Халлгримур Хельгасон - The Woman at 1,000 Degrees

‘Yes, that’s right, isn’t it?’ a woman said.

‘Yes,’ I say, staring at the red mark her lips have left on the yellow filter. For some inexplicable reason it disgusts me.

‘And how… how was the war there?’

Now I erupt like Haukadalur’s Geysir. The jet gushes out of me in one big burst of vomit. The cascade lands on the table, toppling an empty glass and ending close to the film star’s plate. A tiny drop ends up on her empty dish. Thirty heads are silenced and turn towards me. The last thing I see is the light brown spew surrounding the crystal foot of the champagne glass that rises from the sludge like a brave statue. At its base the bubbles effortlessly climb the stem like balloons released to the heavens at an outdoor celebration. I observe it as if I were a bird, from the height of the sky. From a distance this celebration looks quite minuscule.

It doesn’t look as if I’ll make it to the fourteenth. How pathetic is that? The elves are constantly demanding new bottles. They demand bottles and continue their jumping around the cliffs, doing endless somersaults in their grassy green shoes. Oh, what could the country ask for, now that everything is lost? But give me my drugs, Lóa, dear, I’ll take them with me to the other side. Where is my egg, my Führer’s Fabergé egg? A picture of him hung on the kitchen wall in Amrum. Frau Baum was her name, the brooming bitch. Is this my last day on earth?

‘Do you mean this here?’

‘Yes, bring it over. Do you know what this is? That’s a hand grenade. Maybe you could get my departure announced on the radio. Oh, you better ring my Magnús all the same.’

‘He’s here. He’s here beside you.’

‘Yes? And the little woman as well?’

‘Yes, Sana is here, too, and…’

‘Shouldn’t we take that… that hand grenade from her?’

‘Oh, my fortune. Grandma did fourteen fishing seasons…’

‘Does it still work?’

‘Mum?’

‘Or was it seventeen? Seventeen probably.’

‘She’s just… this happens sometimes. But then she generally drifts back, you know.’

‘But I had thirteen lives. Thirteen lives and one existence.’

Bob insisted on seeing Michelangelo’s grave, so we went to Santa Croce, he’s buried there with Galileo and Machiavelli, in these sumptuous tombs, and then he wanted to go to his house, oh, sweet thing. Where are you now, Bobby, dear? And always so cheerful… cheerful and cheerful, fine and fine… Darkness, darkness, now you’re descending on me, and the funnel draws closer and closer, or is the boat being rowed? I hear the oars. But the sun followed us down the road like in a de Chirico painting. Yes, miserable century, you were… is that the funnel? Rusty, like a… like a Polish shipyard. We ran down Via dei Pepi like two silly tourists, what a sight, and turned the corner but didn’t make it, the house closed at five on the dot, we reached the locked door, number 70, I think… Is that Dóra? The lovely Dóra? My hotel manager, bless her soul.

‘A thousand four hundred liras a night, she says.’

‘Huh?’

‘A thousand four hundred liras, with made beds and a sink.’

‘Mum…’

Oh, he gave me a ring on the landing that night, bought on the Old Bridge, the Ponte Vecchio, where Leonardo used to buy birds, oh, help me up, I want to piss, I need to piss, I want to end this life with a piss, I definitely want to piss.

‘Up, up, I’m bursting.’

‘Here, let me help you.’

‘Via, Via Dolorosa… where is the light and where is mimosa? When does it close?’

‘Huh? What did you say? Here, that’s it, yes.’

‘When do they close? We have to get there before five. Before five.’

‘It’s seven thirty now.’

‘When does the toilet close?’

‘The toilet? Ha-ha. That’s always open.’

‘He lives in Via Ghibellina, number seventy.’

‘Huh? Who?’

‘It says “Buonarroti” on the bell. I need to piss.’

‘Yes, I’ll help you.’

‘Is that the line?’

‘No, no, they… they don’t need to go… These are your people.’

‘All those people? To watch me pee? I’m no Ava Gardner.’

