Hotel Silence

by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir

  “Suddenly the country was crammed with weapons and one day the war was here in a flash. All kinds of stories were being told and no one could work out what was going on.”

  She pauses then continues.

  “We didn’t know who we were supposed to believe because everyone said the same thing, that they had been attacked by the evil forces out of the blue. Everyone said that the enemy had killed women and innocent children and showed photos of the victims. Everyone said there was no choice but to defend themselves.”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t know how so much hatred spread across the community. All of a sudden everyone hated everyone.”

  This makes me think of Mom. “At the core of evil, there’s a desire for revenge,” she used to say. “Hatred breeds hatred, and bloodshed leads to more bloodshed,” she’d add.

  “It was no problem to die,” May finally says, looking me in the eye with quivering lips. “I wasn’t afraid of being shot or blown to pieces, but if they captured you, then you’d die a hundred times.”

  HOMO HABILIS 2 (HANDYMAN 2)

  She walks ahead and I follow with my toolbox.

  “Fix,” she says, and I fix.

  I unscrew the showerheads, and in many cases it seems to be sufficient to clear the sand and pebbles out of the pipes for the water to regain its natural pressure and colour. Then I do the same for the sinks. I suggest we get rid of the threadbare rugs and allow the tiles to shine in all their glory.

  “You’re so tall you don’t need a chair to change a light bulb,” she says, as I’m standing on a chair to change a light bulb in the ceiling, and I swiftly glance at my reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. I don’t tell her that less than a week ago I stood on a chair, groping for a fixture, for a hook. The chair is wobbly and I waver as if I were on a tightrope. I’m in my red shirt and underneath it is the white water lily and underneath the water lily lies a bloody heart that is still beating. I stretch out my arms, pumping up my red chest like a bird that is about to take flight. Then I jump off the chair and reach into the bag of light bulbs.

  As we’re working, she talks to me.

  As she’s talking, I work.

  Sometimes she abruptly stops what she is doing and says things like:

  “We had a piano.”

  Or she says:

  “Once I found a finger on the street. It had a wedding ring on it. What was I supposed to do with a finger?”

  Or:

  “When I woke up, it took me one to two minutes to remember there was a war. Those were the best minutes in the day.” I calculate in my mind; Mom would have immediately answered that there are 1,440 minutes in a day.

  “And if there was silence, you knew that it would all start again tomorrow.”

  She also sometimes says something that makes me think: She’s like me. I used to think like that as well. Or she says something and I know she is thinking about something else. Or she is on the point of saying something but then stops and shuts up.

  The boy follows his usual routine, crawling around his mother and vanishing at intervals. He is timid and holds himself at a safe distance from me, and I sense his wariness. I also sense a growing curiosity in him, which gradually subdues his fears. I notice he has a keen interest in the toolbox and eventually he steps in to hand me a screw. It’s difficult to establish any eye contact with him and if I show any interest or try to talk to him, he runs away. When he draws nearer I see he has a large scar over his eyebrow.

  “A rat,” says his mother. “He was bitten by a rat when we were sleeping on a mouldy floor in a basement for a few months, on the run.”

  As soon as I pick up the drill, the boy covers his ears and scurries under the table. There he sits with his chin pressed against his knees, blocking both ears.

  “He thinks that’s a gun,” says his mother.

  A few moments later, he is up again and has dragged a chair into the centre of the room and sits on it, at a comfortable distance, to watch us work. I hear him talking to himself.

  “He’s started talking again,” May says. “He didn’t speak for a whole year.”

  The boy isn’t happy not to understand what we are saying. His mother says something to him and I get the feeling she is giving him a summary of our conversation because he is nodding and looking at us, alternately.

  I notice that when she talks to him he tilts his head and turns his left ear to her. She confirms my suspicion that the boy has damaged hearing.

  “Almost everyone who lived through the air raids lost some or all of their hearing. At first it was the sound of gunfire in the neighbourhood, then the exploding bombs.”

  She seems to have grown pensive, there is a distant look in her eyes.

  “At first there was a whistle, then a yellow flash in the sky, then a shock wave like something slamming against the walls. Even if it was night it was blindingly bright for one moment. There was a constant pounding in our ears and all our muscles tensed up for days, weeks, and months on end.”

  Svanur comes to mind.

  “In any case, it’s clear that a man dies alone,” he had said as we were standing on the pier under the sinking red sun. “Unless one lives in a country of air raids. Then there’s a good chance of an entire family being wiped out at the exact same moment.”

  What appears before the eyes

  I wonder if something else could be found for the boy to do other than run about with a towel-cape around his shoulders looking for hiding places. I mention it to May.

  “He finds it difficult to sit still,” she says.

  It occurs to me that he could draw, I seem to remember spotting a drawing pad and a box of coloured pencils in the hotel shop.

