I Remember You

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘You just really startled me.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘You’re not an idiot. It was just a knee-jerk reaction.’ Garðar looked like a hurt child and she felt a sting of remorse as she remembered how sensitive he’d become after months of unemployment. ‘I’d just been trying to catch sight of you on the slope, and I really didn’t expect you to sneak up on me from behind like that.’ It must have been Garðar making the creaking noise as he walked through the house. They had all noticed the large number of loose and worn-down floorboards that loudly reminded you of their presence every time you stepped on them. ‘But I’m so glad you’re back. Where’s Líf?’

  Garðar looked as if he were trying to decide whether he should hold her little outburst against her or let it go, and in the end he seemed to decide to be his old cheerful self. He smiled and stroked her hair and she could see a flash of the good old Garðar reappearing: the Garðar who was rising rapidly through the ranks of one of the country’s biggest investment companies; the Garðar who got the most out of life; the Garðar she’d fallen in love with. ‘She went inside. She was going to find some food for us.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I didn’t mean to creep up on you, I just didn’t realize how fast you can move.’

  ‘What? I’m like a snail; I can hardly move an inch for my aching muscles.’

  ‘A snail? A cheetah, more like – we could see you out at the front of the house, but when I was nearly here you shot inside so fast that I thought the house had caught fire.’ Garðar kissed her other cheek. ‘So I followed, and found you standing behind the house. What’s going on?’

  Katrín frowned. ‘I was never in front of the house. I finished the wall I was painting and came out here on the porch to get some fresh air and look out for you. Maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you.’

  Garðar shrugged, but appeared as surprised by Katrín’s explanation as she was by his story. ‘I guess so. Has anyone else come here since we left? Was there a boat, or something?’

  She shook her head. ‘Did we drop something yesterday that the wind could have picked up? Could it have been a piece of clothing or some carpet? The sun’s so low that it’s hard to make out anything properly. It was probably just some litter. Maybe it was the fox.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He nudged the sagging porch with his foot. ‘I need to repair this. No matter where I look, there’s some sort of project.’

  ‘At least you don’t have to do anything more to my wall.’ Katrín grinned proudly. ‘It’s ready for the first guests, all white and beautiful.’ She was glad he wanted to change the subject. She didn’t want to wonder any more about what Garðar and Líf had seen or not seen. The idea that there was someone else in the area was ridiculous, and made her feel uncomfortable. They were just unused to the silence and the empty environment. ‘I guess I’d better start the next wall while there’s still some light.’ Then she remembered Garðar’s reason for going up the hill. ‘What did the estate agent say? Could you get reception?’

  ‘He didn’t answer. It might be better to try at the end of the day; he could be somewhere in town showing a property, or just busy.’ Garðar looked back at the house. ‘We’ll just look in the boxes and if it’s clearly junk, we’ll leave it. Otherwise we’ll take it back with us if we don’t get hold of the agent. I can’t be bothered to keep going up there just to try and get hold of him. It would be a lot less hassle just to carry the stuff down to the pier when we leave.’

  Katrín sighed. ‘I never want to hear the word “carry” again.’ She leaned up against Garðar, wrapped her arms around his waist and shifted her body weight over to him. ‘Maybe you’ll have to carry me. I’m worse than I was this morning.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky, today. You’re not the only one with aching muscles.’ He kissed her on the head, somewhat distractedly, before straightening up. ‘I’m starving. Shall we go and have some of the delicious provisions Líf’s preparing?’

  The thought of the tinned food, bread and other things that they’d bought for their trip didn’t whet her appetite much. ‘I’d kill for a pizza.’

