by Various Orca
“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.”
“So why does she think Brynja knows where he is?”
Tryggvi examined me silently from behind the wheel of his car. “You’re an inquisitive fellow,” he said finally. “Is there some special reason you’re asking all these questions?”
“The woman harassed Brynja. She came up to me today. She seems to think I can help her.”
Tryggvi shook his head. “This is a peaceful country. Unlike America, the homicide rate is low—one or two people a year at most. And the murderers generally turn out to be mentally deranged.”
“You mean like that woman?”
“I’m not saying that. But she’s clearly upset by the disappearance of her husband. Maybe he got tired of her. Maybe he got tired of Iceland. I don’t know.”
“So why does she think Brynja knows anything about it?”
“Maybe you should ask her. In the meantime, if that woman gets to be a nuisance, let me know.”
I said I would. He wished me a good day, rolled up his window and eased his car on down the stree
t.
The woman was still watching me from inside the grocery store.
EIGHT
I thought about the tourist information center and its Internet connection. Then I remembered the computer in the little office at the back of Brynja’s house. If Brynja still wasn’t home…
Fifteen minutes later, I let myself in the front door and stood for a moment, listening.
Nothing.
I went through to the kitchen. The door to the old man’s room was open and the nurse was inside, knitting beside his bed. I nodded to her. She nodded back. I went through to the back room and sat down at the desk. The computer was still on. I opened Google and it came up looking exactly as it always did back home. I typed in Gudrun + Njalsdottir + waterfall + death.
It didn’t get me many pages. I clicked through them one by one. Finally, I saw a reference to a Gudrun Njalsdottir who had been found drowned at the base of a waterfall about a year ago. Just as Tryggvi had said, she’d been a reporter specializing in investigative reporting. There was a photograph. She was a gorgeous, dark-haired woman with piercing eyes. The article said an investigation was ongoing. I searched again and found a follow-up article, which said that the investigation had ruled out foul play. There was no mention of murder. There wasn’t even a hint of murder, even though Tryggvi had said the family believed someone had killed her. What had made them think that?
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Brynja’s voice behind me made me jump. I clicked back to Google and cleared the search history.
“I was going to email my dad,” I said. She must have been in the doorway to the room when she spoke because she was halfway across the room now. “It’s okay if I use this computer, right?”
“You should ask first.”
“I would have, but there was no one to ask. I couldn’t find you.”
She was peering at the screen.
“I just logged on,” I said. One thing my past had taught me to do reasonably well was lie. The Major never believed me—well, almost never—but most other people did.
Brynja looked deep into my eyes. Good luck, I thought. Finally she said, “I guess it’s okay.”
I logged into my email account and sent a brief message to the Major to back up my story.
“So, what are you up to today?” I asked when I’d finished.
“I’m supposed to show you around.” She didn’t try to hide her lack of enthusiasm.
“I can look after myself if you have something else you’d rather do,” I said.
“You’re proud of that, aren’t you?”
Huh?
“You keep telling me you can look after yourself.” It seemed to irritate her.
“Well, I can.”
“My father wants me to show you some of the sights, so that’s what I’m going to do. Just give me a chance to check my email and get changed.”
I nodded and retreated to the kitchen to get myself some Icelandic yogurt. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think Brynja believed that I’d just been sending an email. I think she wanted to find out what sites I had been looking at. Well, good luck with that too.
She was frowning when she went through the kitchen to go upstairs.
“I’ll meet you outside,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
I said okay and listened as she went up the stairs. I walked to the front door, opened it and closed it again, loudly. Then I crept upstairs and down the hallway to my left.
“Looking for something?” I asked from the doorway to my room.
It was Brynja’s turn to jump.
She whirled around, red-faced.
“Any particular reason you’re going through my duffel bag?” I asked.
“I—I…”
“I don’t know what you call it here, but back home it’s called snooping, and people don’t like it.”
She didn’t say anything.
“So, are you going to change?” I said. “Or are you ready to go?”
“I’m ready.”
I followed her to her SUV. She didn’t say a word about me using the computer, and I didn’t say anything about her going through my stuff.
I had no idea what she was like with her friends or her family, but with me she acted like an automated tour guide, complete with phony-perky voice and fake frozen smile. She took me to a couple of waterfalls and hiked me through a lava field that was filled with all kinds of weird rock formations. Then we went up the side of a dormant volcano, and finally she walked me down to a black sand beach that, according to her, had caused a lot of ships to run aground over the years. The sailors had mistaken the blackness of the sand for the blackness of deep water.
“Are you hungry?” she asked me after we had hiked and viewed pretty much everything the area had to offer.
