The Journey Home: A Novel (18 page)

He soon fell asleep in his chair. Maria and I helped each other clear up. The mistress came to see us in the kitchen, thanking us for the evening and saying something else complimentary which I’ve forgotten. Maria left toward midnight.

I was pensive when I went to bed and lay awake for a long time in the light summer night.

I was still thinking of little Marilyn when I woke up this morning. It was nearly eleven o’clock; I must have fallen sound asleep after taking those painkillers. I woke to the sound of a knock at the door—three knocks, I thought I heard—at first light, then more insistent. I felt groggy but got up anyway and put on my dressing gown. There was no one outside in the corridor when I opened the door.

I was late for breakfast but persuaded them to bring me a slice of bread and cheese with my tea. The girl who answered the phone when I rang down to the lobby sounded extraordinarily like Marilyn, quiet and amiable, and I drew out the conversation for the pleasure of listening to her voice.

I’ve always enjoyed eating breakfast in bed and decided to treat myself for once; after all, I had nothing better to do. There was a small round table below the window and I’ve moved it over to the bed as my bedside table is too high and, anyway, it’s piled up with the papers and documents I’ve been looking through since I arrived. As I drank my tea I reached out for a cutting which I had brought with me but been too busy to glance at. It wasn’t until I heard the sound of that girl’s voice in reception that I remembered I had brought it with me on my journey.

Actually, I thought I had got rid of this magazine article and so was astonished when I found it among Marilyn’s old letters in the bottom drawer of my bedroom desk the day before I left. It’s from the
Daily Telegraph:
September 1959, I have written at the bottom of the cutting, while at the top is the headline
Two Chefs, Two Styles—A Comparison.
Before I go any further I should mention that I no longer believe little Marilyn was behind this article or tried to influence the author. Not deliberately, anyway.

I admit I suspected her of spite when the article first came to my attention and I remember storming up and down, asking myself and Anthony how she could do this to me after all I had done for her. Anthony tried to calm me, convinced that Marilyn had taken no part in this attack on me. His tolerance and trusting nature got on my nerves, however, and I couldn’t help accusing him of being gullible and naïve.

“Do you imagine this is a coincidence?” I asked. “An accident, maybe? Are you telling me that Marilyn won’t enjoy reading flattering things about herself and slanderous comments about me?”

I find myself becoming worked up by the memory, so I’ll slow down, finish drinking the tea I ordered from room service and then try to the best of my ability to describe the contents of this article, the events leading up to it and its consequences. But first I’m going to take a sip of tea and a sugar lump, breathe in deeply as Dr. Ellis taught me and switch on the radio in the hope of hearing some decent music.

Those who knew Nora Gannon generally agreed that she lacked both the judgment and the know-how to write about food. Many also doubted her integrity as her pieces often radiated envy and vulgarity. As with so many others in her situation, she herself had no doubt once dreamed of being able to cook and attempted a career in that field, but judging by her writing she had not been meant for it. It’s one thing to want something, another to be capable of it, and not everyone can cope with the disappointment. They become bitter, malicious and petty, with not a good word to say about anything. They try to promote themselves in this way but of course sink only deeper with every attack and end up having to heap even more abuse in order to climb out of the holes they’ve dug for themselves.

Soft-hearted people tended to tolerate Mrs. Gannon and excused her by saying she was an able writer. I myself find her style pretentious twaddle.

I made no secret of my opinion of Nora Gannon and there was no question that it had come back to her. For the first few years she snubbed me, never mentioning Ditton Hall in her annual articles about summer hotels and restaurants, pretending I didn’t exist and naturally losing face herself by her ludicrous behavior. I shrugged it off and in fact had long ceased to think about Mrs. Gannon when she could no longer resist the temptation and wrote the article about me and Marilyn. This was two years after Marilyn had made the move north to Windermere and Mrs. Gannon was “amazed” at how “she had achieved so much in such a short time.”

