It was so calm and quiet outside that Freyr could hear footsteps approaching from within the house. The door opened slowly and silently. The man who appeared in the doorway was dressed in clothes that hung off him loosely, as if he had put them on out of long-standing habit and not bothered to adjust them properly on his body. His thin white hair was wiry and hadn’t been combed for some time. His eyes were swollen. ‘Are you the doctor?’ His voice was hoarse, as if he were speaking for the first time that day.
Freyr affirmed that he was and extended his hand. At first the old man looked at it in surprise, or so it seemed, before taking it. His handshake was weak and he muttered something about Freyr coming in. He didn’t need to take off his shoes. In the lobby, Jesus Christ, a crown of thorns on his head, stared upwards, the very picture of melancholy. The image was in an impressive frame, considering that it was a reproduction, and although Freyr was no art expert he came to the conclusion that the picture and frame were rather new. As he followed Bjarni into the house he spotted a sturdy candle with a golden cross and an inscription from the Bible, a carved wooden plaque praising the Lord, and several crosses similar to those hanging at the entrance. Apart from the image of Jesus, the objects seemed to have been placed quite haphazardly. Perhaps the couple had come across a clearance sale at a Christian bookshop and had had trouble arranging their purchases. Otherwise it was an extremely normal-looking home, apart from the little pile of newspapers and mail lying on the mat beneath the letterbox.
‘Are you a man of faith?’ Freyr sat down on the sofa opposite the widower, who had taken a seat in a tired old easy chair.
The man stared distantly at the coffee table between them, then said: ‘Yes. No. Maybe not right now.’ His voice was devoid of all emotion. Freyr recognized this hollow sound very well from his job, and he’d lost count of the number of times he’d watched people knead their hands together as the defeated widower did now.
‘But Halla? Was she a believer?’
‘No. Yes. The opposite of me. Wasn’t so, but became so.’
‘I ask because your home seems to indicate as much – or at least it gives the impression that Christian folk live here. That’s not too common these days.’ This was a white lie; Freyr wanted to know whether Halla had been gripped by strong religious extremism, which in some cases could be a sign of underlying psychological problems or even illness. Mental illnesses could usually be characterized by changes in thinking, behaviour or mood, or a combination of all three, and Freyr was fairly certain that one or more of these changes must have applied to Bjarni’s deceased wife. He just needed to find out which ones.
‘Halla’s interest in religion resurfaced a short time ago. I didn’t give it much thought, and it didn’t bother me. The only difference was that she started reading the Bible instead of trashy novels.’
‘It looks to me as if her renewed religious interest went a bit deeper than that.’ Freyr let his eyes wander over the Christian decorations. ‘When did you start noticing it?’
The man looked up at the ceiling, as if a calendar were hanging there. ‘Three, four years ago. I don’t remember precisely.’
Freyr changed tack. ‘As far as I understand, your wife didn’t have any obvious difficulties, wasn’t struggling with alcoholism and hadn’t been physically ill. Is that right?’ The old man nodded, apparently sincerely.
‘Was there anything in your relationship or your circumstances that might possibly have deprived her of the will to live?’
‘No. We got along fine. We were happy, even. Or so I thought.’ The man paused. ‘We weren’t in any financial trouble – we’d never been rich, or particularly poor, and we were happy with what we had, which wasn’t likely to change. Although my expenses have been cut in half now, I suppose.’
This final addendum indicated that although the man was crossing an emotional minefield, he did have a mental map of the area and would probably make it through unscathed. He was able to view his circumstances from a neutral perspective; although his black humour wasn’t particularly funny, it was a sign that he wasn’t completely overwhelmed by the gloom of his current situation.
‘I’ve come to help you, as you know,’ said Freyr. ‘There must be a lot going on in your head and hopefully I’m better than nothing if you have any questions. Or I can do the talking, if you find it more comfortable.’
