Auður Ólafsdóttir - Butterflies in November

Low-pressure belts are lining up above the island, piling up, one on top of the other. It’s been almost six weeks now, the drainpipes can take no more water and in many places basements have started to flood; water leaks into boots and down necklines, and children need dry socks and trousers several times a day. The weather clears for short intervals to allow people to run down to the video store to change DVDs and buy a snack, although many stay in, without noticing the brief dry spell that would have enabled them to see December’s half-moon.

Dawn is slow to break; it’s not before noon that a glimmer begins to form over the harbour, a streak of daylight through the muddy darkness. Huddled up in bed, we linger there solving crosswords. He’s helping me to find a feminine noun beginning with b.

After that, he fixes the pyramid in the bowl of mandarins; he wants it to be tall and impressive and is constantly adjusting the fruit.

The tiger kitten scuttles several times diagonally across the floor. He no longer zigzags, has stopped galloping sideways and has recently developed the ability to walk along a straight imaginary line — on four legs. He eagerly observes the small birds on the deck outside; he is slowly but surely turning into a shrewd hunter. One morning there’s a dead snow bunting lying on the floor; the kitten pleads innocent and makes itself scarce. The boy picks up the bird and holds it tight to his chest. I tell him we’ll bury it later in the day. A short while later I find the bird under his bed, beside his treasure chest.

By the time we’ve finally climbed into our rain gear and are ready to go out on an exploratory mission just after noon, the end of this very short day is already approaching. Our first and final destination is the playground. I lead him with my good hand. He’s wearing a new green cable sweater under his overalls.

Tumi weighs thirteen kilos and I weigh fifty-three, so in order to get some kind of balance I have to shift closer to the middle of the see-saw. He’s not interested in trying to tackle the climbing frame. When he walks up or down steps he always moves forward with the same foot; three steps are like a steep cliff to him. Afterwards, we sit on the white plastic chairs by the shop and have an ice cream with chocolate sauce.

He has finished decorating my cast and drawn a bulldozer on it, but also fish and marine vegetation. We are not likely to be going to the swimming pool for at least a week. My friend offers to take him along with him. That would be the first time in six weeks that I would be separated from him for more than an hour.

“I’ll keep a good eye on him,” he says, “don’t worry.”

The boy seems pleased.

While the two boys are at the pool, I lie on the deck with a trashy novel and a scarf coiled around my neck. How many women in the world can allow themselves such a luxury at this precise moment in time? Could a newly liberated woman ask for any greater bliss than this?

“See what I’ve got for you?” says my father in the middle of a pile of books. We are visiting a second-hand bookshop.

“There you go, that’s for you”, he says, blowing the dust off a book in front of me. “There’s so much music in the words, if you don’t hear the music, you won’t get the story,” says the man whose favourite composer is Bach. “There are a few pages missing from it so it ends in mid-sentence. You can decide how the story ends, invent your own ending, aren’t you lucky?”

I read it many years ago and remember only being moderately happy about the ending. I expected something more decisive to happen between them. A woman doesn’t brush fluff off the shoulder of a man’s jacket at a dinner party unless there’s something intimate going on between them, or does she? “Your ending will be better,” he says, smiling, and then pats me on the cheek.

Across the chasm there is some kind of stone arch or bridge. It has been considerably eroded since I last crossed it, but I decide to give it a chance and lean forward, at first only gently pushing against the stone with one arm. Then a bridge automatically stretches across the abyss; it obviously has hinges. I tell myself that this is an ingenious invention. But as I’m pondering on whether I should leap over the chasm or not, I’m awoken by the phone. I leap out of bed, searching everywhere for my new mobile, our renewed link with the vanished world, and finally find it in the pocket of my raincoat. It’s 04:07.

It’s my ex-husband calling from the capital from some bar where he says he’s been drinking beer for the past two and a half hours. He tells me he’s been trying to track me down for three weeks to tell me he’s had a daughter. He’s emailed me a picture of her, but I obviously don’t answer. He got my new number from his ex-mother-in-law.

“She’s lovely, tiny and soft,” he says.

“Congratulations.”

“You didn’t have to run away like that, just vanish. You’ve got a new address, a new phone number. What crime did you commit?”

“I’m not running away, I’m taking a break.”

“Just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean we have to lose all contact, does it?”

He wants to know if he woke me up.

“I hear you injured yourself.”

“Who told you that?”

“Your mom, when I finally reached her to get some news about you, she just got back from India.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, the cast was removed yesterday.”

“How are you anyway?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

“I was thinking of visiting you, coming to say hello?”

“I thought you were tied down, with a woman and child.”

“Tied and not tied.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Do you know what the special thing about you is?”

“What?”

“You’re always so sexy when you’ve got that sleepy tone of voice, when you’ve just woken up.”

“I’m not sure it would be a good idea for you to come.”

“Your mom told me the roads are impassable so I guess the flying instructor will just have to come on his plane.”

“What does Nína Lind have to say about all this?”

“You can barely reach her or the child, she’s got so many of her girlfriends around, the house is always packed right up to the front door. When they aren’t at our place, she’s at their places with the baby. When I walk into the living room of my own house, there’s a sudden silence and awkwardness. Easy to guess who they’re talking about and what the nature of the problem is.”

We hear a banging engine sound long before the yellow contraption comes over the mountain and down a grey cloud. The boy sees the plane’s swaying wings as it flies over the chalet. There can be no doubt as to who the pilot is.

I had borrowed my mother’s car and when I came out of the restaurant with Auður, there was a white paper rocket under one of the windscreen wipers. Seventh heaven. Private flying lessons. Ten lessons special offer. Make your Icarus dreams come true. First lesson is free, eleven percent discount on the following two. Negotiable payment options.

My fear of heights is legendary and I purely look on airplanes as a means of getting me away from the island. Nevertheless, I think the reference to Icarus is an interesting one, since it was precisely his dream that led to his demise. Despite the warnings I get from Auður, who sees no interest in this message, I decide to call the man who will later become my husband. It eventually transpired that the ad had been solely aimed at me and no one else and I’ve yet to step on his plane.

The silhouette drifts over the barren plain in the midday twilight and up the hill, heading straight for me. I see him standing outside on the deck in an orange anorak. What is he lingering there for? Is he going to come in or stay out? He strikes a match. I see the red glow of the tip of his cigar and then myself, reflected in the window, but don’t budge. He seems to have spotted me, because he casts his cigar away and walks straight towards me.