The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

by Sjón

  “GOODBYE!”

  She turns a corner and waves as she disappears. I don’t really want to her to go, but I find the situation funny because that is just what she is like. Suffia is Suffia. I laugh out loud at her for the last time.

  I have left the big city behind and reached the old part of Kansas. The houses are made from wood and the roads are gravel tracks. The people are few and slow. I would appear to have walked the whole way and my stupid, post-operative knee hurts. My post-operative knee …

  Following my operation, I stay at the surgical ward at Sana Hospital. I keep falling asleep because the poison is still coursing through my veins and the staff rouse me by shaking me gently. I’m taken through a big corridor in a bright white bed, wearing bright white clothes. I look at the hazy lights above me while they move me along. I feel fine. Smiling, I turn my face to the waiting room as I’m rolled past it. I check her beautiful but anxious eyes when she sees me and am reassured; a feeling of joy takes over my body. She gets up and accompanies me to the side ward. When we are left alone, she comes over to me, indescribably relieved, touches my head gently and kisses me. “I love you,” she says. For more than one long month, she nurses me, cooks my food, entertains me, comforts me when I cry, helps me into bed, is with me, loves me. She never leaves me.

  And now I’m alone …

  My head hurts. My last memory is of the old part of Kansas. Perhaps I’ve had a fall. The clearer my eyesight becomes, the more I feel that I’m flying across a big road. Street lights appear and then disappear just as quickly, and my body feels cool. The sound of an engine hums in my ear and I turn my head to explore my surroundings. A man about forty years old is sitting behind the steering wheel, and I only wake up properly when I realize that he is staring at my thighs.

  “Who are you?”

  I try to look terrified even though I’m not.

  “You can call me Jeff.”

  He winks at me, without smiling. Even though I feel very unsafe, I stay neutral. He wears a faded red cap with visible sweat stains around the headband. He is huge and has pitch-black hairs on his arms. I look more closely and I see that he also has long hairs on his fingers. His stubble bristles; he clearly hasn’t shaved for days. His disgusting lips are so swollen that they might burst at any moment. He is truly hideous. I would really like to know how I got inside his truck, but I remain silent because I am scared of making him angry.

  “Where are we going?” is all I say.

  “Denver, Colorado.”

  He replies while he stares at my breasts. Apart from that, I don’t think a lot about anything during our long drive, but I’m tormented by a hangover and feelings of emptiness and darkness. I’m in anguish. Finally I pluck up the courage to ask him what I’m doing here, but before I have time to open my mouth, he responds as if he could read my mind: “You were lying in the road and I picked you up so you wouldn’t freeze to death. I was fairly sure you had no place to go.”

  I wonder what I was doing on the ground. I’m too exhausted to ask any more questions, so I switch off my thoughts and stare out of the window instead.

  I come round when I feel too strong fingers squeeze my thigh. The man wakes me up; I appear to have fallen asleep and I remove his hand immediately.

  “Easy now; I’m waking you up because we’ll be there in the couple of hours.”

  So why wake me up now? I’m looking at him with fear and loathing when suddenly he turns his face to me. When he realizes that I’m staring at him, he winks at me a second time, and I feel both abused and destroyed. Utterly terrified, I cover myself with my jacket and divert all my energy into not nodding off again because the thought that he might touch me again terrifies me. I try to ignore the endless, long road. I count street lights instead and try my hardest not to think. The beast’s foul smelling eau de cologne makes me nauseous and I keep the window open so as not to throw up. Thus we drive through a dark forest for what feels like forever. At times I try to remember something I think I have forgotten, but I can’t identify what it is, so I go back to counting street lights. This lack of clarity brings on a painful headache which keeps getting worse, but as the houses start to rush by more and more often, I start to feel reassured. We drive past the sign saying Denver and vile Jeff heaves a deep sigh. Just before we reach the city centre, bloody Jeff turns off in another direction. Out of fear I tense every muscle so as to be prepared. He pulls up at a remote and deserted car park and rubs his hands.

  “Thanks.”

