The Perfect Landscape

by Ragna Sigurðardóttir

  “Hey, you there!”

  Hanna gets to the bottom just in time to see Kari aim a can of red paint and splatter it over the floor and up the wall by the entrance. Then he takes to his heels and is away. Hanna’s first thought is that it’s just as well it wasn’t a work of art that suffered the explosion of paint, and then she remembers the question that he shrugged off.

  11

  MY FRIEND BANKSY

  Kari is holding a spray can and spraying a gray wall in white paint. In his dream the wall is huge and so is he; he hears the hiss of the can and smells the glossy odor—he loves this smell. He covers the wall, the coarse gray concrete, with white spray that veils everything, hides every flaw; he is on a high, high on a white cloud. Behind him he hears someone gently calling his name, and when he turns around Banksy is standing there in a hoodie and a monkey mask. Kari knows it’s him; he sees his smiling eyes looking with satisfaction at the white covering Kari is bombing over the wall. Enveloped in the cool softness of the white cloud, Kari is bursting with joy and happiness; it is glorious and he wants to stay floating there forever. He looks Banksy in the eye; they are friends, fellow graffitists. Then Banksy lifts up both hands in a sign of peace and floats up into the air and disappears, vanishing into the white spray-paint.

  Immediately Kari feels something hard under his chest, and a powerful smell of urine and vomit penetrate his senses. He is ice-cold, shivering, and feels sick. Someone is trying to turn him on the hard concrete floor in the pool of mess, trying to get to his pockets. He lies motionless; underneath him the spray can is hurting him, but he doesn’t move. There’s nothing in his pockets, not even a cigarette, and he lies still until the foul-smelling person stops fumbling. No one from the crew is there; they have left. Kari doesn’t open his eyes but lies there on his stomach on the floor, trying to think of the white cloud again and the blissful feeling he had in his dream, but he knows it won’t come back, not until next time.

  12

  SEJA MARGINAL, SEJA HEROI

  Scraps of wood, rusty corrugated iron, tar-coated particle board, and glass lie heaped on the floor of the Annexe and there’s another pile on the pavement outside, visible through the glass. It is well into May and the heat inside is tropical, rather like Brazil, native country to Helio Oiticica, the artist who effortlessly bridged the gap between modernism and open environmental installations in which the viewer plays an integral role. More often than not these were constructed from incidental materials in the artist’s everyday environment. Oiticica also bridged the gap between South and North America, between the favelas of Rio de Janeiro and the affluent areas of New York and London; his art appeals to young and old alike. He died before his time, in 1980, before Leifur was born, but nevertheless he is one of Leifur’s heroes. Seja marginal, seja heroi was one of his slogans, which Leifur can well envisage adopting as his own. Be courageous, live on the edge.

  Leifur is alone in the room; he doesn’t notice the heat. The sun has been shining in through the glass roof all night; now it’s shining in through the windows overlooking the square, and the shadows of the window frames form lines on the gray tiled floor, which looks almost white in the bright sunlight. Apart from Leifur’s scraps of wood, there are only Haraldur’s paintings in the room, wrapped in brown paper and leaning up against the end wall. Leifur is careful not to come near them, but apart from that he is in a world of his own. He is creating his art in situ.

  He has been collecting materials since January and storing them in his friend’s garage. He has conscientiously chosen rusted sheets of corrugated iron, wood, and discarded building materials according to their shape, size, color, and texture. Leifur lets the sculpture, as he calls the configuration of items, spread out around the exhibition space and onto the street, like looking through a mirror on the wall. The heap on the pavement outside is neatly marked art gallery, but twice yesterday Hanna had to stop the street cleaners from clearing away the timber.

