‘So people didn’t approve of Jakob?’ Erlendur said.
‘No, I don’t suppose they did,’ Ezra replied hesitantly, stroking the cat absent-mindedly. ‘There was gossip, as I said. It wasn’t taken seriously. . well, not too seriously, but mud sticks and the rumours dogged him until he died. And still do, I gather,’ he added, glancing up.
‘What did you think?’
‘Me? I don’t know what difference my opinion would make.’
‘Weren’t you friends?’
‘Yes, we were.’
‘Was she going to leave him?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Did you ask him?’
‘No,’ said Ezra. ‘And I don’t know if anyone else did either, because there was no reason to.’
‘I’ve heard it said that she used to haunt him,’ Erlendur continued. ‘Have you any idea what they meant by that?’
‘Well, that’s a load of rubbish, obviously. You’d have to believe in ghosts for a start. An educated man like yourself would hardly do that. Though it’s true he wasn’t the same afterwards. He changed — started avoiding people. Maybe he felt responsible somehow. Maybe he was haunted by her memory. But the idea that she appeared as a ghost in their house and then dragged him to his death in the shipwreck is utter nonsense. Nothing but old wives’ tales.’
‘You mean people implied she caused the shipwreck?’
‘That was one story, yes. You can judge for yourself how much truth there was in that.’
Erlendur nodded again. He knew that despite the popularity of such yarns, few genuinely believed them. They were part of the old Icelandic storytelling tradition that had peopled the landscape with ghosts, elves, trolls, magic stones and unseen beings, linking man to his environment with invisible bonds. In the past people had lived more closely with nature and their lives had depended on it. Respect for the land and the forces latent within it was the theme of many a folk tale, and implicit in them was the warning that no one should underestimate the power of nature. That was also the substance of many of the stories of calamities in the wilderness that he had read and reread until he knew them by heart.
‘But what did you think? About the stories people told about Jakob?’
‘They were nothing to do with me.’
‘Did you grow up together?’
‘No, I’m not from around here. Neither was he. We were about the same age — he was a couple of years older. He came from Reykjavík originally but didn’t talk about it much.’
A pause developed.
‘Do you think you’ll be needing any more fish?’ asked Ezra. He was still caressing the cat but abruptly it sprang to the floor and tore out of the kitchen. It was in such a hurry that Erlendur assumed it must have spotted a mouse.
‘No, thank you, this’ll do,’ he said, rising. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Ezra.
‘There was some rumour that she’d met a British soldier and fled the country with him.’
‘I know the stories but they’re damned lies. Matthildur wasn’t involved with any soldier — that’s a ridiculous idea.’
As Erlendur was on his way out of the kitchen he caught sight of a small object amid the clutter on top of the fridge by the door. He stared at it before moving closer for a better look. It had once been a toy car that would have fitted in a child’s hand but was now faded and weathered, missing its wheels and base so that only the hollow chassis remained.
‘Where did you get this?’ he asked, his eyes fixed on the toy.
‘I found it.’
‘Where?’
‘Let me see. By a foxhole, probably. Somewhere on Hardskafi, I think.’
‘Hardskafi?’
‘Yes, probably. Donkey’s years ago now. I’d forgotten all about it. It’s been sitting there ever since — I was reluctant to throw it away for some reason. It struck me as a bit funny at the time.’
‘Have you any idea when this was?’
‘Goodness, it would have been a long time ago,’ said Ezra. ‘I have a feeling it was around 1980, though I couldn’t swear to it. I expect I was out after foxes. They used to pay a decent price for the tails back then but there’s no market for them nowadays, so people don’t bother to hunt much and the foxes are growing very bold as a result.’
Erlendur couldn’t take his eyes off the car. ‘Can I touch it?’
‘Touch it?’ echoed Ezra in surprise. ‘Of course you can. This isn’t a museum.’
Picking up the toy, Erlendur turned it over in his fingers.
‘You’re welcome to keep it,’ said Ezra, noticing the powerful effect the small object had on his visitor. ‘I’ve no use for it. It doesn’t matter to me — I’m not long for this world anyway.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘My dear lad, keep it.’
‘Did you find anything else in the hole?’ asked Erlendur, pocketing the car.
‘Not that I recall.’
‘Have you any idea how it might have got there?’
‘A fox could have picked it up or maybe a bird nabbed it and dropped it there. Impossible to say.’
‘And you think this was on Hardskafi?’
‘Yes, I’m fairly sure.’
‘Thank you,’ said Erlendur, as if in a daze. He walked out of the house, climbed into his car and drove away, still in shock. In the rear-view mirror he saw Ezra step outside and watch him leave, as Bóas’s words rang in his ears: ‘You find the oddest things in foxholes.’
