Sigurdur Oli finished searching the cellar that evening without discovering any more about Benjamin’s tenants in the chalet on the hill. He did not care. He was relieved to escape from that task. Bergthora was waiting for him when he got home. She had bought some red wine and was in the kitchen sipping it. Took out another glass and handed it to him.
“I’m not like Erlendur,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Never say anything so nasty about me.”
“But you want to be like him,” Bergthora said. She was cooking pasta and had lit candles in the dining room. A beautiful setting for an execution, Sigurdur Oli thought.
“All men want to be like him,” Bergthora said.
“Aei, why do you say that?”
“Left to their own devices.”
“That’s not right. You can’t imagine what a pathetic life Erlendur leads.”
“I need to work out our relationship at least,” Bergthora said, pouring wine into Sigurdur Oli’s glass.
“Okay, let’s work out our relationship.” Sigurdur Oli had never met a more practical woman than Bergthora. This conversation was not going to be about the love in their lives.
“We’ve been together now for, what, three or four years, and nothing’s happening. Not a thing. You pull faces as soon as I start talking about anything that vaguely resembles commitment. We still have completely separate finances. A church wedding seems out of the question; I’m not clear about any other type. We’re not registered as cohabiting. Having children is as remote to you as a distant galaxy. So I ask: What’s left?”
There was no hint of anger in Bergthora’s words. So far, she was still only seeking to understand their relationship and where it was heading. Sigurdur Oli decided to capitalise on this before matters got out of hand. There had been ample time to ponder such questions over his drudgery in Benjamin’s cellar.
“We’re left,” Sigurdur Oli said. “The two of us.”
He found a CD, put it in the player and selected a track that had haunted him ever since Bergthora started to pressurise him about commitment. Marianne Faithfull sang about Lucy Jordan, the housewife who, at the age of 37, dreamed of riding through Paris in a sports car with the cool wind in her hair.
“We’ve talked about it for long enough,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“What?” Bergthora said.
“Our trip.”
“You mean to France?”
“Yes.”
“Sigurdur…”
“Let’s go to Paris and rent a sports car,” Sigurdur Oli said.
Erlendur was trapped in a swirling, blinding blizzard. The snow pounded him and lashed his face, the cold and the darkness enveloped him. He battled against the storm, but he made no headway, so he turned his back to the wind and huddled up while the snow piled up against him. He knew he would die and there was nothing he could do about it.
The telephone started to ring and kept on, penetrating the blizzard, until suddenly the weather cleared, the howling storm fell silent and he woke up at home in his chair. On his desk, the telephone rang with increasing intensity, showing him no mercy.
Stiffly he got to his feet and was poised to answer when the ringing stopped. He stood over the telephone, waiting for it to start again, but nothing happened. The telephone was too old to have a caller ID, so Erlendur had no idea who could be trying to contact him. Imagined it was a cold caller trying to sell him a vacuum cleaner with a toaster thrown in for good measure. He silently thanked the telesales person for bringing him in from the blizzard.
He went into the kitchen. It was eight in the evening. He tried to shut the bright spring evening out with the curtains, but it forced its way past them in places, dust-filled sunbeams that lit up the gloom in his flat. Spring and summer were not Erlendur’s seasons. Too bright. Too frivolous. He wanted heavy, dark winters. Finding nothing edible in the kitchen, he sat down at the table with his chin resting in his hand.
He was still dazed from sleeping. After returning from a visit to Eva Lind at the hospital at around six, he sat down in the chair, fell asleep and dozed until eight. He thought about the blizzard from his dream and how he turned his back on it, waiting for death. He had often dreamed this dream, in different versions. Yet there was always the unrelenting, freezing blizzard that pierced him to the bone. He knew how the dream would have continued if his sleep had not been broken by the telephone.
The ringing began again and Erlendur wondered whether to ignore it. Eventually he lunged out of the chair, went into the sitting room and picked up the receiver.
“Yes, Erlendur?”
“Yes,” Erlendur said, clearing his throat. He recognised the voice at once.
“Jim from the British embassy here. Forgive me for calling you at home.”
“Did you ring just now?”
“Just now? No. Only this time. Well, I just spoke to Ed and I thought I needed to get in touch with you.”
“Really, is there anything new?”
“He’s working on the case for you and I just wanted to keep you in the picture. He’s phoned America, looked through his diary and talked to people, and he thinks he knows who blew the whistle on the theft from the depot.”
“Who was it?”
“He didn’t say. Asked me to let you know and said he was expecting your call.”
“This evening?”
