Close to the Heel

by Norah McClintock

  “Come on,” she said, still toting my duffel bag as she led me up a flight of stairs and down a hallway to the back of the house. She dropped my bag on the floor of an immaculate room. It, too, was painted white and had a large window that overlooked a meadow and, beyond that, a waterfall that started somewhere in the highlands behind the farm. “This is your room. There’s a toilet and shower across the hall. You have it to yourself. You can get cleaned up if you want. I’ll be downstairs whenever you’re ready to meet my afi.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He won’t be back until the day after tomorrow. He’s got a group.”

  “Group?”

  “Of tourists. That’s what he does.”

  “Your dad’s a tour guide?”

  “Yes.” She seemed to dare me to say something about it.

  I kept my mouth shut, but what I was thinking was, Terrific, I’m stuck here with an old man and a sour girl. This was not at all what I had expected.

  “Okay. Thanks,” I said.

  I waited until I heard her footsteps going down the stairs. Then I hiked my duffel bag up onto the bed, dug out some clean clothes and changed. Reluctantly, I went back downstairs.

  The house was silent.

  “Brynja?” I called tentatively.

  “Back here.”

  I followed her voice and found her standing in the doorway to a room behind the kitchen. A woman came out. She had an enormous handbag over her shoulder. Knitting needles poked out of it. She spoke to Brynja in Icelandic, and Brynja listened intently. The woman nodded at me as she passed. Brynja didn’t introduce us.

  “Come on,” she said to me instead.

  I followed her into the room.

  An old man was lying in a sturdy wood-framed bed that looked enormous in comparison to his shrunken body. But his eyes burned a brilliant and lively blue—Iceland was clearly the land of blue eyes—and his weathered face broke into a nearly toothless smile when he saw Brynja.

  “I have a visitor for you, Afi,” Brynja said, in English this time.

  The old man’s eyes shifted to me. He squinted at me and struggled to sit up.

  “David? Is that really you?” he said in a quivering voice.

  David was my grandfather’s name.

  Brynja went to the bedside and propped the old man up with pillows.

  “No, Afi,” she said. “It’s not David. His name is Rennie. I told you he was coming. David is his grandfather.”

  The old man was staring at me the whole time. He said something to Brynja and gestured with a shaky hand to the table under the window beside the bed. Brynja went to it and picked up a silver-framed photograph. She handed it to him, but he waved his hand and said something else.

  “He wants you to look at it,” she said. She handed it to me.

  There were two young men in the photo, both bundled up against the cold, but both faces clearly visible.

  “The one on the left is Afi,” Brynja said. “The one on the right is your grandfather.”

  He looked so young. They both did.

  The old man said something else.

  “He says you look like him,” Brynja translated.

  I peered at the picture. If you ask me, I didn’t look anything like him. But then I never do see resemblances. When people coo at a tiny baby and says it looks just like its mother or its father, I don’t get it. Babies all look like little aliens to me with their big heads, their even bigger eyes, and their bizarre language of gurgles and screams that only their mothers ever understand.

  Brynja’s grandfather said something else.

  “In English, Afi,” Brynja said gently. “Rennie doesn’t understand Icelandic.” To me she said, “Come closer so he can see you and talk to you.”

  I moved closer to the bed. The old man gestured again, and Brynja pulled a chair over for me to sit on.

  “You are David’s grandson?” he asked.

  “I’m one of them.” I was pretty sure that after sixty years of Christmas letters, he knew about the others.

  “How is he?” the old man asked.

  I glanced at Brynja.

  “I told you, Afi. Remember?” she said. The old man looked confused. “He died,” Brynja said softly. Tears welled up in her eyes as the smile faded from old man’s face.

  “I visited him a while ago,” I said, mostly because no one else was talking. “I spent nearly a month with him.” The old man perked up again, and I told him as much as I could about my grandfather, which turned out to be more than I had realized. Finally the old man asked me what had brought me to Iceland. “He sent me,” I said. “He wants me to go to the interior and do something for him.”

  Naturally, Brynja asked what, and the old man looked at me for an answer.

  I wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure—and I had no idea why—but from everything that my grandfather had said, I assumed that part of the reason I’d been sent here now was because my grandfather thought this old man was dead.

  But he wasn’t.

  I hesitated.

  The old man peered at me, waiting.

  What the heck. He had saved my grandfather’s life. If anyone had the right to know, he did.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out the little journal and pressed it into his hand.

  A phone rang out in the kitchen. Brynja looked over her shoulder in annoyance.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  “My grandfather wanted me to leave this there,” I said when Brynja had left. “He told me exactly where to go.”

  The old man opened the book and squinted at it. He groped for something on his bedside table—eyeglasses. I picked them up and gave them to him. He put them on and flipped through the pages, looking at the sketches. Tears welled up in his eyes. His hands trembled.

  “Who did this belong to?”