The thing about me: I’m always hungry. My mom used to tease me about having a hollow leg. I felt something stab my heart. It happened all the time. I’d be cruising along, then something would remind me of my mom, and I’d feel the pain all over again.
We got back into her vehicle and drove until we reached a cluster of buildings, including a restaurant. We went in and found a table.
“They have the same kind of food you’re used to back home,” she said. “Hamburgers, pizza, stuff like that. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous…” She paused and looked at me. “Never mind. They do an okay hamburger, not that I’ve ever had McDonald’s or anything.”
“I never go to McDonald’s,” I said. “I prefer to eat healthy.” I picked up the menu and looked it over. Besides the burgers, fries and pizza she had mentioned, there were a lot of different kinds of fish and lamb.
“Do you want me to order for you?” she asked.
“I can manage.”
A waitress approached. Brynja ordered in Icelandic. The waitress turned to me.
I’d narrowed my choices down to lamb and shark, but I couldn’t decide which to order. So I asked the waitress. She glanced at Brynja. Maybe she didn’t understand English. Sure enough, she said something to Brynja in Icelandic.
“You can have shark as an appetizer,” Brynja said. “They have a dish called hakarl. You can have smoked lamb for your entrée.”
Sounded good.
Brynja ordered for me.
My shark arrived first—little cubes of it on a plate.
“Go ahead,” Brynja said.
I skewered a piece and popped it into my mouth. I gagged as soon as it was in my mouth. It tasted like motor oil, not that I’ve ever actually tasted motor oil. You know what I mean.
“An Icelandic delicacy?” I asked as soon as I could speak.
“Roughly translated, it’s putrefied shark,” she said with a smile.
“Putrefied?”
“It gives you stamina.” She also said she never ate it.
My lamb arrived about the same time that I smelled cigarettes. “Are you allowed to smoke in restaurants over here?”
Brynja looked surprised. “You smoke?”
“No. But it smells like someone does.” I glanced around, but there wasn’t a cigarette, lit or otherwise, in sight. I sliced some of the lamb and popped it into my mouth.
Holy crap!
“This tastes like cigarettes,” I said. I spit the meat into my napkin.
“It’s smoked lamb,” Brynja said. “It’s also an Icelandic specialty. My grandfather loves it. He has it every year for Christmas.”
“Yeah, well, no offence, but if you blindfolded me and asked me to lick the bottom of an ashtray, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between that and this lamb.”
“Maybe I should have ordered hrutspunga,” she said.
“Which is?”
“Ram’s testicles.”
I gulped. Thank god she hadn’t.
The waitress returned. “She wants to know if everything is okay,” Brynja said. “And before I answer, I should tell you that it’s extremely rude not to eat the food that’s put in front of you. In fact, it would be an insult
to the chef.”
One thing Brynja didn’t know about me—I had eaten boot camp food all summer. I smiled up at the waitress.
“Can I get a soda, please?”
Brynja stared at me as I tucked into the lamb. Brynja’s meal arrived a minute later: a burger and fries. She smiled sweetly as she dipped a fry in mayo and popped it into her mouth.
I cleaned my plate just to show her…well, something. I’m not actually sure what. Brynja and the waitress had a good chat when Brynja went to pay the bill.
“You two sound like you’re great friends,” I said.
“We go to school together.”
Oh.
“What if I hadn’t ordered smoked lamb and putrefied shark?” I asked. “Then what?”
“She would have brought them no matter what you ordered, and I would have told you that they were the correct dishes.”
“You don’t like me much, do you?”
“Tell me what my afi said.”
“Ask him yourself. And stay out of my room.”
We drove back to her place in silence.
There was a helicopter in one of the fields beside Brynja’s house. Brynja smiled when she saw it. She jumped out of the car and ran into the house. I followed.
A muscular man in jeans and a sweatshirt was standing in front of some shelves in the living room, straightening the spines of books and the knickknacks in front of them. He turned when he heard us come in.
“Fadir!” Brynja said, launching herself into his arms.
The man smiled and hugged her back. He looked over the top of her head at me.
“You must be Rennie,” he said. I couldn’t help noticing that he spoke with an accent, whereas Brynja’s English was almost perfect. He released Brynja and came across the room to shake my hand.
“I am Einar,” he said.
Brynja said something I didn’t understand.
“Brynja, manners,” her father chided. “We have a guest. You must speak English.”
Brynja scowled at me. She was in no mood to do me any favors. But her father was another story.
“You’re back early,” she said.
“The clients’ son was unruly,” Einar said. “Whenever we went hiking, he went so far ahead that I lost track of him. His father kept saying I should not worry because his son was an Eagle Scout back in America. I kept telling the father, America isn’t Iceland. When we got to Vatnajökull, the kid disappeared.”