  I have thanked him and am about to open the door when that bastard Jeff grabs my wrist and forces me to touch his stiff dick which is caged behind his trousers. Shocked, I try to get away from him, but his hold is strong and I don’t succeed. Even though my heart is pounding, I try to act relaxed and strike up a conversation, something even I don’t understand.

  “I’m into women. I don’t have sex with men. I’ve only ever been into women, ever since I was a child.”

  The idiot doesn’t listen to my words and forces my hand closer to him.

  “I’M GAY!”

  I scream it at him and try to snatch back my hand. When I feel his grip loosen, I turn my head to his disgusting, filthy face. When I see a change in his facial expression, I get ready to save my life. His face turns red and his eyes become insanely angry.

  “What? A fucking dyke? You’re sick! SICK, SICK, SICK!”

  His body is arched and his muscles tensed when I open the door to throw myself out in order to force him to let go of me. When he finally does, I fall a long drop from the high truck. I’m so concerned with making my escape that I don’t feel anything at all when I hit the hard tarmac. All my energy goes into fleeing. It feels as if I’m running underwater; my legs are heavy as they are in dreams. I’m slow and exhausted.

  “Come back so I can have you put in a mental institution!”

  The devil has followed me and roars at me. In order to break away from the darkness, I run towards the light; at times I crawl on all fours. I don’t look back and I fight to escape. I run out of strength and can move no further.

  “Fucking dyke.”

  My energy returns when I discover to my horror that he is still behind me. With the last of my strength, I run to the entrance of a metal building. When I reach the automatic glass doors, I fling myself inside and crawl a few metres before I stop. A couple of people pass me and I am so relieved that my fear starts to fade. The monster doesn’t come inside. I calm myself down and drag myself further inside the big building where I slump against a wall to recover. The place is full of all sorts of shops: clothing shops, a florist, toyshops, cafés and a bookshop. At the end of it all are escalators. I’m into women, it would appear. I wonder why? How did that happen?

  We’re sitting on a bench in the Nuuk Centre outside ITTU. We have shopped for dinner tonight and are eating French hot dogs from Café Mamaq. The shopping centre is fairly quiet, but every now and then people wander past us. She holds my hand and kisses my cheek. I can feel her joy and warmth and look forward to spending a lovely evening with her. She moves closer to me and whispers in my ear. Pure love makes me melt and I smile. As I think about her sweet words, I notice a group of giggling teenagers making remarks about us and I stare at them. I grow a little irritated at her welcome caressing of my back, but I don’t do anything. Two women walk past Nønne Fashion and I turn my head towards them. One of the women sees us and whispers something to her friend. I follow them with my eyes. The friend slowly turns her face to us with a look of surprise. I feel deeply embarrassed. I let go of her lovely hand and quickly finish my hot dog so that we can get out of this place. I see an elderly, fragile man head in our direction. His bag groans with beer bottles. I look at him when I feel her warm hands on my cheeks. She turns my face towards hers and kisses me gently near my lips. I want to kiss her back. The man looks at us, furrows his brow and stops. He glares at us and shakes his head.

  “Why don’t you go home if you want to do that, it’s too hideous to look at!
”

  Then he stomps off in disgust. A feeling of shame and inferiority overwhelms my common sense and I push her hand away from me.

  “Stop it. Not here, it’s too embarrassing!” I say and look at her. The joy drains from her face and is replaced with distress. Her beautiful eyes are veiled with tears and she stares down at the floor. I have hurt her deeply. I shouldn’t be angry with her. She is a loving person. She is not someone I should be ashamed of, she is someone I should be proud to show off. I should have gone over to those grinning, staring and prejudiced people and told them that my love for her cannot be changed and that I’m lucky that she has chosen me because I’m happy. I want to scream at the top of my lungs: “This is my girlfriend!” But I just get up and leave.

