“Maybe we can pick one up at a gas station.”
By the time they reached Hella it was pitch-dark. They began by buying two flashlights at a gas station. The attendant told them they could find information about the caves at Hótel Mosfell. It was only a stone’s throw away, so they left the Jeep and walked. At the hotel a friendly elderly man followed them outside to point out the caves, which were just visible beyond the main road on the other side of the river. He also showed them the best path to take, since the caves could not be approached by car. After thanking him, they returned to the Jeep and drove straight over the bridge to where he had advised them to park. Much to Thóra’s delight they had to walk a fair distance over a meadow that appeared to belong to the farm there. Matthew kept stumbling in his slippery shoes but always managed to keep his balance by flapping his arms like he was trying to fly. When they reached the edge of the slope down to the caves, Thóra was in excellent spirits.
“There,” she said, pointing with her flashlight. She feigned concern. “Do you think you’ll make it down there, Fred Astaire?”
Frowning back, Matthew tried to suck it up. He inched his way down the slope like a ninety-year-old man while Thóra bounded down like a spring lamb. She struck a pose in front of him, determined to enjoy the moment, and called out mischievously: “Chop-chop!” Matthew ignored her and finally made it all the way.
“What a rush you’re in,” he said as he caught up with her. “Are you that excited about having dinner with me afterward?”
Thóra swung her flashlight up and shone it in Matthew’s eyes. “Hardly. Come on.” She turned round and they entered the first cave. “Wow, how on earth did they think of this?” she said in astonishment, casting the beam of light around the wide space. Unless she had misunderstood, the caves had been carved into sandstone by Irish monks using primitive tools.
“What do you think they were for?” Matthew asked.
“Shelter, mainly,” said a voice from the mouth of the cave.
Thóra let out a piercing shriek and dropped her flashlight. As it rolled along the bumpy floor of the cave, the beam bounced along the facing wall until it stopped. “God, you made me jump out of my skin,” she said, bending down to pick up the flashlight. “We didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said the man, whose voice gave the impression that he was quite elderly. “We’re even actually,” he added. “It’s a long time since I’ve had a shock like the one your scream gave me. They phoned me from the hotel to say some sightseers were on the way to the caves. I thought you might want a guide. My name’s Grímur and I own the farm above here. The caves are on my land.”
“Oh, yes,” said Thóra. Not a bad property to own, she thought. “We’d be delighted to have a guide—we don’t really know very much about what we’re looking at.”
The man walked inside the cave and began explaining what they could see. He spoke Icelandic and Thóra translated the gist for Matthew. Grímur showed them where beds had presumably been arranged by the walls. Then they examined a chimney that had been carved out through the ceiling to let air in, or smoke out. He pointed out an altar and cross that the monks must have chiseled or carved in the wall behind it. “Well, well,” Thóra said, surprised and impressed. “This is quite remarkable.”
“Yes, it is,” the man said feelingly. “This has never been an easy land to live off of—or in, for that matter. Any efforts to acquire shelter would have paid off for the early settlers in the long run.”
“I can imagine.” Thóra took another look all around with the help of her flashlight. “Have the caves been investigated—I mean, couldn’t there be valuables hidden away in here?”
“Valuables?” He looked surprised and then laughed. “It was used as a cattle shed until around 1950. You couldn’t really hide anything here. It would have to be very carefully concealed, I can tell you that.”
“Ah,” Thóra said, disappointed. “So it’s all been searched?”
“No, I didn’t say that,” the man replied. “As far as I know my caves have only been studied once.”
“When was that?” asked Thóra. “Recently?”
Grímur laughed again. “No, not recently. I don’t remember exactly but it was a good while ago. It didn’t yield much, as expected. They found remains of animal bones and a hole that was apparently used for cooking.” He pointed to a hole in the ground near the altar. “No, the little that remained to be found has already been found, I assure you.”