The occasion of the article—if it can be called an occasion —was a party Marilyn held to promote her restaurant to the press. (Whereas it has never actually crossed my mind to do anything of the kind; I’ve never seen any reason to bribe these people to flatter me.) The party was the intended success, newspapers and magazines competed in their praise of little Marilyn and some even published photographs of her and William, her husband, who looked rather foolish in all the pictures, poor thing. I was pleased for her, even though I knew how she had obtained these accolades and was worried whether she could live up to them. But it never occurred to me that Nora Gannon would stoop so low as to use this opportunity to compare Marilyn’s cooking with mine. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that in making this comparison Mrs. Gannon broke all her own records of vulgarity and spite. And that took some doing.

Anthony was convinced that little Marilyn had nothing to do with this attack but I couldn’t draw the same conclusion until I had thought long and hard. I decided at last that she had probably spoken incautiously to Mrs. Gannon but not deliberately tried to undermine me. She tried repeatedly to get me on the phone after the article appeared but I wasn’t at home to her. I forbade Anthony to talk to her but don’t know whether he obeyed. After a year or so I decided to make peace with her. I suspect some people would have taken longer.

I put down my pen and reach out for my teacup. The morning paper lies beside the pot: June 15, it says. Graduation tomorrow. What will he look like? I ask myself. Who will he look like? And what shall I say to him? After all these years. What can I say?

The tea is cold but I finish the cup anyway. The skies are gray. I reach for my photo of him.

Sometimes the son of the house would make a brief appearance but otherwise he kept to his two rooms in the basement or wrapped himself in the black cloak, which he must have bought on his travels, and disappeared into town. He reversed the clock, sleeping during the day and waking at night, generally emerging by three in the afternoon to have coffee and read the papers. If he bumped into Maria or me he would nod politely but say little, taking his coffee, papers and cigarettes into the study where he would sit chain-smoking and filling the ashtrays over and over again. He rarely ate supper with his parents, though he did tend to stay at home on the evenings when his father had visitors. He didn’t take much part in the conversation during the evening, but would sit in a corner listening to talk, according to Maria, of politics and finance, economic growth and profit, wholesale and retail, Franklin & Svensen—Import/Export, salmon fishing and the overbearing behavior of the damned British. Sometimes he would smile but as the evening drew on and the first cognac bottle had been emptied, he began to let slip the odd comment on what was being discussed. The guests seemed to pay attention to him, not least the swan-loving editor and importer Hallur Steinsson, and his wife’s sister’s husband, Heimir Frantz, a ship broker. They were extraordinarily alike to look at, Hallur and Heimir, both round-cheeked, stocky rather than fat, of medium height, thinning on top, Heimir beginning to go gray, Hallur still ruddy.

“Quite right,” said Hallur whenever he thought something sensibly expressed. “There should be an article written about that.”

According to Maria, they sometimes stopped talking when she came in, unsurprisingly, as she brought them refreshments which deserved their attention: coffee and cakes, port and brandy. They would sometimes play cards and Atli would let himself be persuaded to join, even though he described himself as a poor player. For some reason, both Maria and I thought we sensed a degree of perplexity in our employer’s demeanor when his son was present. It often seemed as if he needed to talk to him about something, something which had been on his mind, but which he hadn’t had a chance to put into words. Sometimes he would clear his throat, sometimes he’d say “well” in a way that implied a follow-up, occasionally he would begin a sentence only to have it fall apart and dry up.

Once I heard him hint that he was worried about the boy. It was Monday and Dr. Bolli came home from the office at midday, asking Maria where his son was as soon as he came through the door. Maria said he was asleep. Without even taking off his coat his father went straight down to the basement. I eavesdropped from the pantry off the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you go to the interview?” I heard Dr. Bolli ask. “He waited for you. He postponed a meeting because he was expecting you. And then you didn’t turn up . . .”

“Oh, Father. I’m tired.”

“In the middle of the day. It’s past two o’clock.”

“I’m a bit under the weather.”