  Leifur is absorbed in his work and doesn’t notice Haraldur coming in. He leans a sheet of corrugated iron, reddish-brown with rust, on a pillar near the window and works his way from there, angling pieces of wood, which at one time had been painted blue, up against the iron sheeting, thus making it the focal point of the piece. He paces up and down, muttering to himself, whereas Haraldur stands motionless in the doorway, not saying a word. The heat in the room hits him like a wave. Only the two of them have turned up. Today is the first day they can install their work for the exhibition Landscape: Past and Present. Anselma and Jon haven’t arrived yet, and Hanna is in a meeting.

  Hanna let Leifur in when he arrived that morning; he was waiting at the door. She’d picked up on his eager vibes, his total concentration, and the tension enveloping him like a veil of static. She didn’t see Haraldur walking across the square, looking at them both from a distance, nor how he eyed the heap of building materials outside the exhibition space. And she didn’t see his disgruntled gait, which was at odds with the warmth of the morning sun. Hanna has gone off to a meeting with Baldur and Kristin and isn’t expected back just yet. But Edda is there, and she comes up behind Haraldur as he stands in the doorway, looking at the bits of garbage spread out just where he had planned to put up his paintings.

  “If you need anything, just let me know,” she says to them both, but neither of them hears her; Leifur is absorbed in his work, and Haraldur is watching him.

  “I’ll go and make you some coffee,” says Edda, hurrying off.

  Haraldur steps into the room as if the floor were dirty and he needed to be careful not to lose his footing. For a moment he is at a loss, like a sportsman walking onto the pitch who realizes he is out of condition. Haraldur knew what Leifur was planning, but he hadn’t envisaged a work of this magnitude awaiting him in the exhibition room. As well as Leifur’s installation, there is Jon’s work to consider; at least Anselma intends to set up her work outside the gallery. Her design, a work of art in the public space that integrates passersby, was totally lost on Haraldur. He’s not interested in trying to fathom such an idea and doesn’t believe it has anything to do with art. Jon hasn’t given away much about what he is going to exhibit. They’re not expecting him until tomorrow, and he hasn’t sent anything over.

  Treading cautiously over to his paintings, Haraldur tosses a chilly greeting to Leifur. Leifur looks up, nods indifferently, and carries on with his work. Haraldur is offended by this lack of respect from a young artist, and he expresses this slightly by clearing his throat. He is also displeased that Hanna isn’t available. Haraldur belongs to that generation of artists who takes it for granted that someone else, the curator or gallery director, will make the decisions about hanging the paintings and the layout of the display. He feels it’s Hanna’s job. Or at least their joint decision, and he doesn’t feel comfortable doing it without her. Haraldur is down on all fours, removing the wrapping paper from his paintings, when Edda reappears and puts a tray of coffee down on the floor.

  “Just shout if you need anything else,” she says. “Hanna will be along shortly.”

  Haraldur gets up and pours himself a coffee. He would really like to sit down, but there aren’t any chairs. Leifur also walks over to the coffeepot and silently pours himself a cup. He virtually ignores Haraldur as he paces around and around what looks to Haraldur like a heap of garbage. He is frowning, and then Anselma appears with her computer bag slung over her shoulder. Haraldur gives her a dark look, but Leifur doesn’t even notice her.

  “Good morning,” she says politely, taking a seat on the floor by the coffee tray as she would at home.

  “I thought you were going to be somewhere outside, amongst the passersby,” says Haraldur with a hint of scorn. His words indicate his view of artists who continually seek to follow the newest international trends and movements. Anselma doesn’t let his manner bother her, or maybe his disparaging comments are lost on her because of her limited command of Icelandic. In any case, she just gives Haraldur a friendly smile and silen
tly watches Leifur working. Haraldur senses that despite her politeness she is ignoring him. Not for the first time he is cross with himself for getting involved with this exhibition. On the surface he has appeared tolerant, but inside he is seething. The heat in the room does nothing to improve his mood, but he doesn’t take off his coat.

  Hanna’s invitation was the first sign of interest anyone had shown in his work for over ten years, and that is a long time in an artist’s career.