“Yes, no, or in the morning. Tomorrow morning might be better. He was off to sleep. Goes to bed early.”
“Was it an Icelander? Who grassed on them?”
“He’ll tell you about it. Good night, and my apologies for disturbing you.”
Erlendur was still standing by the phone when it started ringing again. It was Skarphedinn. He was on the hill.
“We’ll uncover the bones tomorrow,” Skarphedinn said without any preamble.
“About time too,” Erlendur said. “Did you call me just now?”
“Yes, did you just get in?”
“Yes,” Erlendur lied. “Have you found anything useful up there?”
“No, nothing, I just wanted to tell you that… good evening, evening, ehmm, let me help you, there you go… er, sorry, where were we?”
“You were telling me that you’ll reach the bones tomorrow.”
“Yes, some time towards evening, I expect. We haven’t uncovered any clues as to how the body ended up being buried. Maybe we’ll find something under the bones.”
“See you tomorrow, then.”
“Goodbye.”
Erlendur put the phone down. He was not fully awake. He thought about Eva Lind and whether any of what he said got through to her. And he thought about Halldora and the hatred she still felt for him after all those years. And he contemplated for the millionth time what his life and their lives would have been like had he not decided to leave. He never came to any conclusion.
He stared at nothing in particular. An occasional ray of evening sun broke past the sitting-room curtains, slashing a bright wound into the gloom around him. He looked into the curtains. They were made of thick corduroy, hanging right down to the floor. Thick, green curtains to keep the brightness of spring at bay.
Good evening.
Evening.
Let me help you.
Erlendur peered into the green of the curtains.
Crooked.
Green.
“What was Skarphedinn…?” Erlendur leaped to his feet and snatched up the phone. Not remembering Skarphedinn’s mobile number, he desperately called directory enquiries. Then he rang the archaeologist.
“Skarphedinn. Skarphedinn?” He blared down the phone.
“What? Is that you again?”
“Who did you say good evening to just then? Who were you helping?”
“Eh?”
“Who were you talking to?”
“What are you so worked up about?”
“Who’s there with you?”
“You mean who I said hello to?”
“This isn’t a videophone. I can’t see you up there on the hill. I heard you say good evening to someone. Who’s there with you?”
“Not with me. She went somewhere, wait, she’s standing by the bush.”
“The bush? You mean the redcurrant bushes? Is she by the redcurrant bushes?”
“Yes.”
“What does she look like?”
“She’s… do you know her then? What’s all this panic about?”
“What does she look like?” Erlendur repeated, trying to keep calm.
“Take it easy.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventyish. No, maybe more like 80. Difficult to say.”
“What’s she wearing?”
“She’s got on a long green coat, ankle-length. A lady of about my height. And she’s lame.”
“In what way, lame?”
“She’s limping. More than that really. She’s sort of, I don’t know…”
“What?! What! What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know how to describe it… I… it’s like she’s crooked.”
Erlendur threw down the phone and ran out into the spring evening, forgetting to tell Skarphedinn to keep the lady on the hill there with him at all costs.
The day that Grimur returned home, Dave had not been with them for several days.
Autumn had arrived with a piercing north wind and a thin blanket of snow on the ground. The hill stood high above sea level and winter came earlier there than in the lowland, where Reykjavik was beginning to take on some kind of urban shape. Simon and Tomas took the school bus to Reykjavik in the mornings and came back in the evening. Every day their mother walked to Gufunes, where she tended the milk cows and did other routine farm work. She left before the boys, but was always back when they returned from school. Mikkelina stayed at home during the day, excruciatingly bored by her solitude. When her mother came home from work Mikkelina could hardly control herself for glee, and her delight was all the greater when Simon and Tomas burst in and threw their school books into one corner.
Dave was a regular visitor to their home. Their mother and Dave found it increasingly easy to understand each other, and they sat at length at the kitchen table, wanting the boys and Mikkelina to leave them in peace. Occasionally, when they wanted to be left entirely to themselves, they went into the bedroom and closed the door.
Simon sometimes saw Dave stroke his mother’s cheek or sweep back a lock of hair if one fell across her face. Or he stroked her hand. They went on long walks around Reynisvatn and up the surrounding hills, and some days even strolled over to Mosfellsdalur and Helgufoss, taking food with them because such an outing could last a whole day. Sometimes they took the children along and Dave carried Mikkelina on his back without the slightest effort. Simon and Tomas were amused that he called their outings a “picnic”, and they clucked the word at each other: pic-nic, pic-nic, pic-nic.
