‘Finished.’ Rún had come back in, holding out a sheet of folded paper ready to put in an envelope. ‘Though I don’t know the best way to get Mum to read it.’ As she looked at him, he was struck again by her extraordinary resemblance to Lára.
He took the letter, uncomfortably aware of the paper between his fingers. Perhaps it contained something that might shed light on the whole situation. It was this thought that finally convinced him he didn’t want to know; anything would be better than having his worst fears confirmed, even if it meant putting up with distorted perceptions for the foreseeable future. ‘I reckon I know what we should do.’ He forced a smile. ‘We’ll burn it. Let the smoke carry the contents up to your mother in heaven. Then the nightmares will stop and everything’ll be fine. I can feel it.’
Rún smiled back and they went out onto the balcony together. Ódinn opened the barbecue and laid the letter inside, taking care to shelter it from the wind. Then he placed a briquette on top of the white sheet to pin it down, and lit it. They watched in silence as the flames crept across the paper and it shrivelled up. Rún’s eyes followed the smoke as it rose to heaven and vanished into the darkness.
‘Feel better?’
‘Yes. Much.’ She grinned, baring the big front teeth she’d grow into one day. ‘Much, much. Now Mum won’t be angry any more.’
‘That’s right, sweetheart.’ As they went inside out of the cold, she strode along and her whole manner seemed happier. If only he felt the same way. He walked heavily into the sitting room. As the letter crinkled up in the flames he had managed to read part of a line: … you have to forgive Daddy, he really didn’t mean to …
Chapter 25
February 1974
The night was as beautiful as the sunset had been. Between the clouds the black sky was studded with twinkling stars and although there was only a half-moon, it lit Aldís’s way across the snow. A teacher at school had told them that in the old days people used to believe the sky was a cloth that divided heaven from earth, and that the stars were holes through which the silvery light of paradise spilled out. She had listened, entranced, and put up her hand when the story ended to ask why God hadn’t ordered the angels to stop up the holes. Her mother knew how to darn and there were probably lots of mothers in heaven who’d be able to help. Her classmates had sniggered but the teacher smiled kindly and said perhaps the holes were there so that we earth-dwellers would know how bright and beautiful it was in God’s house. No one ever came back from heaven, so perhaps this was the only way to show us mortals the glory of paradise. Aldís thought God could have shared a little of this glory with the earth. It wouldn’t have hurt.
A white cloud of steam rose from her nose and mouth in the freezing stillness. The snow squeaked underfoot, so she trod carefully in case anyone was lying awake and heard her. Such as Veigar. He might be lurking behind their bedroom curtains, hoping to catch sight of the girl he claimed was prowling around at night. Aldís’s eyes were constantly drawn to the couple’s window, which seemed to stare at her from the end wall of the house; she couldn’t tear her gaze from the white curtains. She pictured him sitting there in the dark, in the heavy chair that was so difficult to move when she was cleaning, his narrow, piggy eyes fixed on her. If she were caught now no one would believe that it hadn’t been her those other times. Aldís hugged herself for warmth, though she knew the sudden chill she felt came from within. Instead of looking back at Lilja and Veigar’s house, she resolved to face her goal; there was only a short distance left but it felt endless. What was she thinking of embarking on such a mission, alone under the stars? But her yearning for the letters hidden in the dark cellar was too strong to resist.
She ought by rights to have been grateful to Tobbi for telling her where they were kept, but she was still angry with him. Of course, her anger should have been directed at herself, but she’d never been very good at being cross with herself. Because her unhappiness in life had largely been the fault of others, it had become a habit with her to blame all her misfortunes on other people. She kept wishing Tobbi hadn’t told her about the baby, but then she herself had forced him to reveal all he knew. The tree loomed large in her mind, though she avoided looking at it, and she thought she could hear rustling from the few withered leaves that still clung to the branches. It sounded like whispering among the farm buildings.
