Úrsúla sat up and rolled her singlet down as she glanced around Thorbjörn’s flat. It was laid out in the same way as most student apartments, with an open-plan kitchen and living room, a bedroom to one side and a small bathroom opposite the front door. What was considered acceptable temporary accommodation for a student in Iceland would have been welcomed as a permanent home by a whole family in Syria.
Úrsúla wondered how a middle-aged man like Thorbjörn with a full-time job managed to hold on to a student flat, but she didn’t like to ask. His personal arrangements were none of her business.
‘You’re leaving already?’ he asked, stroking her thigh and sending a shiver of pleasure through her.
‘My driver’s waiting for me outside.’
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
She shrugged.
‘I don’t make a habit of this,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been unfaithful to my husband before.’
Thorbjörn was silent, but continued to run his fingers along her leg until she pushed his hand away.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and instead of replying in the same way she spoke to Nonni, with a shake of the head and a forced smile to tell him that everything was fine, she told Thorbjörn the truth. It was easy, so painless, and with no repercussions.
‘No, I’m not all right,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been all right for a long time.’
Saturday
55
‘So,’ was all the prime minister said as soon as Úrsúla answered the phone.
She knew exactly where this was going. He wanted to hear what ideas she had come up with for canning the South Coast Highway initiative. She mouthed an apologetic sorry to Eva, who sat opposite her at the desk. They had been going over next week’s commitments and Úrsúla had been speaking as the phone rang.
‘Nothing to tell you,’ she said into the phone, leaning back in her chair and turning it away from the desk so she could look through the window at the pale-blue mountains in the distance. ‘I’m working on it.’
A burst of golden-pink rays of sunshine broke through the clouds and bathed the mountain slopes of Akrafjall; the light was so bright it seemed almost to belong to another world.
‘Talk to Óðinn,’ the prime minister advised. ‘He can cook up some kind of justification that’s totally impenetrable, but looks completely plausible.’
‘Yes, I don’t doubt that eventually I’ll be going to Óðinn for advice,’ she said. ‘But I’d like to hold off for the moment. The contracts are just waiting for me to sign them, and I can delay that for quite a while. I’d like to let the media storm over the street guy die down before I stir things up again.’
‘It’s fine to let one scandal drown out another,’ the prime minister said. ‘The more dust you kick up, the better.’
‘I’m not sure I agree with you there, Mr Machiavelli,’ she said, hoping that a lighter note would cut through the tension she could sense in his voice. But it had the opposite effect; the prime minister seemed in no mood for jokes.
‘Rúnar couldn’t handle the media and gave way under the strain before he scuttled away on sick leave. Now we’ll see if his successor can stick up for herself or not!’
Before Úrsúla could begin to digest his words, he had hung up, leaving her in no doubt: the call hadn’t been made to find out what the state of play was. He was cracking the whip.
‘What was that?’ Eva asked, staring at Úrsúla in astonishment. The call must have sounded as strange to Eva as it had been to her.
‘That was our prime minister,’ Úrsúla said with a sigh. ‘He wants the South Coast Highway shelved.’
‘What?’ The astonishment shone from Eva’s face as her jaw dropped. ‘What the hell?’
‘I know,’ Úrsúla said, turning over in her mind whether she should spare Eva the explanation or not. But she desperately needed someone to talk to. She needed someone else’s judgement and to think the matter through out loud. ‘There’s a problem with the finance,’ she said. ‘It seems that Ingimar Magnússon is one of the backers.’
‘Fuck,’ Eva said. ‘Fucking hell, in fact.’
Úrsúla laughed and sighed at the same time.
‘That’s putting it mildly. If this gets out, the government is going to be under fire for allowing negotiations for a state project to get this far without knowing who they were dealing with. If we keep quiet and carry on, and it comes out that we knew we were negotiating with Ingimar the Terrorist, then we have even more of a scandal on our hands. Ingimar isn’t the most popular person in Iceland.’
‘Hell and damnation,’ Eva said. Úrsúla wanted to ask her to swear some more, as it seemed to provide an outlet for the tension. She longed to sink the whole miserable business in a pit of fury and cursing.
‘The worst of it is that I think I was appointed minister of the interior to do just this. I’m here to be the unpopular bitch who wrecks the vital transport initiative that the whole country has been looking forward to for far too long. That’s why both parties buried their differences and accepted a minister from outside the government.’
‘Shi—’ Eva began, and paused. ‘There must be a way around this. We can’t stop this going ahead. The whole south coast is alive with tourists and can’t cope with the traffic, and there’s just one accident after another.’
Úrsúla looked at her thoughtfully. Eva’s disappointment over the South Coast Highway being abandoned would be nothing compared to the rage that would erupt from people living along the south coast, as well as commercial drivers and the whole tourist industry.
‘I really need to speak to this Ingimar directly,’ Úrsúla said. ‘I need to hear from him in person that he’s behind the finance, and I need to be sure that the prime minister is telling me the truth. There’s something about this that stinks, and I’m wondering if I’m a pawn in it all.’
Eva nodded.
