Way of Escape

by Ann Fillmore

  Bonnie couldn’t see any cars behind them. No, there they were—far, far behind, holding back, trying to be as invisible as possible. They would have to stop at the gate. Down the tiny lane the Saab went, huge snowdrifts as high as the car on each side, up to where the drifts parted and a small roundabout allowed the car to park at the entrance of an immense mansion. The face of the building was flat, even the twin front doors, exactly in the middle, opened onto the gravel drive with only the smallest of steps between the ground and the jamb. Windows, the same width and height as the doors, paraded outward on both sides, and each window had the exact same curtains, same color, same eighteenth century style. Drear was the only word to describe the shade of the natural yellow-gray stone. The roof, almost free of snow because of its steep peak, was of black slate. Except for the crystal glitter of the original glass in the windows and gaslight fixtures on the entrance, Hermelin Slott was ugly. Far to the right near a small door at the end of one wing, two cars were parked and plugged into heating posts.

  “Welcome to the Hermelin Slott,” Sture smiled. “This is where we live and,” he nodded his head toward the right, “that is the birdwatchers’ hostel. Not so busy this time of year.”

  Krister jumped from the car to open the doors for the women. Sture, without pausing, slid out and went ahead. The huge front doors opened and an old man in dark wool trousers and white wool shirt, stepped out, coatless. He saluted Sture who said something in Swedish and motioned toward the trunk of the Saab. As if in second thought, Sture turned and said loudly to Bonnie and Trisha, “Here is Gustav. He takes your baggage. Okay?” And the young man dashed into the castle. Krister was pulling out suitcases and Gustav was easily picking them up.

  Bonnie and Trisha, freezing, shrugged at each other, grabbed up their jackets and half slid, half walked to the doors where a girl of about eighteen dressed in a dark blue uniform with white apron, met them and smiling, motioned them in. The vestibule was large, chilly, and lined with what looked like wooden pews. A steam heater in the corner burped and grumbled. Sture’s recently worn boots lay next to the heater, along with rows and rows of other boots and shoes.

  “Din skon, har, tack?” The girl pointed to a pair of boots which looked like they could be hers, then pointed to the slippers on her feet, then to Bonnie and Trisha’s feet. “Ja?”

  “Sure, yes,” said Trisha as the girl took their jackets to hang up on a wooden peg. Trisha slipped off her new boots. Bonnie looked around first, at the well-worn heavy wooden furniture, the exquisitely carved inner doors, the slate floor. An outer door opened and Gustav stepped in with the first load of baggage. Bonnie could hear the Saab drive off, crunching on the icy gravel, going toward the back of the castle. The old man saluted her.

  She nodded in return as she set to work taking her new boots off. Of a sudden, the memory of her father religiously putting his shoes and boots by the front door came back, and how her mother would carefully clean them before putting them into the hall closet. It was their unspoken negotiated settlement, like so much else in their lives; unspoken, loving compromises. So now Bonnie was in a real Swedish home and now she saw how shoes and boots were left at the door, not put in a closet. And the shoes and boots were all clean, probably cleaned by the maid, Bonnie guessed and smiled at the girl.

  “I am Mrs. Ixey,” said Bonnie slowly.

  “Hej,” said the girl, curtseying again and blushing, touched her bosom, “Frida.” Turning, she led them into a huge hallway that immediately opened into a giant entry room. Plush carpets covered the floor and went up the two curving staircases. A vast and delicate chandelier filled the room with soft light. It was now electric but was obviously made for candles. Imagine, thought Bonnie, the time it took to lower the chandelier and light all the candles and raise it back up again.

  Large dark paintings of, Bonnie assumed, Hermelin ancestors lined the walls. This room was little warmer than the entryway.

  Frida hurried along and guided them around the staircase and down a short hallway to a small room that was a den made into an office. It was warm, toasty in fact. Sture, sitting at the desk, hung up the black dial phone. The maid bowed and was about to back out, when Sture said something to her in Swedish. She stopped, waiting patiently, hands folded on her apron.

  To Bonnie and Trish, he said, “You would like food? Astrid makes lunch soon. You want to rest?” He smiled tensely at Trisha, “Now you want a bath?”