‘Magnús is here, and Sana and Dóra, too, and then your son Haraldur and Thórdís Alva. And their daughter, Gudrún Marsibil, she just arrived…’

‘Hi, Gran.’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Yes, he’s certainly popular.’

‘Huh? Who?’

‘Death. A real crowd puller. And sold out every time it… No, keep it open.’

‘No, shouldn’t I close it?’

‘No, keep it open. Let people see. Since they’ve come all this way. Did you get their numbers?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Get their numbers, ah, that’s good… Yeah, get their numbers and invite them for the cream… cremation.’

‘How are you feeling, Mum?’

‘I’m peeing.’

‘Shouldn’t we let her pee in peace?’

‘Did you say Gudrún Marsibil?’

‘Yes, she’s here.’

‘Blessed sweetheart. Didn’t you go off swim training to… where was it? Brisbane?’

‘Yes! Hi, Granny. Good to see you. You…’

‘Isn’t that on the eastern coast?’

‘Yes!’

‘On the Pacific?’

‘Yes.’

‘Those were nice pics of you on… that New Zealand trip.’

‘Huh? Did you see them?’

‘Aren’t they a little bit too big on you, your breasts, for swimming?’

‘Huh?’

‘He wasn’t at home when we got there.’

‘Who?’

‘He lives in Via Ghibellina, number seventy. It says “Buonarroti” on the be… Lóa, remember to collect my ashes from the crematorium. It all has to be destroyed, everything thrown away. I don’t want anything… to remain, not a single grain of dust. I really like the Philip guy.’

‘Phi… you mean?’

‘Is he from Brisbane? He reminds me of my Bob. He knew Michelangelo. They were at school together. Lóa, dear, help me up.’

‘Yes, sorry.’

‘If she hadn’t spoken, she wouldn’t have died.’

‘Huh?’

‘If she hadn’t spoken, my little one wouldn’t have died. But I know nothing about the Crocodile, what became of him.’

‘What are you talking about, Mum?’

‘She wouldn’t have died, Blómey, my flower. Maybe you could put some flowers on her grave, Lóa.’

‘Huh?’

‘Maybe you could put some flowers on her grave. She’s in the Chacarita Cemetery.’

Oh, now I’m staggering back to my bed before a throng of fans. No pictures, please! And isn’t my Gudjón here, too? They look like his feet but I can’t turn my head because of the pain in my chest. And the funnel approaches, looking so terribly rusty in the shadows, like a Polish shipyard. Polish shipyard. I hear the gurgle of oars.

‘Why have you all come here?’

‘Because we thought…’

‘That I was about to die? Right, then, I’ll give it a try. Try to do that for you.’

‘No, Mum, no, I meant…’

‘But I wasn’t supposed to go until the fourteenth, what date is it today?’

‘The eighth. Eighth of December.’

‘Yes? It’s Peace-Jón’s day. Where’s the egg? I need the egg. I have to take it with me.’

Oh, how awful it is to be alive. I allow her to fold me and put me under the quilt and then my sight grows misty. It’ll be good to die. To finally be free of these lungs. Is that the laptop? No, I’ll leave that behind, but the egg I’ll take with me, and the drugs, the drugs. Yes, if she hadn’t spoken, that blasted Evita, the streets wouldn’t have emptied and my little sweetheart would still be alive. I’ve always carried the presidential curse. I was a presidential slut, Bæring was right. But I hope he isn’t waiting for me on the other side in his blue jumper with rum and roses. One should be allowed to enjoy some peace after death, after presenting one’s death certificate. I’d rather have Bob and all his plans. With him I could get an audience with the devil right away tomorrow morning. We’d walk along the carpet and kneel together like two tiny children of hell. And the Master raises his blazing finger and says, Velbekomme ,’ in Danish. Yes, yes. Satan speaks Danish. But obviously has an interpreter. He has an interpreter. And then I want to carry it with me, my father’s heart, locked between my clasped hands, they try to free it. Our Father who art in Heaven…