Towards White

by Zena Shapter

  “Magnús, we usually ask offenders to lie at the beginning of their examination,” says the administrator, “so the Sannlitró-Völva can register the resulting increase in negative energy. Please lie to the following question. What is your name?”

  Magnús shuffles in his seat before saying something about being called Stefán. The water and oil onscreen refracts until his image consists of electric blue swirls of oil floating in a sea of navy blue water.

  “Thank you. And now, your real name?” Before Magnús can reply, the oil in his onscreen image glimmers into gold, turning the water cream apart from a navy blue base. An administrative question follows and the Sannlitró-Völva remains gold, cream, and blue, as it does with the next question, and the next.

  I sense my mouth gaping open and close it. Mark and Ari were right. This machine is not a mere lie-detector—it’s reading this man’s mind before he speaks!

  Seeing little point in lying, Magnús admits the tax evasion he committed, claims it was a careless mistake and apologises.

  Ólaf turns to me and whispers. “Shame he didn’t admit that when he was asked the first time.”

  “Didn’t he realise he’d get found out?”

  “Not everyone outside Höfkállur is a Heimspeki follower,” Ólaf reminds me. “There are still plenty of sceptics who think they can get away with things. We bring them here to be examined, see for themselves.”

  “Ari said you often get anonymous information or evidence?”

  “Right. But if we get that first, no one can trust the offender anymore. Like this one today, he should have come forward immediately. Examining him was the only way to convert him. It helps rehabilitate them too.”

  After conferring with each other, those on the top table ask the offender, Magnús, to repay his tax imbalance and spend a weekend gardening at the Reformation Cooperative. Ólaf whispers the Reformation Cooperative is an industrial-sized, geothermal communal greenhouse that replaced Höfkállur Prison. He stops talking to stand in respect when the administrators swish out of the top doors.

  I press my lips together to rehydrate them. Once the top doors have clicked shut and the offender has been led out, Ólaf rocks back on his chair.

  “You see?” he says, a smug smile pushing his cheeks into round mounds.

  I lower my phone and fold away my glasses. “I certainly see why you might expect someone to steal the technology. It’s…spectacular. The membrane, it has some kind of oily surface?”

  Ólaf leaps up with childish enthusiasm, pushes back his glasses before pointing at various aspects of the machine. “It’s an olía and vatn coated plasma membrane. Oil because of the nitrogen. Water because of the oxygen.”

  “And copper to generate a magnetic field?”

  He jerks his head back, impressed. “That’s right, well done. The magnetic field splits the coloured light emitted by the offender into its individual components. You’ve heard of the Zeeman effect?”

  I shake my head. My scientific knowledge only goes so far.

  “Well, you probably don’t need to know that much detail, and it’s so hard to explain—much easier to actually see it.”

  I tilt my head around the machine. “Can you show me then?”

  “Nei!” Ólaf laughs. “Not you, my dear! You can’t see it.”

  “Why not? Is it confidential?”

  “You cannot see it unless you were born in a home insulated with lava brick, which I assume you weren’t, given you’re Australian.”

  “I don’t follow.” Though I definitely want to. Mark’s postscript could have been about this.

  Ólaf sits back down. “I see there’s another thing Anna hasn’t told you. For years, Höfkállur used lava brick to insulate its homes. Lava brick is full of iron and iron is very magnetic—so magnetic it affects the foetus while inside the womb.”

  “Affects them? How?”

  “Humans are sixty percent water, so magnetic fields penetrate our bodies very easily—we offer no resistance to it, and tissues exposed to a magnetic field for long periods of time retain enhanced magnetic signals. So, after years of exposure during development, some babies absorbed magnetism through the rear sections of their occipital lobes, back here.” He turns on an angle and moves his collar away from the thinning grey hair at the nape of his neck. At the base of his skull protrudes a crenation of flesh. “It made our eyes develop extra-sensitive cone cells, the receptor cells in our eyes, and left us with magnetic signals we can use to see…well, more than most.”

  I run a hand over the back of my neck. There is a small lump there too, at the base of my skull. Still it’s nothing compared to the size of Ólaf’s.

