Free Walking Into the Night by Olaf Olafsson Page B

didn’t like the way they looked at him—“those boys,” as he called them when he drank tea with the head gardener that afternoon; he got the sense they were sizing up the glasses, tray, and jugs as if calculating what they had cost and what could be got for them now. He suspected they were wondering whether he himself wasn’t superfluous, too.
    The following day he stayed in the kitchen when he heard them going out to the courts and let them go thirsty. He had locked the silver tray away in a cupboard because it was one of the Chief’s favorites. He thought it was safer.
    He relaxed when he watched them drive away shortly before sundown. A golden light still played around the buildings at the top of the hill, but the lower slopes were already in shadow. The car vanished into the darkness. He did not say goodbye to them, but ordered a houseboy to help them with their baggage.
    The only point of contention was the silver: the French silver service, which was on the boys’ list but not on the one the Chief had sent Kristjan. It may not have been the finest silver in the house, but the Chief always gave orders that it should be used when there were fewer than ten for dinner. And when he and Miss Davies dined alone, they invariably used the French service. Kristjan had objected at first, showing the boys his list and pointing out that there was no mention of a silver service, but when they started asking him about his own arrangements, how long he’d been there, how much he was paid, claiming they hadn’t seen his name on the payroll, he fell silent.
    Instead of phoning the Chief to let him know, he summoned the assistant waiters and kitchen maids, asking them to polish the silver and wrap it in cloths before it was packed in a crate. He kept a close eye on their work, telling himself that the silver would fetch a better price if they did a good job on it.
    When the Chief and Miss Davies arrived yesterday, there had been a brief letup in the rain. Kristjan saw the car stop a little way from the house and the Chief step out into the clear afternoon light. The car continued on its way but the old man stood still for a while, gazing out to sea, then turned and strode up the hill. Instead of coming directly inside, he walked along the terraces and through the gardens, examining the flowers and shrubs, and pausing for a long moment by the fountain outside Casa del Sol, before sitting down on a bench in the colonnade to the west of the main building. Kristjan had to move to another window to see him, as his view was blocked by an apple tree. He watched him for a long time in the green light of the garden. The Chief sat, staring into the distance.
    In the evening they ate a clear vegetable bouillon, followed by quails with figs and raspberries, then cheese, pears, and apples. Kristjan had been looking forward to serving them and was cheered by the delicious smell of the birds and the figs that had been roasted to perfect tenderness inside them.
    “Why haven’t you put out the French silver?” asked the Chief as Kristjan served the soup.
    It was as if he missed his footing. He didn’t answer immediately, but placed the bowls on the table in front of them, took the napkins out of their rings, and laid them on their laps.
    “This is just as pretty, dear,” said Miss Davies. “My, but I’m hungry.”
    Kristjan finally stammered that the French silver had been sent to the auction house. But he omitted to mention that he hadn’t dared argue with the boys for fear that it might bring about his own downfall.
    “It’s not going to the Gimbel auction?” asked the Chief. “I don’t believe it. I’ll buy it back myself.”
    “What delicious soup,” said Miss Davies.
    “I won’t let these sons of bitches walk all over me. My silver. You know it wasn’t on the list.”
    “It was on their list.”
    “We both know, Christian, that it was not on the list I sent you and asked you to follow in every detail. It was not on