Thóra’s last question was whether the man had noticed Harald visiting the caves. He did not recognize the description but added that it didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t been there—the caves weren’t fenced off and were easy for people to reach without being noticed.
“Go and get changed, then, Crocodile Dundee,” Matthew said when they were back at the hotel. “I’m so lucky I can just throw off my jacket and go to the bar—and win back the time I lost on that slope.”
Thóra stuck her tongue out at him, but went to her room to change. She put on nice slacks and a plain white blouse, washed her face and put on a little lipstick. There was nothing wrong with a little makeup for a dinner invitation—that didn’t necessarily mean you were expecting anything. Yet she paused at the word “necessarily.” It wasn’t quite convincing enough, and worried her slightly. She brushed the thought aside and went up to the bar. Matthew was standing there deep in conversation with the barman—presumably Óli. Matthew smiled at her, clearly pleased with the transformation.
“Nice,” he said succinctly. “This is Óli. He was telling me about Harald and Harry Potter—he remembers them well. They drank a lot and stood out a bit from the other guests.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Óli said, and asked Thóra what she wanted to drink.
“A glass of white wine, please,” she replied, then asked him to explain.
“Well,” he said. “They drank one shot of tequila after another—played air guitars and did other things you don’t see very often around here. Not to mention Harald’s appearance. The other guests just gaped at them both. And they smoked like chimneys—I couldn’t sell them cigars fast enough.”
Thóra looked all around at the cozy bar, which was located under the gabled roof. She agreed—an air guitar did not exactly spring to mind—an air violin at most, if there was such a thing. She turned to Óli again. “Harry Potter—do you happen to know his real name?”
The barman smiled. “His name was Dóri. As the night wore on they were both way too drunk to remember that he called himself Harry Potter. They put on quite a good act for much of the evening, though.”
There was nothing else to learn from Óli. They sat down on the big leather couch, drank a toast, and discussed the events of the day. The waiter brought the menu and after ordering, Matthew decided to have another drink. Much to Thóra’s surprise she had finished hers as well, so she accepted a second. After dining they went back to the bar, and by her third Cointreau Thóra was on the verge of whipping out her own air guitar solo for Matthew and Óli. But she settled for snuggling up against the former instead.
CHAPTER 27
DECEMBER 11, 2005
Thóra woke up with her head throbbing as if her brain was trying to escape her skull. She clutched her forehead and groaned. Cointreau, of all drinks. She ought to have learned by now that “liqueur” was Latin for “hangover.” With a sigh she rolled over onto her side. As she did so her hand knocked something that felt so warm she opened her eyes wide in horror. There was a man in her bed. She looked at Matthew’s back. Or was it Óli, the barman? She recalled the previous night and sighed softly at the realization that she had at least opted for the lesser of two evils. The fog in her head obscured her view of a clear exit strategy—how could she slip out unseen without waking Matthew? And an even bigger question: how could she maintain her dignity? Could she pretend nothing had happened? Maybe he couldn’t remember anything either. That was the answer—sneak
out, meet him afterward, and pray that he had drunk four times as much as she had.
Her plan evaporated when Matthew turned over and smiled at her. “Good morning,” he said, his lips parched. “How are you doing?”
Thóra pulled the duvet up to her chin. She was naked under it. If she could be granted one wish, it was to be fully clothed. Her throat produced a strange rattle before her vocal cords kicked in. “Just one thing. To make everything perfectly clear, you know.” Matthew looked puzzled but allowed her to continue. “Last night, that wasn’t me—it was the alcohol. So you slept with a bottle of Cointreau, not with me.”
“Oh, I see,” said Matthew, propping himself up on one elbow. “Those bottles of booze never fail to surprise. I didn’t know they were capable of that. You even praised my shoes. Wanted me to keep them on.”
Thóra blushed. She tried to think up a different defense for her virtue but her mind was empty. Gradually the night all flooded back to her and she had to admit to herself that she didn’t particularly regret it. “I don’t know what came over me,” she said, and blushed again.
