Then I suddenly remember:
“Where’s the boy?”
“Your son’s in the other room. He’s doing a jigsaw.”
They usher him into the room of the health centre and position him at the end of the bed, from where he looks at me with anxious eyes.
How irresponsible of me, my son was on the point of becoming an orphan.
Once we’ve embraced each other as much as circumstances will allow, the boy opens his mouth to the doctor and points at a tooth. It’s loose.
“He’s a bit young to be losing a tooth,” says the doctor, “but it does happen.” The boy closes his mouth. Then the doctor turns back to me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Don’t you remember me?”
That’s what they all say, it’s hardly very original. This is the third time in about as many days that I’m being asked this unfathomable question.
“No, should I?”
“We were at secondary school together and left at the same time. I often looked at you, without ever hitting on you. You were a bit too boyish-looking for my taste—but I remember your special linguistic talents and how you spoke all these exotic languages, even ones that weren’t being taught at the school.”
I remember him now. He immediately had a girlfriend. They sat in the corner and held hands, in a world of their own, and didn’t show up at parties. They’re still together, in fact, because she now appears from behind him to wrap a blood pressure cuff around my arm. He does the introductions for both of them:
“Don’t you remember Gugga? She went on to do nursing.” She greets me with professional detachment, without being distracted from her task.
A woman enters and places a tray of food in front of me on the bed. She offers Tumi some too, but he shakes his head. I’m not hungry, but am used to doing what I’m told. I manage to eat almost half of the sausage and a bit of the white sauce with my good hand before I throw up.
It is then that I get a shot of pain through the left side of my chest: my heart skips a beat and I feel as if it had just been clutched by a hand. For a moment it stops to beat, while it waits to see if the hand will squeeze it. I’m finding it difficult to breathe.
I tell them my heart hurts.
“You need to work out what you want. It was a warning. Why did you jump?”
“What do you mean?”
“That horse meat sausage was a test of your free will,” my doctor says, looking at his nurse. I sense they belong to the same world, that there’s a strong personal bond between them.
“Wasn’t that veal meat sausage?”
“No, horse meat, but it all comes down to the same thing, it obviously didn’t agree with you.” Once more the doctor and nurse exchange meaningful glances.
“Isn’t this just what all the patients get?”
“What do you enjoy doing?”
He talks to me as if I were a four-year-old, without taking his eyes off his wife. I answer like a fully grown woman:
“I enjoy being with my son and jogging,” I say, looking at my fingers protruding from the virgin-white plaster. “And I also like to go skating,” I add. I don’t feel it is appropriate to add anything else.
“That’ll be good for you when the weather picks up,” he says.
When we step out of the health centre, I see that my sign language teacher is waiting for us in his heated car.
FIFTY-FIVE
He feels awful about having encouraged me to jump and looks seriously worried.
“I didn’t expect you to do it. I didn’t mean those words I said, it was just bullshit, I didn’t realize you were so docile.”
He has to go to Reykjavík for the weekend to see his kids and wants us to stay in his place while he’s away, so that I can recover. He is afraid it will be cold and damp up there in the chalet. I’m still in too much of a daze to be able to formulate any objections. Otherwise I could have said something like:
“Thanks for the thought, but I already have plans and I’m fine.”
“The fridge is full of food, for a change, I did some shopping. I’ll leave the dog behind, all you have to do is feed her and let her run in the garden. Don’t worry,” he adds with a smile, “the puppies aren’t due for another two weeks and I’ll be back on Sunday evening. She’s feeling a bit delicate too, so you’ll be good company for each other.”
“Thank you.”
“The kitten is no problem either, not for the dog at least.”
That is how we move down from the ravine to the shore, the boy, the kitten and I.
As he’s leaving, he pats the dog from top to bottom; he’s good to her. Next he pats the boy and then finally strokes me, adjusting my sling.
When you live in the home of an absent person, sleep in his bed, eat off his plates, skim through some of his books, occasionally opening one to read a small extract, you slowly develop an odd kind of understanding of him that isn’t far from affection. Or wonderment at what kind of man could be behind these books about saints and Japanese bonsai gardens?
His shirts hang in a doorless wardrobe with even gaps between them, most of them white, except for one that looks particularly gaudy. He doesn’t seem to own any ties. The fridge is crammed with food. He’s even bought cans of food for the cat. Without trying to actually work out the owner’s culinary tastes, I can’t help noticing that there are four types of olive oil in the house, and an equal number of bottles of vinegar.
“I roasted some lamb for you in the oven,” he said as he was leaving, “I hope that’s OK. You just have to heat it up, you can handle that, it was especially conceived for a one-handed person and slowly roasted for four hours—you could almost eat it with a spoon.”
The post-divorce bed linens of men are always new. Very few men take bed linens with them when they split up. They generally buy a set of two in the first round, and then another two a few weeks later, all the same type, rarely white, normally stripy blue, like the ones we’re lying in. The plates and cups also match and are still unchipped; the whole lot has been bought in a single trip, a complete set without the interference of any woman.
