It took more than two hours to get a connection to Kopasker.
“Disa, is that you? Is something wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong, Mother. I’ve got engaged.”
Silence. Crackling on the line.
“I said I’ve got engaged.”
“What did you say, child?”
I gabbled on nineteen to the dozen despite the poor connection. “We’re getting married this autumn,” I told her, “when we get back to London. Jakob, he’s called, Jakob Himmelfarb, a German. I love him, I tell you, love him so much you wouldn’t believe it, Mother. And it’s so beautiful here in the countryside, there’s a little stream by the garden (which isn’t so much a garden as a meadow) and the grass has started to turn green and the birds have begun to sing all day long for our amusement. I get butter, cheese, eggs, chickens and ducks from the farm farther up the valley, the people there are so dependable and easy to get along with.” I also told her about the butcher and the little restaurant beside the library where I cooked three evenings a week. “Butler’s Tavern, it’s called,” but I didn’t mention that I was forbidden to cook anything except traditional English food since the owner received complaints. I told her that Jakob and I had been to London twice that year—“God, how expensive everything is there compared to here, Mother. A pound of butter costs . . . and the cheese isn’t nearly as good. But it was fun to see Julie and some of the other staff.” However, I didn’t mention the falling out between Boulestin and myself, though Mrs. Brown had told me that he was ready to take me back in the autumn. “But perhaps we’ll come to Iceland first. Yes, Jakob has suggested that it might not be a bad idea as things stand. Oh, Mother, I’m so happy.”
Silence.
“Mother?”
I thought the connection had been lost.
“Mother, are you there?”
“I was under the impression you were in the countryside under Boulestin’s protection,” I heard her say. “How come you’ve never told us before about this—what’s he called again?—this Jakob? You said you were there for Boulestin . . .”
“Oh, Mother . . .”
“You deceived us. Your parents. And now you claim you’re engaged. Are you out of your mind, child? Is there something wrong with you? Deceived us, your parents. And now you say you’re getting married this autumn. You’re out of your mind . . .”
I had begun to cry.
“Mother, you don’t understand . . .”
“No, I don’t understand you. I don’t understand how you could treat us like that. After everything we’ve done for you. Your father . . . And then you go behind our backs. This sort of behavior leads to nothing but unhappiness. Nothing but unhappiness, Asdis.”
The tune from the traveling hurdy-gurdy man, apparently seamless at first, then falling apart. The notes are lost when the wind drops, becoming scattered and in the end forgetting one another, lost in the void. Lonely notes drifting through the emptiness, futile—completely futile.
In July David, Jakob’s younger brother, announced his imminent arrival. His letter was waiting for us when we came home after a day’s walk in the woods; I remember being surprised that the letter should be from him as the handwriting on the envelope was so elegant that I had assumed the sender was a woman. The envelope was blue and so was the paper. Light blue.
We were tired and happy that day after a long walk and a dip in a little lake we had come across and had completely to ourselves. The lake—or rather pond—was hidden in a leafy clearing and Jakob amused himself by diving below the surface, swimming up to me underwater and seizing my toes. At first I was anxious, thinking he had been under for too long and imagining that he had got caught in the weeds at the bottom and couldn’t get free. Then my toes were pinched and I burst out laughing with relief when he surfaced and took me in his arms. We ate a late lunch on the bank of the pond, cold omelette, smoked salmon and cheese, and drank a translucent red wine which slipped down the throat without troubling the brain cells. After the meal we dozed and when we awoke the shadows were lengthening and the flat rocks of the bank had grown cool to the touch. We strolled home accompanied by the diffident rays of the evening sun.
“He intends to stay for one night,” said Jakob after reading the letter. “And he will not be alone.”
He was fond of his brother and looked forward to seeing him, as well as being curious to meet his girlfriend. David seemed to be madly in love with her and Jakob’s smile became almost paternal as he read his brother’s description of the girl, so sincere and ingenuous were his comments.
