Ida Brandt (25 page)

“It’s warm,” he said.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I think we’ll have the usual.” Ida took off her coat and had the table moved forward and the door of the stove opened to show the coal burning.

The toothless waiter nodded and had closed the door, quietly letting down the flap (when Ellingsen, the waiter, was carrying out his tasks, there was something about him rather reminiscent of a subservient verger during divine service opening the pews for those who rented them) before going off to order the lunch.

Ida laid the table herself and put some violas in Karl’s place, and she unwrapped the cake. How lovely and fresh it was. There came the sound of a walking stick knocking on the door.

“Good morning,” said Karl. “By Gad, you always seem to have something to unwrap.”

“Good morning.”

He kissed her cheek and hung up his overcoat.

“It’s lovely and warm in here,” said Ida, moving her cheek against his, and earnestly looking up at him all the time. She so wanted to stand like this for a moment and look into his eyes.

“It’s jolly nice here,” said Karl, sitting down and setting about the lunch while the fire roasted his legs.

Ida sat there laughing.

“You are all right now,” she said.

“Yes,” said Karl, dipping his toast in his egg and looking across the table at her.

“This is the best meal of the day.”

Ida cut a piece of cake. She made rather a lot of small movements when she was so happy.

“It’s from the court baker’s,” she said, tossing her head, a movement she had really learned from Olivia.

“Good Lord,” Karl took a piece. “Aye, I must say you get around,” he said in a rather soft voice.

“Yes,” laughed Ida with a nod. She had developed the habit of opening her eyes curiously wide when she was happy.

Stretching his long legs out in front of the fire, Karl went on eating, slowly, one piece after the other. But Ida pushed her cup and her plate aside to make room and tell him:

“Oh, you must hear this, it is incredible.”

It was a story, a long story about a bottle of “drinks”.

“Oh, I see,” said Karl. “Aye, you go through a few small glasses over there, I must say.”

“I don’ t,” said Ida, taking his hand across the table.

“No, I suppose you don’t need it. You presumably don’t need to have it both ways.”

“Karl.”

“It was a bottle of Dôm, and Nurse Friis had – incredibly – just put it in the cupboard in the corridor, straight in front of the door and then the prof came while Petersen was standing there…with the cupboard open. And he saw it straight away and oh, how he carried on; you have no idea.”

Karl had finished and now sat puffing great rings of smoke up in the air from his cigarette.

“So I don’t think Friis will be made a sister now,” concluded Ida, with a frightened look in her eyes.

“That’s a pity,” said Karl. “But Friis is probably one who can look after herself.”

“But,” and Ida nodded twice, “she only earns twenty-five kroner a month.”

She had risen and was standing behind Karl, rubbing her chin on his hair, while he seemingly sat there gently humming.

“But the prof damned well ought to have a job in Rome,” he said.

Ida put both her hands round his cheeks.

“Why?”

“Well, because all those round the Pope have faces like that.”

Ida went on laughing, sitting on the floor with her elbow resting on his knee. They were silent for a while until Karl said:

“Do you know what, mamma is going away, probably.”

“Going away? Where?” Ida gave a little start.

“To Geneva.” He clicked his lips.

“Grandma Aline’s jolly well got to be brought back home.”

“Mrs Feddersen? And your mother is going to fetch her?” She looked up and then down again. “That is so kind of her.”

It was as though Ida’s voice had suddenly trembled a little, and Karl nodded thoughtfully as he continued to stare at the fire.

“Yes, that’s what she’s like.”

The coals in the fire collapsed:

“Well, so she doesn’t judge her…so harshly.” She spoke gently, and there was a special ring to the word “judge”, as though she had learned it by heart.

Karl continued to look at the coals.

“I don’t know, damn it, she condemns her like all the others, I suppose, but she’s fetching her.”

Ida did not move; it might almost be thought she suddenly had tears in her eyes.

Karl nodded at the fire again.

“And she’ll get her reinstated in all her old glory,” he said.

Ida made no reply, but she had taken her hands away from his knee.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Your mother.”

It came from deep down inside her, and she laid her head against his side, while Karl stroked her hair and the coals continued to collapse, little by little.

