I Am David (19 page)

It was not polite when the driver had been so kind to him, but there was no other way out. David felt certain that he would very soon come to the end of his strength, and before that happened he must try to find the woman.

He ran along street after street, turning corners all the time, until he felt safe. He had no difficulty in finding a telephone kiosk, and there were the directories all in order!

He found six people called Hjorth Fengel, but there was only one with an E in front of the name. the address was Strandvejen 758.

It must be a long street, and David decided to ask how to get to it. There were many people who could understand you if you spoke English. He stood there for a moment or two with the book in his hand and looked about him. But before he could make up his mind whom to ask, a woman spoke to him. She asked him if she could help him in any way. David answered politely in English and she understood what he said.

She told him the address was a very long way off. then she looked at him and said, “But I’m going that way myself. I can take you most of the way in the car.”

She asked him what country he came from and David told her he was French, since he could not very well say he came from nowhere at all. then she seemed to realize he was tired, for after that she said very little and David sat looking out of the window. Soon they came to the sea, and David thought it was almost as blue as it was in Italy where he had lived on the rocks. It seemed a very long time ago now.

David stood for a long time looking at number 758. Everything smelt fresh and pleasant. There were trees everywhere with white and yellow and lilac-coloured blossom. The sun was shining, the leaves were bright green and the sea a deep blue. Denmark was beautiful, too — perhaps all countries were beautiful, where they weren’t.

A few yards would take him to the door, and yet David thought he would never get there. His legs could carry him no farther and he was on the point of collapsing. He had thought for some time that perhaps if the woman who lived there would tell him what to do and where to go, he would be able to manage, but now he knew he couldn’t. If his happiest dreams came true, he could go on living: if not, this was the end.

French was the language he spoke best. David picked up his bundle, walked to the door and rang the bell. When the woman opened it, he knew she was the woman in the photograph, the woman whose eyes had seen so much and yet could smile.

Then David said in French, “Madame, I’m David. I’m …”

He could say no more. The woman looked into his face and said clearly and distinctly, “David … My son David …”