  Garðar smiled faintly. ‘Not on the menu.’ He unwound himself from her embrace and prepared to go inside. ‘And even if we could get some, I don’t feel like climbing back up the mountain to order it. Come on; let’s have something to eat while it’s still fresh. I don’t know what we’ll have left by the time we get to our last few days, so we may as well enjoy eating something besides instant noodles.’ Through the kitchen window they could see Líf chopping something, her lips moving as she spoke either to herself or to the dog. Katrín wondered if this was why Líf had decided to get a pet: after Einar died, obviously Líf had no one to talk to at home, which must have been difficult for her. Katrín slipped her hand into Garðar’s palm and entwined her slender fingers in his strong, stubby ones. Although they’d been together for over five years now, there were still moments when she found herself wondering how it had happened. During their time as schoolmates – through half of primary school and all of secondary school – he had never shown any interest in her, so she’d settled for admiring him from afar and letting herself dream. He’d been part of a clique to which she would never belong; the good-looking, clever kids on their way up had little in common with a young woman who was neither a beauty queen nor particularly brainy. That was the world of Garðar, Líf, Einar and others whom life had spoiled in every way imaginable. But despite the fact that she was very average-looking, constantly struggling to lose a few pounds, and always had her head buried in a book, Garðar had made a beeline for her at a club downtown two years after graduating and they’d never looked back. That same evening Líf and Einar had paired up, and it was precisely because of this parallel that Katrín always got goose bumps at the thought that Einar was now dead and Líf a widow. She had to remind herself regularly that she wasn’t going to suffer the same fate just because her relationship with Garðar had started on the same day.

  Garðar freed his hand from her grip and sat down on the porch. As he was taking off his shoes, which he declared were grafted onto his feet, Katrín went in to check on Líf. She found her still in the kitchen, where they were keeping their food even though there was no refrigerator or running water. There was a sink, which Garðar said he thought could be fed from the stream, but none of them had any idea how to hook it up. Líf had her back to Katrín as she cut bread on a warped chopping board they’d found in a drawer, the board rattling against the countertop with every stroke of the knife. Katrín stopped in the doorway and had to raise her voice to make herself heard. ‘How was it?’

  Now it was Líf’s turn to be startled. She gave a little cry and straightened up abruptly as the chopping board clattered on the counter. Then she turned around with the knife flat against her chest, where her hand had moved reflexively in fright. ‘Jesus.’

  Katrín regretted not being more careful in approaching her. All her irritation at Líf for having dragged her feet when it came to the renovation work drifted away. ‘God, sorry. I thought you’d noticed me.’

  Líf paused to catch her breath before speaking. ‘It’s not your fault.’ She let the knife fall and exhaled. ‘I’ve been sort of highly strung since Einar died. First I couldn’t be alone, and now I can’t be in others’ company.’ She smiled. ‘It’s kind of frustrating.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Katrín had no idea how she should react. Líf was much more open than she was and had repeatedly tried to discuss Einar’s death with her, but Katrín never knew how to respond for fear of coming across as too cold, overly solicitous, or somehow stupid. It was unbearable, in fact, and Líf couldn’t have failed to notice how nimbly she generally managed to avoid discussing Einar’s death. Garðar, on the other hand, was brilliant; it had surprised her to see how naturally he interacted with the tear-sodden Líf during the worst of the trauma. Maybe it was because of how close he and Einar had been, best friends since primary school, which meant Einar’s death was a huge loss for him too. Katrín made a rapid decision not t
o act like a coward. They were going to live together for the next week and it would be impossible to skirt around the topic completely or leave it up to Garðar to do the sympathizing when Einar’s death came up. ‘It must have been terribly difficult for you. It must still be.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Líf turned back to the bread and began cutting again. ‘Did you know that a woman in Hesteyri watched her husband and son drown out there in the fjord?’

  ‘No.’ Katrín knew nothing about the area and if all the local folklore was like this, she didn’t really want to know any more. At least not while they were there.

  ‘She remarried, and the new husband drowned as well.’ Líf turned back to Katrín, holding the plate of sliced bread. ‘It makes my sorrows pale in comparison.’

  ‘But you don’t feel any better just because other people have suffered worse.’