“You are so nice when you sit there so silently,” he said, still stroking her hair quite gently, but there was nevertheless something about his caresses as though he were stroking a hound.

“And there was so much I wanted to say.”

“What did you want to say?” he said, not taking his hand from her hair.

A moment passed:

“Thank you,” she whispered quite quietly.

There came a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, and his hand went in under the hair at the back of her head.

“And I’m never allowed to thank you.”

“Yes, you are,” she said, no longer looking at the fire – if you – one day would say thank you…for yourself.”

Karl bent down over her: there was something about his eyes that made them look like velvet.

“Dearest,” he said.

Ida did not answer his caresses, and she did not look up while saying in a voice he could scarcely hear:

“For I always wonder what your mother would think.”

A second passed.

“There’s no point in that, damn it” said Karl, changing his tone.

But Ida had risen and fetched his overcoat (managing to dry her eyes the while) and spread it out to warm the lining by the fire. She sat smoothing the soft silk with her hands. She was very fond of that overcoat.

“The lining is wearing well.”

“Yes.”

“Hm,” and Ida smiled: “You were so pleased when you got it.”

Karl got up and shook his long legs.

“And it was about time, too,” he said, putting on the coat with the aid of Ida, “that I had something warm to wear on these morning walks.”

Ida also put her outdoor clothes on. “Goodbye then,” she said, putting her arms round his neck before ringing for Ellingsen. Mr Ellingsen had a way of coming in through a door as though he were entering by way of a crack. The purse was already over by Karl’s plate (it was a Russia leather gentleman’s purse that Ida had bought), and Karl paid while Ida was putting her fur collar up, and Mr Ellingsen went out to change the large note, while Ida snatched the purse.

“Goodbye, dear,” said Karl again, rocking her gently backward and forward, with his hands round her waist, while Ida smiled.

“Goodbye.”

She stood for a moment.

“Do you know, I’m always so happy when I leave.”

“Really,” laughed Karl, letting go of her.

“Yes,” said Ida, standing close to his shoulder, “for then I
know
everything – again.”

“Goodbye.”

The door to the corridor closed. Ida always went first, and Karl waited until she had gone a good way ahead. Mr Ellingsen gave the change to Karl, and Eichbaum put it in his pocket, and the toothless old man began to clear up, with his head on one side; two places had been reserved for quarter to eleven.

“You get a lot of people in here, by Gad,” said Karl, who was still waiting.

“Yes, we have quite a number of people here in the mornings,” – Mr Ellingsen pronounced “quite” as “quate” – “during business hours.”

“Good morning.”

Ida walked past ladies and gentlemen and past trees that were truly radiant; she knew that Karl had come round the corner now and was walking on the path some way behind her, sauntering along, with his walking stick over his arm and with Ida’s back in front of him, at a respectable distance: this was by Gad the best cigar he would have all day.

Some horsemen rode by, and some ladies went past: the smoke from a Havana cigar was simply beautiful when the air was as still as this.

A couple of lieutenants rode up alongside Karl and stopped their horses with a “Morning.”

“Morning,” murmured Karl.

“You are walking along looking like some wealthy landowner,” said one of them, a member of the Knuth family.

“Yes, I’m doing some calculations,” said Karl.

The lieutenants laughed and stopped alongside him. They talked about the animals’ croupes and stayed with him until there came the sound of fresh hoofs behind them and the two uniformed men saluted. It was Kate with her servant, and she, too, stopped her horse.

“Good morning. Is your mother leaving tomorrow, then?” she asked, looking down at Karl.

“That was the idea,” said Karl, his eyes on her steed.

“Bon voyage,” said Kate, flicking her whip.

The two lieutenants growled something or other about accompanying the lady, and Kate said:

“Why, of course,” (Knuth had been garrisoned at Aarhus) and they all three rode on, slowly, Kate between the two officers.

“Oh, that was what you were waiting for,” said Karl as he watched them; Kate was now nodding down to Ida.