The dog seems to be tolerating the kitten quite well and treats him gently, almost with a touch of motherly care. Then she keels over to one side, spreading out her tummy and teats. The kitten vanishes under the sofa. The dog doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to drink and doesn’t want to play. The boy lies down beside her, patting her, and pulls a quilt over her. But she doesn’t want to be patted either and staggers about on four legs, moping aimlessly around the house for a good while, investigating every nook and corner, before finally lying down behind the door of the dark bedroom that is furthest from us. The boy sits on the sofa and finishes knitting a new yellow row in the sock. I feel quite weak and might even be running a temperature. The dog also looks weak to me and feverish in her eyes; she obviously has a temperature too. By the time I get to her with some water for her to drink, the first puppy is born. She is licking him and the next one is beginning to emerge. There will be three in all, by the time she has finished, all covered in yellow spots, and throughout all of this she doesn’t utter a single sound.
FIFTY-SIX
Low-pressure belts are lining up above the island, piling up, one on top of the other. It’s been almost six weeks now, the drainpipes can take no more water and in many places basements have started to flood; water leaks into boots and down necklines, and children need dry socks and trousers several times a day. The weather clears for short intervals to allow people to run down to the video store to change DVDs and buy a snack, although many stay in, without noticing the brief dry spell that would have enabled them to see December’s half-moon.
Dawn is slow to break; it’s not before noon that a glimmer begins to form over the harbour, a streak of dayli
ght through the muddy darkness. Huddled up in bed, we linger there solving crosswords. He’s helping me to find a feminine noun beginning with b.
After that, he fixes the pyramid in the bowl of mandarins; he wants it to be tall and impressive and is constantly adjusting the fruit.
The tiger kitten scuttles several times diagonally across the floor. He no longer zigzags, has stopped galloping sideways and has recently developed the ability to walk along a straight imaginary line—on four legs. He eagerly observes the small birds on the deck outside; he is slowly but surely turning into a shrewd hunter. One morning there’s a dead snow bunting lying on the floor; the kitten pleads innocent and makes itself scarce. The boy picks up the bird and holds it tight to his chest. I tell him we’ll bury it later in the day. A short while later I find the bird under his bed, beside his treasure chest.
By the time we’ve finally climbed into our rain gear and are ready to go out on an exploratory mission just after noon, the end of this very short day is already approaching. Our first and final destination is the playground. I lead him with my good hand. He’s wearing a new green cable sweater under his overalls.
Tumi weighs thirteen kilos and I weigh fifty-three, so in order to get some kind of balance I have to shift closer to the middle of the see-saw. He’s not interested in trying to tackle the climbing frame. When he walks up or down steps he always moves forward with the same foot; three steps are like a steep cliff to him. Afterwards, we sit on the white plastic chairs by the shop and have an ice cream with chocolate sauce.
He has finished decorating my cast and drawn a bulldozer on it, but also fish and marine vegetation. We are not likely to be going to the swimming pool for at least a week. My friend offers to take him along with him. That would be the first time in six weeks that I would be separated from him for more than an hour.
“I’ll keep a good eye on him,” he says, “don’t worry.”
The boy seems pleased.
While the two boys are at the pool, I lie on the deck with a trashy novel and a scarf coiled around my neck. How many women in the world can allow themselves such a luxury at this precise moment in time? Could a newly liberated woman ask for any greater bliss than this?
“See what I’ve got for you?” says my father in the middle of a pile of books. We are visiting a second-hand bookshop.
“There you go, that’s for you”, he says, blowing the dust off a book in front of me. “There’s so much music in the words, if you don’t hear the music, you won’t get the story,” says the man whose favourite composer is Bach. “There are a few pages missing from it so it ends in mid-sentence. You can decide how the story ends, invent your own ending, aren’t you lucky?”
I read it many years ago and remember only being moderately happy about the ending. I expected something more decisive to happen between them. A woman doesn’t brush fluff off the shoulder of a man’s jacket at a dinner party unless there’s something intimate going on between them, or does she? “Your ending will be better,” he says, smiling, and then pats me on the cheek.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Across the chasm there is some kind of stone arch or bridge. It has been considerably eroded since I last crossed it, but I decide to give it a chance and lean forward, at first only gently pushing against the stone with one arm. Then a bridge automatically stretches across the abyss; it obviously has hinges. I tell myself that this is an ingenious invention. But as I’m pondering on whether I should leap over the chasm or not, I’m awoken by the phone. I leap out of bed, searching everywhere for my new mobile, our renewed link with the vanished world, and finally find it in the pocket of my raincoat. It’s 04:07.
It’s my ex-husband calling from the capital from some bar where he says he’s been drinking beer for the past two and a half hours. He tells me he’s been trying to track me down for three weeks to tell me he’s had a daughter. He’s emailed me a picture of her, but I obviously don’t answer. He got my new number from his ex-mother-in-law.