Sometimes Dave and their mother sat talking seriously, on their picnics or at the kitchen table, and in the bedroom once when Simon opened the door. They were sitting on the edge of the bed, Dave was holding her hand and they looked over to the door and gave Simon a smile. He did not know what they were talking about, but he knew it could not be pleasant, because he recognised his mother’s expression when she felt bad.
And then, one cold autumn day, it all ended.
Grimur came home early one morning when their mother had gone to the farm and Simon and Tomas were on their way to take the school bus. It was piercing cold on the hill and they met Grimur as he walked up the track to the house, clutching his tattered jacket close to him to fend off the north wind. He ignored them. They could not see his face clearly in the dim autumn morning, but Simon imagined he wore a hard, cold expression as he headed towards their house. The boys had been expecting him for the past few days. Their mother had told them he would be released from prison after serving his sentence and would come back to the hill to them; they could expect him at any time.
Simon and Tomas watched Grimur walk up to the house, and looked at each other. Both were thinking the same thing. Mikkelina was home alone. She always woke up when they and their mother got up, but went back to sleep for much of the morning. She would be alone to greet Grimur. Simon tried to calculate their father’s reaction when he discovered that their mother was not at home, nor the boys, only Mikkelina, whom he had always hated.
The school bus arrived and beeped twice. Although the driver saw the boys on the hill, when he could not wait for them any longer he drove away and the bus disappeared down the road. They stood motionless, not saying a word, then set off slowly and inched their way towards the house.
They did not want to leave Mikkelina at home by herself.
Simon contemplated running after his mother or sending Tomas to fetch her, but told himself that there was no hurry for them to meet again; their mother could have this last day of peace. The boys saw Grimur enter the house and close the door behind him, and they broke into a run. They did not know what to expect inside the house. All they thought about was Mikkelina asleep in the double bed where she must not be found under any circumstances.
Cautiously opening the door, they crept inside: Simon leading the way but Tomas close behind, holding his hand. When they went into the kitchen they saw Grimur standing at the worktop. He had his back turned to them. Sniffed and spat into the sink. He had turned on the light over the table and they could see only his outline beyond it.
“Where’s your mother?” he said, his back still turned.
Simon thought that he had noticed them on the way up the hill after all and heard them enter the house.
“She’s working,” Simon said.
“Working? Where’s she working?” Grimur said.
“At Gufunes dairy,” Simon said.
“Didn’t she know I was coming today?” Grimur turned round to face them and stepped into the light. The brothers stared at him as he emerged from the darkness and their eyes turned like saucers when they saw his face in the dull glow. Something had happened to Grimur. Along one of his cheeks, a burn mark stretched all the way up to his eye, which was half closed because his eyelid had fused with the skin.
Grimur smiled.
“Doesn’t Dad look pretty?”
The brothers stared at his disfigured face.
“First they make you coffee, then they throw it in your face.”
He moved closer to them.
“Not because they want you to confess. They know it all already because someone’s told them. That’s not why they throw boiling coffee over you. That’s not why they destroy your face.”
The boys did not understand what was going on.
“Fetch your mother,” Grimur ordered, looking at Tomas, who was cowering behind his brother. “Go to that fucking cow shop and bring the cow back.”
Out of the corner of his eye Simon saw a movement in the bedroom, but he did not dare for the life of him to look inside. Mikkelina was up and about. She was able to stand on one leg and could move about if she supported herself, but she did not risk going into the kitchen.
“Out!” Grimur shouted. “Now!”
Tomas jumped. Simon was uncertain that his brother would find the way. Tomas had been to the farm with his mother once or twice in the summer, but it was darker and colder outside now and Tomas was still very much a child.
“I’ll go,” Simon said.
“You’re not bloody going anywhere,” Grimur snarled. “Piss off!” he shouted at Tomas, who staggered away from behind Simon, opened the door into the cold air and closed it carefully behind him.
“Come on, Simon my boy, come and sit down with me,” Grimur said, his rage seeming suddenly to have vanished.
Simon fumbled his way into the kitchen and sat on a chair. He saw a movement in the bedroom again. He hoped Mikkelina would not come out. There was a pantry in the passageway and he thought that she could sneak in there without Grimur noticing her.
“Didn’t you miss your old dad?” Grimur said, sitting down facing him. Simon couldn’t take his eyes off the burn on his face. He nodded.
