The Undesired

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘No one.’ Ódinn picked up the letters from the tiled floor. Róberta may have been indifferent now to such worldly matters, but he found it disrespectful to leave them to be trampled on by people and dogs. ‘She was unmarried and childless. Pension funds are unlikely to pay out in those circumstances.’

  Diljá crammed the envelope back into the mailbox, suddenly sober. ‘Great. I’m unmarried and childless.’ She turned to Ódinn, who was hunting for the right doorbell. ‘Now I feel even worse about paying into that bottomless pit. If I get cancer, you can marry me on my deathbed and keep my pension.’

  ‘I imagine you’ll have other things on your mind, but thanks all the same.’ He sensed she was waiting for him to return the offer, and refrained from pointing out that he had a daughter. Instead, he tapped in the number of Róberta’s flat, which he had finally managed to locate. ‘I bet there’s someone there,’ he said, as if he could influence the ringing tone emitted by the intercom. Answer, answer.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I don’t know. A relative or a friend packing up her stuff.’

  ‘Dream on. There’ll be nobody there waiting to hand over a box marked “Work-related documents”. I went to the funeral and sat in the second pew. The few relatives who turned up were surfing the net on their phones by the first hymn. They’ll want the money from the sale of the flat but none of them will bother to go through her stuff. They’re that kind of people.’

  Ódinn was beginning to regret having brought Diljá along, though it was better than being alone, and, if it had been left to him, he’d never have taken the decision to come in the first place. Now they were here he might as well search the flat. Of course it would have been preferable to have gone through the proper channels, but that would only have complicated matters. He’d be walking around the same flat, examining the same stuff that no one cared about any longer; the only difference would be that he’d be acting under the watchful eyes of an executor or relative instead of Diljá. And if they had to do everything strictly by the book, it was bound to prove tricky to get the documents released.

  These arguments had worked fine as justifications until they actually got here. ‘Let’s just drop the idea.’

  ‘Are you nuts?’ Diljá looked disgusted. ‘We’re here now. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ll tell you: nothing. So there’s no reason to chicken out now.’ She took the key from his hand and walked over to the door. ‘I’m having second thoughts about marrying you in the hospice.’ She tried unsuccessfully to push the key into the lock. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘It’s probably the key to her flat, not the front door.’ Róberta must have assumed she could get in by ringing one of her neighbours’ bells. Ódinn was flooded with relief until Diljá went over to the buzzer and picked a number at random. It didn’t work, so she tried the next. He watched in silence. What could he do? He couldn’t forcibly drag her out into the street. This was a test. If Diljá managed to get them in, he would shut up and follow her. If not, he would feign disappointment and they would return to the office. Which would he prefer, if he had the choice? He didn’t know.

  ‘Yes, hello.’ Diljá looked so relieved to get an answer, she was almost kissing the pale, plastic grille of the speaker. A tinny ‘hello’ was heard in reply. ‘We’re here to fetch some stuff from Róberta’s flat. She took home some files from work, which we need to collect.’ That was all it required. No need to give their names, specify the workplace or explain how they intended to gain admission to the flat itself. ‘Bingo,’ said Diljá as the buzzer sounded, and she reached for the door.

  The stair-carpet was worn right through to the underlay in places, especially in front of the doors to the flats. On the first floor Róberta had made a rather poignant effort to smarten the place up. A doormat marked Welcome! hid the carpet outside her flat. The door itself bore a sign saying Home Sweet Home, and on the wall beside it she’d hung a vase containing garishly unconvincing plastic flowers. They were as dusty as the ones in the office and it occurred to Ódinn that she might have been responsible for those as well. ‘What do you suppose will happen to this stuff?’

  ‘Probably go to a charity shop. Or the dump. I can’t picture her beneficiaries exactly climbing over each other to get this junk.’

  ‘I guess not.’ Ódinn thought about the entrance to his own flat, which was as impersonal as the empty apartments on the other floors. No ‘Home Sweet Home’ for him and Rún. He seemed to recall that Dísa downstairs had a mat in front of her door; perhaps it was the custom for people to mark their homes in some way and he was the odd one out.