  Now he thinks the whole thing is a complete mistake. What is he doing here with these young fools who don’t know what painting is? They haven’t battled as he has. They haven’t experienced the hatred and contempt he and his like-minded contemporaries and colleagues had to endure just five decades ago, when they were showered with abuse on the streets, when abstract art was considered to be in the worst taste, a crime against art and against society. And now they call this art, he thinks, hurt and angry, looking out at Leifur’s pile of junk out on the street that the passersby have to sidestep.

  Haraldur thumps his coffee mug down and turns to his paintings. He has nothing to say to these youngsters, and clearly they have nothing to say to him. When he was young he showed respect for those who had gone before, paved the way. I doubt this Leifur realizes he wouldn’t be here with this garbage of his if abstract artists hadn’t fought his battles long ago. They taught people to see, to look and think, he grumbles to himself. But Leifur sees nothing but the rusty sheet of corrugated iron, which he is carrying like a baby, and sets down carefully only to pick it up again even more carefully and rearrange it.

  Haraldur does his utmost to calm down. He has a habit of losing his temper and it has happened to him before, but not for a long time. He now starts to slowly remove the wrapping from his paintings. Anselma is still sitting at her computer screen. Haraldur glances at her and Leifur, but neither of them is watching him or showing any interest in his paintings. He tries not to let it bother him; he wants to maintain his dignity. When he has finished unwrapping all the paintings, he folds the paper up and suddenly a mischievous idea pops into his head. He picks the papers up and walks over to Leifur.

  “Maybe I can offer you this as well?” he asks. “And here’s a bit of string.”

  Haraldur is standing there, stiff with ill-disguised contempt in front of Leifur, who looks at him politely, not realizing that Haraldur is mocking him.

  “Er, what? No, I, um, er? What? I didn’t bring this,” he says abstractedly. Then he turns away from Haraldur and carries on shuffling around with his sheet of corrugated iron.

  Haraldur stands motionless, the wind taken out of his sails. Now anger takes over. His hands are shaking as he walks away, but on the surface he appears completely calm. He turns his back to Leifur and stares at his paintings up against the wall, as if he’s working out where to hang them, but he sees nothing, only red.

  He turns abruptly on his heel and Anselma looks up at the sudden movement. Haraldur walks without hesitation past the sheet of corrugated iron that Leifur has just finished setting up very carefully against the radiator near the window; he sticks his foot out a fraction. The iron sheeting clatters to the ground, taking the pane of glass with it, which shatters loudly onto the tiles. They all give a start, even Haraldur although he was responsible. From outside comes the sound of footsteps and the door opens.

  Hanna and Edda stand astonished in the doorway as Leifur turns on the old man in a flash, grabs him by his collar, and pins him up against the glass wall. Out on the street passersby stop to watch anxiously.

  “What the hell were you thinking, Haraldur? Can’t you see what I’m doing here?”

  Leifur’s voice is gruff but barely raised, and he lets go of Haraldur as quickly as he started. He turns away and is about to walk off when Haraldur takes a step forward, grabs him by the shoulder, and turns him around. Pulling him up close, Haraldur lands a resounding blow on Leifur’s jaw so he loses his balance and falls on the broken glass scattered over the floor. Leifur’s cheekbone bangs onto the tiles and fragments of glass, and he cuts his cheek; the blood trickles down his jaw as he sits sharply back up and stares openmouthed at Haraldur, who is standing over him, red-faced and panting. Leifur tries to stand up but suddenly goes deathly white and crashes straight back down onto the floor.

  Edda and Hanna see that Leifur has also cut his hand. Edda calls for an ambulance. Hanna runs over to Leifur and crouches down beside him, and Haraldur sweeps out the door. Someone on the street calls out to him, but he doesn’t respond; he just strides rapidly across the square and disappears out of sight.

  13

  UNDER THE BIRCH TREES

  “He said it was owned by a Danish farmer on Mon,” Hanna says to Steinn. It’s a quiet morning at the gallery and she is sitting at his workbench, supposedly studying the repair reports. She has one of them in front of her now; the vandalism is still going on. Since the young offenders workshop she feels the attacks are directed specifically at her. As if she was responsible. She hasn’t tried to get in touch with Kari again after the incident that day, but she often thinks about him. She understands him, in retrospect. Why did she think she could arouse his interest in art in just one day?