Something must have happened to him, I always thought. I sometimes wanted to ask him what it was that weighed on him, wanted to help because I thought I understood him, even saw Jakob in him, tired and weary. Lethargy, drink and cigarettes —as if he felt best when he was asleep or had dulled his senses. Sometimes he fell asleep in a chair in the corner before the guests had left. Sometimes he had to be helped down to the basement. His father usually came to his aid but once it fell to me.

“Thank you, Asdis,” he slurred. “I just don’t think I can manage it by myself. Gravity, I mean.”

“Maybe you ought to drink less,” I ventured.

He smiled.

“Sometimes it’s best to know as little as possible.”

Once a quarrel broke out between father and son. It was late. They had gone to a party in the afternoon and came home just before eleven. The swan-lover was with them. They asked for coffee and brandy. Hallur Steinsson had a whiskey. They shut themselves in the study. The son of the house and Hallur were both very drunk, though Dr. Bolli didn’t appear to be. Atli was talking. He was speaking not loudly but with emphasis. I heard the sound from the kitchen but couldn’t catch the words except now and then. Soon Dr. Bolli interrupted. I had never known him to lose his temper but this time he was obviously angry. This discord bothered me but all the same I moved closer to the study.

“I won’t listen to such talk,” I heard my employer say.

“The boy’s right, Bolli,” said the swan-lover. “He was asked to pass on this message.”

“I won’t listen to such talk, Atli,” repeated his father. “And it would be better if other people didn’t hear it either, after all that’s happened.”

Silence.

“I’ll do what I like.”

“Not another word! Not a word!”

I moved away from the door.

“Why don’t we just play a game of cards?” suggested Hallur. “It’s still early.”

Dr. Bolli opened the door.

“I think it’s bedtime for some people. Atli . . .”

He put his hand under his son’s arm and supported him to the basement stairs.

“Leave me alone. I can walk by myself.”

“That is a change.”

He released him but didn’t turn away until the door to the basement had closed.

“It’s probably not worth playing cards,” said the editor.

My employer fetched his coat and saw him to the door.

“He promised to deliver the message,” said Hallur. “He should publish what he’s been writing, too.”

At that point Dr. Bolli seized the editor by the scruff of his neck and shook him.

“You will never say that again, either to him or anyone else. If I hear it again, I’ll hold you responsible.”

Hallur Steinsson was distressed as he stumbled out. My employer remained standing in the same spot for a long time after he had gone, before slowly mounting the stairs to his bedroom.

I was about to go to bed when I noticed a light on the basement stairs. When I opened the door to turn it off, there sat the son of the house on the top step, sound asleep. I tried to wake him but it wasn’t until after a number of attempts that he opened his eyes.

He gave an unfathomable smile.

“Germany,” he said. “We understand what’s going on. You and I.”

I helped him down the stairs. He lay down fully dressed.

When I turned around in the doorway he was asleep.

Anthony said he had bought it in a moment of high spirits when he lived in Paris during the winter of 1930. Though it wasn’t cheap, it naturally cost only a fraction of what we got for it when we finally decided to part with it. He said he’d seen it through a window during an afternoon walk on the west bank of the Seine when the rays of the autumn sun had begun to fade and the breeze hinted that the night frost was on its way. He couldn’t help noticing it as the sun shone directly on to it where it hung on the wall nearest the window. It wasn’t a large picture, but the master’s touch was unmistakable. His name was written in tiny letters in the bottom left-hand corner: Picasso, in light blue. The youth—a boy, I think, rather than a girl—was stretching his arms heavenward, fair complexioned, with shoulder-length, red-gold hair. It was a beautiful picture but one we couldn’t afford to own. When I first hazarded the suggestion to Anthony that the most sensible thing was probably to sell it, he cut short the conversation immediately. A few years later he pointed out to me that we would have lost a large sum if he had followed my advice, as the picture had steadily increased in value. He was right and I regretted the fact, knowing how much easier our lives would have been had we sold it. Every time I passed the picture in the library it reminded me of my defeat. I began to look askance at it. Just you wait, I told it. Just you wait.