9
Erlendur sat in his car until evening fell, lighting one cigarette after another and keeping the driver’s window open a crack to prevent the interior from filling with smoke. Ezra’s dried fish lay on the passenger seat but he had no appetite. He had driven down to the shore and, as daylight merged into dusk, he watched a giant container ship glide up the fjord and pondered how heavy industry was transforming people’s lives. Houses and shops were springing up all over the place, served by a network of new roads, and the local economy was booming. The few villagers who had passed the time of day with him — shopkeepers, dockworkers, the boys at the petrol station, all East Fjords born and bred — shared none of Bóas’s and Hrund’s misgivings. They were pleased with the developments. They saw the situation changing so fast it took their breath away.
‘The place was dying on its feet,’ he was told. ‘Now times have changed for the better.’
‘They’ve certainly changed,’ he replied.
His thoughts wandered back to Matthildur, and to the British servicemen who had been fighting for their lives on the moors that night. The pass at Hraevarskörd had been blocked. It was there that their journey had taken a turn for the worse and the soldiers’ death march had begun. Unfamiliar with the climate and terrain, they had ploughed on instead of turning back, climbing ever higher, unwilling to surrender to this remote, alien land to which war had brought them. But in the end they had been forced to admit defeat.
Matthildur had been better prepared, although she should never really have set out. There were countless stories of people who embarked on journeys against their instincts, ignoring all advice and common sense. Was that what Matthildur had done? Such trips often began well, with no hint of imminent danger: the weather pleasant, the going underfoot good and the prospect of a reasonable day’s journey. They would head off full of confidence, only to find themselves halfway along and abruptly confronted with death. Perhaps that was what had happened to Matthildur.
She had been a robust woman, according to Ezra, and would have equipped herself well. She had food and intended to stop at least once. After saying goodbye to her husband early that morning, she had marched off with a high heart. At much the same time the British had been readying themselves to leave. No doubt they had sought local advice and been directed to take the shortest route over the pass. When the storm struck, with a ferocity that stunned them, the group was scattered and each man was forced to fend for himself. Matthild
ur would have found herself in the same predicament. Perhaps she had tried to retrace her steps down from the moors, only to fall in a river and be washed out to sea, which would explain why her body was never found.
But it was also possible that she had never left home in the first place.
The idea was hardly novel. Bóas and Hrund had both hinted as much, going on no more than fickle rumour. But their words had not fallen on deaf ears. Erlendur had an old theory that among the many and various incidents of people going missing in the Icelandic interior, more than one crime had gone undetected. He knew of an example from the Second World War, which bore out his belief. Several years ago he had investigated the discovery of human bones in the Reykjavík suburb of Grafarholt which was then being built. A family man had been murdered and buried in a shallow grave not far from his own front door. His wife, the victim of years of domestic abuse, had stated that he had gone missing in bad weather — she had not heard from him since he set out on foot to cross Hellisheidi, the mountain road between Reykjavík and Selfoss. The matter had not been investigated at the time; he had simply been presumed dead. Then decades later his grave had been uncovered close to where the couple’s house had stood, and the truth had come to light.
Erlendur stubbed out his umpteenth cigarette, delved in his jacket pocket for the broken hunk of metal that had once been a toy car and balanced it on the dashboard. He had postponed a closer inspection, uncertain whether it would be of any use, but now he sat and contemplated the almost unrecognisable object.
He distinctly remembered a toy car of the same make, which had once been a bright red, with windows through which a child’s eye could make out a front seat and a minute steering wheel. The tyres had been white. The car had belonged to Bergur. Erlendur recalled the day it had come to Bakkasel. Their father had been playing the violin at a dance in Seydisfjördur and bought them each a gift. Erlendur had been given a lead soldier holding a rifle with a bayonet on the end. The soldier was painted green, apart from his boots which were black and a pale pink splash where his features could be discerned. It was not the best figure he owned. The colour of the soldier’s face had leaked onto his helmet, his hands were green like his uniform and it was hard to make him stand up. Bergur was presented with the car and immediately fell in love with its small, shiny perfection and miniature steering wheel. Although Erlendur was pleased with his soldier and propped it up in the vanguard of his toy army, Beggi’s car left him feeling oddly resentful.
Lighting up again, he sat and drew on his cigarette, contemplating the piece of metal on his dashboard, dwelling on those long-ago events. The massive freighter had sailed past through the autumn darkness, lights ablaze like a Christmas tree, bringing new prosperity to this remote spot.
He had tried to persuade Beggi to swap his car for the lead soldier but his brother had refused point-blank. He had offered him three soldiers for it, but Beggi just shook his head and carried on playing with the little red car, from which he would not be separated. On one occasion Erlendur had picked it up, looked it over and started playing with it tentatively, but Beggi had immediately demanded its return. They never used to quarrel: this was the only time any rivalry ever reared its head. Erlendur had deliberately flung the car at Beggi so hard that he couldn’t catch it, and it fell on the floor with a clatter. It had startled them both and they had checked it together for any damage. So Beggi had kept his car, in spite of the generous offer, and Erlendur had had no choice but to accept the fact.