The man snorted. ‘I just want to know why she did it. You can hardly answer that, can you?’
‘No, maybe not, but I think it’s likely she was ill. Mental illness can cause people unbearable pain and they can see no way to relieve their suffering other than suicide. When that’s the case, there’s no one to blame; there’s nothing that you or anyone else could have done. You should keep that firmly in mind.’
The man gave Freyr a sceptical look. ‘Halla wasn’t in any pain. I would have known.’
‘Maybe her faith eased her discomfort, or else she concealed it out of consideration for you.’
The man shook his head, but no longer seemed quite so convinced. ‘I’ve been thinking about it almost constantly since it happened, trying to remember something in her behaviour that I should have noticed. Something that could have helped me prevent her from doing what she did. But I can’t recall anything.’
Freyr decided not to reel off all the principal manifestations of suicidal tendencies. One of the clearest warning signs was a similar earlier attempt. But this was certainly not the case here. Right now it would be unhealthy for the man to become filled with regret; if Freyr were to name some of the signs, it could cause the widower even more distress if it turned out that any of them applied to Halla’s behaviour. Instead Freyr directed the conversation to how Bjarni might best arrange things to help him come to terms with the loss of his wife. The man seemed to listen and take note, and even asked a question or two, which was a good sign. Freyr was heartened to hear that the couple’s daughter, Petra, still lived in town, although the sons had long since left for the south. So the old man wasn’t left entirely alone, and Freyr urged him to have his daughter come and visit as often as possible, to go to her place for supper and accept all the companionship that she and the family had to offer. When asked, Bjarni said that he wasn’t considering following the same path as his wife, which was also a good sign, although his saying it didn’t mean they could assume it was true. Freyr was feeling reasonably satisfied with the way things were going when he realized that he had to get home. Bjarni also looked a bit tired and seemed to have stopped taking in what he was being told.
‘I’m going to look in on you tomorrow, if you don’t mind; and you can call me any time.’ Freyr handed him a business card and watched the man squint at the small lettering. Again Freyr was reassured by the widower’s reaction, since the man showed a sign of interest.
After saying goodbye, Freyr walked to his car. As he reached for the keys in his jacket pocket, he noticed a steeple that he hadn’t seen on his way through the village. Surprised, he returned to the house. ‘One final question: didn’t Halla attend church here in Flateyri?’ he said when the man reappeared in the doorway.
‘Yes.’ Clearly he understood precisely what Freyr was asking. ‘She didn’t belong to the parish in Súðavík, or attend mass or do anything else at that church.’ His voice hardened as he added: ‘She just chose to die there, but I don’t understand why she did it or why she chose that as the location.’ He fell silent, letting his eyes wander past Freyr to the town behind him. ‘Like many of us, her interest in the past grew over the years. She had recently taken to visiting old friends quite often, and she developed an increasing fascination with genealogy.’ He noticed that Freyr found this interesting and clearly wanted to make sure his words weren’t misunderstood, or that anything more could be read into them than he originally intended. ‘But I’ve felt the same, and I didn’t take my own life. It was all perfectly normal.’
On his way to Ísafjörður, Freyr couldn’t help but wonder why the woman had gone to another community�
�s church to kill herself. She’d doubtless wanted to protect her friends and relatives from finding her dead, but she could have chosen the church in Suðureyri, Þingeyri, or Ísafjörður, all of which were much closer. There must have been a reason for her choice, but Freyr found it impossible to guess it. He knew that it mattered; he just couldn’t figure out why.
