Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“All I can do is advise you about your next move,” she continued. “Commencing proceedings against the postal service, as you propose, will bring you nothing but extra costs. Nor do I recommend suing the building committee officer.”

“It also costs money to replace the front door. I can’t move the slot any higher—I told you that.” The man and his wife exchanged triumphant looks.

“A front door would cost less than any court case, that’s for certain.” Thóra handed over the last document from the pile she had made before the couple had arrived. “Here’s a letter I’ve written on your behalf.” Both of them reached for the letter, but the husband got there first. “The post office, or the postman, made a procedural error. You, that is both of you, should have been sent a formal notification by registered mail that the height of your letterbox was unlawful, and you should have been given a grace period to rectify it. Postal deliveries should not have been stopped until after that deadline.”

“Registered mail?” the woman snapped. “How could we have received that if they’re not allowed to deliver it to us?” She turned to her husband, looking pleased with herself, but she didn’t get the response she wanted and her scowl returned.

“Oh, come on, don’t be so pedantic,” he snarled. “Registered mail doesn’t come through the letterbox—you have to sign for it.” He turned to Thóra. “Go on.”

“This letter insists that the postal service follow the correct procedures, send a registered letter requiring rectification, and grant you a reasonable deadline. We’ll ask for two months.” She indicated the letter, which the man had read and handed to his wife. “After that time there’s not much we can do, but I suggest that you move the letterbox to the right height. If that can’t be changed and you choose to keep the front door, you can get a mailbox. The hole in it must be within the same height range as for doors. If you opt for that, I advise you to use a tape measure when you put it up, to prevent any further disputes.” She smiled thinly at them.

The man glowered at her as he thought it over. Suddenly he grinned nastily. “Okay, I get it. We send the letter, get the registered letter back, and have two months when the postman has to deliver our letters irrespective of the height of the letterbox. Right?” Thóra nodded. The man stood up, victorious. “He who laughs last laughs loudest. I’ll go and post the letter now, and as soon as I’m given a deadline, I’ll lower the letterbox right down to the threshold. When the deadline runs out, I’ll get a mailbox. Come on, Gerda.”

Thóra accompanied them to the door, where they thanked her and took their leave, the man eager to send off the letter and start phase two of his little war with the postman. Walking back to her desk, Thóra shook her head, astonished at human nature. The things people worried about … She hoped postmen were well paid, but had serious doubts that they were.

No sooner had Thóra sat down than Bragi, her partner in the small legal practice, put his head around the door. He was an older man and specialized in divorce; Thóra couldn’t face handling those cases. Her own divorce had been quite enough for her. Bragi, on the other hand, was in his element and was particularly adept at untangling the most convoluted disputes and getting warring couples to talk without killing each other.

“Well, how did the letterbox go? Do you see it as a test case before the Supreme Court?”

Thóra smiled. “No, they’re going to think things over, but we must remember to send them the bill by courier. I wouldn’t bet on them getting much mail delivered in the future.”

“I hope they get divorced,” said Bragi, rubbing his hands. “That would be a battle and a half.” He took out a Post-it note and handed it to Thóra. “This man phoned while the letterboxers were with you. He asked you to call when you were free.”

Thóra looked at the note and sighed when she saw the name: Jónas Júlíusson. “Oh, great,” she said, looking up at Bragi. “What did he want?”

Just over a year before, Thóra had helped a wealthy middle-aged businessman draw up a contract for his investment in some land and two farmhouses on the Snæfellsnes peninsula. Jónas had made a quick fortune outside Iceland by acquiring half-bankrupt radio stations that he turned around and sold at a huge profit. Thóra was not sure whether he had always been odd or whether having money had turned him eccentric. Right now he was into New Age philosophy and planned to build an enormous holistic-center-cum-spa-hotel where people would pay to have their physical and spiritual ills cured using alternative therapies. Thóra shook her head as she thought about him. “Some hidden structural defect in the building, I understand,” Bragi replied. “He’s unhappy with the property.” He smiled. “Give him a call; he wouldn’t speak to me. He claims your Venus is ascendant in Cancer, which makes you a good lawyer.” Bragi shrugged. “Maybe a strong astral chart is just as good a qualification as a law degree. What do I know?”

“What a fruitcake,” said Thóra, reaching for the telephone.

Jónas had kicked off their professional relationship by drawing up her astral chart, which turned out favorably. That was why he hired her. Thóra suspected that the larger law firms had refused to provide Jónas with information about their lawyers’ exact time of birth and he had been forced to approach a smaller one; there could scarcely be any other explanation for a man of his wealth choosing to deal with a company with only four employees. She dialed the number that Bragi had scribbled down and pulled a face while she waited for him to answer.

“Hello,” said a soft male voice. “Jónas speaking.”

“Hello, Jónas. This is Thóra Gudmundsdóttir at Central Lawyers. You left a message asking me to call.”

“Yes, that’s right. Thank you for calling back.” He sighed heavily.

“My colleague Bragi mentioned a hidden structural defect in the property. What is it exactly?” asked Thóra. She glanced over at Bragi, who nodded.

“It’s awful, I’m telling you. The building is flawed and I’m certain the sellers knew about it and didn’t tell me. I think it will spoil all my plans out here.”

“What kind of flaw are we talking about?” Thóra asked, surprised. The property had been examined by approved surveyors and she had read through their report herself. Nothing unexpected had come up. The acreage of the property was as the sellers had stated, it carried all the rights named in the sale description, and the two farmhouses that were included with the land were so old that a complete renovation was the only option.

“It involves one of the old farmhouses where I had the hotel built, Kirkjustétt, you remember?”

“Yes, I remember it,” replied Thóra, adding, “You know that in the case of real estate, a hidden defect must affect the value by at least ten percent of the purchase price in order for the right to compensation to be established. I can’t imagine anything on that scale in such an old building, even one so large. Also, a hidden defect must be precisely that—hidden. The assessors’ report clearly stated that the buildings needed to be completely renovated.”

“This defect makes the farmhouse effectively useless for my purposes,” Jónas said firmly. “And there’s no doubt that it’s ‘hidden’—the assessors could never have noticed it.”

“What is this defect, then?” Thóra asked, her curiosity piqued. She imagined perhaps a hot spring appearing in the middle of the floor, as was said to have happened in Hveragerdi some years before, but she couldn’t recall there being any geothermal activity in that area.