“What have you all been up to this summer?” Grimur asked, and Simon stared at him without saying a word. He did not know where to start telling lies. He could not tell him about Dave, about the visits and mysterious meetings with his mother, the trips, the picnics. He could not say that they all slept in the big bed together, always. He could not say how his mother had become a completely different person since Grimur left, which was all thanks to Dave. Dave had brought back her zest for life. He could not tell him how she made herself look pretty in the mornings. Her changed appearance. How her expression grew more beautiful each day that she spent with Dave.
“What, nothing?” Grimur said. “Hasn’t anything happened the whole summer?”
“The… the… weather was great,” Simon whimpered, his eyes glued to the burn.
“Great weather. The weather was great,” Grimur said. “And you’ve been playing here and by the barracks. Do you know anyone from the barracks?”
“No,” Simon blurted out. “No one.”
Grimur smiled.
“You’ve learned to tell lies this summer. Amazing how quickly people learn to tell lies. Did you learn to tell lies this summer, Simon?”
Simon’s lower lip was beginning to tremble. It was a reflex beyond his control.
“Just one,” he said. “But I don’t know him well.”
“You know one. Well, well. You should never tell lies, Simon. People like you who tell lies just end up in trouble and can get others into trouble too.”
“Yes,” Simon said, hoping this would soon come to an end. He hoped that Mikkelina would come out and disturb them. Wondered whether to tell Grimur that Mikkelina was in the passage and had slept in his bed.
“Who do you know from the barracks?” Grimur said, and Simon could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into the swamp.
“Just one,” he said.
“Just one,” Grimur repeated, stroking his cheek and lightly scratching the burn with his index finger. “Who’s this one? I’m glad there’s not more than one.”
“I don’t know. He sometimes goes fishing in the lake. Sometimes he gives us trout that he catches.”
“And he’s good to you kids?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said, well aware that Dave was the best man he had ever met. Compared with Grimur, Dave was an angel sent from heaven to save their mother. Where was Dave? Simon thought. If only Dave were here. He thought about Tomas out in the cold on his way to Gufunes, and about their mother who did not even know that Grimur was back on the hill. And he thought about Mikkelina in the passage.
“Does he come here often?”
“No, just every now and again.”
“Did he come here before I was put in the nick? When you’re put in the nick, Simon, it means you’re put in the nick. It doesn’t have to mean you’re guilty of anything bad if you go prison, just that someone put you there. In the nick. And it didn’t take them long. They talked a lot about making an example. The Icelanders mustn’t steal from the army. Awful business. So they had to sentence me, hard and fast. So no one else would copy me and go stealing too. You get it? Everyone was supposed to learn from my mistakes. But they all steal. They all do it, and they’re all making money. Did he come here before I was put in the nick?”
“Who?”
“That soldier. Did he come here before I was put in the nick? That one.”
“He used to fish in the lake sometimes before you went away.”
“And he gave your mother the trout he caught?”
“Yes.”
“Did he catch a lot of trout?”
“Sometimes. But he wasn’t a good fisherman. He just sat down by the lake, smoking. You catch a lot more than he did. With your nets too. You always catch so much with your nets.”
“And when you gave your mother the trout, did he stop by? Did he come in for coffee? Did he sit down at this table?”
“No,” Simon said, unable to decide whether the lie he was telling was too obvious. He was scared and confused, he kept his finger pressed against his lip to stop it trembling, and tried to answer the way he thought Grimur wanted him to, but without incriminating his mother if he said something Grimur was not supposed to know. Simon was discovering a new side to Grimur. His father had never talked to him so much before and it caught him off his guard. Simon was floundering. He was not sure exactly what Grimur was not supposed to know, but he tried his utmost to safeguard his mother.
“Didn’t he ever come in here?” Grimur said, and his voice transposed from soft and cunning to strict and firm.
“Just twice, something like that.”
“And what did he do then?”
“Just came in.”
“Oh, it’s like that. Have you started telling lies again? Are you lying to me again? I come back here after months of being treated like shit and all I get to hear are lies. Are you going to tell me lies again?”
His questions lashed Simon’s face like a whip.
“What did you do in prison?” Simon asked hesitantly in the weak hope of being able to talk about something other than Dave and his mother. Why didn’t Dave come? Didn’t they know that Grimur was out of prison? Hadn’t they discussed this at their secret meetings when Dave stroked her hand and tidied up her hair?
“In prison?” Grimur said, changing his voice to soft and cunning again. “I listened to stories in prison. All sorts of stories. You hear so much and want to hear so much because no one comes to visit you and the only news you get from home is what you hear there, because they’re always sending people to prison and you get to know the wardens who tell you a thing or two as well. And you have loads and loads of time to think about all those stories.”
A floorboard creaked inside the passageway and Grimur paused, then went on as if nothing had happened.