‘You can’t just take responsibility for canning the highway without saying a word. You’ll just be clearing up someone else’s mess. But you can’t let anyone find out that you’re in personal contact with Ingimar. The man’s a terrorist.’
56
Úrsúla could see the irritation on Nonni’s face, so she quickly finished her conversation with Eva, switched off her phone and put it in her pocket. It was a cold, still day, and the snow crackled underfoot as they walked around the Árbær open-air museum.
‘To start with you’re back from work two hours later than you said you’d be. Then you’re on the phone non-stop, and then there’s this,’ he muttered, so the children didn’t hear.
‘This’ meant her long conversation with the chief executive of the Directorate of Immigration, who had happened to be buying his family tickets for the museum just as they turned up. Nonni and the man’s wife, after a few pleasantries, had each herded their children into the yard, and Úrsúla had seen Nonni and the children playing on the swings in the corner while she convinced the chief executive of the need for co-operation.
‘The phone’s off,’ she said, hooking a hand into the crook of Nonni’s elbow.
She’d been surprised by how reserved the chief executive of the Directorate of Immigration was. He had mumbled and hesitated a few half-sentences that conveyed neither any particular interest in what Úrsúla had to say, nor even minimal respect for the ministry to which his department answered. More than likely a minister with a one-year term in office didn’t carry a great deal of weight.
The children were happy and skipped down the steps. Today they had pancake-making and a guided tour around the old turf house to look forward to. This was a place they had visited regularly with the children every summer and Christmas holiday they’d spent in Iceland. Initially the toy collection had been the biggest attraction; later on it had been the animals; and now Herdís had developed a genuine interest in old houses and the lives of those who had lived in them. Ari’s interest was mostly in anything edible, but otherwise he seemed happy just to join in, satisfied they were al
l together. Úrsúla would have been even happier if Kátur had been with them. He always helped lighten the atmosphere, his doggy delight in everything making them all laugh.
The trip to the ministry this morning had been worthwhile: a chance to clear up minor tasks, deal with emails, answer questions from the staff and start preparing responses to parliamentary questions on a variety of matters. Parliament made her nervous so she was determined to be well prepared for her first public appearance there and she had wanted time to concentrate. There were fewer people in the building on a Saturday and less pressure from the media, so this had given her space to think. At any rate, nothing had changed over the last twenty-four hours, and the newspapers were stuck in the same groove as before, lapping up each other’s coverage and publishing interviews with legal experts who failed to agree on what documents the minister had a right to see. With any luck, it would all have blown over by Monday.
A tempting aroma met them as they stepped over the threshold of the turf house. The children were there ahead of them, and Ari was making pancakes over an open fire under the careful tutelage of a lady in national dress. They tasted the pancakes and heaped praise on Ari for his skill in turning them over, and for a moment everything was perfect, the four of them together, laughing and happy.
‘This is a sight to see! The minister in person, here for a tour of the turf house,’ a man exclaimed as he came in to the kitchen.
Úrsúla had a moment’s discomfort as she recognised the man’s face but was unable to recollect where she had met him before.
He solved the mystery himself by offering a hand to Nonni and introducing himself.
‘Bergmundur. Professor of Icelandic language and folklore.’
‘I’m Jón,’ Nonni said. ‘These are our children, Herdís and Ari.’
The man didn’t pay any attention to the children, but instead he gazed intently at Úrsúla, who realised that he was one of the group of academics who had come to see her about the naming committee. The groove between his eyes looked deeper than ever, and judging by his tone of voice, Úrsúla hadn’t been forgiven.
‘I’d have thought that Disneyland would be more your thing,’ he said, and Úrsúla couldn’t be sure if his tone was sarcastic or simply curious. He took off his coat and Úrsúla was startled to see his woollen sweater, knitted in shades of grey, with buttons and black bands on the sleeves.
‘Everything in moderation,’ she muttered. ‘We like the children to experience everything.’
‘Is there Disneyland in Iceland?’ Ari asked, giving his sister a hard nudge.
‘Of course not, you idiot!’
‘Shh! None of that, kids,’ Nonni scolded.
‘Then why did he say it?’ Ari asked loudly, and there was a desperation in his voice, as if he feared that somewhere in Iceland lurked an American-style theme park that nobody had told him about.
‘So is there Disneyland in Iceland or not?’ Ari demanded again, and this time nobody replied, as Úrsúla shepherded him out through the kitchen door and into the yard.
‘Let’s go and get ourselves some waffles in the café,’ Úrsúla said, and the children galloped across the frozen pasture.
‘You could have spoken to that man a little more politely,’ Nonni said as he followed her out into the yard. She could almost hear the anger boiling inside him.
His temper had been on edge since that morning, when he had seen the new house rules. He was the only one who should answer the door, and only after checking the screen connected to the camera that had been rigged above the door.
They walked side by side, following the children to the café. Úrsúla was surprised at herself for not giving the man a proper answer, for not even showing him minimal courtesy, but the pattern on his sweater had left her in shock. It was a complex and rarely seen pattern: an octagonal rosette in grey and black across the chest. It was exactly the same one her father had worn.
