rule is being broken.

“Are you with me?”

They nodded.

“Rule three: no sexual intercourse between unmarried couples.”

He was about to continue, then fell silent for a moment. They waited.

“No sexual intercourse between unmarried couples,” he repeated.

One of the boys, a footman, tried to hide a smile.

“How can we keep a check on that?” he asked.

Kristjan cleared his throat.

“A man and a woman do not sleep in the same room unless they are married. This is a rule. . . . Coming and going between bedrooms is not tolerated . . .” He hesitated. “It’s prohibited,” he added. “That’s a rule, too. Those who break it are sent home the next morning.”

Silence. They glanced at one another.

“Three simple rules. Do you trust yourselves to remember them?”

They nodded.

“Good. Then there’s no need to keep you.”

He went to the door and opened it, showing them out with his eyes.

The inquisitive footman stopped in the doorway.

“May I ask one question?”

The others stopped as well and waited to see what would happen.

“Are the Chief and Miss Davies married, then? Or is it true that he has a wife and family living on the East Coast? Just so we know if we’re asked.”

Kristjan hesitated a moment.

“You won’t be asked,” he said after a short silence. “Now go and try to make yourselves useful.”

9

The apple had tumbled out of the pig’s jaws and rolled over the port-marinated pears surrounding it, off the silver dish and past the long fork and newly sharpened carving knife. It had come to a halt in the middle of the table as if it had lost heart for a longer journey, yet it didn’t seem to feel self-conscious alone in the vast white expanse. The caramel glaze had begun to crack and its wake could be traced in a straight line across the starched tablecloth. The pig stared after it with empty eyes.

It was the evening of the Chief’s costume ball. He had invited between sixty and seventy guests, most from Hollywood but also a handful of his own employees—editors and reporters—as well as the odd businessman. Most of the guests had already arrived and were now standing in their rooms before the mirror as they slipped into their costumes—heroes from past centuries, knights, cowboys and popes, clowns and courtesans, queens and nuns.

Kristjan heard a car in the distance and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the late-afternoon glare; the sun hung low in the sky over the ocean and flashed on the black limousine as it crawled up the winding drive.

Reaching into his pocket, he fetched the guest list and peered at it. He reckoned he could guess who was arriving—friends of Miss Davies from Los Angeles, Miss Bette Davis with a director and two other actresses.

“They must have been held up on the way,” he said to himself.

Without waiting any longer he turned on his heels and continued his patrol of the buildings.

In the orchard nearest the main building a long trestle table had been set up in a quiet clearing. Pergolas led to the clearing, lined with lamps and torches which would be lit once darkness fell. By the swimming pool a tent was being erected, white with a blue ceiling studded with stars. Wax statues of violin players and a priest with a mouth organ stood side by side outside the tent. Kristjan wiped some bird droppings off the priest’s shoulder. He thought he seemed oddly out of place.

He noticed the apple on the table as soon as he looked into the tent. Reacting quickly, he asked someone to fetch the chef and his assistant to repair the table ornaments, ordering two waiters to bring a new cloth. He impressed upon them the importance of keeping their eyes open.

“You’re lucky it was me and not the Chief who noticed this,” he told them.

In the kitchen, quails, ducks, and pheasants turned on spits over hot coals while outside men were shoveling bundles of wood into a stone-built oven and preparing buffalo joints for roasting. The wood had begun to smoke. Kristjan’s gaze inadvertently followed the smoke as it curled out into the quiet afternoon, then he got a grip on himself and continued his patrol before his thoughts could follow it and lose themselves yet again in the stillness.

There was a sweet smell in the air. In the morning two kitchen maids had gone down the hill to pick fruit from the orchard— pineapples and pears, oranges, bananas, and nuts. They had washed the fruit, placed them in rows on trays, and arranged them meticulously in numerous bowls. Kristjan paused in the kitchen to check that they had performed their task properly, before reminding the stand-in chef yet again that the Chief liked his meat rare.

An hour later the guests were gathered in the Assembly Room. Kristjan alerted the Chief and Miss Davies when everyone was present. They took the elevator together from their adjoining bedrooms and entered through the concealed door in the paneled wall, like gods, with a calm, distant look in their eyes. They stood motionless side by side until their guests became aware of them. A murmur passed through the crowd, then voices were lowered, people looked up from their chessboards or jigsaw puzzles; those who were visiting for the first time glanced around in the hope of picking up clues on how to behave. But there was no need for guidance because after a few seconds Miss Davies came to life like a wax doll touched by a magic wand. Her face broadened in a smile as she released the Chief’s hand and vanished into the crowd that welcomed her with hugs and kisses. David Niven, dressed as a pickpocket. Bette Davis with a beard. Carole Lombard in a Tyrolean outfit. These were her friends and they adored her.