  “Yep, a bath would be great,” said Trish, “and a nap, ‘cause my body says it’s evening.”

  “Yes, a nap,” Bonnie agreed, “and a bath. Could we wait for lunch until your dinner hour? Then our jet lag will be better.”

  “Ja so,” Sture nodded and made it clear to the maid that they were to go to their rooms.

  Bonnie came closer to the desk, “When can I talk with that attorney, Ms. Person? I would really like to get the paperwork finished as quickly as possible.”

  As if he didn’t expect this, Sture slid the big chair back, “My father says to wait for…it is rather, you must wait until tomorrow? That is better.”

  Bonnie noted Sture’s use of the present tense again. Internally, she shook her head. Surely, it was just a language problem on the boy’s part; he didn’t know the past tense of English verbs, right? She continued to Sture, “Tomorrow? We couldn’t see Ms. Person later this afternoon?”

  “No, no. We will wait,” Sture insisted.

  “Wait for what?” Bonnie leaned over the desk making the young man very uncomfortable. He knew future tense, that was for sure, she thought. On the desk, she noticed the stacks of papers addressed to Carl-Joran, the bank statements and sympathy cards. There was a puzzle here, she was certain. “If I insist on seeing Ms. Person today, what would you do?”

  The big shoulders shrugged, “It is a long walk to Norrkoping.”

  “She can’t come here?” Bonnie picked up some of the papers. They were all in Swedish.

  Sture reached forward and not too gently, but carefully, extracted them from her hands.

  “If my mom decides she’s gonna do something,” Trisha volunteered, “you can bet she’ll do it quick.”

  “Your mother does not know what this is all about,” Sture shot back, “there is much she does not know, much to explain. I do not explain it. You will wait. And we must stay in the castle. It is dangerous to go.”

  “You mean the agents out on the road?” Trisha laughed, “They won’t stay out there long in that cold.”

  The tall young man shook his head, “But they will wait in Norrkoping. And Krister is tired now. He must drive, he must protect the car.” He held up the phone receiver, “You can call Ms. Person?” His tone was hopeful.

  Bonnie nodded, “I will call her. Later, after my nap.” Sture sighed with relief and set the receiver back in its hook as Bonnie went on, “Why must Krister protect the car?”

  “This car today, it is a new car.” Sture grimaced, “No, we stay in the castle until, until tomorrow.”

  Perhaps it was the jet lag, perhaps her own irritation and anger at being followed and harassed, but Bonnie put her hands on her hips and said, “Tomorrow and no postponing it. Sture, I know you are grieving for your father, but I want to see the attorney and I want to get the paperwork out of the way. That will make things easier for you too, won’t it?”

  “Also must you talk with the tik Algbak.” Sture scowled. “Old moose’s behind.”

  “What?” Trish interrupted.

  “Algbak, the woman at the Pastorkirche. Her name means moose’s behind,” the young man explained, a smirk starting at the corner of his thin lips.

  As one, suddenly, they laughed, all three of them, even Frida giggled. It broke the confrontational mood and Sture’s face lightened.

  “Okay.” Bonnie stood up straight again, taking her hands off the desk, “Trish and I will try to relax. And wait.”

  “Yes, good.” Sture spoke Swedish to the maid, then English to the women, “Frida will take you to your rooms. You
must share a badrum. But you have hot water and the rooms have heat.”

  “Oh,” said Trisha as she turned with her mom to follow Frida out. “You mean some rooms don’t?”

  The young baron said after them, “Most have no heat, only fireplaces. You will see. Later, we will have a tour.”

  Up the long stairway to the left they went, into a narrow, long, and chilly hall. About halfway down the hall, Frida opened two doors and indicated that these were their rooms. She pointed to an adjoining door and said, “Bad, toilet, ja?”