  ‘No. It just helps to know that people have dealt with harder things and survived.’ She laid the bread on the little kitchen table, then placed her hands on her hips and looked over the spread, apparently satisfied with the results. ‘I don’t understand what happened to the ham. I’m sure we bought several packets.’ She looked at Katrín. ‘It looks like a lovely meal, anyway. Don’t you think?’ She reached for a packet of sliced cheese and placed it next to the bread.

  Katrín nodded, smiling. ‘Delicious. I wonder if we should add a cafeteria to this guesthouse idea.’

  Garðar hobbled in. ‘My feet are killing me. These shoes are rubbish. No wonder they were on sale.’

  ‘You’ve got to break in walking shoes before you go climbing mountains, you idiot.’ Líf shook her head. ‘Even I knew that.’ She handed Putti a little slice of liver sausage, which he took in his mouth and carried to a corner before lying down and tucking into it.

  ‘Now you tell me.’ Gingerly, Garðar sat down on a worn chair and the women watched nervously to see whether the rickety thing would support him. They exchanged a smile when he didn’t fall to the floor.

  A tired-looking kettle belonging to the former owner stood on a plate on an old-fashioned wood stove. ‘I wonder if it’s possible to burn angelica in this contraption?’ said Katrín, opening the hatch beneath the plate. She stared into the black emptiness, which smelled of ashes. ‘I could really do with a coffee, but we probably shouldn’t be using up our firewood for that.’

  ‘I don’t really know. Maybe if you squash it down.’ Garðar stretched out his bare feet and wiggled his toes. ‘Maybe it would burn up too fast to get the pot boiling. We can always try.’ He spread butter on a slice of bread. ‘But there’s no way I’m getting back into those shoes to collect fuel. Not now.’ He stared at a patch of floor at the back of the kitchen. ‘What’s that on the floor there?’

  They looked at the spot that had attracted his attention and Líf shrugged. ‘A stain, that’s all. This is an old house, remember?’ A large, irregular blemish coloured the wooden floor where it joined the wall.

  ‘But the floor is new. The previous owner laid this parquet, since the old floor was probably in such bad shape it was unsalvageable. It’s not completely finished, though.’ Garðar frowned. ‘Yet another thing we need to fix. Maybe we’ll put a border over it.’

  Katrín looked away from the stain, uninterested for the moment in further repairs. ‘I’ll go. I want coffee more than something to eat.’ She pulled her long, thick jumper tighter around herself. ‘There’s angelica all over the place here, so it won’t take me any time at all.’ She grabbed the kettle to take with her. There was actually still water in the tub they’d filled the night before and carried together up to the house, but it was better to rinse out the kettle before they started using it. Just in case, she asked Garðar to look inside it and check whether there was a dead mouse or something equally disgusting in there.

  Katrín walked down the dark, narrow hallway to the back door. The sun was still hanging in the sky but it seemed to have grown colder outside, probably because the wind had picked up. She considered simply abandoning the expedition, but her longing for coffee won out.

  It was even colder at the stream. Her fingers stung as she dipped the kettle repeatedly into the stream. She squatted with one foot on a stone in the middle of the stream and the other on the sodden bank. She could easily lose her balance and fall backwards into the water, and that thought alone was enough for her to pronounce the kettle clean enough. She filled it, at the same time admiring the beauty of the water flowing past her. It was impossible to imagine anything purer than its sparkling surface, as if the stream were made of liquid precious metal. She saw her reflection in the bubbling water and thanked God for its ripples; she wasn’t particularly keen to admire the paint splotches on her face and in her hair. When the kettle was full, Katrín straightened up. As she concentrated on not spilling it, she thought she saw, reflected in the water, someone standing behind her.

  ‘Líf? Garðar?’ Katrín turned her head carefully so as not to lose her balance, but could see only the long slope that the stream bisected on its way out to sea. She shook her head; what nonsense. Of course Líf was still in the kitchen looking for the ham and Garðar was barefoot, lamenting his chafed heel. Besides, he wasn’t stupid enough to try to scare her again. She looked back down into the stream and saw the same as before: her own distorted, crooked outline, but also the silhouette of someone right behind her. There was no way of discerning what was causing this illusion. She looked back behind her but there was nothing more to see than the first time. It must be the sun messing with her perception in some strange way that she was too tired to understand. Maybe it was something in the stream and not behind her; some pebbles on the bottom or vegetation moving around. She dragged herself away from the riddle; she would never get her coffee if she kept this up.

