The Steady Running of the Hour: A Novel Page 9

  —But they’d never have put Imogen’s name on anything to begin with, I whisper to myself. Even if she was the mother.

  I was crazy to have believed otherwise. Prichard had warned me that the vital records had all been searched, but I’d ignored him and come here anyway. I’d been following one kind of evidence, indirect clues in letters, and I’d gone after another, the most obvious of all records. I was done with all that.

  The spires of the town’s cathedral project above the treetops ahead. I’m not in a hurry anymore, so I cut through a backstreet and enter the cathedral through the transept. It’s dark and cool inside. Slowly I walk through the nave, craning my neck to look at the rib vault ceiling, the stained glass high overhead. I sit in a pew in front of a huge astronomical clock, carved of wood and painted in burgundy and royal blue. A sign explains the mechanism’s function. The clock dates from 1424.

  The timepiece has two dials. The upper dial displays the twenty-four Roman numerals of the hours, the orbits of the sun and moon swinging against the gilded letters. The perpetual calendar turns on the lower dial, running for a hundred years from 1923 to 2023, the religious holidays inscribed minutely in Latin, the twelve signs of the zodiac along the outer band. I watch the circling lion carved in gold relief; the sheep with spiraling horns; the pair of fish; the long-pincered crab. At the dial’s center the figure of Saint Lawrence stands passive and eternal. The mechanism clicks on, reckoning away the centuries since its creation.

  The clock strikes noon. The church’s organ plays “In Dulce Jubilo.” Between the dials, the carved figures of the magi and their servants parade around the seated virgin and child.

  1916. Eighty-seven years since she walked into the Somme mist, taking all the answers with her. Six weeks until I lose the fortune. I leave and cross a bridge, walking across a town square and into the travel office of the train station. A young clerk waves me forward.

  —Is there a train station in Leksand?

  —Sorry?

  I write Leksand on a piece of paper and push it across the counter. The clerk types in the info.

  —If you make the next train, he says, you can get there at six fifty-three. Change at Borlänge.

  The train takes me north through endless pine forests. At each stop the towns seem smaller and smaller. At Borlänge I go to a grocery near the station and buy a bag full of bread and cheese and fruit. I devour half the food on the next train, trying not to worry about where I’ll sleep tonight.

  When I get off at Leksand it’s almost seven, but the sun is still bright near the horizon. Only one taxi is parked in front of the station. The driver is sleeping in his seat with the windows down, the radio blaring a talk program. I tap on the car door. The driver wakes and I pass him the map I photocopied in the British Library. Examining the sheet, he blinks wearily and says something in Swedish. I point to a spot circled on the page.

  —Can you take me there?

  The driver blinks again, speaking in English now.

  —There’s nothing there. It’s a tiny island.

  —Does a bridge go there?

  He shakes his head. —Bridge to what? There’s nothing there. What do you want to go there for?

  —A vacation. Can you take me to the lake at least?

  The driver shakes his head and mutters. He raises his seat back into position and starts the engine.

  —Get in.

  We drive for fifteen minutes through thick forests of spruce and birch, the radio still tuned to a call-in show. We turn onto a dirt road. Lakewater glitters in interstices between the slender birch trees. The road ends at the lake’s muddy shoreline.

  —This is it, the driver says. You want me to leave you here?

  —Sure.

  —It’ll be dark soon. It won’t be easy to get back.

  —I know.

  I pay the driver and lean my backpack against a tree. Across the water an orange sun hovers on the treetops. I study the lake, the water slinking in a white shimmer, the distant little island enveloped by trees. It’d be a long swim and I’m a poor swimmer.

  I wander along the shoreline to a dense spruce grove where I find a pair of small boats covered with a plastic tarp. There are muddy tracks where the boats have been dragged into and out of the water. I touch the imprints. They are wet.