  “We call it the litagjöf. The ability to see others’ electrical energy is supposed to be a gift.” He harrumphs like he considers it no such thing.

  I’m not sure what to think. People often claim they can do things like this. It never turns out to be true. “You, um, don’t think it’s a gift?”

  “Maybe when I was younger but…” He closes his eyes to dismiss the thought. “Nei. Doesn’t matter. We have the Sannlitró-Völva now, so everyone can see their own energy.”

  “No, no, please go on. You were saying, when you were younger… Why isn’t it a gift?”

  “Ah, I made a mistake, that’s all, my dear.” His tone turning sour, he starts packing away the Sannlitró-Völva, then continues. “I told my friends I saw rainbows around them and they laughed at me. Halfviti.” Morons, my phone translates. Ólaf tightens his lips in bitterness. “My parents thought I had delusions, that I was deformed.”

  I watch his eyes, checking to see if he’s having a delusion about me right now. “Is that what it feels like, a delusion?”

  “More like one of those magic-eye illusion puzzles. You have to refocus your eyes to see.” He notices my expression. “Don’t worry, my dear, you’d know if I were watching your energy. Here, I’ll show you.” He closes his eyes and bows his head. “If I don’t concentrate, I can only see yellow and white, like the dust in sunbeams. But if I empty my mind and think about the muscles around my pupils, and if you stay perfectly still…”

  His eyelids flutter open to reveal eyes so unfocussed he isn’t so much as looking at me as through me.

  “Now all around you, I see…yes, the atoms close to you are light blue-grey, typical for someone in mourning. But I think…yes, further out, you are light brown and pink…Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Me? No.” Although that was another thing Mark wanted me to do—start dating again. “It’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ólaf, I saw my brother last night, in a morgue.”

  “Isn’t Ari taking you to Jötunnsjökull this afternoon?”

  I check my watch. “Soon, in fact.”

  “Good news for Ari. Me too. You will keep him busy enough.” He pulls down his glasses. “Eigi leyna augu ef ann kona manni. Eyes cannot hide a woman’s love for a man.”

  My eyebrows rise so high it widens my eyes. “Ólaf, I have no interest in Ari whatsoever.”

  “Ah, but everyone likes Ari. He has too much energy sometimes, physically—reminds me how little I have left. Still everyone likes him, including me. He’s like my second son.”

  I look away, embarrassed, then remember the guide. “Light brown and pink, couldn’t it also mean I’m curious about someone I love, like Mark?”

  Ólaf shakes his head. His eyes refocus. “The tests sometimes used to say I made mistakes, but I am never wrong face-to-face.” He notices my watch. “Oh, is that really the time?” He stretches over the machine’s controls to depress a large burgundy button on the generator’s side.

  “Couldn’t they think of a more original colour for the off-switch?” I ask, helping him wind up the electrical cords.

  “I know. But people look for red in an em
ergency, and if the generator’s glass broke while the machine was on, the damage that would be done—well, it’s worth a bit of unoriginality!”

  With the image of electric feelers whipping against the machine’s glass still blazing in my mind, I couldn’t agree more. “Surely the glass is shatterproof?”

  “As are the glass walls behind us. It shouldn’t stop us from being cautious. After all, it’s why they invented this thing,” he says, piling the electrical cords on top of the Sannlitró-Völva’s trolley, “they thought using the litagjöf hurt us.”

  “Does it?”

  “I get a slight headache. Though not enough to take the day off work, like some!” He means Jón. “Maybe it was worse for others? They probably did enough tests to know.”

  “And I suppose that’s why the government based its research centre here?” I realise.

  He shrugs. “It is where we all live.”

  Where we all live.

  I can’t tell if the words repeat in my head because they’re significant or because a voice is putting them there. Either way, I decide to check. “Ólaf, have you seen anyone living in Höfkállur whose energy might suggest they’re an activist or feeling guilty for threatening someone?”

  He pulls a cover over the trolley, shakes his head. “Sorry.”

