My Soul to Take: A Novel of Iceland

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Thora nodded without taking her eyes off the list. "According to this, eight rooms were occupied on Thursday night and ten on Friday."

  "That fits," said Jonas. "Of course, I don't memorize the figures, but that's probably about right." He reached for his beer and took a sip. "This is organic beer," he said as he put the glass back down and wiped the froth from his upper lip.

  Thora noticed Matthew's eyebrows twitching. He sniffed suspiciously at his glass. Before he could grill Jonas about brewing methods, she showed Jonas the list and said, "Do you know any of the guests? Are there any regulars here, for example?"

  "We opened so recently that we haven't established a regular clientele unfortunately, but I must be able to remember them." Jonas put his finger against the name at the top and began there. "Let's see, Mr. and Mrs. Brietnes—no, they were an elderly couple from Norway and are very unlikely to be involved in the fatality." He moved his finger down. "Karl Hermannsson—I don't remember him; he seems to have stayed just the one night. But I remember this couple, Arnar Fridriksson and Asdis Henrysdottir—they've been here before. They're interested in what we're doing and take lots of treatments. They can't be involved in any way. Hang on. Who's this? Throstur Laufeyjarson?" Jonas thought to himself. "Oh, yes, the canoeist. He's been paddling around here, training for a race. He's booked until Wednesday. Very quiet, very moody. Could well be a murderer."

  "Not necessarily," said Thora, who didn't believe murderers were any more reserved or secretive than the rest of us. "What about these foreigners?" She pointed at the next names.

  "Mr. Takahashi and his son." Jonas looked up at Thora and smiled. "Far, far too polite to kill anyone. Both very quiet, and the father's recovering from cancer treatment to boot. His son never leaves his side. You can rule them out." He looked at the next line. "I don't know who these two are, Bjorn Einarsson and Gudny Sveinbjornsdottir—I can't place them. But you ought to recognize this one, Thora: Magnus Baldvinsson, an old left-wing politician."

  When Thora heard the name, it clicked with the face of the man she had seen in the dining room at lunchtime. "Yes, of course. I saw him at lunch. I read an article about him in the paper the other day. He's the grandfather of that city councilor Baldvin Baldvinsson, quite a rising star in politics. What's he doing here?"

  "Just relaxing, I think. He's not exactly chatty, but he did tell me he was brought up in the countryside around here. I suppose the heart and mind return to childhood haunts when people grow older," Jonas said. He carried on down the list. "I don't recall this Thordis Robertsdottir, no idea who she is. I remember this one, though, Robin Kohman—he's a photographer shooting for an article in a travel magazine about western Iceland and the West Fjords. There was a journalist with him for a while, but he's just left. On Tuesday or Wednesday, I think. This Teitur Jakobsson is a stockbroker who's been here for a few days; he seems pleasant enough in a slightly snooty way. He was injured in a riding accident after he arrived and I was certain he'd leave, but he's still here. The rest of the names, I don't recognize. No one arrived on Friday, and no one canceled." He put the papers down on the table, and Thora picked them up.

  "Is it okay if I try talking to these people?" Thora asked.

  "Of course," Jonas said. "But try to treat the guests with consideration. Don't offend them." With a sideways glance at Matthew, he whispered in Icelandic, "Don't let him interrogate anyone. Just make it look like a chat." He straightened up and slapped his thigh. "I'll go and check on the cops. They're examining Birna's room now; I don't know what they think is hidden there."

  Matthew winked and grinned at Thora. "Nope, they definitely won't find anything there," he said, deadpan.

  "And they've got my mobile-phone handset now," Jonas said, "so at least they can keep themselves busy writing down everything on it."

  STEINI SAT AND BROODED, STARING OUT AT THE DRIVEWAY THROUGH the window. For all the traffic that passed, he could have been alone in the world. No cars, no people. He had already watched enough TV to last a lifetime, and he was only twenty-three. If his life had unfolded properly, things would have been different. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this; in fact, he was still waiting for someone to come and tell him that it was all a misunderstanding, that it hadn't happened to him, but to someone else. Anyone, he didn't care who, as long as it was someone else. "Sorry we put you through all this unnecessarily, mate, but these things happen sometimes. You can stand up. Go on. It was all a misunderstanding. Your car isn't in the scrapyard; someone else's is. And you weren't in it." A harsh, bitter laugh escaped him. Fat chance.

