Auður Ólafsdóttir - Butterflies in November

Two weeks later the accountant and amateur pilot came to collect me with all my papers and computer and, shortly afterwards, I signed the marriage certificate. It is impossible for me to pinpoint exactly when my opinion of him began to change. It was probably not until our divorce that it occurred to me that I should have got to know my husband a bit better.

The boy shakes his head.

“No,” he says.

“No, what?”

I don’t understand him and he doesn’t understand me, so I get out of the car, open the back door and apprehensively lead him a few yards away from the edge of the road into the mist and help him unzip his fly. The car engine is still running and the lights, windscreen wipers and radio are all on. The weather forecast is being read: the outlook is for ongoing mild temperatures and rain. This is now the rainiest November ever recorded on this island, says a familiar voice that resonates across the barren heath. At a distance of a few yards, the voice already begins to sound more flirtatious.

“No, sweetie, there are no lions on the road.” He’s beside himself with fear and can’t handle the situation, so I hold his skinny penis to prevent him from sprinkling his new velvet trousers, and a hair-thin, almost transparent silver thread spurts into the mist and darkness. This is the first time I’ve helped a male to pee. The question now is whether I can pee in front of him as well.

I think I discern a cairn a short distance away, in the mist. It seems the ideal place for me to squat like some aboriginal woman giving birth in the depths of the forest. Can I leave him behind in the car with his seat belt tightly fastened? What if I stepped into a hole and got stuck there and never came back? Can one never let a child out of sight? Never take a few minutes’ break? I would be immediately out of view and he’d be left alone with his huge hearing aids, so terrified that he’d pee in his pants, if he hadn’t just relieved himself. He’d cry and produce weird sounds. I imagine he’d try to call out for his mother or grandad. Not that he wouldn’t soon be found. The second next truck driver would hoist him into his cabin.

It occurs to me that he might just as easily wander onto the national highway against the traffic, with no balaclava on, and risk getting hit by a car, because no driver expects to see a child wandering alone in the fog at the top of a mountain road, no mother would ever abandon her child to run in the mist and dark like that. But would a woman who is not related to the child be capable of such a thing? In the end I decide to take him with me and hold his hand, while the car engine is still running on the side of the road. Wrestling against the cold rain, I drag the little man with me onto the moor, moving swiftly in my leather boots, which sink into the soggy earth. After some initial effort to keep up with me he starts to drag his feet and falter, tripping over rocks, as I tow him over clusters of heather that scratch his calves, and stumbling against something every few metres, because the pile of stones that we are heading towards on this forsaken path always seems to remain at the same distance, at least another hundred years away.

The moor is still patched in white, despite the rain, but we manage to avoid the deepest snow-filled hollows. Tinges of November green moss give the surroundings a phosphorescent glow that hovers about half a metre over the ground, like artificial light in a film studio. I’m not at all cold. I can’t feel the icy rain running down my neck.

The child’s trust in me is beginning to falter, he doesn’t understand where we’re going. Neither do I. He starts to whine, but nevertheless tries to hold back his tears. If he were like other children he would scream, throw himself on the ground and refuse to go any further, want to turn around and go home. And he’d cry and say that he missed his mommy, until he was heeded. But he’s not like other children. As if by intuition, it occurs to me to stop trying to walk in a straight line towards my target, but to move in zigzags, like a fox in danger.

And there it is, suddenly standing before us, the beast, dangling its drooling tongue. In the same instant, gunshots resound all around us. Men in green guerrilla overalls spring out of the moss brandishing shotguns. The only animals that kill their own kind stand there pointing their rifles at us; we’re completely surrounded.

For a moment I consider putting my hands up over my head, but the boy is so petrified with fear that I take him into my arms and swivel away from the gunmen, like a Jewish mother turning her back on the muzzle of a German lieutenant’s revolver, alone out in a field, with a four-year-old child in shorts. I notice some red-pinkish splatters in the snow close to where we are standing, halfway between the cairn and the car, hardly squashed berries — no, it’s the blood dripping from the birds hanging on their belts.

The men suddenly lower their weapons and wave us out of the fog, having perhaps mistaken me for a reindeer. We’re greeted by a chorus of sombre but friendly voices. Thermos flasks are suddenly produced, cups of boiling, heavily sugared coffee are poured, and we are offered rye bread with pâté straight out of picnic boxes and other goodies that are being unwrapped from foil. I accept the cup of coffee, but say no to the other beverage that is being passed around in a silver flask. The men line up, side by side, and politely introduce themselves, one after another, with a handshake, like a well-groomed football team, or soldiers standing to attention to be reviewed by their head of state on a courtesy visit. I evaluate them each in turn in relation to my ex-husband, starting with their height and build. Wasn’t he one metre eighty-three? All of a sudden, I feel I can no longer remember the colour of his hair; it’s certainly brown, but was it mossy brown, seaweed-brown, heather-brown or cinnamon-brown? Is the mist on this moor thick enough to veil my former life from me? As I’m finishing the slice of bread I complete the rough comparison in my mind, comparing all the men in view, both with each other and then, broadly speaking, with the other men I’ve encountered in my life, limiting myself, however, to the past five years. It doesn’t take long.

Finally, I notice a ginger-haired boy in the group, hardly over fifteen years old, with big splatters of freckles on his face under his cap.

“He wasn’t very big when he killed his first goose,” says a man with the same gene of hair that might have been ginger too once, slapping a hand on the lad’s shoulder.

“Can’t have been more than seven years old, on the garden lawn at home; the bird was wounded and limping, so my boy just grabbed a shovel and rake, but it was his resourcefulness that mattered the most,” says the father proudly.

“Soon after that he graduated to clay pigeons and was up to 131 clay pigeons by the time he was fourteen, so it won’t be long before your little lad starts showing his mom what he’s made of,” he says, patting the hooded head of my protégé and winking at me at the same time.

The men escort us back down to the highway, rifles wobbling to and fro on their shoulders like those sticks geography teachers use to point at world maps over blackboards, hopping from Haiti to Palestine and Iraq with the greatest of ease. They’re chirpy and content. The boy’s cheeks are red after the picnic and he is holding two extra twisted doughnuts in his hands. He hasn’t fully recovered from the ordeal, though, and looks pensive and tired.

The feeling I was beginning to get while driving on the mountain road, of the car being somehow unsteady and slightly off-kilter, turned out to be well founded, since it is now blatantly clear that I have a flat front-left tire.