Justin Go - The Steady Running of the Hour

I ride another bus to the National Library, where I page through massive hardbound lists of merchant ships, searching for passenger lines that ran from Europe to Iceland. I learn that the steamship company Eimskipafélag Íslands sailed between Britain and Iceland, with two ships from Leith to Reykjavík via Copenhagen, and another two ships from Hull to Reykjavík. These ships had bad luck. Three of the four were lost to war: the Gullfoss , seized by Germans in Copenhagen in 1940, the Goðafoss torpedoed by U-300 off the Icelandic coast in 1944, the Dettifoss torpedoed by U-1064 near the Firth of Clyde in 1945. At the reference counter I order the microfilm passenger lists for these ships from the 1920s and 1930s.

— And do you know if any ships went from Germany to Iceland?

The librarian furrows her brow, scrutinizing my request list.

— Maybe the Hamburg America Line. But we don’t have their records here. There were other Danish and Norwegian ships that came, I can bring you their lists—

Soon I realize the old man was right. The reels of microfilm are endless and organized only by each ship’s port of entry. I roll through them quickly, barely looking at the passenger names, only the vessel names and the shipping lines. I have no idea when Imogen would have come or where she would have come from, but I scroll on anyway. I see that a Danish line called Det Forenede Dampskibs-Selskab ran a ship called Primula from Copenhagen to Reykjavík. Its lists were entered in longhand, the columns in English or Danish or Icelandic with the passenger’s name, age and sex, the ports of embarkation and disembarkation, sometimes their profession.

Some of the names are familiar. Gunnar Andersson, 38, Húsavík, Fiskimaður. I find another ship that called at the Eastfjords, a steamer called the Nova of the Norwegian line Det Bergenske Dampskibsselskab. The line ran from Bergen to the Faroe Islands, stopping at Eskifjörður in eastern Iceland en route to Reykjavík. The Nova ’s lists run back only to the mid-1930s. I pull out another box of microfilm and I’m about to change the reels when I see a name at the bottom of the illuminated screen.

Charlotte Derby. 18. Southampton, England. Eskifjörður.

It means nothing. I know it means nothing. An English girl with the same first name as my grandmother traveling to eastern Iceland in July 1936. A coincidence only because the age is right, because my grandmother was born in 1917. But why would she go to Iceland? I lean back in my swivel chair, looking at the ceiling. I imagine Charlotte coming of age in England, boarding a steamer for Norway and then for Iceland to visit the woman she called her aunt, Imogen preparing for her visit and commissioning the brooch from Ísleifur, the initials engraved on the reverse—

It’s absurd. Charlotte would have no reason to travel under an assumed surname, and if she did she could just as well have changed her first name. There’s also the obvious fact that Charlotte is a common name and common names are bound to occur in these lists, even English names. I scan the lists for familiar names. There’s nothing else in the Nova ’s lists, but forty minutes later I find an Eleanor M. Cotter, age forty-eight, sailing from Hull to Reykjavík on the Goðafoss in 1934. An hour later I find a Charles Bell, age nineteen, sailing from Leith to Reykjavík on the Bruarfoss in 1929.

I switch off the machine. I’m grasping at nothing, names and dates and ports pulled out of a hat. There must be dozens of people named Eleanor and Charles and Charlotte in these lists, and if I looked long enough I’d probably find an Imogen. I no longer even believe in my own theories. I take the microfilm reels back to the desk.

Back at the hostel I check my e-mail, but Mireille hasn’t written me back. The only message is from Khan.

James and I were pleased to hear of the information you’ve uncovered; we would be interested to see the documents with regard to the contact between the two parties in 1924. He expressed concern, however, that the chain of research you are following cannot lead you to the evidence required for distribution of the estate. James reminds you of your time constraint, and he suggests reappraising your options before proceeding — particularly as far afield as Iceland.

As October is fast approaching, I think it would be helpful to schedule a call with James at your earliest convenience. Please let me know when you are available.

Yours Sincerely,

Geoffrey Khan

I write to Khan that I’m already in Iceland, but I’ll call the law firm soon. Then I log on to my bank account. I have only three hundred dollars left and no ticket off this island. My credit card shows an unpaid balance of $612, with $88 of available credit. I can’t ask my family for money to continue this absurd search. Nor can I get anything from Prichard until I’ve found real evidence, and anyway he doesn’t seem to approve of my trip to Iceland.

I know I should deal with all this by economizing, by organizing my research. But I’ve lost my confidence. The next morning I realize that all the archives are closed for the weekend. I go back to my bunk and lie there for an hour, feeling close to a breakdown. When I finally get out of bed I stay in the hostel all day, running aimless Web searches and paging through my folder of photocopies, my mood swinging wildly from moment to moment.

At dusk I go to a public pool near the hostel. It’s a clear but windy night. An attendant takes a few coins from me and hands me a stiff white towel stamped with the city’s logo. I bathe myself carefully according to diagrams posted below the showerheads, then I pull on my pair of cut-off corduroy shorts. I wade into the empty indoor pool, swimming a few laps of breaststroke. Through the windows I see the outdoor hot tubs, their columns of steam curling in the wind.

I’d left Mireille for this. Before I left California I’d even lied to my own father about this trip. The only people I’d listened to were the lawyers and now I wasn’t even listening to them.

I rise dripping from the pool and push through the glass doors, sprinting barefoot toward a hot tub. The air is freezing. I plunge into the churning water, floating on my back as I watch the steam lift toward the stars. A few minutes later the jets switch off of their own accord. Above the swirling vapor there is a curtain of shifting blue-green light in the sky.

— The northern lights.

The water laps around me, half of my body freezing and half scalded. I wonder if the lights are pointing in any particular direction.

Later in the night I walk downtown, swigging gin and tonic I’ve mixed in a soda bottle. I climb the main shopping street among crowds of young people, picking out a well-dressed group as they turn onto a side street. They go into a ramshackle bar decorated with Christmas lights and painted palm trees. The electric sign says SIRKUS. I follow them in.

It’s after eleven and there are only a few people inside. Everyone is dipping glasses of punch from a huge bowl on the bar. I dip myself a glass and sit down. A girl with a doll-like face passes by me and suddenly glances back as if she recognizes me. She’s holding someone’s hand and she steadies herself with great effort. The girl stares at me and says something in Icelandic. I tell her I don’t speak the language.

— You’re drinking my punch, she says.

— I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

— This is my party, but I don’t know you.