  As he shifted in his seat, the reflection of his face appeared in the window. He flinched and pulled his hood farther over his head, leaving as little of his face visible as possible. He would never get used to this. Never. With practiced hands, Steini grasped the wheels of his wheel-chair and rolled away from the window.

  Where was Berta? She had promised to come, and she always kept her word. Dear, wonderful Berta. Without her, he did not know how he'd manage. Therapists, doctors, psychiatrists, whoever, they never stopped nagging him to go to Reykjavik, enroll at the university and do something with his life. It wasn't over just because he was in bad shape. With proper therapy he might be able to get along okay without the wheelchair most of the time, although it would be a slow and painful process. Those people didn't understand him. He had to stay here. He belonged here; this area was his home. There weren't too many people, and most of them knew him. No one recoiled in shock at the terrible mask where his face should have been. In Reykjavik that would happen to him a hundred times a day. He would wither and die in no time. He was infinitely grateful to Berta. She was largely responsible for enabling him to stay here in such a helpless condition.

  Had Berta abandoned him? Had she had enough? Helped him for the last time? Steini wheeled himself over to the television and picked up the remote. He would rather watch trash than follow that thought through to its logical conclusion. He turned up the sound and focused his attention on the screen. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

  Thora and Matthew clinked their glasses. “I do hope this isn't organically cultivated," he said before tasting it.

  Thora laughed. "No, hopefully it's grown using gallons of insecticide and preferably mercury fertilizer." She took a sip. "Whatever the vintner used, the end result is delicious." She put her glass down and picked up a canape to nibble. "I'm starving, absolutely starving."

  "Uh-huh," Matthew said. "I'm glad that hasn't changed. And you haven't changed." He winked at her. "Even your taste in clothes is still so...what's the word...?"

  Thora looked down at her plain sweater and then stuck her tongue out at him. "What was I meant to do—bring an evening gown and stilettos in the hope that someone would invite me out to dinner?"

  "I doubt whether you'd have turned up in an evening gown even if you had been invited out." He adjusted his tie theatrically.

  "Ha, ha," said Thora. "I'm too hungry to defend myself against your hilarious jokes. Where's the food?" She looked at the clock. "Damn. I have to phone home before Soley goes to sleep." She picked up her bag, then remembered that her mobile was in police custody. "Sorry, can I borrow your phone?"

  "Sure," said Matthew, handing her his mobile. "Are your kids all right? I hardly dare ask—are you a grandmother yet?"

  Thora took the phone. "You can relax—you're still dining with a young woman." It was a clamshell phone and she flicked it open. On the display was a photograph of a little black girl with cornrows. "Who's this?" she asked, turning the mobile to face Matthew. Was he a father? Did he live with someone? He'd never mentioned it. He smiled. "That's my daughter."

  "Really?" replied Thora. "She doesn't exactly take after you." She looked at the picture again. "Apart from the hair, perhaps." She wasn't sure what else to say.

  Matthew laughed and ran his hand over his short hair. "No, we're not related. I'm her foster parent through a charity."

  "Oh, how sweet." Thora took a sip of
wine to conceal her relief. "I thought for a moment that you had a wife or girlfriend. I don't go in much for married men. On a scale of attractiveness from one to ten, they rank minus two."

  "Women are strange," Matthew said. "I find you attractive, and still would if you were married."

  "Then you're lucky that I'm divorced," she replied, looking back at the photograph. "She doesn't live with you, does she?" She absolutely couldn't imagine Matthew washing children's clothes, let alone producing such neat plaits on that little head.

  "No, no," said Matthew. "She lives in Rwanda. I know a woman in her village who works on a relief program for the Red Cross. She talked me into it."

  "What's her name?" Thora asked.

  "Who, the woman or the girl?" he teased.

  "The girl, of course," she replied.

  "Laya," he said.

  "That's a pretty name," Thora said, placing both her hands over one of his where it lay on the table. "I'll be quick, because when the food arrives, I'll quite happily hang up on my own children." She dialed her son's number. "Hi, Gylfi, how's it going?"