  “My grandfather. He said she—”

  The old man looked so sharply at me that I stopped immediately. He snapped the journal shut. What had I done? Something that upset him, that was for sure. I knew then that I was right and that my grandfather had wanted this done now because he thought the old man had died. I wished—not for the first time in my life—that I’d kept my mouth shut.

  But that wasn’t why the old man stopped reading the journal. He was looking over my shoulder. I turned and saw that Brynja had returned. She said something in Icelandic.

  He shook his head and said, “Brynja, leave us.”

  She started to protest, but he spoke to her again. She scowled at me as if it were my fault—which it kind of was—and left the room. He called to her again, and she shut the door behind her. Then he leaned toward me as best he could.

  “You know who this is?” he asked, opening the journal again and holding up the sketch of the woman.

  “I know a little,” I said.

  “You must not say anything to Brynja,” the old man said. “Or her father. You must not let them see that book. Do you understand?”

  “Sure, but—”

  He grasped my hand and squeezed it tightly.

  “You must promise me.”

  His grip was far stronger than I’d expected, and I guessed he had once been a powerful man.

  “I promise,” I said.

  “You must swear it.”

  Swear it?

  “Swear,” he hissed at me. “Swear.”

  I swore I wouldn’t say anything to either Brynja or her father or show them the journal.

  He slumped back against his pillows and closed his eyes. I waited, but other than the gentle rise and fall of his chest, I saw no movement. He was asleep.

  I crept out of the room.

  Brynja was waiting for me in the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest, a scowl on her face.

  SEVEN

  “He’s asleep,” I said.

  Brynja marched out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front of the house.

  “What was that about?” she demanded.

  “I can’t tell you.”
/>
  “He’s my afi.”

  “And it’s up to him who he wants to tell things to.”

  “Why would he tell you something that he didn’t tell me?” She was so angry that she was shaking.

  “I have no idea.” I really didn’t. “But if you have any questions about what your grandfather wants, you should ask him.”

  “Okay, then show me that book.”

  “I can’t do that either.”

  “Why not?” One thing I was noticing about her: the angrier she got, the louder she got.

  “Because it’s not up to me. It’s up to him.”

  She glared at me for a few more seconds before turning and stomping back into the kitchen. I thought she was going to roust the old man, but instead I heard cupboards opening and pots clanging. I glanced at my watch. It was late. She was probably making supper.

  I wasn’t sure what to do. I wasn’t sure either what I had got myself into when I agreed to come here, especially after the old man reacted the way he did. What was he hiding? Did my grandfather even know?

  I went into the kitchen and asked Brynja if she needed help. She ignored me. I said if she was cooking on my account, she shouldn’t bother, that I would take care of myself and didn’t want to put her to any trouble. She still ignored me. I left the house, got into the battered Yaris, found the key and drove over the bridge and out onto the road. I headed for Borgarnes, found a restaurant and ordered a hamburger and fries—just like back home. After that I drove around some more and tried to decide what to do next. I didn’t particularly want to face Brynja again, but I didn’t have much choice. Her father would be back the day after tomorrow. With any luck, he could take me to the interior and I could get my mission over with and be on the plane back home by the end of the week.

  I drove back to the house and tried the door. The knob was wrenched out of my hand before I could turn it, and there was Brynja.

  “Where were you?” she demanded. “It’s late.”

  “Were you worried?”

  Her face turned red. I grinned. “You were, weren’t you?” I said.

  “I was not! But my father called and—”

  “He was worried?”

  “He is being paid to make sure you are safe while you’re here,” she said. “You didn’t say where you were going. It’s dark, and you don’t know your way around.”

  “I got back safe and sound, didn’t I? So you can tell your dad he doesn’t have to worry. I can take care of myself.” I took a step forward, and she retreated just enough to let me into the house. I started for the stairs.

  “Rennie?” For once her voice was soft. “I’m sorry I got angry with you.” “It’s okay.”

  “It’s just that my afi and I are very close.”

  “Really, it’s okay,” I said. To my surprise, she didn’t argue with me. Maybe she actually was sorry. “Hey, Brynja, you know that woman from the gas station? What’s her story? How come she seems to think you and your dad know where her husband is?” And how come, I thought but didn’t ask, you wish the poor guy was dead?

  She smiled sweetly. “I’ll tell you,” she said, “if you show me that book.”

  Nice try.

  “You know I can’t do that, Brynja.”

  The sweet smile vanished.

  “Fine, then I can’t answer your questions either.”

  “Whatever.”

  I went up to bed.

  I woke to an eerily quiet house. I dressed quickly and went downstairs. There was no sign of Brynja. I crept upstairs again and checked the other rooms on the second floor. Besides mine, there were two bedrooms and a second bathroom. All were empty. I went back down to the kitchen. Still no Brynja. I knocked softly at the old man’s door. There was no answer. I pushed it open a crack. He was asleep—at least, I hoped he was. I waited until I saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the blankets. Then I opened another door off the kitchen. It led into a small office. Besides the desk, filing cabinets and bookshelves, there was a computer and printer. I stepped inside for a closer look. The desktop icons looked familiar and included an Internet search connection. But it wasn’t my computer, and Brynja might pop in at any moment.