  The sky darkens and I choose a campsite on a level patch of ground near the boats. I spread my sleeping bag here. If someone comes to take the boats, I’ll see them and maybe get a ride to the island. I don’t have a tent, but the sky above me is cloudless. I read Daily Life in the Trenches under the purple twilight until it’s too dark to see.

  The next morning I traverse the shore of the lake, hoping to find a way onto the island. The forest is dense in places and three times I’m forced into the lake to continue on, skipping across rocks or wading in the cool water up to my waist. I continue along the shore until finally I’ve made a full circuit of the lake.

  Back at my campsite the sun is high overhead. I go over to the boats and lift the plastic tarp, uncovering an aluminum fishing boat with an outboard motor, beside it a small white dinghy about eight feet long. I flip the dingy over. The hull is lightweight plastic and it lifts easily. There are two aluminum oars inside lashed together with nylon cord. I pick up the oars, looking at the birch trees across the water.

  —There’s no choice.

  I take hold of the bow and drag the dinghy down toward the lake. The trail is muddy and the boat slides smoothly. At the shoreline I pull off my shoes, toss them in the boat and roll up my pants. I look around, suddenly feeling that someone is watching me, a spectator in the trees. I don’t know who would be watching or why, but I’m anxious and the feeling is hard to shake. I get behind the stern and push the dinghy into the water, then I jump in. The boat bobs pleasantly from side to side as I fit the oars into the rowlocks. I pull one long stroke and glide forward. I scan the trees for other people. No one.

  I row toward the north side of the island. It’s hard work and after ten minutes my arms begin to ache. I take a break and row on, watching the glassy wake, the mirrored trees and sky in the water. When I turn around I can see a small wooden pier on the northern tip of the island, so I row the boat north along the shore, avoiding branches of the overgrown trees and shrubs that line the island.

  Finally I approach the rough wooden pier. A boat is docked here, another aluminum fishing boat. I tie my dinghy to a post and follow a trail up through the trees, a steep climb through further groves of birch and spruce. As I climb the path I can hear talking and laughing ahead of me. Near the top of the hill the forest opens into a sloped clearing with two wooden houses, both stained the same deep shade of red with white window frames. A field of pristine grass separates the houses. The smaller house is perched higher than the other. It looks far older. At the edge of the clearing beside the larger house, a group of young people sit at a table, talking and laughing. They haven’t seen me. I walk closer slowly.

  The group is sipping from tall beer cans, their empty paper plates before them. The young man at the head of the table notices me and stares as the others go on talking. He stands. Now they are all looking at me. A girl in a comic cone-shaped paper hat gets up and says something in Swedish.

  I shake my head. —I’m sorry, I only speak English. I’m looking for a house that used to belong to my family. They were named Soames-Andersson.

  The Swedes keep staring. I look up at the yellow sun above the trees, feeling dizzy. I explain I’ve come to Sweden to research my family’s history, and I know my relatives once had two buildings here, a summerhouse and a barn. In 1917 my grandmother was born in the summerhouse and the barn was being used as a painting studio.

  The girl shakes her head.

  —There’s no barn. That other house is really old, but my family doesn’t use it.

  —Do you know when they bought this place?

  She shrugs. —A long time ago. Maybe the fifties?

  The girl studies me for a moment.
She has long straight hair and wears round plastic eyeglasses.

  —I’ve brought my friends up here for a party—

  The girl’s voice trails off. Her friends are all still looking at me. The young man says something to her in Swedish and she snaps at him. They talk for a moment longer, then the girl turns back to me.

  —Have you eaten? There’s more food in the house. Why don’t you join us?

  After a moment she remembers to smile.

  Once I’ve sat at the table the party resumes its course. The young man in cut-off jean shorts introduces himself as Christian, explaining that they’ve all come here for a traditional late-summer crayfish party. He asks a few polite questions about my trip to Sweden, then goes into the house to look for food. He comes back with a plastic tub of potato salad, then puts a cold beer before me and pats me on the shoulder.

