Free The Journey Home: A Novel by Olaf Olafsson Page B

writing several years before. No doubt I would have been better off not to have done so. During the evening little Marilyn told me that a copy was placed in every room in the house, including the downstairs drawing room. I asked her whether she was trying to frighten away the guests, many of whom had no doubt come a long way.
    A vine climbed up the wall of the house by the veranda and although there were no grapes as yet, the foliage was pleasant to look at in the evening sun. We ate a leisurely meal and drank a refreshing, full-flavored Muscat. Mr. Thomson—or Bill as she calls him, thank goodness—stayed inside. Marilyn said he was mending riding tackle with a neighbor’s groom. A shy girl, whom Marilyn said she was teaching to wait on tables, brought out the dishes, but left us alone otherwise. When she appeared with the fruit and cheese, Marilyn suddenly said to me:
    “I often miss those evenings outside the conservatory.”
    I said I did too.
    “You used to give me so much good advice. I often regret not having written it down.”
    To tell the truth I couldn’t remember any advice, but let it pass. She seemed to realize this and added in explanation, “Perhaps it was more thinking aloud than actual advice, but I still regret not having written it down so I wouldn’t forget. For instance, the story about the man who bathed in soda water because he thought it would increase his fertility. That’s one story I won’t forget, of course.”
    I said surely I’d told her something more useful than that.
    “You also taught me how to tell a wild duck from a domestic one. The wild duck has red feet, you said, and they are smaller than the feet of a domestic duck.”
    I expressed surprise. She smiled.
    “Actually, I’ve been looking for wild ducks with red feet for years but can never find any.”
    We both burst out laughing.
    It was so nice to see her again and reminisce about the past that evening. She offered me port with my cheese but I found the Muscat so refreshing that we opened another bottle and sat up late, gazing at the stars and the moon and forgetting ourselves. Her husband had long since gone to bed and the girl who waited on us had said good night. A warm breeze blew off the lake, pattering the leaves of the vine and the sycamore beside the veranda. In the twilight I thought I could hear the merry tinkling of bells.
    “Write to me, Disa,” she said suddenly. “Anything that comes to mind. It doesn’t matter what.”
    The following morning was warm, the air a hazy yellow, as we drove away from the house after breakfasting with Marilyn and her husband in the kitchen. I waved to them through the rear window and resolved to write to her on the way to Iceland.
    I was awakened this morning by a crash as the chambermaid dropped a tray on the floor outside my door. It was nearly eight o’clock. Someone came to help her, a man from the sound of his voice, and they talked in low voices as they hurriedly cleared up pieces of glass, teaspoons and crockery. Something must have upset the girl, as I hadn’t been aware of any motion. Perhaps this is her first voyage.
    This incident reminded me of the old waiter at Boulestin’s restaurant and I decided to put my memories down on paper and send them to little Marilyn, as my promise to write to her was still uppermost in my mind. I sat up in bed; I was feeling relaxed and when I saw the grayness outside and the lowering sky it didn’t occur to me to get up. I felt contented, and even though the memories of the first months at Boulestin’s all seemed to crowd in on me at once, this didn’t disturb my peace of mind.
    To the eyes of a girl from Kopasker, the voyage to Liverpool in 1936 was quite an adventure, and the train journey to London was no less strange and unfamiliar. This morning, as I recalled those days, what cheered me up most was the memory of the way Boulestin and Mrs. Brown welcomed me. I was astonished to see my employer at the station and had