That painting could pay for five times the delýsíð she needed. It could pay her rent for the year. It could change her life, if it sold. If one person bought it, then another would surely follow. She knew how these circles were. Word got around quickly in Reykjavík, doubly so among the so-called elite. But she also knew where their money came from. She would change her life, but it wouldn’t be because of the patronage of people like Thorvaldsen. It would be on her own terms.
“It’s not for sale.” Garún’s voice turned cold. “It is not for the likes of you.”
Now it was her turn to spit out the last word with all the resentment she could muster.
Anna Margrét and Sigurður stared at her, incredulous.
“Excuse me?’ he said, puffing up like a rooster. She stared him down.
“You heard me. Not for sale. It’s as you said, you don’t get it. It’s not for people like you.”
She walked away.
Sigurður and Anna Margrét started yelling at Bragi, who started apologising profusely.
“This is a misunderstanding, surely, Garún – wait! Garún!’
He caught her in the alleyway outside the gallery.
“Garún, come on, don’t fuck this up for us! We’re close – come in and apologise and make this better! This is an insane amount of money, we talked about this! This will be a game changer.”
“I’m not apologising for shit, Bragi. That painting is not for sale to those assholes, got it? Now, I’ll be needing the commission for the pieces already sold.”
Bragi stared at her, stunned.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You show up here, fuck up all the hard work I’ve done on your behalf, and then demand to be cashed out? I’d be glad to, dear, but the payments are done on delivery of the artworks and this wreck of an exhibition is up for another month, remember?’
She gritted her teeth in frustration.
“What?’ he kept on. “Thought I’d do you a favour and pay you the advance? I’ll goddamn think about it – if you come in and put this right.”
Garún considered this.
“Right. I see how it is.”
She walked away without sparing him a look back. Fuck them and their money. Her integrity was not for sale.
* * *
She hadn’t been to Sæmundur’s place since last spring, when it had all blown up and she’d finally recognised how toxic their relationship was. Nice as it had been, at certain moments. But in retrospect that’s all it had been. Moments.
It was a raised single-storey house, with the basement floor being only half-sunken. The windows let in some light as a result, but it didn’t matter in Sæmundur’s case. He kept them curtained with heavy, dark drapes.
The rush from telling off the Thorvaldsens and Bragi had quickly worn off as she’d walked from downtown to the university campus. She’d probably burned whatever bridge she had built with Bragi and the gallery in the process. How the hell was she supposed to pay for the delýsíð she needed now? The works already sold at the exhibition would pay her rent for a few months when she eventually got paid, but then what? How was she going to make a living after that? Word didn’t only get around fast with the money-hungry upper class – it spread like wildfire in Reykjavík’s tiny art world. The gallery had already been hesitant to take in a blendingur. If she got on Bragi’s bad side she’d be frozen out for good. Fucking hell. Goddamn assholes. She felt anxious, but also relieved. It had felt so good to walk away with her head held high. If that came at a price, then so what? She’d gladly pay it. She’d fought for everything her entire life. She’d made something out of nothing before. And she would do it again, if she needed to.
That still left the current problem with the delýsíð.
Shit.
But one headache at a time. She needed to call in a favour. One she had hoped she wouldn’t have to ask for.
Garún knocked on Sæmundur’s door, a bit harder than she intended. The whole encounter had left her a bit strung up. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and lit up when little Mæja came trotting along the house, her tail straight up and curled at the end like a question mark, mewing in a complaining tone as Garún picked her up.
“Hi, love.” Garún pressed the cat against her, stroking her little head as she purred loudly like a broken engine. “I’ve missed you, baby.”
She still regretted leaving her with Sæmundur, but at the time it had felt like the right call. There were too many noxious fumes in her apartment from the paints and the delýsíð, a cat could easily die when exposed to them. Or so she thought. At least with Sæmundur she got to go outside.
Sæmundur opened the door wearing a dark look of anger that instantly faded into shock when he saw her. This is how they had last said goodbye to each other. Garún holding Mæja at his doorstep. Except then it had been in the pouring rain.
“So,” she said after a short silence. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
Fjögur
BEFORE
They’d woken up late, that day. Garún got up before Sæmundur and made breakfast. The cold spring sun lit up the small apartment through grimy windows. Mæja jumped off the kitchen cabinet, where she usually slept. The cat stretched and mewed. Already she was begging and Garún gave her a piece of dried fish. When breakfast was ready Garún got Sæmundur out of bed. He’d barely moved, even though she hadn’t been especially quiet. They ate porridge and rye bread with butter at the rickety kitchen table. Mæja rubbed herself against their feet and purred loudly.
“What time is the party tonight?’ Garún asked.
“It’s not a party,” Sæmundur said. “It’s a social event. Everyone’s who’s anyone at the university will be there. Donors as well.”
“Just because it’s a boring party doesn’t mean that it’s not a party.”
Garún stirred her porridge listlessly. It was already cold and growing colder by the second. Like the sinking feeling in her stomach.
“So, what time is it?’
“I don’t know. Eight? Something like that.”