  —There’s your lunch. We’ll start dinner soon anyway.

  The girl with eyeglasses is named Karin. I’m introduced to the other three friends, two girls and another young man, but I’m too distracted to remember any of their names. They’re all drinking heavily. Beside the table there is a cardboard box brimming with empty beer cans. Twice I ask if I can see the old house, but my request is deflected.

  —It’s a mess in there, Karin says. I don’t even know where we keep the key, I’d have to call my uncle.

  —Is there stuff inside?

  Karin shrugs. —A lot of junk, tools and furniture. The house is so old we’re not supposed to knock it down, but it’s not practical to use it. My uncle says he’s going to clean it out and restore it, but he never does.

  Christian puts another beer in front of me.

  —Have another one, Christian says. How’d you get here, anyway?

  —I took the train from Uppsala.

  —But how’d you get on the island?

  —I slept on the beach last night. In the morning I found a boat on the shore and rowed it over.

  Everyone laughs, considering this a joke.

  —We should get started with cooking, Karin says. Tristan, will you stay for dinner?

  Christian grins. —He only just rowed over.

  As dusk falls we go into the newer house to cook, emptying bags of frozen crayfish into a boiling pot. Karin spreads a cloth over the table outside and I help one of the girls hang paper lanterns from the trees above. We sit and Karin makes a toast in Swedish, then we all drink aquavit, a golden Swedish liquor with a strong taste of caraway seed. Everyone devours dozens of crayfish, sucking the juice noisily from the tiny red shells. I eat only the salad and potatoes.

  —You don’t like crayfish? Karin asks.

  —I’m vegetarian.

  —Then have another beer, Christian says. There’s your dinner.

  We drink beer and vodka and more aquavit. At every toast the Swedes insist that we look one another in the eye. They talk in English at first, asking me questions about San Francisco and my Swedish relatives. But as the dinner goes on most of them switch back to Swedish. Karin is on the far side of the table and our eyes meet a few times, but she never speaks to me.

  After dinner we walk down to a fire pit beside the shore. Christian and I light a bundle of newspaper under a teepee of spruce logs. We begin to drink the aquavit in earnest, for we’ve finished everything else. Someone staggers drunkenly into the woods. A second person sent to find him never returns. I throw more logs onto the fire and it grows larger and hotter until we all have to move a step back. Suddenly I realize it must be after midnight. That makes it August 28.

  —It’s my birthday, I say. I’m twenty-three.

  The Swedes cheer and congratulate me. Christian gives me a bear hug and Karin gently scolds me for not telling her sooner. They sing to me in Swedish and we swig the aquavit in a toast. I throw more wood onto the fire, watching the smoke spiral up to the sky, the stars seeming to go in and out of focus. Twenty-three. I’d come here at least, and that was something. I break a branch in half and throw it onto the fire. Karin nudges me with her elbow.

  —How’s it feel, spending your birthday with a bunch of strangers?

  —I don’t mind. It’s really beautiful up here.

  She nods. —Sorry I was weird this morning, it just spooked me when you showed up—

  —I’d be spooked too. It scared the hell out of me when I was coming up from the lake and I heard you guys. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here.

  —What were you expecting?

  I shake my head. —Nothing. I figured I’d come here, the house would be gone, and I could forget—

  —The house, she gasps. I totally forgot.

  Karin grabs the bottle of aquavit and we start up the hill. She takes her cell phone from her pocket and selects a number, holding it to her ear. She winks at me.

  —My uncle.

  As she talks on the phone in Swedish, we walk up to the new house and go into the kitchen. She kneels down and pulls out the lowest drawer, fishing out a jar of keys. She finishes talking and puts the phone back in her pocket.

  —He wasn’t even asleep, he watches TV all night. He said there used to be a few boxes from the old owners. Come on—

  I follow her down the sloping field between the two houses, the stars bright above the trees. We reach the old house, its pine planks stained dark red, weathered by centuries of frigid winter and evening sun. Karin wiggles the key in the lock and pushes open the small wooden door.

