In the corridors of the house my memory whispers these words to me still. On an afternoon stroll when I stop to rest and enjoy the peace and quiet between the cold stone walls, I hear them. “Congratulations. I hope congratulations are in order, Asdis.” I jump when a strange voice adds: “You’re carrying his child. His child, Disa.”
I remember the doctor hurrying over to me when I sank down. I heard him calling: “Kristin, come here at once! Kristin!”
Two days later I set off to Father at Kopasker.
Months I wish to forget.
The light on my bedside table shone day and night, dim and red, and the wind howled at the windows. When spring came I heard the stream chuckling outside. Nothing disturbed its song but the creak on the stairs when Father came up to see me or the maid brought me something to eat. She had been with us since I was a child, but even so Father made her swear an oath of silence.
“I’ll help you,” he had said when I arrived. “But you must have the child.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t have his child, Father.”
He wouldn’t be moved.
“I’ll see that the child is put in good hands after it’s born. But you must have it.”
Down in the living room the old clock carried on its futile race against time. I felt it lagged behind with every day that passed and sometimes its chimes passed me by altogether. I had begun to convince myself that the pendulum took a rest in the afternoon but of course this was only my imagination. Faint, weary chimes. I don’t know what’s happened to it now.
For the first months I wandered around the house during the day, moving from one chair to another, listening to the silence. Sometimes I sat in the dispensary with Father and watched him preparing medicines or writing reports to send to Reykjavik. In the evenings he often tried to get me to play cards and then we would sit in the dining room with the view of the sea. But I was bothered that time and time again in the twilight I thought I saw a small boat swallowed up by the waves out in the bay. I would get up and go to the window and forget to sit down again. I knew my brain was playing tricks on me but this knowledge did nothing to make me feel better. I thought I could see a lone man in the boat.
At first I would go out in the evenings after darkness had fallen. I rarely walked far and avoided the shore as I was afraid of what might be washed up on land. Instead I sought the moon and stars, rejoicing when I saw the Northern Lights shimmering above the countryside like the wings of the Almighty. It often occurred to me how good it would be to be carried away by them. Disappear. Melt into thin air.
In the end these evening walks became more a source of anxiety than beneficial for my health. Father put pressure on me to take exercise but I was sure the house was being watched.
“Who on earth would do such a thing?” he asked.
I didn’t know.
And I’m still none the wiser, as I was a different person during those months. An unknown woman who I hope will never again take up residence in my body. It wasn’t I who went out one bright frosty night in April, clad only in a night-dress. Yet I clearly remember the blue moonlight keeping me company over the old riverbed, along the rimed marshes in the direction of the crags. I didn’t feel the cold but on the way up the slope where the marshes ended, I was suddenly convinced that I could lean on a moonbeam if I got tired.
The spring beneath the crags was swollen with ice but my childhood refuge was still there between the two friendly tussocks. When I lay down on my back I saw how wondrously close the stars were, like eyes one could trust. Everything will be all right, I thought they were saying, don’t worry. Just like when I was a little girl. I closed my eyes and when I opened them next I was lying in my bed with the red glow from the night light flickering around me. I heard the maid calling Father: “She’s up! Dr. Jon, she’s opened her eyes!”
I didn’t get up until two weeks later. Father had looked in on me late that night and seen that I had gone. It saved my life that he guessed where I could be found. Saved mine and my baby’s life.
No, it wasn’t I who lay unconscious in bed with pneumonia following my near fatal journey out in the freezing cold night, not I who flitted around the house like a ghost that summer, lost track of time, no longer heard the chimes of the clock. Who it was, I don’t know, but it wasn’t I.
On a bright morning at the beginning of September, when a gentle breeze stirred the curtains, I finally recovered my senses. Perhaps it would be fairer to say that I woke myself, so unprepared was I for the scream. I remember being gripped by panic for a brief moment, as I thought I was listening to Mother’s scream when little Bjork was born. For a moment I thought it was her, not me, who lay there in the bed, with Father and the maid leaning over. Yet I was calm. For the first time since my homecoming, I was calm.