“Of course, you’re so young… wait, how old are you anyway, Simon?”
“I’m 14, I’ll be 15 soon.”
“You’re almost an adult, so maybe you understand what I’m talking about. Everyone hears about how all the Icelandic girls just throw their legs over the soldiers. It’s like they lose control of themselves when they see a man in uniform, and you hear about what gentlemen the soldiers are and how they open doors for them and they’re polite and want to dance and never get drunk and have cigarettes and coffee and all sorts of things and come from places that all the girls want to go to. And us, Simon, we’re crummy. Just yokels, Simon, that the girls won’t even look at. That’s why I want to know a bit more about this soldier who goes fishing in the lake, Simon, because you’ve disappointed me.”
Simon looked at Grimur and all the strength seemed to sap from his body.
“I’ve heard so much about that soldier on the hill here and you’ve never heard of him. Unless of course you’re lying to me, and I don’t think that’s very nice, lying to your dad when a soldier comes here every day and goes out for walks with your dad’s wife all summer. You don’t know anything about it?”
Simon said nothing.
“You don’t know anything about it?” Grimur repeated.
“They sometimes went for walks,” Simon said, tears welling in his eyes.
“See,” Grimur said. “I knew we were still friends. Did you go with them maybe?”
It seemed that this would never end. Grimur looked at him with his burnt face and one eye half closed. Simon felt he could not hold back much longer.
“We sometimes went to the lake and he took a picnic. Like you sometimes brought in those cans you open with a key.”
“And did he kiss your mother? Down by the lake?”
“No,” Simon said, relieved at not having to answer with a lie. He had never seen Dave and his mother kissing.
“What were they doing then? Holding hands? And what were you doing? Why did you let that man take your mother for walks down by the lake? Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might object? Didn’t that ever occur to you?”
“No,” Simon said.
“No one was thinking about me on those walks. Were they?”
“No,” Simon said.
Grimur leaned forward under the light and his burning red scar stood out even more.
“And what’s the name of this man who steals other people’s families and thinks that’s okay and no one does a thing about it?”
Simon did not answer him.
“The one who threw the coffee, Simon, the one who made my face like this, do you know his name?”
“No,” Simon said in a barely audible voice.
“He attacked me and burned me, but they never put him in the nick for that. What do you reckon to that? Like they’re holy, all those soldiers. Do you think they’re holy?”
“No,” Simon said.
“Has your mother got fatter this summer?” Grimur asked as if a new idea had suddenly entered his head. “Not because she’s a cow from the dairy, Simon, but because she’s been going for walks with soldiers from the barracks. Do you think she’s got fatter this summer?”
“No,” he said.
“I think it’s likely though. We’ll find out later. This man who threw the coffee over me. Do you know his name?”
“No,” Simon said.
“He had some strange idea, I don’t know where he got it from, that I wasn’t treating your mother properly. That I did nasty things to her. You know I’ve had to teach her to behave sometimes. He knew about it, but he didn’t understand why. Couldn’t understand that tarts like your mother need to know who’s in charge, who they’re married to and how they ought to behave. He couldn’t understand you have to push them around a bit sometimes. He was really angry when he was talking to me. I know a bit of English because I’ve had some good friends at the barracks and I understood most of what he was saying, and he was very angry with me about your mother.”
Simon’s eyes were transfixed on the scald.
“This man, Simon, his name’s Dave. I don’t want you to lie to me: the soldier who was so kind to your mother, has been ever since the spring and all summer and well into the autumn, could his name be Dave?”
Simon racked his brains, still staring at the burn.
“They’re going to sort him out,” Grimur said.
“Sort him out?” Simon didn’t know what Grimur meant, but it couldn’t be nice.
“Is the rat in the passage?” Grimur said, nodding towards the door.
“What?” Simon did not catch on to what he was talking about.
“The moron? Do you think it’s listening to us?”
“I don’t know about Mikkelina,” Simon said. That was some kind of truth.
“Is his name Dave, Simon?”
“It might be,” Simon said tentatively.
“It might be? You’re not sure. What does he call you, Simon? When he talks to you, or maybe he cuddles you and strokes you, what does he call you then?”
“He never strokes…”
“What’s his name?”
“Dave!” Simon said.
“Dave! Thank you, Simon.”
Grimur leaned back and moved out of the light. He lowered his voice.
“You see, I heard he was fucking your mum.”
At that moment the door opened and the children’s mother came in with Tomas following behind her, and the cold gust of wind that accompanied them sent a chill running down Simon’s sweating back.