  —Happy birthday.

  The inside is a mess. A dark mass of boxes and furniture stacked high, in some places nearly to the ceiling. We search for the light switch, but the wall is blocked by a huge table covered in boxes. I leave to get my headlamp from my bag, but when I return Karin has cleared a path to the light switch. She flips it on and off. Nothing happens.

  —Maybe the bulb’s out. Or the fuse.

  I switch on my headlamp, directing the beam over plastic crates and stacked chairs. A chain saw, a pile of wooden oars and planks leaning against the wall.

  Karin laughs.—Ever seen so much junk?

  —Sure. My parents’ garage used to look like this.

  We take down a storage box and pull off the lid. A vacuum filter still in its dusty package. Cans of wood stain, boxes of white packing plaster. A thick catalog of SKF ball bearings. There’s a knock behind us as Christian appears in the doorway, saying something to Karin in Swedish. She turns to me.

  —We’re going for a swim in the dark. Want to come with us?

  —Maybe later. Is it all right if I look around here a little?

  Karin shrugs. —Sure. Just let me know if you find anything. And don’t make a mess—

  —Birthday swim, Christian interrupts. Let’s do it.

  —I’ll be down later.

  They walk out leaving the door open behind them. I shine my headlamp over the crevices of the room. The ceiling and walls are all dark wood, the roofbeams hanging low. There’s some kind of decorative textile hanging from the far wall, but it’s covered in dust and I can’t make out the subject. I pull another storage box from the table and look inside. Automobile repair manuals from the seventies. Yellowed composition books filled with longhand notes in Swedish. Brittle picture magazines. I stack the boxes behind me and start clearing a path to the staircase.

  19 August 1916

  The Regent’s Park

  Marylebone, Central London

  They cross the street and enter the park through a green wrought-iron gate. The grounds are pitch-black, only the searchlights weaving tracks among the clouds above.

  —We’re lucky there aren’t sentries, Ashley says. If anyone sees us they’ll take us for spies.

  —They’ll take us for what we are.

  —Which is?

  Imogen smiles but she does not answer. The sky mists dark rain upon their shoulders and they step in shadow through a curtain of hedges. Imogen trips on a root and tumbles, laughing as Ashley helps her to her feet. They come out onto a lawn and Imogen spreads her arms, trotting forward under a
huge willow.

  —Here it is. This is the tree.

  —You’re certain?

  Imogen nods and points authoritatively.

  —The French gardens were to our left, the houses to the right. You were asking whether I was properly English or not—

  Ashley kneels on the damp grass, running his hands through the foliage.

  —It isn’t here. I don’t see it.

  They circle the tree, each following the other as they scan the grass, kneeling, their fingers groping among shadows. After a few circuits Imogen sighs.

  —I suppose you were right. We shan’t find it here.

  Imogen lifts her face to the rain and puts her hands out to feel the gathering droplets. She crouches at the foot of the willow, testing the dampness of the earth.

  —You’ll get wet if you sit there, Ashley warns.

  —I don’t mind.

  She sits down and leans back against the tree trunk. Ashley continues to inspect the grass, orbiting the tree with his eyes fixed upon the ground.

  —Mr. Walsingham, Imogen calls. Ashley. Sit with me.

  Ashley screws his face up to the sky. It is raining harder now, the droplets drumming a quick rhythm against the leaves.

  —We’d as well wait it out here, she says.

  —This tree won’t keep us dry forever.

  —We don’t need forever. Sit down.

  Ashley takes a seat beside her, leaning his swagger cane against the inside of his knee. He picks a few twigs from beneath his legs and tosses them away. He smiles.

  —Did you really lose the key?

  —Yes.

  —Under this tree?

  —I think so.

  —Couldn’t you find some other way to get in?

  —I’d rather not.