Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Not on my account,” the old woman said. “I only came to pick her up, and we’re in no hurry. You go ahead, Sóldís.”

“Sure. Whatever,” said Sóldís with impeccable teenage nonchalance. She was chewing a wad of bubble gum that was obviously too large, because she was slurring slightly. “What do you want to know?”

“It’s no big deal,” Thóra replied. “We were looking at a list of cars that drove through the Hvalfjördur Tunnel on Sunday, and it seems that you took yours to Reykjavík to be repaired.”

“That’s right,” replied the girl. She jerked her thumb at the elderly lady beside her. “I don’t get it back until Wednesday, so my grandma’s picking me up.”

“Okay,” said Thóra. “My question is, who gave you a lift back from Reykjavík? We’re trying to work out everyone’s movements for that day.”

Judging from her expression, Sóldís thought it was an odd question. “I came back with Thröstur,” she said.

“The canoeist?” said Thóra, taken aback.

“Yes, I heard him saying he was popping over to Reykjavík, and I was a bit stuck, so I asked if he’d give me a lift back. He said that was fine.”

She blew a large bubble and popped it. Then she sucked the strands of gum back into her mouth with great panache. “Steini let me down, so I was lucky Thröstur could help me out.”

“Steini?” Thóra asked. “Who’s Steini?” Surely she didn’t mean the young man in the wheelchair.

“My friend,” the girl answered. “Sort of. He was going to fetch me, but he blew me off at the last minute. He’s a bit weird. He never used to be, but then he had that accident and . . .” She twirled her index finger at her temple.

“You mean the lad in the wheelchair, with all the burns?” Thóra asked in astonishment. “He can drive?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sóldís. “It’s only his right side that’s burned, and the other hand is fine. Both his legs are messed up, but he has a device in his car to help him use the pedals and he drives an automatic.”

“That must make a big difference for him,” Thóra said, trying to conceal her surprise. It had never occurred to her that he would be able to drive. She’d assumed he was completely dependent on others because he was confined to a wheelchair. “How do you know him?” she asked.

“We were in the same class since we were six,” said Sóldís. “There was only one class for each year group, you know, and we were born in the same year. He moved into a house near here after the accident and I started visiting him—at first because I felt sorry for him and then just to chat.”

“So he’s a good friend of yours?” Thóra asked, still struggling to understand. By way of explanation she added, “He seemed very . . . reserved on the two occasions I’ve met him.”

“Yeah, he’s cool. He’s not good with strangers, though,” said Sóldís, snapping her gum. “I think he gets uncomfortable when people stare at him. There are really only two of us who hang out with him, me and his cousin Berta.”

“I’ve met her,” Thóra said. “Are you friends too?”

“Sure, I guess,” Sóldís replied. “I didn’t know her before, because she’s from Reykjavík. I’ve only met her at Steini’s, you know. She’s really nice to him; she seems pretty cool.”

“That was a terrible business,” Sóldís’s grandmother Lára suddenly interjected. “Not many people live around here, so you remember an accident in which two people are killed and one is badly hurt.”

“I understand it was a middle-aged couple from a farm close by here,” said Thóra.

“Yes, it was awful,” the old woman replied. “Probably the worst thing about it was that Gudmundur was drunk. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been driving drunk. It’s been a great strain on their daughter, Rósa. She’s become rather isolated since then. She wasn’t that sociable to start with, but she withdrew into her shell completely after it happened, which is ridiculous, because no one’s blaming her for it.”

Thóra nodded. “So you’re a local?” she asked Lára.

“Yes, born and bred.” She smiled back. Thóra noticed how much Sóldís looked like her. Although there were sixty years between them, they had the same facial features. “I moved to Reykjavík for a few years when I was young, but soon realized it suited me better here. There’s nothing to be gained by living anywhere else. I believe that more and more.”

Thóra smiled. “I’ve come across all manner of intriguing things since I’ve been here. I don’t suppose you knew the people who lived on the two farms belonging to this estate?”

“Kreppa and Kirkjustétt? I most certainly did,” Lára said proudly. “We were the best of friends, me and Gudný, the girl from Kirkjustétt. That’s why I so enjoy coming over here, even if it is difficult to see where the past stops and the present begins.”

“So you remember those times well?” Thóra said as she tried to think what she most wanted to ask.

“I do. Of course, my memory’s starting to go, like everything else, but the funny thing is that the oldest memories seem to last longest. Please don’t hesitate to ask anything you want. Grímur and his brother, Bjarni, weren’t quite like normal people, so you’d probably find your own questions stranger than I would! Life on the farm here was pretty peculiar, so you won’t shock me.”

Thóra could have kissed her. “Oh, I’m so relieved to hear that. I’ve had trouble getting people to discuss it; either they know nothing or don’t want to talk about it.” She took a breath and then fired away. “Do you recall whether the farm had any connection with Nazism? I found a flag and other articles that seem completely out of context and I must say I’m surprised that they should be in the basement of a farm in rural Iceland. Do you know anything about that?”

Lára sighed heavily. “Yes, I’m afraid I do. Bjarni became obsessed with it. You should realize that after his wife, Adalheidur, died, in about 1930, he was never the same. She meant everything to him, and you could say that when she died his mind went with her.” The old woman grinned impishly. “Actually, it was a stroke of luck in some ways, because he literally made money from being weird. He invested in all manner of wild projects that you’d expect to have bankrupted him, but they ended up making him a fortune because of the times we were living in. The war broke out just as he started investing, and luck was on his side. It was pure coincidence that the economy was transformed practically overnight, what with the military occupation and population growth. But poor Grímur, the voice of reason, wasn’t so lucky.”

“Did he go bankrupt?” asked Thóra.

“No, it wasn’t quite that bad, but I think he came close. He was a doctor, but since there was already a doctor here, he didn’t have enough to do, so he increasingly devoted himself to farming. In the end he gave up his medical practice and put everything into building up his farm, but he couldn’t get anyone to work for him. Everyone had gone to Reykjavík, where the Allied forces were paying better wages. Ultimately Bjarni rescued his brother from bankruptcy. He bought all Grímur’s property but still let him treat it as his own—even though the two of them were barely speaking, so it must have been difficult for Grímur to accept his help.

“To cap it all, Grímur’s wife, Kristrún, died around then, leaving him alone to raise their little girl. Kristrún was mentally ill. I hardly knew her, and she didn’t socialize much,” the old woman said. She paused, then continued, “As for this business with the Nazis, Bjarni was visited by people from Reykjavík who wanted to make him into a kind of nationalist leader for western Iceland. He was supposed to enroll young men to create a political presence in this part of the country. There was one in the south and I think in the north too, although they never made much headway.”