Silence Of The Grave

by Arnaldur Indridason

  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 Halldóra 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 Skarphédinn . . . ?" Erlendur leaped to his feet and snatched up the phone. Not remembering Skarphédinn's mobile number, he desperately called directory enquiries. Then he rang the archaeologist.

  "Skarphédinn. Skarphédinn?" 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 Skarphédinn to keep the lady on the hill there with him at all costs.

  *

  The day that Grímur 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 Reykjavík was beginning to take on some kind of urban shape. Simon and Tómas 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. Mikkelína stayed at home during the day, excruciatingly bored by her solitude. When her mother came home from work Mikkelína could hardly control herself for glee, and her delight was all the greater when Simon and Tómas 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 Mikkelína 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 Mikkelína on his back without the slightest effort. Símon and Tómas 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 Símon 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 Símon 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.

  Grímur came home early one morning when their mother had gone to the farm and Simon and Tómas were on their way to take the school bus. It was piercing cold on the hill and they met Grímur 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 Tómas watched Grímur walk up to the house, and looked at each other. Both were thinking the same thing. Mikkelína 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 Grímur. Simon tried to calculate their father's reaction when he discovered that their mother was not at home, nor the boys, only Mikkelína, 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 Mikkelína at home by herself.

  Simon contemplated running after his mother or sending Tómas 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 Grímur 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 Mikkelína 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 Tómas close behind, holding his hand. When they went into the kitchen they saw Grímur 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?" Grímur said.

  "At Gufunes dairy," Simon said.

  "Didn't she know I was coming today?" Grímur 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 Grímur. 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.

  Grímur 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."

&
nbsp; The boys did not understand what was going on.

  "Fetch your mother," Grímur ordered, looking at Tómas, 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. Mikkelína 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!" Grímur shouted. "Now!"

  Tómas jumped. Simon was uncertain that his brother would find the way. Tómas had been to the farm with his mother once or twice in the summer, but it was darker and colder outside now and Tómas was still very much a child.

  "I'll go," Simon said.

  "You're not bloody going anywhere," Grímur snarled. "Piss off!" he shouted at Tómas, who staggered away from behind Simon, opened the door into the cold air and closed it carefully behind him.

  "Come on, Símon my boy, come and sit down with me," Grímur 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 Mikkelína would not come out. There was a pantry in the passageway and he thought that she could sneak in there without Grímur noticing her.

  "Didn't you miss your old dad?" Grímur 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?" Grímur 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 Grímur 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?" Grímur 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," Grímur said. "And you've been playing here and by the barracks. Do you know anyone from the barracks?"

  "No," Simon blurted out. "No one."

  Grímur 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," Símon said, hoping this would soon come to an end. He hoped that Mikkelína would come out and disturb them. Wondered whether to tell Grímur that Mikkelína was in the passage and had slept in his bed.

  "Who do you know from the barracks?" Grímur said, and Simon could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into the swamp.

  "Just one," he said.

  "Just one," Grímur 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 Grímur, Dave was an angel sent from heaven to save their mother. Where was Dave? Simon thought. If only Dave were here. He thought about Tómas out in the cold on his way to Gufunes, and about their mother who did not even know that Grímur was back on the hill. And he thought about Mikkelína 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 Grímur wanted him to, but without incriminating his mother if he said something Grímur was not supposed to know. Simon was discovering a new side to Grímur. 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 Grímur was not supposed to know, but he tried his utmost to safeguard his mother.

  "Didn't he ever come in here?" Grímur 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 Símon'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 Grímur 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?" Grímur 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 Grímur paused, then went on as if nothing had happened.