Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

‘You’re not leaving me here alone.’ The tone of Líf’s voice made it clear how serious she was. ‘I’m going with you.’ The white walls seemed to pale and the yellowish moonlight faded as soon as Líf spoke. The one cloud in the sky had drifted in front of the moon. It seemed to be up to a coin-toss: either Garðar went nowhere or they would go with him. If Líf had suggested that they forget about the beer because she was afraid of remaining behind alone, doubtless Garðar would have given in and they wouldn’t have gone anywhere. But Katrín had never been a lucky person and could pretty much blame herself for having offered two options. If you wanted a specific outcome, you should only suggest one.

The moonlight appeared duller after they’d come out into the twilight, despite the disappearance of the cloud that had temporarily covered the moon. Fortunately it was a short walk to the stream where Garðar had put the beer. Putti trotted along lightly behind them, stopping to urinate against the wall of the house before scampering to catch up with them. At some point a narrow but fairly level path from the porch to the riverbank had formed, and they followed this. It was set to drop below freezing that night and their breath was frosty. There was a melancholy feel to the atmosphere, as if something bad – yet anticipated – had finally taken place; something of which nature alone was aware.

Garðar tried to brighten the mood, though without much success. ‘Let’s make a deal. If you stop talking about the shells, tomorrow I’ll focus on connecting the septic tank so that we can get the toilet running.’ In a little cubby-hole next to the front entrance one of the previous owners had installed a toilet and sink that they couldn’t use, since it wasn’t actually connected, as if the man had given up before completing the project. Similarly, a lot of work had clearly gone into installing a green plastic septic tank in an open pit outside, but that too was unconnected.

‘Any ideas on how to get it in working order would be very welcome.’ Katrín had seen Garðar scratching his head over the septic tank as he tried to work out where this and that pipe ought to connect to the tank and where they were supposed to lead. ‘I think we’re going to have to settle for continuing to pee outside.’ As soon as she said this she regretted not simply having taken him up on his offer. Maybe that would have encouraged him to throw himself into the project and fix the toilet. It wasn’t a thrilling prospect to have to go outside alone, in the middle of the night if necessary.

Garðar didn’t seem too pleased, which just went to show what kind of state they were all in. Usually it took a lot more than that to irritate him. ‘What do you know about what I can or can’t do about these things?’

‘Stop bickering, get the beer and let’s go back inside.’ Líf hopped from foot to foot on the bank above the stream as Garðar inched his way down, very carefully. Katrín moved closer to Líf, while Putti pushed between them so as not to miss anything, apparently having trouble deciding whether he should follow Garðar or remain with the women. Visibility was poor and the ground around the stream might already be frozen. Judging by how carefully he was proceeding, Garðar was obviously keen not to slip on an icy patch and end up in the freezing water. And it can’t have helped that they had discovered they hadn’t brought along any bandages. Smirking, Líf nudged Katrín and called out to Garðar: ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if you fell in?’

‘Ha ha.’ He’d reached the stream and now wiped his dirty hand on a dry tuft of grass dangling over the stream-bed. He turned to the dark water in search of the beer. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’

‘What?’ Katrín tried to see what had caused the renewed frustration in his voice, but she couldn’t see anything except his back and the running water.

‘The beer isn’t here.’ Garðar looked up at them. ‘Did you take it?’

Both swore that they hadn’t. ‘It probably is there. Didn’t you just put it further up or down the stream?’ Katrín looked up and down the channel but caught no glimpse at all of a white plastic bag beneath the vibrant surface of the water.

‘Someone’s taken it.’ Líf whispered this, but in Garðar’s earshot. ‘Do you believe me now?’ She grasped Katrín’s arm tightly.

Putti seemed to sense Líf’s agitation and growled softly. He turned in a circle and barked once into the darkness between the stream and the house. Katrín felt agitated. ‘Come on, Garðar.’ She wanted to know whether someone was standing behind them, but couldn’t bring herself to turn around. ‘We’ll find it tomorrow.’ Líf’s grip was hurting her arm. ‘That’s enough.’

Garðar walked purposefully downstream. ‘The bag’s there.’ He gave them what appeared to be a victorious look. Katrín couldn’t see anything from where she was standing. ‘It’s floated off. I should have put a heavier rock on top of it.’ He stopped, bent down to the stream and lifted the sodden bag. ‘Fuck.’ Garðar held the bag as far from him as he could to keep the water from dripping on him. When the bag had finished emptying itself Garðar turned back and handed it to the two women. ‘I’m going to walk along the bank and see if I can find the cans.’

Katrín could barely stifle a screech. But instead she took the bag and let it drop between her and Líf. Only then did Líf release her grip on her, and Katrín set off to follow Garðar. ‘I’m coming with you. You’re not going alone. What if you fall in?’ As soon as she tried to gain a secure foothold she understood why Garðar had stepped so slowly down the slope; it was saturated with water.

‘Are you two nuts?’ Líf had stopped whispering now and didn’t wait for a reply, but instead hurried after Katrín. She was in such a rush that they both nearly lost their balance when she reached her. But Líf appeared not to notice and said breathlessly:

‘Let’s go back inside. This may be a trap. Whoever it might be out here has taken the beer because he knew that we’d go looking for it, like idiots.’ Realizing the group was on the move, Putti stopped growling and followed the women. He didn’t let the unstable ground bother him, but shot past them on steady paws. He sniffed at the bank and started growling again. ‘See.’ Líf waved in Putti’s direction with her free hand. ‘He senses there’s someone here. Did you see? He was sniffing at the place where the beer was.’

‘He’s always barking at nothing, Líf. Even in town. It doesn’t take anything special.’ Garðar moved just enough to make room for the two women on the narrow bank. ‘We’ll walk from here the little way down to the shore and along it for a bit. Nothing’s going to happen and it’ll do you both good to see that there’s nothing bad hidden behind the next rock. Maybe then I’ll get a break from all your nonsense.’ Putti stared at Garðar and barked when he said nothing more. It was hard to say whether he agreed with him or not.

They set off silently, and it wasn’t until Katrín spotted a can stranded at the mouth of the stream that the silence was broken. They all sped up and even Putti seemed to recover his good mood, lifting his tail, which had hung down since they left the house. Triumphantly, Garðar fished the can out of the water and they continued their walk along the beach, much more cheerful than before. The smell of the sea was refreshing, too, and Putti ran happily ahead only to turn around, run back and then repeat the game immediately. But Garðar was the most noticeably chipper of all of them, holding his head high with satisfaction at having been right about the fate of the beer. His happiness seemed to have spread all the way down to his feet, since he’d nearly stopped limping. He was the first to spot the next can, lying in a clump of weed a short distance from the mouth of the stream, and grabbed it saying that they should have brought the bag with them; carrying ten cans home would be harder in practice than in theory. The next two were also lying a little way away, but they had to walk a short distance more before coming upon the fifth. Líf found it and in her delight she momentarily forgot her fear and ran ahead to fetch the gold-coloured can that gleamed in the moonlight. When she turned around triumphantly, holding the can in the air, Katrín couldn’t help but smile; all her concerns had blown out to sea on the cold breeze. It was then that Putti stopped abruptly and started growling again. Although Katrín couldn’t work out how it was different from the previous growl, it was, seemingly loaded with gravity and fear, as if the dog sensed something threatening it. Or them.