“You worry too much,” Matthew said, putting his hand on her over the duvet.
“It’s just not like me at all. I’m the mother of two children and you’re a foreigner.”
“Well, since you have children you ought to be familiar with the process.” He smiled. “It’s pretty much the same everywhere, I expect.”
Thóra’s cheeks grew even redder. And her horror doubled when Amelia Guntlieb suddenly crossed her mind. “Are you going to tell the Guntliebs about this?”
Matthew threw his head back and roared. After laughing his fill he looked at her and said calmly: “Of course. There’s a clause in my contract that says I have to submit a sex report to them at the end of each month.”
When he realized that Thóra was unsure whether or not he was joking, he relented: “Of course not; how could you think that?”
“I don’t know—I just don’t want people thinking that I make a habit of sleeping with my colleagues. I’ve never done anything like this before.” Given that she worked with the aging Bragi, Bella from Hell, and the un-assuming Thór, that wasn’t saying much.
“I didn’t take it that way,” Matthew said. “I took it as meaning that you wanted to sleep with me at that moment—that you simply found my sex appeal irresistible.” He looked at her playfully.
Thóra rolled her eyes. She did not want to answer, because to some extent he was right—at least, she was the one who made the first move, if her memory did not betray her. “My hangover’s killing me. I can’t think straight at the moment.”
Matthew sat up. “I have some Alka-Seltzer. I’ll fix you one, you’ll feel better straightaway.”
Before Thóra could stop him—she realized that he was as naked as she was—Matthew had got to his feet and gone to the bathroom. What is it that makes men so much less embarrassed about their physique than women? Thóra wondered. She mused on this a while to keep other thoughts that might have occurred to her at bay, such as how fit and strong he looked. Maybe it had not been so terribly stupid, when all was said and done. She heard the sound of running water from the tap in the bathroom and closed her eyes.
She opened them again only when she was sure Matthew was back under the quilt. He was holding a glass of fizzing water and Thóra braced herself, sat up, and drank it in one draft. Then she threw herself back on the pillow and waited for the nausea to subside. She lay like that for a few minutes until a finger prodded her shoulder through the covers. She opened her eyes.
“Listen.” Matthew turned to face her. “I have a suggestion.”
“What?” Thóra managed to keep her voice normal. She was almost feeling a little better.
“How would you like to review your opinion that this was a mistake?” He smiled at her. “I can put on my nice shoes, if you want.”
Thóra woke up again, this time to the sound of running water from the shower. She leaped out of bed and threw on some clothes, hopping around on the floor. She could not find one of her socks, but gathered up the rest of the clothes in her arms. She called into the bathroom that she would see him at breakfast. It was a huge relief to her when she closed the door to her own room.
A long, hot shower made her feel better in body and mind. Before leaving, she picked up her phone and called her friend Laufey.
“Do you know what time it is?” Laufey grumbled sleepily.
Thóra ignored her, because it was almost ten. “Oh, my God—you’ll never guess what!” she cried.
“Well, judging from how excited you sound and the ungodly hour at which you’re calling, it must be headline news.” A yawn followed.
“I slept with someone!” The reaction was immediate. Laufey had clearly sat bolt upright on hearing the news because no sooner had the words left Thóra’s mouth than a mighty creaking was heard.
“Ooh! Tell me, who, who is it?”
“Matthew, that German. I’ll have to save the rest for later because I’m off to meet him for breakfast. We’re at a hotel.”
“A hotel? Well, well, you can’t be left by yourself for a second, can you?”
“I’ll talk to you later—I’m a bit worried. Somehow I have to get him to understand that it was just a onetime thing, I don’t want a relationship.”
Braying laughter came down the phone line. “Hello? Where have you been—watching Teletubbies? There aren’t many single men that age who are looking for a profound relationship. Don’t worry about it, girl.”