  "Are you abroad?" said her son's startled voice.

  "No," said Thora, hastily adding, "I borrowed a phone from some foreigner at this hotel because mine isn't working. How are things?"

  "Rubbish. This is dead boring. I want to go home," Gylfi replied crossly.

  "Now, now," Thora said soothingly. "I bet it's fun. Is Soley having a good time?"

  "She always does; I don't know why you bother to ask," Gylfi grumbled. "But I'm going nuts here. Dad's been clowning around with Soley's SingStar '80s. If I hear him do 'Eye of the Tiger' once more, I'll walk out of the door. I mean it."

  "Well, sweetie," Thora said, "it'll be over soon. can I have a word with Soley?" She didn't feel inclined to defend his father's karaoke skills.

  "Don't stay on for too long. I have to phone Sigga. She put her mobile on her stomach just now and let the baby kick a text message to me."

  "Did she?" said Thora, who had long since ceased to be surprised by anything. "And what did it say?"

  " 'jxgt,' " Gylfi answered proudly. He handed the mobile to her daughter without any further explanation and a sweet little voice shouted, "Mum, Mum. Hi, Mum!"

  "Hello, sweetie," said Thora. "Having fun?"

  "Yes. It's okay, but I want you to come home. Dad and Gylfi are always arguing."

  "It won't be long, baby. I'll be really glad to get you back too. Say hello to your dad from me, and I'll see you tomorrow." Thora said goodbye, closed the mobile, and handed it back to Matthew.

  "I didn't understand a single word of that," he said, putting the phone back in his jacket pocket. "Will you speak Icelandic to me later?

  In bed?"

  "Of course I will, you idiot," said Thora in the language of the Vikings, as she moved her foot from the floor to a much warmer place. The wine was starting to have an effect. "Aren't you relieved that I'm not wearing stilettos now?"

  ROSA STOOD BY THE STOVE, MAKING COFFEE IN AN OLD-FASHIONED pot. The process required no concentration and she let her mind roam, but any positive or joyful thoughts refused to linger, invariably yielding to more depressing ones. She forced herself to remember how eagerly her favorite lamb, Stubbur, had drunk from the bottle that morning, but the image dissolved at once. It was forced out by the memory of Bergur coming home the night before last and telling her about the body he had found on the beach. She tried to banish the memory by thinking about her brother's impending visit. That would surely cheer them up; he was always really boisterous. And it was about time. These days the house was so quiet that a visiting stranger might have taken the couple for deaf and dumb. She smiled sadly. As if any strangers visited. Even their acquaintances never called. No one except their closest relatives ever dropped in. It was hardly surprising. Who wanted to come to a house where even the potted plants were infected with unhappiness?

  Rosa sighed. She had no close friend she could ask for advice, but doubted they'd be able to tell her anything she didn't know. Bergur was unhappy because he lived with her and didn't love her. She was unhappy because she lived with him and loved him and her love was not reciprocated. Although she didn't know exactly when he had stopped loving her—if he had ever started—she clearly remembered when she had fallen in love with him: the day they met. She still recalled how handsome he was, so different from the other young men she had known. He had come from the west to help with the spring chores on the farm, and had swept her off her feet immediately. They worked together side by side, up to their elbows in blood from the lambing, and her attraction for him grew as it gradually dawned on her from their conversations how well read and knowledgeable he was. Also, he had been much better spoken than most people, and still was. That gave him a certain cosmopolitan air, although he had never been outside the country. Back then, and even now, she felt like a yokel beside him. She had always known she wasn't good enough for him. Eventually he would leave, and that knowledge filled her with a sadness that was smothering their marriage. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

  For God's sake. She shook herself. You sap, stop feeling sorry for yourself. The aroma of coffee filled her nostrils and cheered her up slightly. Better times might lie ahead after all. She fetched a freshly baked sponge cake and a knife to slice it. Bergur would be back any second and she wanted to have everything ready for him when he returned, weary after his evening's work. He was mending the leaky roof of the barn, and she knew it was both boring and difficult for him. He could hardly be called a handyman, that was certain. She didn't care, though. It wasn't his carpentry skills that had attracted her.