They arrived on Saturday, shortly after midday. We watched them walk up the drive to the house, David carrying a small suitcase in one hand and holding the girl’s hand in the other. She wore a long white skirt, white blouse and a white hat on her head, a tall, slim figure, gliding along like a moonbeam. Jakob kissed his brother on both cheeks and I did the same even though I didn’t know him; he was a good-looking young man, more delicately built than his brother and not as tall. The girl, whose name was Anna, greeted me with a weak handshake but Jakob was quick to give her a welcome kiss. David fussed around her like a humble servant and Jakob and I gave each other sideways glances and smiled, as it was almost funny to watch the boy’s behavior.
“Would you like to sit here in the shade? I’ll fetch a chair for you. Is the seat comfortable enough? Would you like me to fetch a cushion? Are you comfortable now?”
She offered to help me in the kitchen, and when I declined sat in the shade on the veranda and asked David to light her a cigarette. She smoked one after another and David leaped up at regular intervals to relieve her of the stub and empty the ashtray. She caressed his neck whenever he bent down to her and nibbled his earlobe teasingly after whispering something to him which doubtless wasn’t meant for our ears. Perhaps she thought we wouldn’t notice but somehow I’m not convinced. I thought he blushed.
When Jakob suggested we take a stroll down to the river and over to the next valley, she said she’d prefer to stay behind and rest. David was quick to decide to stay behind with her. I looked over my shoulder when we reached the river. She was still sitting in the shade on the veranda, David at her side watching us. For some reason I felt sure they would go inside the moment we were out of sight.
Though I say so myself, supper was delicious. I had pulled out all the stops for David’s sake. First we ate vegetable soup, then blue cheese and ham which I had baked in a pastry crust, then finally pigeons served with prunes. We drank a young red wine which Jakob had picked up on our last visit to London; it had a pleasant flavor. We tried to talk as little as possible about the situation in Germany, but naturally couldn’t avoid it altogether. The girl took no part in the conversation, keeping silent. I don’t remember how the talk turned to Catholics, but Jakob said he had heard that the German government was continuing to charge monks with sexual deviancy. He didn’t hide his opinion but when his brother David opened his mouth to agree with him, his girlfriend said in a teasing voice:
“Since when have you been so interested in monks?”
She sat between Jakob and me at the round table in the sitting room, flirting a little with Jakob, getting in her laugh before David or me whenever he made an amusing comment, and flattering him at every opportunity. Her parents had moved to Namibia before the Nazis came to power but she didn’t mention them to Jakob or me. I had gathered from David’s letters that she herself was a student, though it was a bit unclear.
She smoked the odd cigarette during the meal, blowing the smoke to one side. At first David made sure that she wasn’t put to the trouble of reaching for a cigarette and lighting it herself but as the meal went on he stopped noticing when she extended her fingers toward the packet. The food and wine had filled him with unexpected vigor and he prattled on, grilling me about Icelandic horses, as he was apparently a keen rider. He was cheerful and unsuspecting when Jakob began to ask him how everybody was at home in Munich.
“And how is your friend
Lore?”
David took his brother’s question literally, answering that he had met his childhood friend and her sister two weeks before when they were in London and had lunch with them.
“It began to rain while we were eating,” he said, “and her sister was worried that she would get wet on the way home and Lore started to tease her and we laughed and laughed for no particular reason, just like old times.”
Anna knew Jakob was enjoying himself at her expense. Her expression changed swiftly.
“Lore has always been so warm and fun,” said Jakob. “And there’s nothing wrong with her looks either.”
I nudged him. He realized he had gone too far and tried to make amends but failed miserably: “I don’t know how you always get these beautiful girls . . .”
The three of us ate every last mouthful of the pigeon but Anna appeared to have lost her appetite, merely prodding at each breast a couple of times before putting down her knife and fork. I could see that she was in the mood for revenge.