Thóra hung up, slightly irritated at the reaction to news that was supposed to have pleased her friend. She headed off for the breakfast room after taking the time to mess up the sheets so that the hotel staff wouldn’t think she was promiscuous. Matthew was sitting at a table for two by a window, drinking coffee. Thóra could not help noticing how handsome he was, which she had always refused to admit to herself. His face had those rough features that appealed to her. Strong jaw, large teeth, well-defined cheekbones, and deep-set eyes. This was doubtless a genetic legacy from her prehistoric ancestors, an attraction to looks that suggested toughness and determination—the perfect hunter. Thóra sat down. “I really think something to eat will do me a heap of good,” she said to break the ice.
Matthew poured coffee from the stainless steel pot into her cup. “You left a sock in my room. And it wasn’t a woolen sock—incredible but true.”
Nothing in the way they acted implied that something had happened since dinner the night before, apart from when Matthew placed his hand over Thóra’s with a conspiratorial wink. She smiled back but said nothing. He soon removed his hand and continued his meal. After eating they went to their respective rooms and packed.
While Thóra was waiting for Matthew at reception, her phone rang. It was Gylfi. Before answering, Thóra reminded herself that he had no idea what his mother had been up to the previous night.
“Hello, darling,” she said, trying to sound natural.
“Hi.” Gylfi’s voice was gloomy and a short time passed before he got to the point. “Er, that thing I was going to tell you—where are you?”
“I’m at Hótel Rangá. I was working this weekend. Aren’t you home?”
“Yeah.” Another pause. “When are you getting back?”
Thóra looked at her watch. It was a few minutes to eleven. “I’ll be back around one, I expect.”
“Okay. See you then.”
“Why aren’t you with your dad? Where’s your sister?” Thóra said quickly before he rang off.
“She’s still with him. I left.”
“Left? Why? Did you have an argument?”
“You could say that,” he replied. “He started it.”
“How?” Thóra gaped in astonishment. Hannes normally had a knack for avoiding quarrels and until now had managed to get along quite nicely with his son, although the latter would hardly consider him a born entertainer.
He sighed. “He acted like he wanted to have a talk with me, and j
ust when I thought he understood me and I told him something, he snapped. I swear he did backward somersaults. I wasn’t about to listen to that. I thought he’d understand.”
Thóra’s thoughts seethed and jostled. She knew that Gylfi’s description of his father’s behavior must be a huge exaggeration. So what had really happened? She regretted having persuaded Hannes to talk to the boy—obviously it had not helped. “Gylfi, what was it that made your father so mad? Is that what you want to talk to me about afterward?”
“Yeah.” No further explanation. She would have to wait until she saw him to find out.
“Listen, I’m on my way. I’m no acrobat so we can surely manage to discuss this calmly. Don’t go anywhere.”
“You’ll have to be back before one. I have to go and see some people.”
Some people? Some people? Had he joined a religious cult? Thóra felt a pang in her chest. “Gylfi—don’t go anywhere until I’m back. Understand?”
“Be back before one,” he said. “Dad’ll be there too.” He said good-bye and hung up.
Thóra’s heart pounded in her rib cage and it took a huge effort not to let out a howl. With trembling hands she dialed Hannes’s phone but it was either out of reach or switched off. She stared at her phone. Hannes would never switch off his phone—he slept with it on his bedside table in case anyone needed to contact him in the middle of the night. His riding trips, too, were arranged somewhere his phone worked—she doubted if he had ever been out of signal range since he first bought a cell phone. She tried his home number but there was no reply. What had the boy done? Started smoking? Hardly. Was he a drug addict and on his way to rehab? No, out of the question. She would surely have noticed. Was he coming out of the closet? Off to a gay pride meeting? Hannes would hardly have flipped about that—to give him credit, he was relatively liberal. Besides, she had a feeling that Gylfi had a crush on that girl whose name she could never remember. No, that wasn’t the issue. Countless ideas welled up, increasingly absurd. Que será será. She stood up and peeped around the corner to see if Matthew was on his way down the corridor. He was standing at the door to his room, dragging out his suitcase.
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