  “Sure,” Trisha agreed and went into her room. Bonnie, grateful to be where she could strip off her clothes and get comfortable, closed her door behind her. The room was about middling large and it was wonderfully warm. Her luggage was there. The furniture consisted of a high, four-poster, a ceiling-high wardrobe, a nightstand topped in silvery gray slate, a small washstand and intricately carved bureau, a brightly painted hope chest at the foot of the bed and all spoke of centuries of age. Not so the bedcovers, which were fresh and clean. The duvet of goose down had a creamy damask envelope and the sheet was of crisp linen in a brown stripe. A set of towels, as creamy as the duvet, was set on the washstand next to a white porcelain bowl and water jug. She opened the closet section of the wardrobe to find coat hangers. The shelves were empty, lined with scented paper ready for her things.

  The steam heater in the corner burped and chugged happily. Her bags sat against the bureau. This would be home for a while, she thought, as she hefted the big bag onto the bed. She was glad she’d packed her bathrobe and slippers right on top. As she turned, she glanced toward the French windows and the scene outside pulled her to them.

  This was hers now. Long meadows of snow, surrounded by black-green firs and naked maples. A river, thick with ice and rime, meandered through the moguls and she suddenly noticed three well-bundled hikers trudging through the man-high drifts. They carried bird binoculars. Ahead of them trotted deer. She could see no fence, no walls, just wilderness. A fat, furry bunny hopped away from the deer and hikers. Neither the bunny nor the deer had the least fear of the humans. Far to her right was a long wooden building painted dark red with several wide doors. In front were more deer and a couple of small moose eating hay; underfoot were wild birds, a few geese, and ducks. Was this building once the stable? Yes, there was the Saab they’d arrived in, barely visible through an open door. She watched Krister plug in the engine warmer.

  A small knock came at the door. She opened it. Frida had a tray covered with a decorated cotton napkin in her hand. “Varm mjolk? Ja? Bra at somna.”

  “Uh, tack.” Bonnie felt any effort at more Swedish would not be in her best interest.

  The maid set the tray down and backed out quickly. On the tray was hot milk and rich Swedish cookies composed mostly, she was certain, of real butter and sugar. Well, thought Bonnie, keeping my girlish form will be difficult here. She sighed and started taking off her clothes. A bath would be wonderful.

  “Mom!” came Trisha’s voice, “there’s no shower!”

  “Yes, dear, I expected as much,” Bonnie replied.

  “You go first,” Trisha grouched. “At least I can soak after you’re through. Oh, yummy, snacks!” And in moments, all but one cookie vanished.

  Bonnie smiled. Well, she thought, that takes care of those pesky extra calories. In her tired mind, she wondered how Trisha would take the news. Later, perhaps after dinner. And what about the fact that Sture conjugated his English verbs with enough skill to use future tense? She picked up a fluffy towel and her bathroom supplies. So was he just not accepting his father’s death? Was he unable to come to terms with it? Bonnie sighed. Far off in the depths of the castle, she heard a phone ring.

  ***

  Carl-Joran punched off the phone and then on again. Siddhu had finally reached him. The women in the Miami shelter had let him sleep even though Siddhu had called three times wanting to pass on the message that Sture had called him three times. The baron groaned. His phone bill would equal the national debt of a small country. Never before had that sort of thing meant anything to him. His accountant and Inge Person dealt with such mundane affairs. He sighed. The women had awakened him with breakfast. He had slept the entire night and into the day. It would be early afternoon in Sweden. He dialed. Sture answered.

  It took some doing to calm the boy down. Yes, Bonnie and Trish were sleeping off their jet lag. So Bonnie wanted to see Inge? Well, no. Because Krister would have to drive to the airport for him. Yes, he would be home tomorrow afternoon and he would get rid of the agents. No more siege on the castle. Tack gud. And Astrid could fix a big dinner tomorrow, a real Swedish dinner, boiled potatoes and codfish and sugared carrots, yes. Wonderful. It would all be better tomorrow, he assured Sture. As he hung up, Carl-Joran wondered if that was so. There was a lot to do.

  Tammy, grinning with pride and affection, took the giant Carl-Joran by the hand as he came from the room and pulled him along to the dining area. The women they passed all greeted him with sincere respect. He was inside a women’s shelter and he was okay. It was a very good feeling. The dining room had been turned into a makeshift staging area for Polly Marie’s conversion. The tables had cutout pieces of costume and padding which were being fitted together by a bevy of volunteers. Sherralyn, looking for all the world like a pugnacious black bulldog, hovered around the tall and strikingly beautiful Polly Marie, coaching her in Jamaican.