But she rides damned well, he thought with a nod. He whistled between his teeth; he had a curious whistle that could be heard half a mile away and Ida, who was walking quickly ahead, slowed her pace until he reached her: it was as though he needed to talk to her a little. But all he said was:

“She rides damned well.” And he continued to look at her twenty-year-old waist,
there
on the horse’s back.

“She’s very pretty,” said Ida. And her eyes shone at Karl’s.

They turned off further down the road while Karl was still watching them. The lieutenants’ bodies had become so flexible as they leaned towards her.

“I suppose the butter profits will benefit the hussars as well now,” said Karl.

They had reached the slide where the boy had fallen off earlier and suddenly – perhaps in sheer joy because Karl had called to her – Ida started to go down the slide. She positioned her legs a little too youthfully apart as she laughed.

“You wouldn’t be particularly elegant on skates, by Gad,” said Karl, and Ida smiled again.

Then they parted on the corner.

Karl went on, thinking that he might really just as well ride with Kate in the mornings, for in any case he was not going to go to that damned office any earlier.

“And it’s a lovely animal,” he said.

When he reached the office, he found Sister Koch there. She had taken her glasses off – she had just met Ida by the middle door – and was watching von Eichbaum.

Karl took his books out and adjusted his office chair.

“Oh, so the cavalry has its eye on the butter,” he thought. He started on the books.

Ida did not fall asleep; she lay in the greenish light and thought of Mrs von Eichbaum, who was to travel all that way. That was so nice of her. She was going to fetch her and was not judging her.

Ida lay there without moving, staring out into the pale green light. Her thoughts took her so far away.

Down below there was the sound of doors being opened and closed.

Ida would send some flowers to Mrs von Eichbaum when she left. Indeed she would send a bouquet out to the station.

∞∞∞

Mrs von Eichbaum and the general’s wife were in the dining room, sitting in front of the closed trunk when Mrs Mourier arrived together with Kate.

“But Emilie,” said Mrs Mourier: “Are you wearing silk for the journey?”

“Good heavens, Vilhelmine, I always do. It’s the only practical thing. You can shake the dust off silk.”

The general’s wife took up the theme while Mrs von Eichbaum called for Julius, and said:

“Oh no, fancy travelling in woollen clothes, we who hate dirt.”

Kate, who had a large folder under her arm and was standing in the dining room with her lips pursed as though she wanted to whistle but was keeping the sound to herself, asked if they would like to see the design for the main building at Ludvigsbakke.

“Dear Kate, just fancy looking at the designs now,” – it was Mrs von Eichbaum speaking – “only minutes before leaving.”

“You are not leaving for another hour,” said Kate.

Mrs von Eichbaum always unfailingly left home at least half an hour early, “as though one knew what could happen at the last minute.”

They all went down to the cab and drove off, with Julius on the box. Mrs Mourier was saying that she would probably also have to leave within a few days, for Aarhus. Mourier had written to say that they were simply
obliged
to give those two dinners.

It would not matter about the actual farms. But there were the tenant farmers and bailiffs that Mourier thought should be invited as they were accustomed to… “And he is always very dependent on them, of course,” said Mrs Mourier, “these days when there is so much competition.”

“I entirely agree with Mourier in that,” said Mrs von Eichbaum. “There is no point in upsetting that kind of people.”

“Yes, that is exactly what Mourier says,” said Mrs Mourier.

When they arrived in the main hall at the railway station, they found Mrs Schleppegrell waiting together with Fanny, who was wearing a bonnet tied with dark red ribbons under her pointed chin. Mrs Schleppegrell went across and embraced Mrs von Eichbaum, saying: “Oh, thank God it was possible to arrange something, my dear and, how grateful Line must be to you.”

“Dear Anna,” said Mrs von Eichbaum, “it is not really worth talking about the two-day journey when I am travelling on a modern railway train.”

They all sat down by one of the round tables around the pillars, while Mrs von Eichbaum put on her newly washed silk gloves for the journey and Fanny brought a greeting from Miss Juul, the lady-in-waiting.

“Yes,” said Mrs Schleppegrell: “Emma (Emma was Miss Juel’s Christian name) actually said to me yesterday: ‘Dearest friend, it will be a relief for the entire group’.”