I didn’t feel any pain, it was more as if the torments which had burdened me for so long were gradually lifting. When he was born it was as if I had been awakened from an enchantment. The clock struck twelve noon. Father laid him wailing in my arms, his heart pumping, and his cry carried out through the open window into the clear autumn air.
It was the most beautiful song ever heard in the countryside.
In the picture my cheek and arm are visible. And Mother’s piano can be vaguely glimpsed behind us. He has just finished feeding and is cuddling up to me. I’m looking down into his face.
At first I pleaded with Father not to take this photograph, but gave in at last. He took a long time to prepare the shot, moving more slowly than ever. From his conduct, you might have thought that this ceremony was highly significant.
Once I thought I had lost my photograph. I had woken up in the middle of the night as so often, turned on the light above the bed and opened the drawer in the bedside table to take it out. I usually keep it near me during the day, either between the covers of an old Icelandic cookbook or in my bag if I happen to go out. In the evening I put it back in the drawer of my bedside table before I go to sleep.
That night my fingers encountered nothing. I leaped out of bed and rooted in vain in my bag, before running down to the kitchen, switching on the light and looking first in my old Icelandic cookbook, then in all the other books on the shelves beside the cooker.
My photo was nowhere to be found.
I was in despair by the time I woke Anthony. He was startled for a moment but soon got out of bed to help me. We searched high and low, but it was not until near dawn that I happened to look behind the bedside table and caught sight of it.
Later that day, Anthony and I went down to the village to get copies made. Five copies, all of the same size. I was very anxious until I collected them and repeatedly mentioned to the couple who ran the shop that I trusted nothing would happen to the original. I suspect they took more care than usual as a result.
I brought two copies with me to Iceland, one is in my bag, the other I have propped up against the lamp on the bedside table in my room.
He’s cuddling up to me. I’m looking down into his face. Today at two o’clock he’s going to graduate.
We were fortunate that the doctor’s house was out of the way, a little distance outside the village. Father made sure that no one who wasn’t involved would hear of the boy’s birth or of the arrangements that were made afterward. Father and his friend, the district magistrate.
That morning I had watched the geese flying in V-formation over the hayfields but now the sky had turned as red as the leaves on the two shrubs by the gate or as the lava gravel on the steps up to the front door. It crunched quietly under their feet when they arrived; I listened to them approaching with slow steps. The maid had made hot chocolate. We drank it in silence; the woman sitting opposite Father and the man standing behind her. Suddenly it grew chilly in the living room and I stood up to close the window. Then I went upstairs.
He was asleep. I had just finished feeding him when they arrived and now he was asleep with the glow of the fading sky on his face. His clothes were ready in a suitcase beside the cradle; I opene
d it again to make sure that nothing had been forgotten. Afterward, I sat by the cradle and waited for Father to give me the sign.
She smiled instinctively when I brought him down. Her husband took a step nearer, then collected himself and stopped. He bowed his head shyly, alternately twining and loosening his thick fingers. Bowed his head but didn’t take his eyes off the boy. I noticed that his clothes were tight on him.
“He,” I began, then fell silent. They both looked up. “He likes being stroked on the forehead,” I said finally. “Then he calms down,” I added. “When he’s restless . . .”
I had begun to tremble when I pressed him against me for the last time and breathed in his baby smell. He was still asleep when I handed him over to her.
The lava gravel crunched on the path as they left. In the distance the geese could be heard on their way to their night roost. I stood limply at the living room window, watching them disappear into the dusk.
During the time I spent in Kopasker, Anthony wrote to me no less than once a month. Sometimes I answered him myself but more often I had to ask Father to do it for me. I read the letters over before he sent them and signed most of them. Later, however, I discovered that they had exchanged letters without my knowledge. In these they got straight to the point and were honest about my condition.