  Hearing him enter, the woman turned to face him, her savior, and smiled all very white teeth. “D’ya like what ya see?” she said, her new Jamaican accent nearly perfect.

  “Beautiful!” the baron responded.

  “Isn’t she great!” the women around her insisted, “she’s got it so quick! You’d think she was native.”

  Sherralyn pointed to the table full of materials. “Next we make her fat.”

  “And she must be blacker,” said Carl-Joran, “and squash her nose, make it wider. And her hair?”

  Polly Marie groaned, putting one hand to her nose. “To think I paid several thousand dollars for this nose! What a laugh!”

  A woman held up a box full of stage makeup. “She will be a real black mama by the time we’re finished!” Another woman shook a large Afro wig loose from its box.

  “Okay, back to work,” Sherralyn ordered and Polly Marie, laughing, complied.

  “What time is her plane?” asked Carl-Joran of Tammy.

  “Ten o’clock tonight. She flies directly to Kampala,” Tammy said,” and she becomes African. But she will have to learn Swahili there. Or whatever language Judge Moabi decides she needs. Luckily, this woman can really learn fast.”

  “I was an actress,” came Polly Marie’s voice.

  “No, my dear,” the baron told her, “you are one, still. And you will be the best in Africa.”

  Breaking away from Sherralyn, the tall woman grabbed Carl-Joran and hugged him. “Do you know how it feels to be free? And safe! Oh, I cannot tell you how good it is. How grateful I am.”

  He gave her a fatherly hug back and patted her shoulders. He noted that the bruises on her face were fading fast. “We still must get through the Miami airport. I think we will be fine. You have truly become Eauso Valentine.”

  “Dat right, I’m de woman who jes came from de big island,” she said in perfect accent. Everybody clapped.

  “I’ll put you on the plane,” the giant man assured her.

  Habib sat comfortably on the rocking old camel while Tahireh scurried on foot to keep up with the donkeys. She applied the switch to the little creatures’ behinds with as much energy as any of the boys. When evening set in, they had crested the last sand dune before the rocky plain that surrounded the i-Shibl compound. The high stucco walls of the structure glistened orange from the last of the sunlight. The oasis behind the far corner was surrounded by a busy assortment of traders, nomads, and merchants, some of whom greeted their group as they came to their spot next to the wall. Habib shouted his camel to kneeling. Tahireh did exactly the
same as the other donkey boys, getting the beasts to water, unloading, helping to set up camp.

  Habib noticed only out of the corner of his eye when she scooped up a large bundle and trotted along with a half-dozen of the boys as they headed for the servants’ entrance. It was expected that once a week, the boys were allowed into the compound to get baths and medical care, if needed, and hand-me-down clothes. They’d counted on this. Tahireh disappeared behind the gates and the armed guards. Habib’s heart skipped a beat. Now came the real danger.

  On the other side of the wall, Princess Zhara, her heart dancing with excitement, looked across the bunch of raggedy donkey boys streaming through the gate. Sweeping majestically along, Zhara came down the courtyard stairs and past the fountain. As she had done for the last six months, she stood beside the nurse and passed out vitamins, checked little heads for lice, pushed clothing into grubby hands and took old clothes from the kids for disposal.

  A handsome boy, tall for his age, handed her a bundle. Zhara knew, even before the boy said, “I am from the haji,” that this was her rescuer.

  “Nurse,” Zhara said loudly, “this one has lice. I will take him into the bath and make sure the men scrub him.”

  The nurse nodded and handed her more lice killer. She was completely uninterested in another urchin. There were so many and she had given up caring.

  The princess grabbed the tall boy’s shirt and dragged him along until they were out of sight in the hallway. “Come on,” urged Zhara, “my rooms are upstairs. I can change there.”

  Tahireh nodded.

  “Did you bring two sets of clothes?” the princess whispered as they entered her room.

  “Two sets?” Tahireh asked.

  Zhara shook out the bundle of raggedy, dirty clothes. The grimace on her face said it all. “Yes, one for my mother?”