We drank coffee at the table since we didn’t feel like moving. Darkness had fallen outside but inside it was warm and cozy in the light of the candles and the flickering glow from the hearth. How the conversation turned to swimming, I don’t remember; I may have mentioned the pond where we had been taking dips for the last few days and the rocks on the bank which were hot by day but swiftly cooled as the sun got lower in the sky. I may have begun talking about the pond but it was Anna who suddenly cleared her throat and leaned forward in her seat.
“I adore swimming,” she declared. “Simply adore it. Even during a civil war.”
She looked at David.
“You remember what I wrote to you from San Sebastián, darling, don’t you?”
David hung his head.
“It was so gorgeous by the beach,” she continued. “After lunch everyone hurried down there because the more people went swimming, the more likely it was that someone would have a chance to escape. You known—refugees trying to swim over the border to France. Pretending to be on their summer holiday like us. It’s perhaps shameful to admit it but we all found it exciting too. The Spanish guards always noticed them because they swam too quickly. Couldn’t hold themselves back.”
“What happened then?” asked Jakob in an expressionless voice.
“Well, the guards began to shoot. And we raced for the beach, swimming as fast as we could, and ran up on to the hot sand until there was no one left in the water except the fugitives. The end of the game was simple. It was sad. They never missed.”
We sat in silence for a while. The fire crackled. But she hadn’t finished.
“I know David doesn’t want me to talk about it but we never saw the bodies, fortunately. The current carried them away toward Bordeaux, the very place they had been trying to get to in the first place.”
She slept late the following morning. When she awoke, they came to say good-bye. David was subdued. Jakob kissed him on both cheeks and patted him on the back.
We breathed more easily once they had left the house.
I have often wondered whether I was genuinely pleased for my sister Jorunn when she wrote to me about her forthcoming marriage to Gunnar Olafsson, a chemist. I didn’t know the man but judging by her description you would have thought he could walk on water. It didn’t bother me but I found it strange that she didn’t ask my opinion at all about the marriage. Admittedly, she had mentioned Gunnar two or three times in her letters, but not in a way that prepared me for a wedding in just a few months’ time. I’d like to emphasize that it never occurred to me that she should need my consent—quite the contrary—but all the same it took me by surprise that she didn’t even ask my opinion. I would have thought we were close enough that she wouldn’t have chosen to tell me the news in a way which amounted to a public announcement. I have to admit I was quite upset.
At the same time I had given her clear hints about my feelings for Jakob. Naturally, I didn’t go so far as to tell her in so many words that we were “living in sin,” as they called it then, and I convinced myself that my caution was because I didn’t want to get her into trouble. However, I realized later that underneath I had not entirely trusted her. And when I read her letter I was convinced that I had been right.
I was particularly annoyed by the postscript. She had obviously written the letter before I rang Mother and told her that I was engaged to Jakob but had not yet posted it.
P.S. Mother told me about your conversation yesterday. As you know, she is at her wits’ end. I tried to calm her down but it wasn’t any good. Father didn’t say much. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help . . .
At least she had had the sense to rewrite the letter, crossing out the description of her trip with Gunnar up north to Kopasker—“I’m so glad Mother took to him so readily, they were the best of friends right away”—and cut down the tedious account of what a good family he came from. “Olafur, my prospective father-in-law, studied medicine with Father but I didn’t find out until recently . . .”
She, the angel. I, the black sheep.
“You must give the impression that you’re married,” Mrs. Brown had advised me before we went to Somerset. “People in the provinces don’t approve of unmarried couples living together. Any more than anywhere else . . .”
“You haven’t been living together this winter, have you?” wrote Jorunn. “Mother thinks you have but I told her it couldn’t possibly be true.”
Pretending that she was trying to help me!
No, I didn’t find it easy to be pleased for her when she wrote about her forthcoming marriage to Gunnar Olafsson, chemist.
Who can blame me?