“When should I be over?’
Sæmundur focused on eating.
“I’m not sure people are allowed to bring dates.”
“Okay.”
The words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t used to that. Garún stood up and threw away the rest of her porridge. She felt nauseous. She didn’t want to have this conversation – didn’t want to believe she had to have this conversation.
“Sæmi. Are you ashamed of me?’
He stopped eating and looked at her. She forced herself to turn around and face him. His face expressed hurt and something else. Regret? It felt like an act to her. She’d seen this fake indignation too many times.
“Garún, come on. You know I’m not.”
“Then why don’t you want me to go with you?’
“I do want you to come with me.”
He reached out and held her hand. Started stroking her fingers with his. He’d done that when they’d first begun sleeping together. It hurt feeling him do it now, only to misguide her. Convince her of the lie he was telling her.
“I don’t want to accidentally stir up trouble by bringing a plus one when it’s not expected. I want to make a good impression, that’s all.”
“Which will definitely not happen if that plus one is a blendingur.” He started to object but she didn’t give him the chance. “I know how these people are. I know what they’d think if I was there. I know why you don’t want to bring me. I just … I thought you’d still at least ask me to go with you.”
“Garún, love, please listen to me. I want you to be there with me. I’d feel so much better. But I’ve been stirring up enough shit at Svartiskóli already without adding insult to injury. It has nothing to do with who you are. Trust me on this.”
He got up and moved next to her. Held her eyes with his, stroked her hair behind her ear.
She didn’t believe him. But he would never admit to this ugliness in his
heart. He would never tell her the truth about this. This lie wasn’t only for her. It was also for himself. Maybe if he lied to her enough times it would become true for him as well.
She wasn’t willing to let this go. Not like this. He was lying to her, acting as if she was imagining things, being hostile and paranoid. She wasn’t. She knew she wasn’t. She would prove to herself and him that she was telling the truth. Even if it broke everything they’d built together. If it was all based on lies, it wasn’t worth anything to begin with.
Humans have no real way of defending themselves against the huldufólk’s emotional empathy. The natural ability is also what allows huldufólk to barricade their emotions from an invasive reader. She’d done it instinctively when they’d first met, and he’d later admitted to her that he found it uncomfortable. This was after they’d been together for several months. Garún had been occasionally reaching out to feel Sæmundur’s feelings. Usually when they were doing something nice – out walking together, talking, drinking – but what really did it for her was when they were making love. Feeling his desire, pleasure, eagerness, on top of her own – it was intoxicating. But it had been a one-way street.
She had promised not to do this any more. It made him feel kind of abused, the privacy of his emotions broken, as he had no ability to reach back. It wasn’t a bridge between them, but a wedge. So she’d stopped. As integral to the huldufólk as the ability was, it wasn’t everything to her. She was human as well. So they had built a human intimacy, based on whispered secrets, gentle intuition and good intentions. She told herself she didn’t have to know for a fact what he was feeling all the time. It surprised her that after a while it felt as if she did anyway, and vice versa. Subtly they’d grown so close that she could tell what was on his mind depending on how his brow furrowed as he pored over his manuscripts, how he scratched his head when he was worrying over something, and likewise how he held her when she was rolling a cigarette over and over on the balcony, knowing she felt depressed and alone. It might not do enough to pull her out of the slump, but it warmed her heart. They had built a bridge between them.
Now they stood at opposite ends of a chasm. She felt as if nothing could possibly close this gap between them. If she reached out and scanned his feelings to know that he was telling the truth, then she could trust him. But in doing so she would have broken her promise to him, irreversibly shredding the tender connections they had cultivated with each other. He wouldn’t be able to forgive her. And if she was right – she couldn’t forgive him, either. They were at an impasse. The only way for no one to get hurt was to accept the lie. An impossible choice.
He saw her worrying, saw some glimpse of this storm of doubt and fear tearing through her. He held her shoulders, looked into her eyes.
“Garún, you know how important this is to me. I’m on my last extension for my deadlines and getting some people in the department to back me up could really help me out. Almía’s really gunning for me. They’re gonna kick me out if I don’t get someone to help.”
“You wouldn’t have to worry so much if you’d just done it steadily over the school year. If you’d just—”
He rolled his eyes, threw up his hands in exasperated defeat.
“Yes, yes, I know, Garún! I know how this-and-that would be if I had done this-and-that. But this is how things are right now. I can’t do anything about that.”
He went and started to get dressed. It looked as if he had decided to leave.
“All right. You’ll do what you want. As usual.” She went to the balcony and lit herself a cigarette. “I knew you didn’t care. Like you don’t care about anything. You have no problem with how people treat me. It’s no skin off your back. You don’t even care how the Crown treats people like me – they fund your university, after all.”
“Don’t say things you can’t take back. I do care! I can’t stand how these fucking snobs treat you, or me for that matter! They are thick-skulled, mindless drones. But I still have to go. Besides, it’s not like your friends treat me any better.”
A cold feeling sank in Garún’s stomach.
“Is that so? What about them? How are they mistreating you?’