  The floor tiles in the lobby had to be partially replaced. Kristin wasn’t unduly sympathetic though she didn’t say anything. Hanna has less leeway now than she did when she started, and the landscape exhibition booklet that she had underway is suddenly not going to be published.

  “The fund-raising didn’t go as well as we’d hoped,” said Kristin by way of explanation and simply pointed out the obvious fact that the exhibition Baldur is organizing in conjunction with Herbert Grunewald will take up a lot of the funds the gallery has available this year. Relations between Hanna and Kristin have generally been somewhat cooler since their talk about The Birches.

  Steinn is free of his eye patch. He watches Hanna, and she looks at his eyes rather than into them, looking for telltale signs of the operation.

  “If you look carefully you can see a black triangle on the iris, right on the edge,” says Steinn, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Hanna looks hard and finally spies a black mark.

  “Oh yes,” she says, then looks back at the report. Steinn no longer shrinks away from contact with her as he did when she first started, when she almost always felt that he thought she was invading his space. Now it’s the other way around; if they accidently touch it’s Hanna who pulls away.

  “In Monaco, the tax haven?” he says eventually when they break eye contact.

  “It would be really rather more appropriate if a dubious painting had come from there, wouldn’t it? But it’s not that Mon, but the Danish Mon. An island in southern Denmark.”

  “Of course, what was I thinking?” Steinn smiles. His smiles are not so rare now and they suit him well. “Where did you get that from?”

  “From the auction house,” replies Hanna.

  They are talking about the first owner of Composition in Blue, the painting the gallery was given and that cost fifteen million.

  “I met a very ordinary guy who gave out the information just like that, but maybe it’s because the man’s dead. He was a farmer near some town called Elmelunde.”

  “Dead, you say?” asks Steinn. “How convenient!” he says sarcastically, and Hanna agrees.

  “So you think so, too! Of course, they didn’t tell me who bought the painting from him and put it up for auction, where it sold for fifteen million. But the farmer is said to have bought the painting from Sigfus at an exhibition in Copenhagen before the war.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything on record about that transaction? A register of the exhibits, a list of purchasers, or something?” asks Steinn.

  Hanna shakes her head. “No, I asked. Nothing along those lines. But what occurred to me,” she says, lowering her voice because at that moment Edda walks in, “is that if Composition in Blue is a complete forgery then the forger could obviously have looked at the same books I have. Found th
e same picture. He could have based his painting on the picture in the book. That’s why the picture and the painting are so alike. It would also explain why they’re not the same size. There’s nothing in Sigfus’s sketches to indicate how big Composition in Blue was.”

  Steinn doesn’t respond. Hanna knows he is not pleased that he was fooled by the painting when it came into the gallery’s possession.

  “It’s obviously extremely well done if it is a forgery,” she adds.

  “We’ll start tonight,” says Steinn, suddenly decisive.

  Hanna is taken aback. “Don’t we need to look into it more? The man must have some descendants, a wife or children, someone who can tell us about this purchase, surely? Or, if we’re right, that he didn’t buy the painting.”

  “A farmer down on Mon isn’t exactly a likely candidate to buy a painting by Sigfus Gunnarsson,” says Steinn brusquely, and Hanna senses a wall of stubbornness from him and sees the look of indignation on his face. “We’ve come to our conclusion,” he says. “We’ll talk about it again tonight.”

  Hanna hesitates. What would Frederico advise? She hasn’t mentioned any of this to him; their conversations are still brief and revolve almost entirely around Heba. From her contact with Heba though Hanna has realized that Frederico is very keen to make up for what happened. And, after the conversation with Laufey, Hanna’s anger toward Frederico has receded. Their marriage has been the cornerstone of her life for almost two decades.