  On returning to the house she put the kettle down gently on the crooked porch so as not to tip it over, then turned to the angelica in the tangle of faded vegetation around the house. As she uprooted the first dried-up plant she suddenly recalled a student who had said goodbye to her rather dolefully at the end of the last school day before the winter break. The boy was small for his age and had a difficult time in class. He was an extremely attractive child, with a bright complexion and wide eyes, and when he came into the classroom, dressed in his winter coat with a too-large rucksack on his narrow back, it was precisely his eyes that captured her attention. From them shone a sadness that seemed so profound it surely couldn’t be connected to the uneventful school day. ‘Don’t go, Katrín.’ She’d put her pen down on top of the clumsy alphabet in the workbook she was going over, and gave him a friendly smile. ‘What do you mean? I’m not going home straight away. I still have a bit of work to do.’ The boy stood there, his small hands clutching the shoulder straps of his rucksack. ‘Don’t go to the bad place. You won’t come back.’ Katrín had wondered whether he was ill and delirious, but his pale cheeks didn’t suggest that he had a temperature. ‘I’m not going to a bad place, not at all! I don’t like bad places, I only go to places where everything is nice.’ The boy had stood there, rooted to the spot, half opening his mouth to reveal the two pearly-white, over-sized adult incisors in his upper jaw. Then he repeated, with the same sadness in his voice: ‘Don’t go to the house. You won’t come back.’ After this he had turned on his heel and left the room, before Katrín could think of anything clever to say. It was long after he’d closed the door behind him that she realized she hadn’t once mentioned the trip she had planned to the class. Perhaps this brief but peculiar conversation had had more of an effect on her than she was willing to admit, and perhaps it was also the reason why she was having such a hard time adjusting to the place.

  Katrín focused on the angelica. She wasn’t going to let her imagination run wild. This was Garðar’s dream, at least for the moment, and there was no need to upset either him or herself with any silliness. She tore out one dead plant after another, filling her arms in no time. It wouldn’t amount to much if they packed it down, though, so she put the pi
le next to the kettle and began pulling out more. She moved further and further from the house, following what appeared to be a path leading through the brush. She’d gathered quite a bit more when something white caught her attention at the bottom of a deep hollow. The undergrowth in the hollow was even denser than everywhere else and to get a better look Katrín had to bend down and push the withered grasses and dead weeds aside. Suddenly she jerked back, dropping the angelica she’d already gathered. What the hell..? ‘Garðar! Líf!’ she called. ‘Come here! You’ve got to see this!’

  Chapter 4

  ‘I need to discuss this later, Sara.’ Freyr wanted more than anything to hang up, to pretend the connection was bad. He’d been paged to the duty station and the last thing he needed on a long workday was to have to talk to his ex. Least of all there, with people coming and going all around him. There was no denying that the topic would cause anyone within earshot to listen harder. For the moment no one was about but him, and he had every intention of ending the conversation before the next person walked in. ‘You know how I feel about taking calls during working hours.’ He could have added that he found her calls horrendous at any time of day, but she was fragile and he preferred not to say goodbye to her when she was in an agitated state.

  Her rapid breathing came through the receiver. ‘But you’re not listening to me. If you listened I wouldn’t need to keep saying it.’ She sounded utterly, miserable and her voice was shriller than usual.

  Freyr shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the onset of the headache that had characterized their last year together, an oppressive throb at his temple that no painkiller seemed able to cure. ‘I do hear everything you’re saying, Sara. I just don’t believe in these things, you know that. But thanks for telling me.’ The latter statement was the opposite of how he actually felt. He would have preferred her to keep her dream about their son and his messages from beyond the grave entirely to herself.