I Remember You

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Dagný looked up. ‘I’ll see to that. I think it’s time I got my colleagues down south to help us find him. Hopefully he’ll have something to tell us.’

  When Freyr said goodbye from the doorway shortly afterwards and watched her walk down the corridor, he remembered the recording he’d made on his mobile phone the night before and the words that he thought he’d heard behind him. When Dagný turned the corner he shut the door and sat back down at his desk, mobile phone in his hand. He found the recording after a short search and listened.

  At first he could hear little more than a buzzing sound and his own irregular footsteps. But then he heard something else that he couldn’t distinguish until he’d rewound it and turned the volume up fully. Although he’d never swear to what words he thought he heard, personally he was convinced that they were: ‘Tell the truth. Then you’ll find me, Daddy.’ Nor was there any question that it was the voice of his son. It was Benni.

  Chapter 27

  It wasn’t pain in her foot or elsewhere in her body that woke Katrín, but simply the fact that she’d had enough sleep. At first she was confused, blinking slowly while the dream that had been so vivid a few moments before faded and slipped steadily away as she tried to recall it. After finally waking fully, what remained was only a hazy and uncomfortable memory of a nightmare in which she’d done a terrible job as a teacher, turned a blind eye to the poor treatment of her students and been forced to pay for it. She couldn’t place any of the students or remember the conclusion of the dream or whether she’d been punished. In fact she was relieved to wake up; she was supposed to be feeling rested, but her rapid heartbeat suggested that the dream had ended badly. Katrín turned on her side and looked at Líf, who was sleeping soundly. Only her eyebrows and a bit of her hair poked out of her sleeping bag. She turned on her other side to look instead at Garðar. As she wriggled in her sleeping bag she felt as if something were wrong, though she couldn’t grasp what it might be. As soon as she laid eyes on Garðar’s empty sleeping bag she realized what was bothering her and jerked herself upright. A terrible pain shot up the front of her calf from her injured instep, but that was nothing compared to the anguish that the abandoned sleeping bag stirred in her.

  It was too bright inside for it still to be night. ‘Garðar!’ Her hoarse voice broke the silence. No answer. The house was absolutely still. Putti jumped up from where he’d been lying at the foot of her sleeping bag and looked no less bewildered than she did, newly awake as he was. Katrín tried to breathe more calmly; Garðar had probably gone upstairs to sleep. Her sleep-intoxicated mind struggled to recall whether she’d woken at some point in the night to take over from him, but to no avail. It could be that Líf had kept watch alone, and Katrín turned and shook the lump lying motionless beside her. ‘Líf! Líf! Wake up.’ A vague murmur came from inside the bag. Katrín shook Líf’s shoulder even harder. ‘Wake up! Garðar’s gone.’

  Líf sat up, not quite with the same energy as Katrín and Putti, but almost. She peered bewilderedly through the tousled hair hanging in her face, then clumsily pushed it aside to see better. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Katrín gritted her teeth. ‘Late enough for the sun to have risen.’

  ‘We’ve slept an awfully long time.’ Líf yawned without covering her mouth, subjecting Katrín to a vision of her rows of white teeth. ‘Where’s Garðar?’ Putti seemed to understand the question. He circled the room and sniffed the floor. When he encountered a dust ball he sneezed comically, stopped his search and sat down self-consciously.

  ‘I don’t know; it looks like he’s gone.’ Katrín’s voice was still hoarse; she realized that she’d spoken far too loudly in her agitated state. ‘He didn’t wake us up in the night. Not me, anyway.’ A hazy memory of him nudging her appeared in her mind but vanished before she could fix it there. Maybe it had happened in the dream that was now lost to her.

  ‘Me neither.’ Líf looked around in confusion. ‘At least I don’t think so.’

  Katrín reached for Garðar’s sleeping bag and ran her hand down its interior. ‘The bag is freezing cold, so he hasn’t just left.’ Putti misunderstood the message, leapt up and wagged his tail happily as he stepped onto the soft bag, where he curled into a ball, contented. ‘Maybe he’s outside working on the porch. Or making us breakfast.’ Líf never changed; her mood turned cheerful at the thought of someone pampering her.