“She’s lovely, tiny and soft,” he says.
“Congratulations.”
“You didn’t have to run away like that, just vanish. You’ve got a new address, a new phone number. What crime did you commit?”
“I’m not running away, I’m taking a break.”
“Just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean we have to lose all contact, does it?”
He wants to know if he woke me up.
“I hear you injured yourself.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your mom, when I finally reached her to get some news about you, she just got back from India.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, the cast was removed yesterday.”
“How are you anyway?”
“Just fine, thanks.”
“I was thinking of visiting you, coming to say hello?”
“I thought you were tied down, with a woman and child.”
“Tied and not tied.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Do you know what the special thing about you is?”
“What?”
“You’re always so sexy when you’ve got that sleepy tone of voice, when you’ve just woken up.”
“I’m not sure it would be a good idea for you to come.”
“Your mom told me the roads are impassable so I guess the flying instructor will just have to come on his plane.”
“What does Nína Lind have to say about all this?”
“You can barely reach her or the child, she’s got so many of her girlfriends around, the house is always packed right up to the front door. When they aren’t at our place, she’s at their places with the baby. When I walk into the living room of my own house, there’s a sudden silence and awkwardness. Easy to guess who they’re talking about and what the nature of the problem is.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
We hear a banging engine sound long before the yellow contraption comes over the mountain and down a grey cloud. The boy sees the plane’s swaying wings as it flies over the chalet. There can be no doubt as to who the pilot is.
I had borrowed my mother’s car and when I came out of the restaurant with Auður, there was a white paper rocket under one of the windscreen wipers. Seventh heaven. Private flying lessons. Ten lessons special offer. Make your Icarus dreams come true. First lesson is free, eleven percent discount on the following two. Negotiable payment options.
My fear of heights is legendary and I purely look on airplanes as a means of getting me away from the island. Nevertheless, I think the reference to Icarus is an interesting one, since it was precisely his dream that led to his demise. Despite the warnings I get from Auður, who sees no interest in this message, I decide to call the man who will later become my husband. It eventually transpired that the ad had been solely aimed at me and no one else and I’ve yet to step on his plane.
The silhouette drifts over the barren plain in the midday twilight and up the hill, heading straight for me. I see him standing outside on the deck in an orange anorak. What is he lingering there for? Is he going to come in or stay out? He strikes a match. I see the red glow of the tip of his cigar and then myself, reflected in the window, but don’t budge. He seems to have spotted me, because he casts his cigar away and walks straight towards me.
The man looks both familiar and alien to me, as he stands there with his hands buried deep in his anorak pockets. My memory of him is somehow different. Older or younger? Did he maybe have a beard? That’s the first thing that strikes me, his beardlessness, it sharpens his facial features. Wasn’t he taller than that? He seems to be of average height, standing there by the doorway. Could be the shoes I guess. Not only are they unfamiliar to me, but they’re worn out and part of some new sphere of experience. Even the colour of his eyes surprises me; I could have sworn the eyes of my ex-husband were brown, but now the
y seem to be grey. He hands me a cardboard box and pecks me on the cheek.
“Your mom sends her love; that needs to go into the fridge.”
The box contains salmon, halibut, scallops and prawns, as well as fried fish balls. At the bottom of the box there’s a wrapped parcel with a blue ribbon for the boy. Through the window I can see the freezing-plant this fish probably all comes from.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
The boy stands by my side in the doorway, holding my hand.
“There’s a button missing.”
Tumi points at a loose thread sticking out of the man’s anorak. Thorsteinn is normally very meticulous about these things. I interpret.
“Biscuit,” says my boy in his resonant, metallic voice, pointing and sniffing at a protrusion from the man’s pocket.
“Can I have a biscuit?” I interpret, and by way of confirmation the boy stretches out his hand with a pleading look.
My ex looks embarrassed and the sparkle in his eyes instantly fades as his gaze moves away from my neck. He pulls half a glistening and crumpled packet of chocolate biscuits out of his anorak pocket. The boy smiles.
It is then that I realize, as if I’d found the missing piece to an old jigsaw, that he has the same taste as a cream biscuit, his skin, his entire being has the exact same taste as the vanilla cream inside those biscuits.
“Doesn’t he play outside with his friends? Can’t you get someone to mind him?”
He continues to empty his pockets as he talks, like a condemned man, guiltily placing all his belongings on the table, or a visitor standing in front of a prison warden, before going in to see an inmate. The boy clutches the packet of biscuits with both hands, trembling with excitement. Finally, my ex pulls out a picture of his daughter to show me. She is small and dark with a red face, like all babies. He pulls off some layers of clothing: his anorak, shoes, sweater and then even his socks—I wonder if he’s going to go to bed.
Butterflies in November Page 21