  ‘Jesus. No one’s been here in a while.’ Diljá wrinkled her nose, revealing her prominent front teeth. For a moment she reminded him of a rabbit.

  The air glittered with dust and there was a musty smell as if the windows hadn’t been opened for a long time. Diljá switched on the light and they went in. The first impression was one of extreme tidiness; the flat was filled with figurines and other ornaments that betrayed rather childish taste, but they were all carefully placed, with no sign of mess. In the rack by the door the shoes had been lined up as if with a ruler. Above, two small evening bags hung from a peg. Ódinn couldn’t recall ever seeing Róberta with either. Perhaps she’d brought one to their annual office party, but although he was fairly sure he’d seen her there, Ódinn couldn’t for the life of him remember how she’d been dressed, let alone what sort of bag she was carrying. He suspected his colleagues would be similarly blank – the men, anyway. He was about to ask Diljá if she remembered, but she forestalled him. ‘Wow. It’s like she knew she wasn’t coming back. It’s so weirdly tidy. She must have sensed she didn’t have long to live.’

  Ódinn agreed but didn’t want to encourage such thoughts, so he said: ‘Perhaps she never let it get messy. Some people are born house-proud and insist on keeping everything neat. Let’s hope the whole flat’s like this, then we’ll find the files in no time. Assuming she did actually bring the paperwork home.’ He watched Diljá pick up a blue-glazed statue of a plump, smiling child, which was holding up a shell as if it were a treasure. ‘Don’t break anything. We’d better touch as little as possible.’

  Rolling her eyes, Diljá pretended to drop the ornament, then returned it to its place. ‘Where on earth does someone buy crap like this, anyway?’ She shook her head disapprovingly, as if Róberta had decorated her home with cannabis plants.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Ódinn didn’t want to discuss it. It made him uncomfortable and it was rude. They hadn’t come here to pry into Róberta’s private possessions or judge her taste. At least, he hadn’t. ‘Let’s concentrate on what we came here for – to look for work stuff.’ He went into the kitchen where everything was as immaculate as in the hall; even the dust in the air hadn’t managed to dull the sheen on the clean, moss-coloured wall tiles. The kitchen windows were dressed with frilly curtains. ‘Nothing here, I don’t think.’ The only objects on the kitchen table were a round, crocheted doily with a teapot on top. There was nothing on the worktop or shelves either. And Róberta would hardly have stuffed the papers in the cutlery drawer or fridge.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Diljá squeezed past him. ‘Every kitchen has at least one drawer for odds and ends.’ She pulled out the drawers, one by one, looking disappointed when they contained nothing but the usual kitchenware and tea towels. ‘Perhaps this one is the exception.’ She had no sooner spoken than she found what she was after. ‘Aha!’ She stepped aside so Ódinn could see. ‘What did I tell you?’

  The drawer contained a number of opened envelopes. Ódinn picked up the bundle, uncovering a heap of pens that were strangely at odds with the general tidiness. Flipping through the envelopes, he saw to his surprise that none were addressed to Róberta. The stamps were oddly faded and although he didn’t take an interest in such things, he could tell they were old. ‘Look.’ He handed one to Diljá and read the address on the next. The name was the same on both, the vaguely familiar-sounding Einar Allen. The address
was: The Krókur Care Home. All the letters turned out to be to the same boy. ‘Róberta mentioned letters on her timesheet. She must have been referring to these. But why would she have taken them home with her?’

  Diljá had removed the letter from its envelope. ‘Perhaps she was bored at home. Wanted to read them at her leisure. Didn’t get any letters herself. How should I know?’ She read in silence. ‘This one’s from someone called Eyjalín.’ She looked at Ódinn. ‘Unusual name. I feel like I know it. Could it be the name of a company? Or a cosmetic maybe?’ Frowning, Diljá pored over the name at the bottom of the page. ‘Have you heard it before?’

  Ódinn shook his head. What did the letter-writer’s name matter? ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Looks like it was written by a girl, not a woman. Check out the handwriting.’ She pushed the letter at him. The writing was adolescent, round and cheerful-looking. The accent over the ‘í’ in Eyjalín’s signature was drawn as a heart. ‘She’s asking why he hasn’t answered her letters. She’s broken-hearted. Asks if he’s stopped loving her; says she hates her father.’