Shortly after I came to my senses in May, Anthony began to tell me about Ditton Hall. “I don’t know what to do with the family seat,” he wrote. “It’s standing empty, housing nothing but old memories, some of which are better forgotten. It occurred to me that it might be possible to convert it into a summer hotel. And then I thought of you . . .”
After this he continued in the same vein in every letter.
“My aunt Hilary lived there with her cats when I was a boy. An old harridan with a long, thin nose who was forever scolding. ‘Anthony, you mustn’t run like that on the stairs! Anthony, you’ll frighten the cats!’ When she wasn’t looking I’d seize the opportunity to squirt water at the beastly creatures, especially in summer when they used to attack the birds. I called her the witch and Mother scolded me.”
He and Father had begun plotting behind the scenes.
“I say, Disa. Ditton Hall . . . A country house in a beautiful spot. Who knows, it might do you good to have a change of scene when it’s all over . . .”
“All the glass will have to be replaced in the conservatory,” wrote Anthony, “but the view is incomparable. In the morning a mist often lies over the fields and then it’s pleasant to sit in the conservatory with a hot cup of tea, waiting for the sun to come out. And it’s just as nice to sit there at twilight, listening to the birds singing their evening song. Often one will begin and then the rest will join in, their voices dropping as the dusk grows darker. Tweet, tweet. There are no cats any more . . .”
“I say,” commented Father. “Such lively birdlife there. That’s not bad . . .”
Dear Father, he was so kind. He always warned me when he was expecting a patient. He never blamed me for anything, never showed any displeasure. He was hurt when I told him I didn’t want Jorunn to know about my situation but he didn’t object. How he contrived it so that my name never appeared on any documents, I’ve no idea, but of course he risked his reputation. He told the boy’s parents (there, I’ve written “parents” again without a moment’s hesitation) that it was up to them whether they chose to tell their son that he was adopted when the time came, but made them promise not to mention me. Only he and I knew the identity of the father.
To prove to me that his ideas about Ditton Hall were not just hollow words, Anthony began to send me advertisements for this and that which he considered it advisable to invest in. Of course, he meant well, though his ignorance was obvious. I’ve kept these advertisements along with the letters.
The modern Gas Cooker is equipped with every convenience for cooking food scientifically and daintily, said the first advertisement he sent me. The “Zero” Store Cooling and Ice Making Machine was an even more tantalizing phenomenon, driven by electric motor, steam, gas or oil engines. G. J. Worssam & Son Ltd. I asked him to wait before purchasing these appliances and the others he’d sent me information about. Especially the Bradford’s “Vowel” Washer which he was under the impression was a brand-new gadget. However, those who had come anywhere near household chores at any time during the last quarter of a century knew that this washing machine had long been outmoded.
“There’s no question that he’s serious, the dear fellow,” said Father when he examined the cuttings. “Ice Making Machine, I say . . .”
“I’m so glad you’re feeling a bit better,” wrote Anthony in late September. “My friends at the Ministry of War Transport have half promised that you can get a passage to England with a cargo ship. They also pointed out that the ship you sailed with to Iceland—the Bruarfoss —is still sailing here . . . I know you don’t need to be told that the voyage could be risky.”
“Risky,” read Father, and frowned. “Hm.”
When we said good-bye in mid-November, I had the feeling that we would never meet again. I suspect he knew it too. But it still came as a shock when he didn’t even survive the war years.
It had started to rain while we were waiting down on the jetty for the boat, first a few drops, then a heavy drizzle turning to fog on the mountains. He was wearing the large, green waxed jacket which he generally wore for visiting patients, and he wrapped it around both of us. The day before he had returned from his third trip to Raufarhofn to check on the boy.
The boat approached, blue, its lights blinking in the fog.
“He’s doing well,” said Father. “They’re taking good care of him. He’s a strong, handsome boy.”
He remained standing in the same place as we sailed away. I watched him as he was left behind, darkening and growing smaller in the gentle drizzle, until I couldn’t distinguish him any longer from the mossy rocks above the shore.