Chapter 7
The temperature had dropped, yet Katrín’s back was clammy with sweat. The cotton T-shirt felt as if it were glued to her skin and it clung uncomfortably each time she moved. The chill that stung her bare cheeks even though she was burning hot everywhere else was particularly unpleasant. She could endure heat or cold but they didn’t go together at all; it was like eating salted sugar. She stretched, planted her hands on her hips and looked at what she’d accomplished in the last hour or so. When she’d been within a hair’s breadth of getting a thundering headache, she’d given up on the stinking paint smell inside and gone out for fresh air. There she took up where they’d left off in their repairs to the porch the day before. Their progress was nothing to be proud of; so far it had been extremely limited and, if anything, it looked like they had made matters worse. Boards lay strewn about and the irregular edges of the part of the porch that Garðar had decided didn’t need fixing had become even more irregular. In one place Katrín had broken a long plank that reached some way into the undamaged part of the porch. Garðar would be over the moon about that when he turned up again. Líf, on the other hand, would see the funny side. She’d smiled many times during their work today, not least at her own clumsiness. This wasn’t the only example of repairs that had gone haywire. Everywhere inside were half-completed tasks; improvements that they’d begun but quickly given up on or put on hold. No one brought up the topic of when they were planning to complete these difficult projects; Líf had no interest in anything other than what she was doing at any given moment and Katrín and Garðar were both careful not to say a word about their working methods. This wasn’t the first time that they had resorted to denial to try to avoid their problems. Of course they knew that this didn’t work, that it just made things worse; it would probably all come to a chaotic head just before they left and then they’d rush around madly trying to quick-fix everything.
The whole situation just made Katrín want to sigh deeply but she restrained herself, not wanting to break the profound silence to which she was becoming accustomed, and which seemed to be gaining in intensity. Instead she let her hands drop and exhaled silently. Things would sort themselves out one way or the other. The porch spread out beneath her feet, gaping at the world as if it were terribly surprised at all this commotion after being allowed to rot in peace and quiet for decades. Through the large gap she could see the dark soil beneath. Apart from the animal bones that they’d found there, this murky place appeared to be as devoid of vegetation and about as fertile as the moon. Katrín found herself disgusted by the musty odour that arose from beneath the porch, although it wasn’t particularly pungent or even that unpleasant. Perhaps it was the discovery of the bones that still bothered her. In truth she had trouble understanding why the thought of them made her tremble; she wasn’t a vegetarian, so there was no reason why the bones should have awakened any particular emotions in her. Nonetheless she avoided looking under the untouched planks. Perhaps she was afraid of uncovering human bones; the earthly remains of the woman and the boy for whom the crosses had been erected.
‘Ugh.’ Garðar appeared in the doorway, a hideous sight. His face and clothing were covered with splotches of white paint. The dark stubble on his chin no longer looked like a shadow, but instead resembled patchy, poorly groomed feathers. He looked either hung-over or ill and in fact when Katrín squinted, he almost seemed half dead. His bloodshot eyes did nothing to diminish this effect. ‘I was this far from suffocating.’ Garðar showed her a tiny space between his thumb and index finger. ‘I’d forgotten how awful paint thinner is.’ The last time they’d needed to do some decorating at home they’d hired a painter, since money had not been an issue and it had seemed pointless to get their own hands dirty. If someone had suggested that within a few months they’d be on the verge of bankruptcy, they would have smiled sympathetically and reminded that individual to take his medication. ‘I don’t know how long Líf will last. She’s finishing up the door and window frames in the attic.’ Garðar leaned lazily in the doorway. ‘Of course I’ve rarely seen such a poor paint job; in the summer sun it’ll look ridiculous.’ He stepped outside. ‘What happened here?’ Garðar had spotted the damage to the porch. He didn’t sound particularly annoyed.
‘I didn’t know my own strength,’ grinned Katrín. ‘To be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing. I just had to get outside, and this was the obvious task to get on with.’
‘I should have come with you. Too late now; this stink is stuck in my clothes, and probably grafted to my skin, too.’ Garðar ran his hands through his hair and ruffled it to try and get rid of the smell. ‘I was thinking of going for a short hike; I need to air myself out a bit. Do you want to come along?’