57
Marita rubbed oil into the frozen leg of lamb and salted it generously. Her mother had always roasted a joint of lamb from frozen, but Jónatan had showed Marita how to let it defrost over two or three days in the fridge and a whole day at room temperature on the kitchen worktop before it went into the oven.
‘In this case, it doesn’t need to be rock hard before we slip it in,’ he had said, and they had laughed and giggled, and then he had kissed her and pinched her bottom, and she had been happy.
Now she felt slightly sick at the memory. This wretched case hanging over them wasn’t just poisoning the present, but all their memories as well; all the fun, and everything they had done together, was now veiled in pain and disappointment that she couldn’t be sure would ever be lifted. Everything had been ruined, you could say. The case had destroyed their life together – past, present and future.
Marita sprinkled paprika and curry powder over the joint and worked the red and yellow powder together with her hands until the spices had blended into an orange covering and her fingers were left numb by the frozen meat. Jónatan would just have to make do with a leg of lamb that had been roasted from frozen when he came home that night for a break between a round of shifts. She didn’t trust herself to go to the shop to buy something else for dinner. She’d just make a meal from what there was in the house.
She poured herself coffee from the flask. These days she was making a full flask of coffee in the mornings just for herself, because she was always getting herself cups and leaving them here and there around the house, and generally didn’t come across them again until the coffee was cold. She didn’t seem able to finish anything she started. She was halfway through folding the washing, so that there was a stack of folded clothes next to a pile of clothes just from the dryer, and the vacuum cleaner was in the corridor between the bedrooms because she didn’t have the energy to hoover more than one room at a time.
She sat at the computer and opened Facebook. There was a message from her mother and a couple of pictures of Klemmi. She missed him so much that her heart felt fit to burst when she saw the boy’s apple cheeks and joyful smile. She replied with a couple of lines of thanks. She knew there was no need for them, as her mother was delighted to have the lad, but somehow it assuaged her guilt at sending him away. She opened her gallery to see more pictures of Klemmi. He was changing so fast that she could practically see him grow as she looked through the last year’s worth of pictures. Her eyes locked on to a picture of Jónatan with the boys and she clicked to open it. He sat in the garden with Klemmi on his knee and Kiddi in shorts standing beside him. It was strange to see how alike the boys and their father were in this picture. There were a few comments, including one posted by Katrín Eva.
Good-looking guys, she had written, and had added a little red heart.
Underneath, Jónatan had added a comment:
The old guy is the best-looking, though, isn’t he?
Yes, Katrín Eva had replied, adding a string of hearts.
‘Look at this,’ Marita said, pointing to the screen as Kiddi appeared in the kitchen, wearing nothing but underpants.
‘I know. Fucking whore. She told everyone at school that she thought Dad was hot.’
Marita felt sick. How on earth could she be hearing this for the first time now, not least after all the long conversations she and Jónatan had had about the possible reasons behind Katrín Eva’s accusations. This shone a new light on the whole thing; on everything.
‘Hang on…’ she stammered. ‘Don’t the police know about this?’
‘Yeah,’ Kiddi said. ‘When they came from Reykjavík to talk to Dad, they talked to me as well, remember? And Dad sat in as the responsible adult. You could tell Katrín Eva had been flirting with Dad for months on end, and we told the cops that. Are you completely clueless about what’s going on around you?’
He spat out the last few words angrily, turned to open the fridge, grabbed a carton of chocolate milk and disappeared into his room.
Marita’s thoughts seemed to be coming out of the da
ze they had been in, and now she felt that she could understand Katrín Eva’s manner when she’d left the house that evening, before she had lodged her accusations against Jónatan.
Maybe she had been in tears, as the police had said, when Marita had met her in the doorway. Could Katrín Eva have tried it on with Jónatan, and then gone home angry and hurt. Had she told her mother that he had raped her as revenge for his rejection?
58
‘You’ve dropped a few!’ Stella said, looking into Gréta’s fluttering eyes.
She had already taken one tab herself, but that was clearly nothing to what Gréta must have swallowed. Gréta had already been at the dinner at the Annas’ place when Stella arrived. As usual, she had taken care to be late, so that the women had softened up and she wouldn’t have to take part in the conversation over the dinner table. But she needn’t have worried, as Gréta and another woman took turns spouting monologues that the others listened to with rapt attention. It was amazing how a tab of Molly could make even the worst kind of bullshit sound inspired.
‘I’m just so free now,’ Gréta said. ‘I just say exactly what I mean. For example, I’m going to ask you to let me know if the minister says anything about those medical records she requested. Or if she mentions her father and how he died – or anything else. You’ll let me know? Because I’m your friend, aren’t I?’
‘I have a duty to keep confidences,’ Stella said, and that was quite true. There was some piece of paper she had signed when she took the job. There was something uncomfortable about the way Gréta asked her again and again for gossip from inside the ministry. She always gave the same response: it sounded better than saying she never heard anything because she was just a cleaner.
‘You’re such a sweetheart!’ Gréta giggled, and put out a hand to pinch her cheek. Then she handed Stella her phone.
Betrayal Page 14