Sæmundur struggled with buttoning his shirt as he responded.
“Well, it’s just … they think they’re so much better than anyone else. These people are so smug that it makes me sick.”
“Right. And you think that’s the same as me not being able to meet anybody in your department? As not being able to attend as a university student if I wanted to?’ The words turned to ice as she spat them out. “Spare me this pathetic pretence of an inferiority complex. They think you’re all right.”
“No, they don’t. They only tolerate me because they know I can get them moss. Without that I’m just an annoying stray that follows you everywhere.”
She smoked, contemplating. Tapped the ashes from the cigarette.
“And so what? Have you ever considered that the reason they might act strangely around you has nothing to do with you, but simply because you’re with me? Then you complain about it, when I can’t even meet the fucking snobs that you call your colleagues!’
“Yeah, but … that’s different.”
He shrugged, trying to make it seem nonchalant.
“Why?’ She shook her head, blowing smoke. “It’s different, all right. You don’t meet my friends because you don’t want to. I don’t have that choice, apparently. You are such a fucking hypocrite.”
“Your friends are artists! It’s completely different! You know how Svartiskóli is regarding huldufólk and blendingar – the Crown runs the entire goddamn university, like you said! What can I do about that? You know I don’t want to keep you a secret.”
“You say you don’t want to – but you do. You’re still ashamed of me.”
He was fully dressed. Her cigarette had burned up. Bluegrey smoke flowed from her mouth as she talked.
* * *
Garún sat for a long while on the sofa after Sæmundur had gone home, staring into empty air as she smoked and petted Mæja. She tried to paint but everything she made was flat and unexciting. She finally got up and put on her moss green coat.
The train rattled down the elevated railway. The trains in Reykjavík were tired and worn-out, second-rate carriages that the Crown imported from the mainland. She exited at Hlemmur. The station was packed. It was the height of rush hour. Two police officers stood guard at the end of the platform, lazily carrying heavy skorrifles as if they were toys. They made her sick, their faces hard and threatening.
They stopped her as she was heading from the train platform. Mæja was cuddled up to her inside her coat and they told her to stop and show them what she was hiding. It’s just my cat, she explained, I’m bringing it to my friend who will be taking care of it. Do you live in the city, they had asked. She said yes. They asked for documentation. She had some. It was one of the most expensive things she had ever purchased. The huldufólk living outside the city walls in Huldufjörður were not officially documented anywhere. If they managed to move into the city they could apply for official papers of identification, but a blendingur couldn’t even pass through the gates. The city’s bureaucracy wouldn’t make blendingar official citizens, not unless they were born in Reykjavík. Even then they would have a hard time. Diljá had been the one who had hooked her up with a forgery. She knew people.
The officers inspected her papers carefully, then her. She did not meet their eyes as they took her in from head to toe, obviously and obnoxiously eyeing her up. She felt afraid of what they might do.
“Fancy outfit,” one of them said, “for someone like you. Where do you think you’re going?’
“I’m just going to see a friend,” she replied.
The officer handed her papers to his comrade.
“Do these look fake to you?’ he casually asked.
He kept his eyes fixed on Garún, looking for the slightest sign of anxiety. Her heart was racing. She wanted to run. But the
y had guns. One false move and they’d shoot her without hesitation. And no one would mind. Just another illegal blendingur taken care of.
“I was born here.”
Her voice sounded weaker and less confident than she’d wanted.
The other officer went thoroughly over her papers with a stern look. This was it. This was how everything would end for her. They would ask her to come with them back to the station for questioning and she would disappear.
Then they’d handed her back the papers.
“Don’t go making any trouble.”
She nodded numbly, took her papers and walked away, holding back her instinct to run as fast as she could, trying to look composed.
“Fucking whore,” one of them muttered, loud enough that it would definitely be within her earshot.
Her ears rang with seething rage, but she just walked on, her heart racing, holding the cat tight up against her chest. She started to purr and Garún started to feel a bit better. Then she almost burst into tears. But she bit back and buried the feeling, as she’d done countless times. Don’t waste your energy on sorrow, she told herself. Get angry instead.
It had started to rain. A type of rain rarely seen in Hrímland, falling straight down from the sky in the calm weather. An inexhaustible spring downpour that meant to drown this rock in the ocean where it belonged. She stood outside his door, drenched, holding Mæja up close to her for comfort. She knocked.
She forced herself to smile at him when he opened the door, a startled look on his face. He was wearing his suit. It didn’t fit him properly. She still thought he looked good. Afterwards, she wondered why she hadn’t told him what had happened, how scared she had been, how badly she had wanted to go in and cry and hide from the world for a while. She didn’t want him to accept her out of pity. She didn’t want anyone to see her this vulnerable.
“Hi,” she said, stroking away the wet hair sticking to her forehead. “I thought I’d go with you to the party.”
It was a ridiculous thing to say. But she saw the answer written on his face, clear as day. Still, she had to know for sure. She reached out and read his emotions. Not holding back, she took him by surprise and dug deep.
Shadows of the Short Days Page 6