  While I’m waiting for Fifi to show up, I notice that the postcard stand has been reinstalled in the reception area. I give the stand a twirl and glance at the cards: a carefree couple sits on a bench in a flower-adorned square eating ice cream, young women sunbathe on the beach while muscular thighs play in the breaking waves. What strikes me are the bright colours, the vibrant blue sky and golden sand; the world was still in colour back then and people didn’t know what was in store, they’re alive, both their legs are still of the same length, they have plans for the future, maybe they’re going to change cars or kitchen units or take a trip abroad. Above all, though, my attention is drawn to the postcards that show a large mosaic mural from different angles, several with details of it or as a whole. The subject matter is naked women wrapped in thin transparent veils; one woman is fetching water from a stream, another is bathing, and another again is stooping over the closed petals of a flower. I turn one of the cards over, it says on the back in three languages that the work is to be found at Hotel Silence. It all fits with the information I read online.

  I brandish the card when the young man appears.

  “This is the mosaic I was asking about.” He bends over and seems to be carefully examining the card, clutching its corner between his index finger and his thumb, and I realise that he’s pondering something, to gain time.

  “Yes, May and I have been wanting to talk to you about the mosaic wall,” he finally says.

  He chooses his words carefully and speaks slowly.

  “The thing is, at first, May and I thought you’d come here for the artwork. And that that was why you had a toolbox with you.”

  He hesitates.

  “You see, ancient artefacts have actually been disappearing from the country.” And he explains to me that he has been instructed not to talk about antiquities to foreigners.

  “We had to be sure you weren’t on the same kind of mission as the other guest.”

  “The other guest” is presumably the man in the room next to me. “After a war everything is up for grabs,” he’d said.

  “I told May you’d bought a razor. And taken a ballpoint pen. And that you’d come back three times to return a book and take another out of the box.”

  He turns the stand to put the postcard in its place
.

  “But now that you’ve virtually become a staff member at the hotel, the situation has completely changed,” he adds, lowering his voice. “My sister and I have decided that you can take a look at the mosaic mural, if you like. Whenever it suits you.”

  THREE BREASTS

  I follow Fifi down to the basement, past the storage room, and through a door which he opens and closes with a key.

  The mural that appears before us is huge, bigger than I expected, and divided into two. On one side is the original wall, the antiquity the town prides itself on, and which was discovered when it was dug up during the construction of the hotel. On the other side, there is a kind of continuation of the wall, with more recent tiling that was probably added when the hotel was built. The original wall is separated from the baths by a glass wall, but the hotel’s spa baths are dry, no water.

  “The baths were first built six hundred years ago,” the young man explains.

  We stand side by side, two men, taking in this manless world, masses of flesh flash before us, chubby female forms, small breasts like half-lemons, thin waists, broad hips. How many bodies did I get to know before I met Gudrún? K makes two appearances in the diary, there was B and M and twice E, is it the same E? Then there’s J and P and S, who appear three times. If I compare these bodies to those of the women I have known intimately—I dig deep—I come to the conclusion that I don’t remember them as a whole; I remember segments of bodies, one breast, I might remember a wrist, I remember a white neck, skin texture, or whether a lamp was on, maybe there was an open wardrobe door through which I could see a dress on a hanger—but I don’t remember a complete body.

  In the background one can see the same turquoise colour as the tiles in the bedroom, not unlike the hue of the icebergs on the Jökulsárlón lagoon back home by the pitchblack sand.

  “The stones catch the light,” Fifi explains. “That’s why it looks like the light is glowing from inside the wall.”

  What interests me the most, though, is the fact that some sections of the mural seem to have been cut out of the wall here and there and lie in scattered pieces around the floor.

  He explains that antiquities and relics of cultural value were systematically destroyed in the war, which was why they had been hidden or moved. The plan had been to transfer the mural to save it, which is why they had started to rip down parts of it.

  In one spot a woman is missing a breast, in another an arm, a crotch in another, a missing heel, a missing wrist, a missing ear, and missing buttocks.

  “I’ve been trying to sort through the fragments and to work out what goes where and mark them. I think I’ve found all the pieces except for three breasts. They should be here somewhere,” he says, looking around.

  I notice he has placed handwritten labels on some of the fragments.

  “People don’t know how to work properly,” he says apologetically, adding that they’re expecting a group of archaeologists to evaluate the damage to the wall. Within a few weeks. Hopefully.

  The new wall is altogether different and, as far as I can make out, seems to have been made with ordinary bathroom tiles. The subject matter is the same—naked female bodies—but the execution and anatomy are completely different; big breasts, small childlike hips, and long skinny legs like insects.

  “Barbie,” Fifi comments with a smile, and I nod.

  It’s the tile fragments the young man has been working on. There is a bowl of plaster on the floor and beside it a trowel and other tools. Ceramic fragments lie in bundles on the floor.

  “I’m trying to fix it,” he says, pointing at the cracks where the tiling has crumbled. “We’re planning to get the baths working again by next year. If the truce holds.”

  He doesn’t seem to have a lot of confidence in his repairs and it’s obvious that he doesn’t know how to handle a trowel. I’ve tiled enough bathrooms to wonder whether he is using the right joint filling.

  I knock on the wall, the cracks don’t seem to be deep. But more of the tiling needs to come off and the underlying layer needs to be cleaned before new ones go up.