  I went back into the kitchen and started opening cupboards to see if there was any cereal.

  There wasn’t.

  I tried the fridge and found eggs, bread and containers of something called skyr. I opened one and sniffed it. It smelled okay. Then I grabbed a spoon and tasted some. It was yogurt. I spooned some into a dish, dropped some bread into a toaster on the counter and grabbed a couple of eggs. While the eggs fried and the toast toasted, I ate the skyr. Not bad. Then I tucked into the second course. I washed all my dishes and put them away.

  There was still no sign of Brynja.

  I decided to take a walk. This time I was smart enough to put on my parka. I should have pulled on a tuque too. The wind whipped my ears until they hurt.

  The outbuildings all looked as neat and well maintained as the house. A couple of the smaller ones—storage sheds of some kind, I guessed—had been built right into the earth. At least, that was the way it looked. It probably had something to do with the shortage of wood way back when. That was an interesting fact I’d picked up in my Internet research. Until relatively recently, the largest source of wood in Iceland had been driftwood. That’s because the early settlers—Vikings, mostly—cut down most of the trees to build houses or to burn to keep warm or to fuel the fires needed to make iron. Now only one percent of the land was forested. There was a woodlot on the other side of the little river that Brynja had driven over to get to the house. It didn’t look very big, but it climbed gently up the slope to the base of the highlands. I glanced at the far side of the house, but there was nothing but a large grassy yard with a long narrow rise in the middle of it. Beyond that was a fence, more meadow and a small stream.

  I had just finished taking in everything on the property when I saw a car come over the bridge. It pulled up in front of the house and a woman—not Brynja—got out. It was the old man’s nurse. She waved to me and went inside.

  I still had nothing to do, so I decided to take a run into Borgarnes and poke around there.

  Parking was no problem. I found a place outside a small restaurant. From there I walked up and down the few streets, discovering a tourist shop that sold Icelandic sweaters, mitts and hats; a bakery; a pizzeria; a burger joint with a variety store attached; a small art gallery with a café; and a tourist information center. I wandered in there to pick up a few brochures and thought about using one of the computers to get online. But it sounded expensive—five hundred krónur for thirty minutes, when all I wanted to do was see what was what out here. It wasn’t that important. I asked for a map of the area and then headed back to the car. I was about to get in when someone behind me said, “Excuse me.”

  I turned.

  It was the crazy woman from the gas station.

  “Look, lady—” I began.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She sounded pretty normal. “I hope I didn’t upset you yesterday. But they won’t tell me where he is, and I know they know.”

  “They?”

  “Einar and Brynja.”

  I remembered what Brynja had said about the missing man.

  “Einar and Brynja know where your husband is and they won’t tell you?” That seemed to be what she was saying, but what kind of sense did it make? “Why wouldn’t they tell you if they knew?”

  “Because they think he killed Gudrun.”

  “Gudrun?”

  The woman’s expression changed. She looked confused.

  “I thought you and Brynja…”

  “Me and Brynja what?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought—it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.” She turned to go.

  “Wait,” I said.

  She turned slowly.

  “Who is Gudrun?”

  She shook her head and walked away.

  I ran to catch up to her.

>   “Who is Gudrun? What happened to her?”

  She walked more quickly, darting across the street and disappearing into the grocery store. I was about to chase after her when a police car blocked my path.

  The window of the car whirred down to reveal Brynja’s Uncle Tryggvi, the cop.

  “Is that woman bothering you again?” he asked.

  “No. Not at all. She just apologized for yesterday.”

  Tryggvi glanced around. “Where’s Brynja?”

  “She’s busy. I decided to look around, see if there are any sights worth seeing.”

  “I can give you some ideas, if you want.”

  “Sure.” He took the map from me and circled a couple of nearby destinations.

  “It’s a beautiful country,” he said. “There is a lot to see that you can’t see back in America.”

  “I’m Canadian.”

  He didn’t correct himself but instead started to roll up his window.

  “Who’s Gudrun?” I said.

  The window stopped its ascent.

  “There are many Gudruns in Iceland.”

  “Who’s the Gudrun that that woman’s husband supposedly killed?”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  I nodded.

  “Gudrun Njalsdottir was a reporter for a newspaper in Reykjavik.”

  “Until someone killed her,” I said.

  Tryggvi raised an eyebrow. “Until she died.”

  “So she wasn’t murdered?”

  “She fell over a waterfall. It was probably an accident, but her family thinks she was murdered.”

  “Probably?”

  He stared at me as if wondering what business it was of mine. “The death was ruled Undetermined,” he said. “She drowned. But whether it was an accident or a suicide—”

  “Or murder,” I said.

  “Or homicide,” he said, correcting me, “could not be determined.”

  “But her family thinks she was murdered by that woman’s husband?”

  “There was an investigation, of course. Then her husband disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Left the country. Left his wife behind. She thinks he was the victim of foul play, but we don’t have any evidence of that.”