I got to know Anthony early in ’38, when Jakob and I had been in Somerset only a few months. He lived a short distance away from us at a small country lodge owned by his family, called, if I remember right, Whitewood Hall. Now the lodge and its flourishing, fertile estate have been forfeited, run through their hands like so much else. When passing Whitewood Hall I would frequently stop and admire the house. I’d get off my bicycle, lay it on the grass or lean it up against the solid stone wall and walk up to the gate or sit down on a tree stump outside it. The building itself was a delight to the eyes and so were the lawns around it, mown as closely as a Persian rug. Near at hand they were a brilliant green but over by the house they took on a bluish hue and sometimes the house looked like an island in a lake. I used to chew a stalk of grass or do nothing but gaze and imagine what it would be like to live in a house like that, seeing myself descending the broad sweep of the staircase in the morning, stretching toward the growing light, opening the window and inhaling the scent of newly mown grass, listening to the birdsong.
Later, when Anthony rescued me from Iceland, he told me for the first time that he had noticed me outside the gate more than once. He also mumbled, half-embarrassed, that he had often fetched a telescope to watch me.
Anthony lived with his two aunts in the house. Neither of them had the slightest sense of humor, which might explain why he was such a frequent visitor to Jakob and me. He would invariably appear shortly before supper, bearing a bottle of wine or a little something for me, cheese or eggs from the old tenant farm or a volume from his library, usually poetry. He and Jakob had known each other since Jakob’s first term at Oxford but my acquaintance with Anthony went deeper from the very beginning.
Once I said to Jakob.
“You know Shirley Jones?” Shirley Jones was the daughter of our neighbor, a pretty, amusing girl. “I think Shirley Jones has a bit of a crush on our friend Anthony. Perhaps we should invite them to a meal together?”
I was surprised by how unenthusiastic Jakob was about my proposal.
“Do you think there’s any point?” he asked.
“Isn’t she good enough for him or something?”
“Of course she is, but—” he hesitated, “I’m just not sure it’s a very good idea.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m not sure they would sui
t each other.”
“Wouldn’t it be worth giving it a try?”
He shrugged.
“It’s up to you.”
The evening was enjoyable but nothing much happened. Shirley Jones flirted constantly with Anthony but he didn’t seem to notice. He joked with her as he did with us but when he put his arm around her in a fit of laughter, it was as if he was touching his sister.
The following day Shirley came to me for advice.
“Has he mentioned me at all to you or Jakob?” she asked.
I had to admit that he hadn’t.
She looked despondent and I felt sorry for her. When she asked me to talk to him and try to get an idea of what he was thinking, I didn’t have the heart to refuse.
But nothing ever came of it. The events of the following week saw to that.
I have always tried to do my best. My friends know that I put my all into things, I never shirk or expect more of anyone else than I do of myself. My friends know this and I like to think that our guests at Ditton Hall know it too. Our bookings in recent years testifies to our reputation; it says all that is necessary and so I will refrain from quoting all the newspaper and magazine articles which have been written about us, both in England and abroad. I will just mention the Daily Telegraph, Vogue, the Financial Times, Town and Country, and Le Monde. “An oasis in the desert,” said the headline in Town and Country, for example, and although most of the articles were mainly interested in how we managed to offer international cuisine during a time of isolation and rationing and—I may add— the ignorance of so many English people, there is no question what opinion the writers had of our cooking. Even a child could read between the lines.
Then this fat lump came into my life. This distortion of the flesh. And gave herself airs. As if she had some point to make. As if she knew some secret which is hidden from everyone else—everyone except her!
She arrived on a Friday evening, just before seven. Instead of asking if she could meet me, she plumped straight down in a chair in the dining room and asked for an aperitif. She was fawning about the food as she ate it, no question of that, so the impertinence of her review took me by surprise. When she drove away it was past ten o’clock and the car groaned under her weight.
The Journey Home: A Novel Page 9