  “What about Gunnar, Doctor Emil’s assistant? Have you ever checked his energy?”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know him?”

  He shakes his head again.

  “What about Jón? You must have checked him.”

  “Of course, he’s with my cousin. Why?”

  “Does he hold a grudge against…lawyers perhaps?”

  He pauses to think. “Nei. And I don’t think he drove past your Austurleid yesterday, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was here all day at an examination. Started early too.”

  “Oh, okay.” So Jón’s alibi checks out. “Thanks.”

  “If you like,” Ólaf whispers conspiratorially, “I’ll check him next time I see him. How about that?” He moves towards the exit.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Come on I’ll take you to the front entrance. I have to go that way to get to the Litrúm Maps anyway.” As we leave the Dómstóll, he swipes a yellow keycard through the door pad to lock it. “Caution,” he says, gesturing at the lock. “Until the patents are passed.”

  I try to think what else I can ask Ólaf about the Sannlitró-Völva, about Mark or his research, but the pounding of footsteps down the corridor stops me from thinking at all. It’s Ari, and his face is filled with panic.

  Chapter 13

  “Gott. You are here.” Ari puts his hands on his hips and heaves a sigh of relief when he sees me outside the Litrúm Dómstólls. “They said you left The Himinn with a man, went inside the Litrúm-Hús but didn’t come out.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?” I ask. “Gunnar?”

  “Nei, MUR officers from Akureyri, Director Úlfar sent them to help. It is okay though, you are with Ólaf.”

  “Anna thought I should know more about his litagjöf.”

  “You agreed to call me if you wanted to leave The Himinn.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.” Like he forgot to tell me that someone was watching The Himinn. “I’m ready for Jötunnsjökull when you are.”

  “I’d go now,” Ólaf tells Ari, leading us both away from the Dómstólls, “before Director Úlfar arrives.”

  “He’s coming here?” Ari sounds as surprised as Ólaf. “Excuse us a minute, Becky,” he says in English. “It will be easier for me in íslensku.” He switches into Icelandic but my earpiece is still networked to Word2Word. “What happened with Sigmar?”

  “Sigmar left for the Cooperative last night,” Ólaf answers, also in Icelandic. “Are you caring too much again?”

  “His father contacted me this morning, insisted the results are incorrect.”

  “Ha! They always say that when it doesn’t go their way. What did you tell him?”

  Ari grins. “I told him there’s no possibility of that because not-guilty examinations are only performed by senior technicians and Ólaf Stefánson is the best senior technician our Litrúm-Hús has ever seen.”

  “Very funny. Did you also tell them I’m the only senior technician the Litrúm-Hús has ever seen. I think it’s time I retired.”

  Ari laughs as we turn down a corridor. “You can’t fool me, old man. I saw that email of yours to Reykjavík, suggesting they send you some extra cases so that, what was it, their families were spared humiliation in the Capital? You love this job!”

  “Are you spying on me?”

  “Comes with the territory of promotion. That’s why accounts give me those extra digits.”

  “Seriously Ari, you need to get a new hobby. Why don’t you find yourself a nice girl, settle down.” Ólaf eyes me up and down. “Some kids would keep you off my back.”

  Ari clears his throat, embarrassed. “Sorry Becky,” he returns to English. “Some, er, work things.”

  “Speaking of which,” Ólaf adds, still in Icelandic, “did you sort out those security guards—they have to get changed before, not after clocking on if they’re to cover their shifts properly?”

  “Jón did. I figured he’d know how to talk to them.”

  “Jón?”

  “Of course. He was a security guard in Reykjavík for ten years, remember?”

  Ólaf raises his eyebrows to say ‘fair enough’.

  As we reach the display cabinets I passed yesterday, Ólaf and Ari pause. As well as old law books, the displays contain even older scanning computers, microfiche machines and a freestanding franking machine. Behind them, rows of compactus shelving stretch into the building housing dusty old leather-bound volumes. Off to one side is a staircase.

  “Well, Becky,” Ólaf holds out his hand, “it was a pleasure meeting you again.”