  When I can no longer breathe, I run outside and into the city without stopping. I need to drown my blinding headache in strong alcohol. I count the passing cars as I run and slap my forehead when I get it wrong to make me count properly. Even though my body is exhausted and my lungs hurt, I keep moving and I don’t stop until I reach the nearest bar. I go inside and order three shots of neat vodka and down them in quick succession. I start to relax. Every time my thoughts try to take over, I knock common sense into myself with vodka. I feel lighter and I sit down at the bar to enjoy a quiet beer. The bar is murky, lit only with dim red lights. The customers are few, but their loud talk is pleasing to my ears. I can make out someone in a corner and I’m taken aback. My heart aches when I recognize her, but I still can’t work out who she is. Who is she again? Her long hair is dark and loose. Her beautiful body has impressive curves. Her back arches inwards while her buttocks stick out a little. Her legs are straight and I think they would be lovely to touch. I feel warm. Time passes and I give her a few looks while I order stronger drinks. When she turns around, her face is different from what I expected, but it’s OK. I think it will do. As she walks up to me, I look away and pretend to ignore her. She places her hand on my back and moves her face very close to mine.

  “Were you looking at me?” she asks.

  Even though her voice is not what I expected then, it’s all right.

  “Yes.”

  I hope to score her quickly. She smiles and whispers to me. “Why?”

  I smell her neck and whisper back to her. “Cause I want you.”

  She is still for a moment. Then she takes my hand and leads me to the lavatories. The moment we get inside, I turn her towards me and start to kiss her. We enter one of the cubicles and we paw and tear at each other like wild animals. My blood races. I come alive. I stroke her arse and her back. Her breathing deepens. I pin her against the wall and kiss her while I slip my hand under her T-shirt. Her breasts are not particularly big and they are lovely to touch. Her nipples, which I’m busy kissing, are hard. I move my hand from her breasts and down across her stomach. When I reach her belly button, she closes her eyes and starts to pant. I lead my hand away from her belly button and slip my fingertips inside the lining of her trousers. I move my fingers further down because I can wait no longer. Wet. My blood is pumping through my body. I close my eyes and everything inside me starts to burn. I plant wet kisses on her neck and her moaning grows louder. I look down and discover a tattoo on her stomach which I don’t recognize. I feel dizzy and I steady myself by taking deep breaths. I feel her tremble violently and I remove my hand from her and support my back against the wall and my hands on my knees. She comes over to me and gives me wet kisses on my neck. I want to, but I just can’t do it. I can’t do it. I’m overcome by nausea, I push her away and I leave. I stumble through the crowd which has grown larger, looking for the exit. I get outside and I throw up for what seems like forever while I rest my hands against the wall. During a brief pause, I try desperately to drag oxygen into my lungs so as not to suffocate and then I start to throw up again. I still feel queasy, but appear to have puked up all my guts as nothing more comes out. My throat is burning. In order to get my breathing under control, I stand with my head lowered while I inhale deeply.

  Someone touches my shoulder and I turn my head.

  “Are you OK?”

  The petite woman looks to be around fifty or maybe more. I nod while I carry on trying to breathe. She takes my arm and slowly leads me to her car. The tall black SUV is elegant and looks comfortable. She leaves me next to the car while she fetches something from the driver’s seat. She returns with a bottle of water and helps me to drink from it. As my breathing stabilizes, distressing thoughts start to creep up on me again. I discover that I have feelings …

  I go limp and I start to cry. The woman sits down next to me and puts her arms around me for a long time.

  “Do you need something? How can I help you?”

  Her voice is gentle and comforting. I can’t give her an answer because I’m bawling my eyes out and I can’t breathe. She holds me tight, refuses to let go. My sobbing is so convulsive that I have to force myself to stop. The woman dries my tears and waits patiently until I become lucid. Neither the pain in my throat nor my desperate sobs hurt me because my heart suffers more.

  “Can you take me to San Francisco? Please, please, please?”

  I burst into tears again. She embraces me in silence and strokes my hair.

  “Yes, of course. I’m heading that way so I might as well take you, mightn’t I?”

  She comforts me. I nod my head and dry my eyes, hugely relieved. The big seats in the car are covered with light brown leather. The seat on which I sit is so soft that my body relaxes instantly.