  “I consulted a curator and he said that the repairs should be visible,” he says hesitantly. “He was a friend of Dad’s.”

  He suddenly falls silent and turns away.

  His hands are shaking.

  Then he picks up the thread again.

  “Otherwise it’s in pretty good condition, compared to other things in this country.”

  His sister had said the same thing.

  FIFI

  On the way back upstairs, I stop by the storage room to look for a drawing pad. Fifi says he has started to sort through the stuff and has obviously shifted some boxes around, as well as moving the postcard stand to the lobby. But it’s impossible to make out what exactly has been sorted. We help each other move some things and I find a drawing pad and also dig up some coloured pencils and markers.

  He says he’s found another box full of unclaimed property and points at an open one on the floor.

  “It’s incredible what some people take on their holidays and don’t miss when they leave.” He gropes through the box.

  “Here’s a wedding certificate, silver sugar tongs, a passport, a real estate contract, a wedding ring—just one—inscribed with the initials LL.”

  He hands me the ring to examine and says he searched for the matching one, but hasn’t found it.

  “So they weren’t together when they removed them,” he adds.

  Then he remembers something he has been meaning to mention to me.

  “There might be some tools in the basement. What did you say you needed?”

  I list off several tools and tell him what they’re used for. I end by mentioning a carpenter’s plane.

  He wrinkles his forehead as if trying to solve a riddle.

  “No, I don’t think there’s anything that fits that description,” he answers. “Maybe it would be best if you just take a look yourself,” he adds.

  I look around.

  Could that be a bag of light bulbs glinting on the top shelf under the ceiling? Yes, it looks like it. Then we don’t have to keep swapping light bulbs from the lamps in the rooms that aren’t being used. Behind the light bulbs there is an elongated object enveloped in Bubble Wrap. I take it down and hand it to the young man. The parcel is quite heavy and looks fragile. He cautiously places it on the floor and we stare at it a moment before he starts to pull off the tape and unwrap it. We’ve both fallen silent. Once he’s removed the plastic, the vase emerges. It’s made of ice-blue glass, with a gilded overlay of patterns not unlike those to be found on the bedroom floors, but in a more minute form. I realise it must be a genuine antique.

  “So there it is,” says the young man. “We’ve been looking for this. It disappeared from the municipal museum. We thought it had been sold abroad.”

  He carefully wraps the vase back up in plastic and holds it in his arms like a newborn child.

  Then he nods at the goods I’ve collected.

  “It’s difficult to price that,” he says. He hesitates.

  “I’ll put it on your bill.”

  He immediately corrects himself.

  “I’ll deduct it from your wages.”

  A darkness was upon the face of the deep

  I place the drawing pad and coloured pencils on the desk of the bedroom we are working on, but Adam shows no interest in them. He doesn’t want to draw and prefers to handle the tools. He shoots past me and positions himself in front of the toolbox. He wants to be allowed to hold the screwdriver. He is waiting for us men to start our daily work.

  “Mister Jónas.”

  He’s learned my name.

  His mother beckons him back to the desk, puts a cushion under him on the chair, places a sheet from the drawing pad in front of him, and asks him something. I’m guessing she’s asking what colour he wants to use because she opens the box of pencils and hands him a blue one. He immediately throws it on the floor. She hands him another colour an
d he throws that one on the floor as well, and pushes away the box of pencils.

  He’s angry.

  He’s not going to draw a sun and bright sky today. Or a rainbow.

  His mom lets him sulk, but a short while later has to pop out and calls the boy.

  He shakes his head.

  She explains something to him, I sense she’s trying to persuade him, but he doesn’t move.

  “He wants to stay with you,” she says.

  “That’s okay,” I answer. “I could be his granddad,” I add, but immediately realise that requires further explanation.

  “My daughter is the same age as you,” I say.

  “He can’t talk to you,” she says hesitantly.

  “Then we’ll both be quiet.”

  “You’re so closed in,” Gudrún would have said.

  “I won’t be long, an hour at the most.”

  “No problem,” I repeat.

  The second his mom closes the door behind her, the boy leaps off the chair to fetch the screwdriver.

  “Later,” I say.

  I sit at the desk and make him understand I’m about to make a drawing.

  He observes me from a distance and I see that he’s not satisfied.

  What am I going to draw?

  I reach for the purple pencil and draw a box. Then I change colours and draw a red triangle on top of the box. It’s a house with a roof. Then he suddenly darts over to the table, snatches the sheet of paper, tears it in two and tramples on it. He hands me a black pencil. I’m not allowed to use colours.

  “All right,” I say, “we’ll just use black today.”

  I take a new sheet and draw another house. Then I draw a chair inside it. The boy looks at me questioningly. I add another chair, then more furniture.

  He slowly edges closer and finally stands silently right behind me, looking over my shoulder.

  When the house is finished, I draw people inside; a man and a woman and two children, a girl and a boy. He has suddenly crawled under the bed. I see his laced sneakers under the mattress but leave him in peace.