Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

It stopped hailing as unexpectedly as it had started; one minute it was hammering the windowpanes, and the next everything was absolutely still. It had sounded as if someone had been standing outside tapping a rhythm with his fingers, but when the noise ceased, the silence was just as unbearable; the feeling was very much like being underwater, with the water playing softly about your ears, letting in no sound. The house, which had previously moaned in the wind, complaining bitterly of its harsh treatment, was now silent as well, which magnified the silence between Katrín and Líf. They were reflected in the black glass, and anyone arriving now would surely have chosen to abandon himself to the ravages of nature rather than tackle these furious women. Even Putti, who was used to sticking close to Katrín’s legs, had slunk off to a corner, as far from them and the hole in the floor as possible. Now and then he looked up, tilted his head and stared at them alternately, as if to check whether they were still in conflict. Then he stuck his nose back into the little twisty bun formed by his body.

Katrín sat with her feet up on the kitchen chair, resting her head on her knees and favouring her wounded foot. It was terribly cold inside; better for her to maintain her precious body heat. Although she knew little about the limits of the human body, she suspected they were in danger of freezing to death in the night if they didn’t do something soon: fetch firewood or at least get into their sleeping bags, which were waiting for them in the dining room. But her foot hurt more than ever. She wouldn’t be going out to fetch so much as a stick. And she would sooner freeze to death than ask Líf to do so. Her anger overpowered her instinct for self-preservation, which was positive in a way, since it left no room for fear. She’d never had a reason to arrange her feelings into any sort of hierarchy, but she now knew that anger was the mightiest of them all; fear and sorrow came somewhere below it, retreating as they did before rage which revealed itself to be a cruel master. No doubt these feelings would fade to be replaced by weaker ones, but Katrín was going to enjoy every minute of her fearlessness and take pleasure in observing how bad Líf felt, though actually she’d been slightly disappointed in that regard so far.

Líf actually didn’t seem as distressed as one might have expected after she was found out. She seemed more upset that Katrín couldn’t see her side of the story. It was as if she wasn’t quite right in the head. Katrín had suspected this for some time, but had always attributed it to her own imagination or to her jealousy over Líf’s ability to coast through life’s little traumas. The only emotion she actually seemed capable of was fear. Fear of her own demise.

‘I hate you, Líf.’ The thought of Líf not feeling as miserable as she should prompted Katrín to say this. She was determined to put all her efforts into making Líf’s usual escapism impossible. ‘I hope you freeze to death tonight. Or just disappear. That would be the best solution; then I wouldn’t have to see your dead body.’

Líf’s frown deepened, but then she smiled as if Katrín had been joking. ‘We should try to be friends. It’s all in the past.’

Katrín felt like shouting, but held back. The woman before her was capable of anything. There was no help to be had for dozens, if not hundreds, of kilometres. There was a skeleton beneath their floorboards and some sort of entity haunting them, apparently wishing to do them harm. The situation couldn’t get much worse, yet there was no point moaning and complaining. Katrín bit her lip and buried her face in her knees again. She could feel the pain trying to break through the screen of rage. She forced herself to block it, pushing aside images of Garðar, naked, sleeping in Líf’s arms. It wasn’t easy. Although she hadn’t had the nerve to examine the photos in any detail, they’d burned themselves into her mind and she could imagine the tiniest specifics without any effort. They’d been lying together in a large bed; the impersonal yet tidy environment suggested it was a hotel room, probably in Ísafjörður. Garðar’s eyes were closed; he was either fast asleep or absolutely exhausted from what they’d been doing. Líf’s face was anything but tired as she smiled, bare-breasted, at the camera, which she was holding. Garðar looked exactly the same in every photo, but Líf arranged herself in a variety of positions, looking just like a hunter on safari with photos of his prey. How she could have thought of taking photos under these shameful circumstances was a mystery to Katrín, but she couldn’t imagine asking about it; the reason was doubtless yet another manifestation of Líf’s unbalanced state of mind.

The dim light flickered. Katrín saw fear appear in Líf’s eyes and a wave of satisfaction passed through her. If she’d had the nerve to sit with her in the darkness, she would have leaned forward and blown out the candle in order to cause her the greatest anguish possible. But the thought of being alone in the dark with an insane person held little appeal. On the other hand, the way the candle-stub was jutting just above the candlestick, she expected the light to be extinguished at any second. ‘The candle will go out soon, Líf. What are you going to do then? You can’t seduce the dead. Maybe Garðar’s roaming about now too.’ Líf’s eyes widened, but only for a second. ‘You’re disgusting, Líf.’ Katrín spat out. ‘Disgusting.’

‘I’ve said I’m sorry. What else do you want me to do?’ Líf seemed hurt, sounding as if she felt she were the victim in all of this. ‘Garðar and I were always attracted to each other, even from the beginning. It just happened. We couldn’t do anything about it.’

‘Shut up!’ shouted Katrín, without meaning to. She couldn’t bear to listen again to the account of Líf’s relationship with Garðar. Although Líf had already told Katrín the story from beginning to end, it was from such a biased, narrow perspective that Katrín had to read between the lines to get to the truth. If her intuition was correct, her entire existence since her relationship with Garðar started had been staged. She alone had been unaware that her closest surroundings had been merely props and scenery. Maybe at the time she hadn’t wanted to see what had been revealed now that the poison had poured from Líf’s beautifully shaped mouth; maybe she’d been too in love with Garðar even to glimpse the now crystal clear reality in front of her. Garðar had never loved her. She’d simply been the next woman available once it was clear that Líf had chosen Einar rather than him; maybe he’d thought that seeing him with someone else would change Líf’s mind. But he’d been very wrong. Líf had enjoyed watching him squirm, knowing she could have him whenever she pleased. Líf probably hadn’t loved Garðar any more than he’d had feelings for Katrín; she’d just found it handy to have him as a kind of safety net, a life preserver that you don’t use daily but can reach out for when you need it.

This was all so incomprehensible that Katrín’s head was spinning. For example, she thought that Líf was telling her that she had simply chosen Einar over Garðar after weighing it all up. She hadn’t put it quite so explicitly, but it was impossible to interpret what she’d said any other way; Einar had seemed more financially driven than Garðar and likely to make more money, which meant that he got Líf and she would get him and his riches.

But then Einar had sought company elsewhere too. He’d probably realized that there was something missing in his wife’s character, some capacity for love. Maybe he hadn’t come right out and asked for a divorce because Líf was so devoid of emotion and he was afraid that she would come up with some way of getting back at him; maybe she knew things about him that he didn’t want to come to light. She’d responded in kind and the only thing that Katrín could console herself with was the fact that Líf’s affair with Garðar hadn’t begun then, although she suspected that Líf had tried to make it happen soon after learning of Einar’s infidelity. No doubt it would have been perfect for her – to cheat on her husband with his best friend and rub his face in it at an opportune moment. Garðar had probably resisted the temptation precisely because of his friendship with Einar, not having been able to imagine going behind the back of his childhood companion and best friend. The same didn’t apply where Katrín was concerned, however; she clearly didn’t matter, since he’d taken the first opportunity to jump into bed with Líf once Einar was dead. But however it had all happened, Líf appeared to have also found herself an earlier victim, a shrink who’d been supposed to help her patch up her marriage. What a joke.