The bird was nowhere to be seen. It would have been a relief to sense its presence. Last time she saw it, the poor creature had been terribly thin and scraggly, so after supper she had added a small knob of butter to the breadcrumbs that had lain untouched since that morning. She hoped there was nothing the matter with it beyond pining for spring.
She passed Veigar’s car. Over the last few days the snow had drifted around it and the task of digging it out would fall to the boys. As soon as their shovels got anywhere near the light-blue paintwork they would be forced to abandon them and scrape away the last of the snow with their hands. She had helped them before now to brush the lumps of ice from their gloves when their own hands were too numb. Who knows, she might just take a nail and scratch the paintwork the day she left Krókur. It would be a just revenge for the boys, many of whom developed callused workmen’s hands by the end of their stay. The moon was reflected in the car window, making Aldís suddenly aware that she couldn’t see inside. This was even worse than looking up at the windows of the house. At least anyone spying from the buildings wouldn’t be able to creep up behind her, but someone sitting in the car could open the door and grab her before she realised what was happening. She backed up a few steps, to keep it in view. Yet the trackless snow indicated that no one had been near the car for days.
She’d never been so relieved to get to her destination. Slowly, to prevent the hinges from creaking, she opened the front door. Clouds had obscured the moon now and she couldn’t see a thing as she drew the candle and matches from her pocket. There wasn’t a sound in the house apart from the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood in the hall near the entrance. Until now she’d found the sound comforting; it reminded her of the carved wooden table-clock her grandfather had given her mother when he came home from his last trip on the cargo ship. Aldís had never met him because he’d dropped dead the very next day, but she’d always imagined the ticking of the clock was his heartbeat, telling her that although she didn’t have a father who loved her, her grandfather was watching over her from heaven. If only she could derive the same sense of security from the ticking of the clock in the hall, but instead of reminding her of a living heart, it sounded as if it were counting down the minutes until some terrifying moment of truth.
Aldís knew every inch of the building, but the darkness was disorientating. She bumped into the doorframe on her way in and almost knocked over a small table in the corridor. The flickering candle flame barely illuminated anything beyond the end of her nose, so she held it out as far in front of her as possible and moved with extreme caution. The familiar surroundings danced in the flame and every step she took towards the cellar felt heavier. When she finally reached the trapdoor at the end of the corridor, her main impulse was to turn and run with her tail between her legs. But she steeled herself and pulled it open, then stood for a moment peering down the wooden steps, listening to her own frantic breathing. The top steps were clearly visible in the candlelight but below that all was black. There was a throat-catching reek of mildew. She bent and groped her way warily down. The thud as she closed the trapdoor behind her echoed through the dark cellar and it was all she could do not to turn back and flee.
She began her search immediately. The longing to get out was so overpowering that she had to work fast. There was the box on the shelf, flanked by light bulbs, washing powder and toilet paper. It was reassuring to see such everyday objects; not even the wavering light could render them alien or menacing. Aldís pulled the box to her, trying to hold the candle at the same time. She’d decided to take her own letters away with her but to pause and read any addressed to Einar on
the spot. Reading them wasn’t as bad as stealing them.
She removed the other letters and put them down on the steps, noting how few there were, considering the number of boys. Perhaps there was another box of older correspondence hidden away in a corner, or perhaps most of them weren’t that sorely missed at home. Some of the letters showed signs of having been originally stuck onto parcels, of which there was no trace. It seemed unbelievable that Lilja and Veigar could have the gall to steal sweets and other little luxuries from their charges.
Every now and then she turned up an envelope bearing her mother’s handwriting and her rage boiled over when she saw that they’d all been opened. Cramming them in her anorak pocket, she turned to Einar’s letters. She tried as best she could to arrange them in chronological order, though the postmarks had faded. None were dated, as if their contents were timeless.
