Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

Thóra’s stomach rumbled. A glance at the clock told her that it was well past twelve. She phoned reception and found out that the kitchen was open until half past one. She’d have to be quick. She hastily washed her hands and combed her tangled hair. Being in the basement hadn’t made her look her best, but she wasn’t about to let dirty clothes stop her from reaching the dining room before it closed. She could always turn up dressed to the nines that evening to make up for being scruffy now.

There was only one other guest in the dining room when Thóra entered. It was the elderly man whom she had taken for an accountant or lawyer at breakfast. He didn’t look up or make any attempt to greet her, just stared sadly out through the window, oblivious to the fact that the number of diners had doubled. Where had she seen him before? Thóra chose a table a good distance from him.

She was barely seated when a young man with a professional smile came over and handed her the menu. After thanking him, Thóra ordered a glass of sparkling water to begin with. While the waiter fetched it, she read the lunch menu and chose an omelette with salad. According to the description, the salad was supposed to contain dandelion and sorrel, and she selected it more from curiosity than any other motive. The waiter appeared with her drink at the very moment she put the menu down and he praised her for her choice when she ordered. Thóra suspected he would have done just the same had she ordered raw pork, if it had been available. He did not give an impression of great sincerity.

“Is there any news about the body that was found?” she asked as he filled her glass with water.

Startled by her question, he splashed a little water on the cloth. “Oh, sorry. I’m so clumsy,” he said as he took a linen napkin from the next table.

“That’s okay.” Thóra smiled. “It’s only water.” She waited for him to finish mopping it up. “So is there any news?”

The waiter wrung the damp napkin between his hands and prevaricated. “Um, it’s all a bit embarrassing. I really don’t know what I’m allowed to say. The owner’s holding a meeting with us later to outline what we should tell the guests. We don’t want to start rumors that could cause you unnecessary stress. People come here to rest.”

“I’m not a regular guest. You can tell me anything. I’m working for Jónas. I’m his lawyer, so I’m not just being nosy.”

The waiter looked dubious. “Oh. I understand.” He clearly didn’t, because he said nothing else.

“So you don’t know any more about it? Has the victim been formally identified?”

“No, not officially. Everyone agrees that it’s Birna, the architect.” He shrugged. “But it may turn out to be someone completely different.”

“Did you know her?” asked Thóra.

“Slightly,” replied the waiter. Thóra found his face hard to read. “She was here a lot, so I couldn’t help having dealings with her.”

“You don’t sound as though you thought much of her.” Thóra sipped her fizzy drink and felt the dust from the basement washing away down her throat.

The waiter had clearly had enough of this conversation. “I’d better take your order to the kitchen. The chef sulks if he has to stay later than half past one.” Then he smiled. “To tell you the truth, I couldn’t stand her. She was a total bitch and her being dead doesn’t alter that. She’s still a bitch.” He walked away.

Thóra watched him until he disappeared inside the kitchen with her order. So not everyone agreed with Jónas that Birna had been a lovely person. If the corpse even was Birna.

After lunch, Thóra went back to her room. She had not managed to wheedle any more information out of the waiter, apart from the fact that his name was Jökull. In the end she had been alone in the dining room, because soon after the waiter had taken her order to the kitchen, the elderly man had stood up and left without so much as a glance at her. Thóra had watched him walk past and again had the feeling that there was something familiar about his face, but she couldn’t place him. It could have been anyone, a bus driver from her childhood, perhaps, but she still thought that she ought to recognize him.

Thóra looked at the dreaded box and sighed. She was well aware that the most sensible thing to do would be to get started going through its contents, or sneak a look at Birna’s diary, but the thought of a quick shower was far too tempting. She could get rid of the dust from the basement and have a lie-down. Siestas were a luxury she could rarely allow herself; there were always chores to do at home, and her own bed was nowhere near as appealing, soft, clean, or elegant. She treated herself to both.

Thóra woke with a start. She had set the alarm clock to wake her up after an hour, but it hadn’t gone off. She looked around the room, perplexed, until a knock on the door made her realize where she was. She reached for the dressing gown she had put on after her shower and called out hoarsely, “Who is it?” There was no reply, just another knock. She put on the gown, ran over to the door, and opened it enough just to put her head outside. “Hello?”

“Hello, yourself,” said Matthew. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

Thóra cursed herself for her lack of makeup and for her damp hair, which she had been sleeping on. She ran her hand over it in a vain attempt to tame the wild mop. “Well, hello. So you found it.”

Matthew came in, grinning. “Of course. It wasn’t complicated.” He looked all around. “Nice room.” His eyes came to rest on the box from the sex therapist.

Thóra hadn’t thought to push the box out of sight. She smiled awkwardly.

“Looks like I came just in the nick of time,” he said.

Thóra had never tried anything like the box’s former contents, but she was quite convinced that such devices paled in comparison with the real thing, just like all other surrogates. Smiling to herself, she sat up in bed. Her dressing gown lay crumpled on the floor and she stretched out lazily to pick it up. She should do this sort of thing more often, she thought as she wrapped it around herself and looked for her clothes. Although she had been completely uninhibited before, she wanted to be wearing something when Matthew came back. He had popped out to his rental car to fetch his luggage and throw it into the room he had booked. Thóra couldn’t see what use he had for a room of his own, but she appreciated the courtesy he had shown her by not assuming that he could jump straight into bed with her—even though he had. She smiled again at how terribly pleased she was to see him, glad that he had come in spite of her objections. The problem was, their relationship was already doomed. He was a foreigner and unlikely to thrive in Iceland. When he arrived, she had awkwardly tried to find a topic of conversation and asked him what he thought of the Eurovision Song Contest winner. He had given her a blank look and asked if she was joking. Anyone who was not interested in Eurovision would hardly last a week in Iceland. She dressed hurriedly.

Matthew reappeared just as she was putting on her second sock. “Damn,” he said, disappointed. “I’d forgotten that you’re the world champion in speed-dressing.” He smirked at her. “Of course, the upside is that you’re pretty quick at undressing too.”

“Very funny,” said Thóra. “What do you think of the hotel?” Matthew took a look around and shrugged. “Great. A bit off the beaten track. But what on earth are you doing here?” He added quickly, “Not that I’m complaining, not at all.”

“I’m working for the owner. He’s thinking of suing the people who sold him the property.”

“Ah. Was he ripped off?” Matthew asked. He walked over to the window and pulled open the curtain to admire the view. “Lovely,” he said, and turned back to Thóra.