‘Absolutely.’ Katrín stood up, relieved not to have to work out the best way to save the porch. She’d prefer to fill in the space beneath the wood with sand or pebbles and then lay new planks over the gap, but something told her that porches weren’t built on frames for nothing. ‘I’m going to get Líf. It’ll do her good to come along.’
‘It’ll also do the house good for her to take a break.’ The porch groaned as Garðar bent down and poked at the edges of the damage. ‘And it looks to me like it’ll do the porch good, too, if we stop for a bit.’ He stood up and followed Katrín inside. ‘Did you go down to the beach earlier?’ he added as he put on his coat in the front entrance and Katrín went upstairs to call Líf. His hand hit a shelf as he pulled on one sleeve and he swore vigorously.
Katrín turned on the stairs and waited until he’d stopped swearing. ‘Down to the beach?’
‘Yes, I saw wet shoeprints and shells on the floor in the living room. I hope you’re not planning on decorating the house with them. I’ve got enough on my hands with the basic renovations, never mind messing about with seashells.’
Katrín smiled quizzically. ‘I didn’t go gathering seashells. I got stuck straight into wrecking the porch.’ She unzipped her jacket. The cold air cooled her, but she soon felt a chill and zipped it back up again. ‘It must just be some rubbish that was here when we came.’
‘I doubt it. I don’t remember seeing it there.’
‘I didn’t bring any shells in here and if you didn’t either, then they must have been here already. Either that or Líf went and got them.’
Garðar looked puzzled. ‘She hasn’t been anywhere. I was working in the room next to hers and I had to listen to her constant racket.’
Katrín shrugged. ‘Well, I hardly think the fox could have brought them in. Or Putti.’
‘No, I suppose not. He’s been lounging around all morning. Anyway, the shells have been lined up to form letters, and to my knowledge dogs aren’t generally fantastic spellers.’
‘What did they spell?’
‘They said “Goodbye”.’ Garðar zipped up his jacket briskly. ‘They must have been there before and I’m just misremembering. Maybe the paint thinner’s going to my head.’
‘Goodbye?’ Katrín frowned. ‘It’ll do you good to get out of the house for a bit.’
The three of them set off, Putti following reluctantly behind them, without discussing where they were headed. None of them wanted to go uphill, and they were all in such a sorry state that they didn’t need to say as much. The sun was as high in the sky as it would get for the time of year, casting long shadows and creating distorted images wherever it shone. The crunching of the pebbles on the path was a familiar sound after they had tramped back and forth along it with the supplies on the first day. Garðar walked unusually slowly, apparently taking each step carefully. He paused at the first house and pretended to be looking at how the downpipes from the
roof were set up. Katrín, however, knew that he was stopping to rest his sore heel.
‘Why are all the windows boarded up?’ Líf pressed her face against the panels covering the window beside the front door. The windows of all the houses had been given the same treatment, making them look as if they’d been blinded. Their house was the only exception – its dirty panes had been left unprotected against storms and wind, but luckily they had held.
‘No doubt to prevent interior damage, if the panes should break.’ Garðar took hold of the downpipe from the rain gutter and shook it.
‘Why should a windowpane break? There’s no one here.’ Líf leaned away from the house.
‘I don’t know, maybe they can get damaged in bad storms or something. Or birds could fly into them.’ Garðar seemed pleased to have come up with an answer for Líf; since neither she nor Katrín knew anything about the matter, neither of them could challenge him. He inspected the downpipe even more carefully and now began examining its fastenings.
‘This is so weird.’ Katrín looked out over the village.
‘The pipe?’ asked Garðar in surprise.
‘No, the settlement here. What must it have been like to live in such a small, isolated place? And how do you think the residents felt moving to Reykjavík after being accustomed to this?’ She gazed at the renovated buildings. Having now experienced for herself how much work was involved in restoring a house in such a place, she was finally able to appreciate how the others might have managed. ‘How must the people have felt, leaving their homes for the last time?’
I Remember You Page 8