  ‘He didn’t answer when I shouted, so he could hardly be in the kitchen. And you can hear for yourself that there’s no one working outside.’ Katrín tried to restrain her resentment. If someone had to go missing, why couldn’t it have been Líf? She pulled herself together. ‘Maybe he’s gone down to the doctor’s house to get something.’

  For the first time now they felt how cold it was inside and Líf pulled her sleeping bag back up over her shoulders. Katrín did the same and they sat there like that for some time without saying anything, both praying silently that the sound of footsteps would come from the porch. But the only thing they heard was the soft ripple of the stream. ‘Shouldn’t we go and see if he’s outside?’ Líf gave Katrín an anguished look, but then her face brightened. ‘Maybe he went down to the beach because he heard a boat!’

  Although Katrín didn’t believe this for a minute, she found it more comforting to have a possible explanation, no matter how unlikely it was. She clenched her jaw and stood up in a rather roundabout way in order to protect her foot. The heavy throbbing in her swollen instep intensified with each minute. Her foot was the only part of her body that felt burning hot. The question was no longer whether it was broken, but just how badly. Yet in the end she managed to get herself out of her sleeping bag and was then able to hop on one foot towards her jacket, which she’d put in a corner of the room the night before. Luckily she hadn’t wanted to remove her trousers because of her foot; it would have been impossible now for her to put them back on, considering how much the swelling had increased. Katrín put on her jacket and supported herself on the wall as she walked to the door. She wanted to scream in pain every time she attempted to put weight on her injured foot. Putti, sensing this, or reading it in her screwed-up face, jumped off the sleeping bag and came over to her, uncertain about how he could help her.

  Líf realized she would be alone if she didn’t get up, so she jumped up and dressed in a hurry. Líf’s bustle made Katrín feel dizzy and she held on tighter to the doorframe for fear of toppling over. Even Putti moved away slightly, to be safe. When most of the racket was over Katrín hopped on one foot ahead of Líf, determined to get Garðar to help her make a crutch when he returned.

  There was nothing to see in the kitchen, and although that might have been clear to Katrín before she limped there, she was deeply disappointed not to see Garðar standing there preparing breakfast for them all. The air was stale and terribly cold, even colder than in the living room. The kitchen table looked exactly as they’d left it the night before: on it were only the candlestick, matches and the medicine bottle. A stack of dirty dishes waited patiently on the counter for someone to take them, along with the cups and glasses, out to the stream and rinse them off. That was hardly likely to happen any time soon. Katrín hadn’t looked at anything else before Líf appeared in the doorway. She pointed at the damaged floorboards. ‘Look.’ She tapped Katrín’s shoulder and pointed. ‘Garðar’s started repairing it. Maybe he’s gone to look for tools or materials.’

  Katrín looked around and saw the traces of the repairs made in the night or the morning. She couldn’t recall having heard Garðar pottering about when she fell asleep, or having woken to those kinds of sounds. She hopped towards the broken floor in the hope of finding something there that might suggest what had happened to Garðar; as ridiculous as it was, she simply couldn’t think of anything better to do. Supporting herself on the wall, she leaned forward to get a better look at the part of the floor he’d been concerned with. Surprisingly, Putti didn’t follow her, but went and stood by Líf.

  ‘
Do you see any mould or fungus? Maybe Garðar was poisoned and ran out to throw up.’ Líf sounded quite frightened. ‘I told you to leave it alone. I told you.’

  There was no nasty fungus to be seen, however. Instead it looked as if another layer of floorboards, much older in appearance, lay beneath the ones that had been removed. ‘There’s no fungus here. I’d need a candle to get a better look, but I can’t see anything special.’ She frowned. ‘But there’s an awful smell coming from down there, probably from opening up the space that’s been closed for so long.’ She took care not to breathe in too deeply. The area might contain bacteria that modern-day people couldn’t handle. Including Garðar.