The sound of the telephone wakes me.
I’m startled, but can’t hear anything except my own heartbeat and an owl hooting in the distance. The shadow of the poplar quivers on the wall, three branches, two horizontal and one pointing diagonally to the sky. It may be summer, may be winter; Christmas night and my head heavy with food and wine and my mind full of the memories of candlelight and church bells in the village. Or maybe it’s spring and a tentative dawn has begun to waken out in the meadow. Maybe it’s autumn with steam rising from the damp earth.
The sound of the telephone wakes me without warning as it did fifteen years ago when he was injured. He had been playing down by the jetty and a lorry driver had failed to notice him.
“He’s broken his leg,” said Dr. Bolli on the phone, “but he’s regained consciousness. He’s broken a couple of ribs too and has some bruising.”
It was autumn and there were raindrops obscuring the window, drawing a gray veil over the brook and Old Marshall’s cottage.
“Will he live?”
“He’ll live, but the next few months will be difficult.”
“I’m coming.”
Silence. A long silence.
“They’re both with him,” he said finally. “His parents.”
“His parents.” The people who had kept vigil over him when he was ill, seen him take his first steps, taken care of him. Given him a name. Helgi. Helgi Arnason.
My reaction was ludicrous. What did I think I could do? He didn’t even know me, didn’t know who I was and would no doubt have been frightened of me. Yet I was ready to go. I had to be tough with myself to avoid breaking down. I longed to hold him in my arms, to crush him against me and tell him how much I loved him. But eventually I pulled myself together, my heartbeat slowed and my breathing became regular again.
When the rain stopped, the plants in the garden tubs shook in a chill gust of wind. I moved slowly, the sun came up and the sun went down and the warmth of the embers in the kitchen was comforting.
And so the years passed, each night like an impending punishm
ent, every dream an echo of the telephone ringing in days gone by.
“Tina, dear old lady, sit down here beside me and warm me up.” Soon the first rays of sun will stroke the mist from the meadows, gently as a mother caressing her child’s cheek.
The phone is silent.
Soon the danger will pass.
The sky suddenly darkened as we were about to take our seats at the table. I had been waiting for him in the lobby. We had no sooner greeted each other than it began to rain; we hadn’t even released each other’s hands, though we had begun to take the first steps in the direction of the dining room. We stopped automatically to watch the rain drumming on the road and on the lawns around the independence hero’s statue on the other side of the street, until old Bolli, my former employer, looked at his watch and said: “I hope it’ll clear up before the graduation ceremony begins.”
He’s aged, poor dear. After all, he’s nearly eighty, and moves slowly, though he’s not exactly unsteady. His hearing’s going, he says, but his voice is as quiet as ever.
“I hope it won’t last,” he repeats as we sit down. “It was such beautiful weather this morning.”
I remember the day I last saw him. It was the morning I sailed for England, November 18, 1941.
I had rung his office two days earlier to announce my arrival. I could hear in his voice that the last thing he’d expected was a call from me but nevertheless he agreed without hesitation that our conversation should be confidential. He welcomed me, his handshake as limp as now, his eyes as distant as ever. (Now there seem to be cataracts over them as if they are gradually being extinguished or even turning inward.) His secretary brought us coffee and we sat in deep leather chairs by the window. I glanced at a painting of him and two other men with graying hair, above the desk. He noticed and, half sheepish, said by way of explanation: “A present from the staff when I was fifty.”
A thick Persian rug on the floor, timber paneling on the walls, bookshelves by the door, silence. On the desk were a few papers under a silver-plate paperweight, while beside them perched a glaring stuffed falcon. On the table between us lay a few pebbles; he picked one of them up and turned it absentmindedly between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. I glanced outside. In the window there were eight panes, the lower ones were opaque but the upper ones admitted the light without hindrance. The cloudless sky was visible above the rooftops across the street.
The Journey Home: A Novel Page 19