  ‘Isn’t that just typical teenage melodrama?’ How long would it be before Rún started hating him?

  ‘I don’t know. There’s something odd about it when you read the rest. She says she doesn’t regret anything and that they’ll have children later and be happy. Whatever the doctor says. Then she starts asking again why he won’t answer.’

  ‘What’s so odd about that?’

  ‘I’d guess that Eyjalín wasn’t even twenty; between fifteen and seventeen, maybe. You don’t tend to give much thought to kids at that age; you’re more likely to be waiting for a knight on a white horse. And what’s this about a doctor?’ Diljá handed him the letter and envelope, apparently expecting him to tidy them away. ‘Here. Pass me the others. I’m curious now.’

  Of course, he could have refused, but he knew she wouldn’t give up until she got what she wanted. Spending time with her felt like ripping off a plaster – it was better to get whatever she suggested over with quickly. ‘I’m going to check out the other rooms in the meantime. We’d better not stay too long.’ Diljá made no comment, just took the envelopes from him and drew up a chair. Ódinn got on with searching the other rooms while she was absorbed in her reading. He had no desire to watch her rummaging around in all the cupboards, especially not in the bedroom where items of a personal nature were most likely to be found. So he began there. He could search the sitting room with Diljá.

  The bedroom was as immaculate as the rest of the flat. The bed was made and Róberta had arranged a row of embroidered cushions on it, which clashed with the rose-patterned throw. Ódinn had never understood the point of throws, let alone cushions. All they did was get in the way when you wanted to go to bed. He wondered what she did with all this clutter at night and guessed she piled it on the upholstered armchair in the corner. There was no room anywhere else. The chest of drawers was almost buried under picture frames and ornaments, while on the bedside table was a large, cumbersome lamp, a book containing a bookmark, and an empty glass. Its drawers were mostly empty, apart from an eye-mask, a bottle of Milk of Magnesia and a pair of tweezers. Ódinn took a quick peek in the chest, closing the drawers immediately when he saw they were full of clothes, apart from the bottom one, which contained knitting needles, balls of wool and a half-completed sleeve.

  He closed the drawer and straightened up. To his surprise, he didn’t find the flat nearly as creepy as he’d feared, although it felt uncomfortable being in a dead woman’s home without permission. He’d been afraid of sensing Róberta behind him or catching a fleeting glimpse of her in a mirror, but nothing like that happened. No gooseflesh or piercing certainty that something was lying in wait for him behind a door or inside a wardrobe. Perhaps the dread that Róberta’s relatives would walk in and catch them red-handed had blocked out all other fears. He hoped it was a sign that he was on the mend and would soon return to normal – ordinary, boring old Ódinn. Not a nervous wreck who walked around with a knot in his stomach, seeing and hearing things that weren’t there. Perhaps it was the flat itself that had this beneficial effect on him. If so, he’d better get his act together and buy it, preferably with all its contents intact, for fear of ruining the atmosphere. He smiled to himself at the absurdity of the idea, but his smile faded when he heard Diljá approaching.

  ‘That Eyjalín must have been off her trolley in the end.’ Diljá stood in the doorway, waving the letters like a fan. ‘When you read them in the right order you can tell she’s getting angrier and angrier with this Einar. In the last letter it sounds like she’s completely deranged. She says he’s betrayed her and never loved her, and God knows what else. At the bottom she’s written his name and crossed it out over and over again, as if to show how much she hates him. You can hardly make out what it says underneath. I could only read it by turning over the page. Einar must have had a nice homecoming when he finally got out.’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘Oh.’ Diljá came into the room. ‘Was he one of the boys in the car?’ Clearly she had been paying closer attention at the weekly staff meetings than her bored demeanour had suggested.

  ‘Yes.’ When Ódinn opened the wardrobe he was met by a cloud of stale perfume. The rail was so weighed down by dresses, jackets and shirts that it bowed in the middle. He stooped to check if there was anything concealed in the bottom of the wardrobe, hoping that he wouldn’t find anything. His wish was granted: there was nothing but old pairs of smart shoes, most of them hopelessly out of fashion.

