Walking Into the Night Read Online Free PDF

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