The Day of the Storm Read Online Free Page B

a formal little bow as he did so. His hair, I saw then, was pale blond, turning grey, and his face was deeply tanned, thin and bony, the skin dry and finely wrinkled from long exposure to the sun. His eyes were very pale, and more grey than blue. He wore a black polo-necked sweater and a light oatmeal-coloured suit with pleated pockets, like a safari shirt, and a belt which hung loose, the buckle swinging. He smelt of aftershave and looked as clean as if he had been bleached.
    Having found each other, it was suddenly difficult to find anything to say. All at once we were both overwhelmed by the circumstances of our meeting and I realized that he was as unsure of himself as I. But he was also urbane and polite, and dealt with this by taking my suitcase from me and asking if this was all my luggage.
    â€œYes, that’s all.”
    â€œThen let us go to the car. If you like to wait at the door, I will fetch it and save you the walk…”
    â€œI’ll come with you.”
    â€œIt’s only across the road, in the car park.”
    So we went out together, into the darkness again. He led me to the half empty car park. Here, he stopped by a big black Mercedes, unlocked it, and tossed my case on to the back seat. Then he held the door open so that I could get in before coming around to the front of the car to settle himself beside me.
    â€œI hope you had a good journey,” he said, politely, as we left the terminal behind us and headed out into the road.
    â€œIt was a little bumpy in Palma. I had to wait four hours.”
    â€œYes. There are no direct flights at this time of the year.”
    I swallowed. “I must explain about not answering your letter. I’ve moved flats, and I didn’t get it till yesterday morning. It wasn’t forwarded to me, you see. It was so good of you to write, and you must have wondered why I never replied.”
    â€œI thought something like that must have happened.”
    His English was perfect, only the precise Swedish vowel sounds betraying his origins, and a certain formality in the manner in which he expressed himself.
    â€œWhen I got your letter I was so frightened … that it would be too late.”
    â€œNo,” said Otto. “It is not too late.”
    Something in his voice made me look at him. His profile was knife sharp against the yellow glow of passing street lights, his expression unsmiling and grave.
    I said, “Is she dying?”
    â€œYes,” said Otto. “Yes, she is dying.”
    â€œWhat is wrong with her?”
    â€œCancer of the blood. You call it leukaemia.”
    â€œHow long has she been ill?”
    â€œAbout a year. But it was only just before Christmas time that she became so ill. The doctor thought that we should try blood transfusions, and I took her to the hospital for this. But it was no good, because as soon as I got her home again, she started this very bad nose bleed, and so the ambulance had to come and take her back to hospital again. She was there over Christmas and only then allowed home again. It was after that I wrote to you.”
    â€œI wish I’d got the letter in time. Does she know I’m coming?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t tell her. You well know how she loves surprises, and equally how she hates to be disappointed. I thought there was a chance that something would go wrong and you wouldn’t be on the plane.” He smiled frostily, “But of course you were.”
    We stopped at a cross-roads to wait for a country cart to pass in front of us, the feet of the mule making a pleasant sound on the dusty road, and a lantern swinging from the back of the cart. Otto took advantage of the pause to take a cheroot from the breast pocket of his jacket and light it from the lighter on the dashboard. The cart passed, we moved on.
    â€œHow long is it since you have seen your mother?”
    â€œTwo years.”
    â€œYou must expect a great change. I am afraid you will be