The first letter was from Einar’s mother, and so was the most recent. In the former, the woman wrote nice things about her son and how much she missed him. There was an allusion to ‘what you two did’, but no mention of what it was, nor who Einar’s accomplice had been. His mother said all would be forgiven in time and he shouldn’t brood about it too much or torture himself with guilt. Aldís raised an eyebrow. Einar didn’t strike her as a repentant sinner – far from it. If his mistakes tormented him, he kept very quiet about it. Of course, it was possible he lay awake at night on occasion, but appearances suggested that he was good at brushing off any guilt over past misdemeanours. Her curiosity redoubled as she read, but after a quick glance over the woman’s most recent letter she was none the wiser. This time his mother said she’d tried to get messages to him but didn’t know if they’d been passed on. Aldís’s stomach lurched at the thought that Veigar or Lilja must have read this. But the wording was so vague that it could refer to anyone, even some civil servant in town. In spite of this, she read the sentence again and again until she was sure it couldn’t be connected to her. The rest contained little of interest, merely a reiteration of how desperately the woman missed her son and how proud she was of him for making this decision. It wasn’t specified what the decision was, only that in doing so he had saved his reputation and his future.
Annoyed that the woman hadn’t expressed herself more clearly, Aldís picked up the other letters to Einar. They were written in a very different hand. The girlish lettering gave Aldís pause. She ran her finger over the writing, wondering if they were from his sister, though she knew they couldn’t be. No sister wrote this assiduously to her brother; there were around ten letters and he’d only been at Krókur a short time. What’s more, each envelope was decorated with a heart in one corner. The sender had used light-blue writing paper and matching envelopes. Much more expensive-looking than the other letters in the box. It must have been purchased abroad, in Copenhagen, Paris or London. Aldís was filled with envy.
The letters were all from the same girl, Eyjalín. She signed her name with a heart instead of an accent over the ‘í’. It was the name Einar’s mother had mentioned on the phone. Aldís felt eaten up with bitterness. ‘Eyjalín’ sounded so much more glamorous and exotic than ‘Aldís’. She remembered the stunning girl in the photo in Einar’s wallet and guessed this must be her. The name fitted well with her unusual beauty. No doubt she had a posh surname as well. Aldís sniffed the first letter she took out, but instead of the perfume she’d half expected, she inhaled only the pervading smell of damp in the cellar. Unpleasant as it was, she felt gleeful.
When she started reading the letters, she noticed that the hearts on the envelopes followed a certain code. If the heart had an arrow through it, the writer was madly in love, while a broken arrow meant the girl was heartbroken or seething with rage. The broken arrows increased in number as time went on, until the last four letters were all marked like this.
Aldís forgot everything else as she read. Curiosity, jealousy and incomprehension by turns kept her fear of the dark at bay. At first the girl protested her love at great length, but as time went on she began instead to ask why Einar didn’t answer her letters and if he had forgotten her. She mentioned her father a lot too, either saying she hated him or that she was trying to talk him into accepting Einar. If he wouldn’t, they’d just have to run away together; up north maybe, or abroad. She seemed keenest on the idea of the States and wrote about a trip she’d taken with her parents to New York several years ago. They could get married and live there without her parents’ interference. They wouldn’t be able to have children but she didn’t want them anyway and neither did he. This was a statement, not a question, and Aldís assumed they must have already discussed their future. In another place, however, she talked of having children with him, so her future plans seemed to change from day to day. She only referred to her mother once, and then only to say that the old bitch still couldn’t look her in the eye. Here and there, brief, tantalisingly odd references to her health cropped up, as if they’d slipped in without her knowledge. It wasn’t clear whether they referred to an illness or an injury. ‘The doctor says I’m lucky. It’s still bleeding. I feel so bad. The painkillers make me confused. They want to re-admit me.’