The Chief, meanwhile, turned aside to check his messages on the Teletype machine.

Kristjan thought Hearst didn’t seem right that evening. There had been no warning earlier in the day but now he saw that something was wrong. He was sure it wasn’t business that worried him, because the Chief never let it show when times were tough. “Miss Davies,” he muttered to himself, and determined to keep a close eye on her during the evening.

He noticed that a guest at the other side of the room looked rather the worse for wear and nudged one of the footmen, indicating that he was not to fill the man’s glass again. According to the Chief’s rules, the guests were not permitted more than two glasses of spirits before dinner or three glasses of wine. Kristjan knew from experience that it could be difficult to keep track of consumption among so many people, particularly at the beginning of a party when the guests were drinking on empty stomachs. Some were weary from their journey but the excitement always overcame them and then they forgot how much they had consumed. He was in no doubt about whom the Chief would hold accountable if anyone got drunk. Especially Miss Davies. He would be a long time forgetting the Chief’s eyes at the dinner table when she had passed out once in her chair opposite him. Yet no one had seen her take a drink all evening; no one had seen her touch anything but water. She had hidden a flask of gin in her handbag and drunk from it when no one was looking.

The guests filed out one by one. They were greeted by the evening sun, pale and timid on the ground but more cheerful in the branches of the trees, and lively on the streams and fountains. The chef adjusted his hat and wielded his carving knife on the first pig. There were nine more waiting their turn.

The Chief remained inside with a few of his guests; he was dressed as a woodcutter in brown breeches and a green jerkin with gilt buttons. On his head a feather bounced in a flat cap of green velour. Apparently it was tight since he kept taking it off and rubbing his forehead. He surveyed the room ceaselessly but couldn’t see Miss Davies. Three of his guests, middle-aged men whom Kristjan knew to be in the newspaper business, stood around him, talking away obliviously as he scanned the room.

Could she have gone outside?

The dusk was deepening in the gardens, the shadows of the trees lengthening. Kristjan paused for a moment on his way to the tent to watch the lighting of the lamps. Generally a sense of calm flooded over him at this time of day, but now he was on edge and had no time to savor the view or the twilight spreading over the mountainsides and the plain below. In the spring the dusk approached like silent veils of rain, but in winter it wore a gray gown. With the dusk he sensed her presence, why he didn’t know.

“Klara,” he’d say, when he felt her coming closer. “Are you sleepwalking again?”

Just as he was about to continue on his rounds, someone nudged him. He jumped and turned sharply. Miss Davies smiled at him.

“My glass . . . fill it up, dear.”

“You know . . .”

“Just a teeny bit.”

“. . . I can’t.”

The smile lingered on her lips but the tone of her voice changed.

“Come on, quick. Fill up my glass.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be like that. Come on.”

Silence.

“Fill my glass, I say.”

“The Chief . . .”

She didn’t raise her voice but it quivered as if someone had plucked an overtaut string.

“To hell with him. He doesn’t know what I’ve been through. I can’t do it again. It gets worse every time.”

He didn’t know what she was referring to. She had begun to shake and was on the verge of tears.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked.

“Yes, fill my glass,” she begged. “Please just fill my glass . . .”

He took her arm.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat. The guests are waiting.”

He led her to the main building, out of the half-dusk and mist and towards the twinkling lights. The noise of the party reached them, roars of laughter and the clinking of cutlery and glass; she gripped his arm tight, gradually loosening her hold as she managed to suppress her sobs.

Was he trying to console her when he said all of a sudden: “Do you remember when Mr. Valentino taught you how to dance the tango right here in the garden?” He didn’t know; maybe he just meant to comfort himself. But whatever his reason, she said without looking at him: “Yes, it was awful. Even when I was happy, I couldn’t dance.”

When they had climbed up to the terrace nearest the house, the Chief came towards them. She straightened up, touched anew by the magic wand, and said with a smile:

“There you are, dear.”

Kristjan hurried away, past the musicians who had begun to play in front of a statue of the Three Graces, and the guests who were dancing on the terrace, looking neither to right nor left but quickening his pace until he reached the doorway of the tent. There he stopped, at last to catch his breath and wipe the pearls of sweat from his brow. Pursuing him into the tent, the music would have seemed sweet and uplifting under different circumstances—“I only have eyes for you . . .”

There was hardly anything left of the pig on the long trestle table but the apple was still gripped in its jaw. When the waiters replaced it with a slightly smaller pig, Kristjan made sure they put parsley eyelashes and cranberry eyes where the pig’s own eyes had once been.