He ground out his cigarette. He had not left the engine running, and the car was now cold and dank. Condensation had formed on the windows, obscuring his view. He coughed from the sour reek of smoke and wiped his mouth. He couldn’t say for sure whether this toy had once been Beggi’s. These things were impossible to prove, as he knew better than anyone. But if this battered scrap of metal that Ezra had found by a fox’s lair on Hardskafi had once been Bergur’s shiny red car, it would be the first ever clue to his fate on the moors.
Their quarrel had taken place only two weeks before the disaster. At the time he had still been feeling envious of Bergur’s car.
10
He has crept into his parents’ room in search of comfort and reassurance but his father is unresponsive. He sits impassively on the edge of the bed, stony-faced, mute and withdrawn. It sometimes happens like this. Minutes pass.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Erlendur says timidly.
He feels much calmer than during his earlier frenzied struggle to return to the moors. His fingers and toes are still aching from the worst patches of frostbite but otherwise he is remarkably well and has suffered no harm from his night in the snow.
There are times, when his father is in one of his moods, that he is afraid to disturb him. Beggi too. Then the brothers sense that their father needs to be left in peace, spared the noise and commotion that children bring. When the black cloud is upon him, he tends to withdraw into the sitting room, where they are seldom allowed to set foot, and will practise the violin for hours. He also has two mouth organs, and can play other instruments, such as the accordion. As a result he is much in demand for parties and dances, though he rarely obliges since there is nothing he detests more than rowdy, drunken behaviour. Far more to his taste is standing in for the church organist when he is ill. He also derives a quiet satisfaction from teaching music to the primary-school children, though the opportunity doesn’t often arise. Recently he has established a small string orchestra with musicians from all over the eastern districts. One of them plays the guitar which Erlendur finds much jollier than his father’s violin, particularly since the man in question runs a small record shop and stocks all the latest hits.
His father keeps his violin in a handsome case in the bedroom wardrobe, from which he takes it out most days, together with his sheet music, before retiring to the sitting room. His practice sessions vary in length and the boys are occasionally allowed to watch, but he is unpredictable: at other times he will throw them out and shut the door. The instrument emits squawks and squeaks as he tunes it and warms up the strings, making the boys clamp their hands over their ears. Often the violin is alive under his touch and the strings vibrate to a jaunty tune, filling the house with the purest notes. But there are other days when he can call forth nothing but a sound of dark, plangent yearning, as if for courage and fortitude.
Some days are better than others and Erlendur is learning to recognise his father’s moods, but it is only with hindsight that he can see that he was in the grip of a severe depression. He tries to introduce his sons to the world of music and teach them to play their own instruments and but soon discovers that neither has any real aptitude. They learn a few basics but lack the determination and passion to continue. He doesn’t force them, conceding that there is no point, though he hopes they will eventually learn to appreciate music.
He had grown up to the sound of the accordion and male-voice choirs, then, inspired by the acquisition of a harmonica in his teens, he headed north to Akureyri to study music. Such opportunities were rare in the Depression years but in the event he had to abandon his studies prematurely and return home. He played mainly on borrowed instruments, even at music school, but long cherished the dream of ownership. Over time he saved up enough for a second-hand violin that he had learned was for sale at Höfn, down in the south-east. That was just after Beggi came into the world.
The Bakkasel family have little money to spare and seldom permit themselves any luxuries. Thrift is a necessity. Their farming is on a small scale but the music lessons he gives bring in extra cash and the boys’ mother ekes out their income by working in the fish factory when needs must. Presents are for Christmas and birthdays only, but once in a while the sun breaks through the clouds and their father is in such high spirits that he buys the boys little gifts to make up for the bad times. These are nothing special, just cheap toys, but worth their weight in gold in the eyes of his sons, for whom it is the thought that counts.
In his worst bo
uts of depression, their father takes to his bed and will not leave his room. They are forced to creep around the house on tiptoe. His condition is usually most severe around Christmas and New Year, in the blackest depths of winter when it feels as if the sun will never return. Long, dark days succeed one another and the violin lies untouched in its case, both its celebrations and its dirges silenced.
His father is aware that one of his sons has been found alive but the knowledge is not enough to pierce his isolation or mitigate his anguish. No one knows the violence of the storm better than him: he came close to dying himself. So he does not respond to Erlendur, although the boy has come in need of consoling. His younger son is still missing and the single thought that fills his head is fear that the boy is already dead.
Erlendur stands at a loss beside his father, whose indifference fuels his growing sense of dread that he must somehow be to blame. Trying not to think about what exactly he has done, he longs instead for reassurance that he is mistaken, that he couldn’t have behaved any differently. But his father is unreachable. He will not respond, will not even look at Erlendur. The fact that this son at least is safe does not appear to afford him any solace. The silence stretches out unbearably. It is almost worse than lying in the snow.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, so quietly that the words are barely audible. ‘I didn’t mean to. . I shouldn’t have. .’
His father raises his head and looks at him.
‘What have you got there?’
‘You gave it to me: it’s a soldier,’ he says, opening his fist to show him. ‘Beggi got a little car.’
‘What are you talking about?’
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