  ‘I saw this woman at the funeral. Sat next to her, in fact.’ Diljá was examining the photographs on top of the chest of drawers. ‘She behaved pretty oddly.’

  Ódinn stood up. ‘Define “oddly”. Isn’t everyone a bit awkward at a funeral? How are they supposed to behave?’

  ‘I don’t know. But not like her.’

  The photograph had been taken in a studio, but not for any obvious occasion. The woman wasn’t dressed as a bride and looked far too old to have recently graduated from college. He’d never been good at working out people’s ages but he’d have guessed she was around sixty. Like Róberta. ‘Maybe it’s her sister.’ Half-sister was more likely, given how different they looked. Róberta had been stout, grey-eyed and dowdy; the woman in the picture had brown eyes and high cheekbones. Clearly stunning once, she was still glamorous in late middle age.

  ‘No. The family all sat together on the other side. She was a friend. Or maybe a girlfriend. Whoever she was, she was weird.’ Diljá shuddered. ‘It was a bit creepy. She sat like a statue throughout the service, staring straight ahead. I swear she didn’t blink once.’

  ‘I expect she was just dealing with her grief in her own way. Not everyone can cry in public.’ He turned his attention to the shelves at the top of the wardrobe. They contained boxes and bags, all bearing the logo of a supermarket that had long gone out of business. ‘There’s nothing here.’

  After Diljá had peered under the bed and rooted around some more in the cupboards, they went into the sitting room. Neither in there nor in the small adjoining dining room did they find anything connected to work. Ódinn watched as Diljá opened the cupboards in the shelving unit which contained the newish television, then repeated the search in the dining-room sideboard, which emitted a constant clinking of glasses. ‘Perhaps she only took the letters we found in the kitchen?’ She couldn’t hide her disappointment.

  ‘Yes, looks like it.’ Ódinn had been leaning on the easy chair in front of the television, which had lace antimacassars protecting the arms and headrest. ‘Let’s go. We’ve searched everywhere.’

  ‘Except in the bathroom.’

  Ódinn didn’t reply, but let Diljá pop in there on the way out. He didn’t accompany her, having no wish to see the toiletries and other articles that would probably end up in the dustbin. No one uses soap, cosmetics or perfume left by the dead. While he was waiting by the front door, he happened to notice a key hanging from a sma
ll hook. The plastic tag was marked Garage. The writing was slightly blurred as if the label had got wet. For the first time since entering the flat he felt a sense of misgiving. So it seemed he was as crazy as ever. He decided to confront it; he’d had enough. If every instinct told him to put the key down and forget its existence, he would do the exact opposite. ‘Diljá! There’s a garage. Hadn’t we better inspect that rather than waste time looking down the toilet?’ His voice sounded surprisingly steady.

  They went outside and eventually located the right garage. The old hinges squeaked and groaned as Ódinn lifted the heavy wooden door. It was empty apart from an old bicycle and some odds and ends on shelves at the back. ‘Where do you suppose her car is?’ Diljá walked in and looked around.

  ‘Not here, anyway.’ Ódinn felt a deep reluctance to enter.

  ‘It’s probably still in town, plastered with parking tickets.’ Diljá went over to the bike and picked up a shopping bag from beside it. She glanced at Ódinn, waiting for him to join her. He forced himself to enter the concrete box, feeling the knot tightening in his stomach. He fought an urge to look round and check that the door was still open, as if they were in danger of being locked in for good. Swallowing, he tried to concentrate on what Diljá had in her hand. From the expression in her eyes he could tell he must look ashen. She opened her mouth, then shut it and simply handed him the bag. The handles were tied in a double knot. He undid it and pulled out some papers. Eureka! Documents from work. There was a cardboard box, too, containing still more paperwork relating to Krókur. It was standing by the wall, as if she’d intended to put it in the car but forgot. Perhaps on the very morning she left the garage for the last time.

  When Ódinn closed the garage door behind them he felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders, or he had narrowly avoided a car crash. He decided to take the keys to work rather than go back upstairs. They couldn’t be sure of being let in the front door anyway. And the longing to get away from here was suddenly more than he could bear.