Worst of all, Eyjalín’s letters contained no explanation or even mention of Einar’s crime. Aldís replaced the bundle in the box, shuffling them a little so it wouldn’t be immediately obvious that someone had gone through the post. She stirred the contents of the box roughly, frustrated not to find the clarification she’d been looking for. But her irritation vanished once she’d closed the box and the rustling of paper had fallen silent. She became aware once more of the eeriness of her surroundings. The candle had begun to smoke; its wick needed trimming. Not that she minded the black smoke as long as the flame kept burning; it was suitably atmospheric. As she was about to scramble to her feet with the box under one arm and the candle in the other hand, she spotted a letter that had slipped out of the bundle and fallen onto the step beside her. The blue envelope was instantly recognisable. The heart on it had been angrily scratched out. Aldís put the box down again and opened the letter.
Who’s that slut? I saw you together. I’ll never forgive you – I thought you loved me. How could you prefer her to me? She looks like she’s dirty and she wears stupid, ugly clothes. And that frumpy blonde ponytail. I bet she’s got lice. She doesn’t even have a hairband – she uses a shoelace. And I bet that hideous purple jumper’s a charity handout. She’s nothing but a common slut.
Aldís looked up and stared unseeingly into the darkness beyond the candle flame. She owned a purple jumper that was a bit frayed. But there was no call to suggest it had been a charity handout. She wore her hair in a ponytail. And had once resorted to using a shoelace when she couldn’t find her elastic band. Aldís felt tears welling up. Her mother had once told her that those who eavesdrop never hear well of themselves. She wasn’t good enough; she knew that. She wasn’t trendy either, and no doubt in the eyes of posh girls she was nothing but a common slut. She’d never be an air hostess. Picking up the letter again, she forced herself to read the final lines, but didn’t get far:
I’ll kill her, Einar, if you ever talk to her again. You owe it to me to love me. Daddy says maybe no one else will want to marry me now. So you’ll have to. Or I’ll kill her.
A floorboard creaked overhead.
Chapter 26
There was something so grim about visiting geriatric wards and nursing homes, sensing the residents gawping at him in the hope that he’d come to help them while away the time. Ódinn tried to look straight ahead but couldn’t help seeing, out of the corner of his eye, the frail heads rising from their pillows as he passed, to check who was there. He thought of the time he had prepared a quote for Baldur for a job that required providing temporary accommodation for workers. The regulations had strictly limited them to one person per room, yet here, from what he could tell, there were as many as four residents to a ward. He overtook an old woman who was inching her way along the corridor on a Zimmer frame. Around her neck hung
a handwritten sign with the name of the institution and the phone number.
A busy nurse had directed him to the lounge at the end of the corridor, where Lilja Sævarsdóttir was expecting him. It had been out of the question to interview her in the room she shared, since they would be overheard. The lounge was furnished in typically institutional style: wooden sofas with monochrome, cylindrical cushions, more reminiscent of a waiting room than the sitting room in an ordinary home. On the wall hung a reproduction of a painting by Gunnlaugur Scheving, showing a man in yellow oilskins hauling fish on board a boat. Besides this, there was a large television with a smeary screen, and some bookshelves containing a motley collection of titles, some of which had no doubt been left behind by residents when they were moved within the system or went to meet their Maker. The books lay heaped on the shelves, leaking pages from between their covers. Judging by the state of the residents, Ódinn didn’t suppose there was much competition for this reading matter.
A woman was sitting in a wheelchair in the lounge, gazing out of the large window from which the curtain had been partially drawn back. Her attention appeared to be focused on a church spire further down the street. Ódinn had gathered from the files that the couple who ran Krókur were very religious, but that might not still be the case.
The woman’s profile provided no clues as to what she had looked like in her youth: age had not been kind to her and her colourless skin hung in heavy folds that blurred the shape of her cheekbones and jaw. Her liver-spotted scalp was visible through the sparse white hair. From the bobbled sleeve of her jumper appeared a hand to match, with mottled skin, bulging veins and twisted fingers. When she turned to him, her eyes were cloudy and watering. ‘You people today, you know nothing.’
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