  ‘This floor isn’t that old, Katrín. The last man who owned the house installed it, remember? That was only three years ago.’ Líf had moved as far away from the area as the confines of the kitchen allowed. ‘If it smells bad, it’s because of the fungus. Even though you can’t see it, it could still be there.’

  Instead of arguing about this, Katrín pulled herself away from the wall and the half-finished repairs. She hadn’t found Garðar under the floorboards. Putti greeted her enthusiastically when she reached Líf, as if he were seeing her for the first time after several days’ absence. Under normal circumstances she would have enjoyed the dog’s behaviour, but for the moment her mind was occupied with something entirely different. ‘Garðar!’ Katrín shouted as loudly as she could. No reply. ‘Maybe he’s sleeping upstairs, Líf. Would you mind looking?’

  ‘Why should he have gone up there? The mattresses and sleeping bags are down here. And he would have answered if he were there.’ Líf’s expression gave no indication that she was about to go upstairs alone. ‘He would definitely have woken up with all your shouting.’

  Katrín breathed in and counted to ten in her head. ‘Not definitely, Líf. You didn’t wake up when I called out to him before. Besides, he was probably up all night; he didn’t wake us, remember? And if he’s been messing about with the floor all night, he could very well just be completely out of it.’

  ‘But what if he isn’t upstairs? I don’t want to go up there alone. Can’t you go, or at least come with me?’

  ‘I can hardly get from one room to another. How am I supposed to go up the stairs? Believe me, I would if I could.’ Katrín knew she would have to do better than this to get Líf to do what she was asking. ‘I’ll come and stand by the stairs, where I can see you at all times, and the only thing you need to do is open the door to the bedroom and peek in. Putti can go with you if it would make you feel better.’

  ‘But what if we both go and stand by the stairs and shout as loudly as we can? If Garðar doesn’t answer, then we’ll know he’s not up there.’

  ‘But what if he’s there and can’t answer? Or he’s been knocked out or something? What then?’

  Finally Líf was persuaded to go up while Katrín watched from the bottom of the stairs and urged her on. Líf took Putti with her but had to hold onto him, since he tried to turn around at every step and go back to Katrín. ‘Open the door, nothing will happen.’ Katrín tried to sound encouraging, but couldn’t suppress the thought that she was glad she wasn’t in Líf’s shoes. There was no window in the stairwell, making it dark and cold. Katrín regretted not having brought a candle.

  ‘Garðar?’ Líf’s weak voice wouldn’t have disturbed a conscious person, never mind a sleeping one. ‘Are you there?’ She grabbed the doorknob and pushed the door open. Putti stared straight down at Katrín, his eyes telling her that he didn’t have a clue why he couldn’t be downstairs with her. Líf turned to Katrín with a look of relief. ‘Nothing.’ Then she went to the next door and did the same, and again there was nothing to see in the room. The third and final door was a little too far down the hall for Katrín to see all the way. When Líf realized this she went back and stood on the top step. ‘I don’t want to open any doors unless I can see you.’ She made ready to come down. ‘I’m not kidding. I’m not going to do it.’

  Katrín sighed and grabbed the handrail. With great effort she managed to wriggle up the steps high enough to see the third door. It led to the room where they’d previously been sleeping. ‘Try it now. I can see you clearly.’

  Líf turned around and walked down the hallway, but looked back twice on her way to reassure herself that Katrín could still see her. Finally she came to the door and stood there awkwardly before looking nervously at Katrín, who signalled to her to hurry up and get it over with. At that Líf grew bolder and opened the door, more firmly and confidently than she had the other two. Which was a shame, considering how startled she was by what she saw. Líf let Putti drop without thinking. The dog landed more or less on his feet and ran immediately back to Katrín, leaving Líf behind by herself.

  ‘What’s there?’ Katrín was preparing herself mentally to have to clamber all the way up to see what Líf was staring at. ‘Is it Garðar?’ She felt burning tears forming in the corners of her eyes while part of her brain constructed all sorts of images of her husband dead in the empty, ice-cold room.