  For dinner, she had boiled the last frozen black pudding from the previous autumn, with potatoes. Realizing that it wasn't the most exciting of meals, she planned to jazz it up by serving her husband sponge cake with his coffee after dinner. She peeped inside the pot and saw that the water was about to boil. A tear suddenly ran down her cheek. That fucking bitch. She wiped away the tear, sniffled and lifted the knife. Fucking little bitch. He was spoken for, couldn't she see that? The lid on the pot rattled suddenly and Rosa jumped. Then she smiled to herself as she lifted it and turned down the heat on the stove. Fucking dead bitch. Dead, dead, dead bitch. Rosa's spirits lifted as she stood with the knife poised above the cake. Dead, and soon to be buried. She had never heard of anyone leaving their wife for a dead bitch.

  MATTHEW RAISED HIS HEAD FROM THE PILLOW. HE WAS THIRSTY and wondered whether that was what had woken him up or a noise from outside. He smiled at his own foolishness when he realized there was nothing but silence outside the open window. With a yawn he got up, taking care not to wake Thora. That was easier said than done, because she had managed to sprawl in such a way that he had great trouble not disturbing her as he climbed out of bed. He went to the bathroom and let the water run while he fetched a glass. The glass was under the tap when a strange sound reached his ears. He turned off the water at once and listened. It sounded like a crying child. Ears pricked, Matthew left the bathroom and tried to work out where the sound was coming from. Suddenly, to his surprise, it stopped. Perhaps there were guests at the hotel with a baby that couldn't sleep. That must be it. Chiding himself for overreacting, he went over to the window to close it properly. Unlike him, Thora liked it wide open and the room was quite cold.

  While he was locking the window, the child began crying again. Now there was no doubt that it came from outside. Matthew opened the curtain and peered out into the bright night. He saw nothing and the noise stopped again, just as suddenly as before. He stood by the window for a while, waiting to hear it once more, but to no avail. Although the temptation to get back into bed was overwhelming, the thought of an infant exposed to the elements was something he could not ignore so donning a bathrobe Matthew stepped outside onto the small patio, careful not to wake Thora. The brisk air immediately called forth goose bumps on his bare calves and a light wind threatened to blow the robe open. Matthew tightened the belt and looked around see
ing nothing but the familiar serene surroundings of the hotel grounds. There was no abundance of places to hide so a short walk around the rugged lawn was enough to clear his conscience; there was no baby to be found. Possibly the infant had been outside with its mother or father and was now back inside. Why anyone would take a baby out in the middle of the night was beyond him but then again he had never had one to call his own so what did he know. He returned to the room and got back under the duvet, taking precautions not to touch Thora with his now cold limbs and body. That would have to wait until he had mustered up some heat.

  One thing was certain, he had heard a child crying and he was equally sure that the child had not been a ghost.

  Chapter

  12

  SUNDAY, 11 June 20 0 6

  THE JAPANESE FATHER and son were so overwhelmingly polite that Thora felt like a drunken oaf in their presence. She tried her best to talk calmly, move slowly, and avoid all unnecessary facial expressions, but to no avail. Matthew was faring much better. Thora, suspecting that he'd learned from his experience working for a German bank, kept her head down and let him do the talking. They had waited in the lobby for the Japanese to return from the short walk that, according to Vigdis from reception, they always took in the mornings. Now they were all sitting in wooden chairs at the front of the hotel, enjoying the rare sunshine.

  "So you didn't know her?" Matthew asked in a low, clear voice. He was still a little annoyed at Thora, who had teased him about the crying child he'd heard in the night. She thought he'd dreamed it.

  The son translated Matthew's words into Japanese for his father. Then he turned back to them. "No, sorry. We don't know who you are referring to."

  "She was an architect, working for the owner of this hotel. A young woman, dark-haired," Matthew explained.

  The old man put a skinny hand on his son's shoulder and said something. The son listened intently, then nodded. He addressed Matthew. "It is possible that my father saw that woman. She was out in the front here, talking to a man in a wheelchair and a young girl. He says she was holding some drawings and writing on them. Could that be her?"