  I look at the woman, my saviour. She turns to me frequently with a concerned smile and I start to feel safe. The fine, fragrant car is almost silent and makes me sleepy. I abandon my efforts to count street lights.

  “What’s your name?” I ask out of curiosity.

  “Danielle Michel,” she replies kindly.

  “Hello, Mrs Michel. Thank you very much for helping me.”

  I am on the verge of crying again, but I swallow my tears. She makes no reply, but touches my arm and smiles gently. She clears her throat and makes to speak. I don’t mind.

  “Where are you from?”

  I am tempted to say that I am from Japan, but I can’t lie to a person with such a big heart.

  “I’m from Greenland.”

  I’m reminded of Suffia and am tempted to giggle, but when I can’t manage it, I remain silent.

  “Why are you so far away from home?”

  She asks casually and even though I don’t feel like telling her, I can no longer control my mouth.

  “I’ve lost someone.”

  I can feel that Mrs Michel is struck by grief and struggles to find the words.

  “Who?”

  Her voice makes me feel so safe that I want to answer, but I can’t recall anything.

  “I can’t remember,” I reply without lying.

  I am relieved that Mrs Michel doesn’t think I am insane; instead she looks at me with understanding and unprejudiced eyes. The pain in my heart floats away. I realize that it is morning and that Mrs Michel has a calming effect on me, so I find the courage to look at her without worrying about it. From time to time she touches my arm to ask if I need something. I know perfectly well that there is something in my mind and heart that I need to explore and resolve, but right now I am at ease. We drive for a while in silence. We arrive at Salt Lake City and the many hours we have been driving feel like a short period of time. I am so comfortable that I stay in the car while Mrs Michel gets out to do some shopping.

  She returns, hands me a cup of coffee from Starbucks and turns to me. “Sweetheart, what is Greenland like?”

  She smiles faintly. I try in vain to think of an appropriate answer.

  “It’s cold,” I then say.

  We start the car and drive on. Mrs Michel’s questions become more frequent which makes my body grow restless.

  “What do you do in Greenland? When did you come to the States? Are you visiting someone in San Francisco?”

  Every time I have to re
ply that I don’t know and every time my heart beats faster. Why can’t I give her an answer? Why can’t I remember anything? What am I doing here? What am I doing in San Francisco? As I have not thought so profoundly for a long time, I struggle to come up with a reply. Just as we are about to cross a large bridge, a magical city appears and it dazzles me. My emotions intensify. Whether it is from joy or grief, I don’t know. But I feel too much.

  “SF”—San Francisco. When I see the big sign, I become nervous and my heart hurts. Mrs Michel senses my anxiety and takes my hand. She does not let go of me. A feeling of loss overwhelms me and I focus on my breathing so as not to panic. SF. Now I’m here.

  The streets in the city centre have no specific directions. Up, down, right, forwards, left, down, up, backwards. It is undoubtedly an enchanted city. I know people call it “gay town”. There are cable cars here, small, open trams that you see everywhere. You can follow tall buildings into infinity. Outside the windows, clothes have been hung out to dry next to the dried fish. People look down from the windows and admire the city from the top. I spot the great ocean which I have not seen for an eternity and am reminded of Greenland. I get a little homesick. Mrs Michel asks me to look at her and I become aware that she wants to tell me something.

  “I have to move on. Go for a walk and get some fresh air. Search carefully for the things you repress and don’t be afraid of them. You take care of yourself now.”

  She puts her arms around me, and even though I don’t want her to leave, all I can do is let her go. My throat starts to well up.

  “The things I repress?” I ask confused.

  Mrs Michel looks at me, smiles faintly and drives off. I take a good look at my saviour before I turn around. What things?

  SF. San Francisco is so unique that it can’t be compared to anywhere else, and I decide to do something about my feelings for this city to fill the emptiness inside me. I enter a discreet tattoo parlour and wait to be served. A man with multiple tattoos on his arms comes over and shows me to a chair.