  Her question roused Líf. ‘No, no. It isn’t Garðar.’ She turned from the door, crossed the hallway in a few large strides and took two stairs at a time to get down to Katrín. When she got there she hung trembling onto Katrín, who just managed to keep her balance by supporting herself against the wall. She didn’t want to tumble down the stairs again, though the fall would be shorter than last time. ‘There’s nobody in there, I swear.’ Katrín stared at her open-mouthed. ‘The floor is covered with fucking shells and I felt someone breathe in my face.’ She looked at Katrín and seemed to be irritated by how indifferently she reacted. ‘There was nothing there last night when we went to get the sleeping bags. Not one shell. And I’m not making it up about the breathing; I’m sure that disgusting stench is still sticking to my skin.’ She glanced sidelong down the hallway. Katrín smelled a putrid odour as she turned her head. ‘Is this some sort of misguided joke on Garðar’s part? Do you think he’s hiding here somewhere to see our reactions?’

  ‘No.’ Katrín knew in her heart that this wasn’t the explanation. Garðar wouldn’t be wasting time collecting shells at the beach just to scare them, especially not when he was exhausted in the middle of the night. But there was something else that convinced her that Garðar had nothing to do with this, which was a soft, sad voice inside her telling her that he was gone for good; that she would never see him again.

  That voice faded as they went outside to continue their search for Garðar. Although Líf supported Katrín, they made slow progress and realized almost immediately that they wouldn’t get far and would never manage to comb the entire area. They spied tracks in the snow going from the porch towards the sea, a route they couldn’t recall any of them having taken before. The tracks were recent and large enough to convince them that they were Garðar’s. They looked around the house without any success and then decided to try to follow the tracks, at least for some distance. Along the way Líf regularly called Garðar’s name loudly and shrilly, until Katrín asked her to stop. She found it uncomfortable to hear the silence return after every shout, each time more painful to her than the last. Katrín was at her wits’ end when they came across another set of tracks, looking as if whoever made them had fallen from the sky and landed next to Garðar. Putti sniffed at them but jumped back immediately with a soft whine. ‘Come on, Líf. Let’s go back inside and lock the door behind us.’ The voice inside her head now sounded louder than before as it kept on repeating the familiar refrain, causing Katrín’s head to spin. Garðar isn’t coming back. She watched three distant seagulls flying in circles over the sea and plunging downwards to snatch the food that was waiting for them below. She couldn’t rid herself of the horrible feeling that Garðar was floating there half submerged, with the seabirds pecking at whatever was left of him.

  She stared sadly at the tracks and watched a tear fall from her cheek. It landed in the snow, between two prints made by a barefoot child.

  Chapte
r 28

  The northern lights danced in the black sky. The long ribbon expanded and retracted dynamically, powered by forces that Freyr didn’t understand, sometimes looking as if it reached the ends of the earth. Occasionally pink waves passed through it but the green aura always returned in full force, holding Freyr’s attention. He was near the harbour, in the Lower Market, the oldest part of town, whose origin could be traced back to merchants operating under the Danish trade monopoly in the mid-eighteenth century. Most of the buildings dated from that period and if he ignored several modern memorials, he felt as if he could be a destitute farmer from a former time coming to make a deposit with his merchant. He sat on a large stone outside Tjöruhús, a charming restaurant in an old renovated warehouse that was more reminiscent of Denmark than of Iceland. Freyr had only managed to eat there once before the place had closed for the winter, but he would certainly be among those waiting on the doorstep for it to open again in the spring. It had been during one of his first evenings in Ísafjörður. Two colleagues of his from the hospital had suggested they have dinner together to get to know each other better. Freyr had been so taken by the ultra-fresh seafood that he’d added little to their conversation apart from compliments about the food. They hadn’t asked him to hang out with them outside work again, which was actually fine by him. He had little in common with these family men who had lives outside the hospital.