Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“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?” Thóra asked.

“Who, the woman or the girl?” he teased.

“The girl, of course,” she replied.

“Laya,” he said.

“That’s a pretty name,” Thóra 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 Thóra, 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,” Thóra said soothingly. “I bet it’s fun. Is Sóley 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 Sóley’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,” Thóra said, “it’ll be over soon. Can I have a word with Sóley?” 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 Thóra, 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 Thóra. “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.” Thóra 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 Thóra 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?”

Rósa 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?

Rósa 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 Rósa 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. Rósa’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 Thóra. 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, Thóra 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 Thóra. 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 seeing 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 Thóra with his now cold limbs and body. That would have to wait until he had mustered up some heat.