  “Thank you for showing me around.” I go to shake hands but he turns it around and gives it a light kiss.

  “You’re welcome. And if you need to know anything more, call me. I’d rather you have my facts than other people’s fictions, if you know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  Ari invites me to ascend the staircase with him. “I must tell my assistant I’m leaving. Bless, Ólaf.”

  Ólaf waves then walks back towards the front entrance.

  Ari bounds up the stairs and beckons for me to follow. As soon as we reach the open plan work area at the top of the stairs, he calls out. An assistant with black rinsed hair and dark wrinkled skin peers over her desk partition. When she notices me she folds her arms. “Are you going already?” she says. My phone translates.

  “Shut down my computer for me?”

  “Only if you give me a twirl.”

  “I wouldn’t want to give you a heart attack, Jóhanna.”

  She ruffles her hair and pretends to sit back down. Really she hovers midway to watch Ari head back down the staircase.

  I follow and realise he isn’t wearing a suit today. He’s in lace-up climbing boots, khaki pants, an army green jumper and a brown Elizabethan-replica leather jacket. Stubble extenuates his jawline. I suppose, under any other circumstances, if I’d met him at another time, he’d look good.

  I remember my conversation with Mark a few weeks ago, in which he’d urged me to start dating again. He practically guaranteed I’d find love soon.

  “One enchanted evening,” he said, “it’ll be like in the old black and white movies, with fireworks going off all around you. And he’ll be the faithful type this time.”

  I take a deep breath. Mark always did have a stronger belief in the future than me. There couldn’t be a worse time to meet someone than this.

  As soon as we enter the car park I notice Ari’s four-wheel drive. It’s parked close to the steps, glinting beautiful
silvers and mauves in the morning sun. I circle the vehicle. The tops of its wheels reach past my waist. Its door handles are at shoulder-height.

  “What do you think of my big baby?” Ari’s voice is as proud as his grin. “You cannot buy Eroders in Europe yet.”

  “It certainly is big.”

  “Naturally,” Ari says, swinging the passenger door wide for me. “It’s the only way to travel to Jötunnsjökull.”

  “How did Mark get up there, do you think?” I haul myself into the car, making sure my waistband sits over the top of my stomach as I sit. “Ólaf said he might have gone with a girl. Do you know any local girls with a car like yours?”

  Ari laughs. “I do not know any Höfkállur girls who would even go there.”

  “It sounds like you have first-hand experience with that.”

  “I do.” He tosses his daypack onto the back seat before leaping into the driver’s seat and clacking on the headlights.

  I smile as I realise I have the same brand of daypack back home, in a different colour.

  “What’s with the headlights?” I ask, easing up the hem of my pantaloons to check my thigh’s adhesive dressing. It feels heavier than before. My cut must have bled a little. I check its seal. Nothing’s leaked through. “Why turn them on when it’s daylight?”

  “Car lights must stay on all day in Iceland,” Ari says. “The weather changes too quick.”

  We wait for the car’s automatic headrest and seatbelt adjusters to determine our body height and girth, then Ari eases onto the road. Within minutes we’re cruising out of Höfkállur. I gaze out the windows and again search a road my brother recently travelled. Apparently.

  Ari accelerates to match the speed limit, then describes his plans for the afternoon ahead. His enthusiasm keeps the corners of his mouth in a constant state of elevation, he sounds like me before a dive. I can’t help but mirror his excitement, and I too find a smile on my lips.

  By the time the landscape is dominated by fields of thick black lava rock, I’ve heard so much about the Jötunnsjökull glacier I can picture the valley through which its rivers cut. It sounds like a lush warm Swiss valley, with white mountain peaks hovering above it. Then again, knowing Iceland’s landscapes differ so distinctly from anything I’ve seen before, I put my assumptions aside. The unadulterated zeal with which Ari speaks about the land is infectious and, like a drug, I find his fervour addictive and impossible to resist. If he pauses too long I find myself prompting him for more. He loves this place and clearly wants anyone seeing it to love it too. To that, I offer little resistance. Faced with such austere beauty, what would be the point?