Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

Then I can call it FROM BASEMENT TO GROUND-LEVEL. Oh, sorry. I just feel sometimes as if I’m a mole that will never be able to chew its way out into the light. I’m always dependent on others.

Bullshit. You’ve had to stand a bit too much on your own two feet.

Don’t you think this trip proves it?

I’m starting to think you’re sulking.

I’m always sulking.

It’s all going to be all right.

You can’t be sure of that. But at least I get to be all by myself in an apartment, even if it’s nothing but two closets at the eastern end of the world. It’ll be a luxury not to have to wait for my only child to come home battered or pale as a ghost, a luxury to be able to walk from one end of the house to another without having fists swung or abuse hurled at me.

Don’t forget that you’re in the prime of life, in perfect health. You’re beautiful and intelligent, and people care about you.

What good does that do? I’m chained to a monster, and the monster doesn’t care about me.

Heiður takes her hand off the wheel and strokes my cheek, letting the car veer out of the lane just as a bridge pier looms ahead of us. She immediately gets it back on the right track again, and I smile at her, so utterly shocked that the impending collision with the bridge doesn’t particularly shake me. Heiður grimaces apologetically. I smile again to show that it doesn’t matter one bit to me how she drives, that I’ll ignore all her flaws and take her oversights lightly, whether in driving or anything else, while imagining that it’s I who am saving her and I who hold the reins along the way.

Where glacial mush oozes down ravine-cut slopes.

On a trip in distorted time. An infernal autumn expedition.

On the ocean side is a time-warped field, a bright-yellow square that looks like it belongs in another country, in the spring.

I want to be on a spring trip, seeing lambs gamboling on the rims of ditches.

See a little lamb on its mother’s back

beneath a gentle sky that opens its bright arms to the newborn earth.

No, here it’s horse heads that look up from the grass tufts in the ditches. Nature raises a curse-pole against me on the road. THE CURSE-POLES OF NATURE would be a splendid name for my first book of poetry, which won’t be published anytime soon.

Our roles in my friendship with Heiður haven’t changed: rescuer/rescuee. The relationship began as a rescue operation and has continued almost uninterrupted as such on Heiður’s part. When she managed to protect me from becoming the most famous child in Iceland — MURDERED BY HER PEERS IN THE LAUGARNES NEIGHBORHOOD — she saved my life for real.

Our story began when Heiður was in fourth grade and I was in third grade. She was a star with a velvet-lined violin case, scraping on the instrument at festive occasions, wearing velvet dresses that were purchased abroad and came out of gold-lettered boxes labeled Harrods, Bloomingdale’s, El Corte Inglés. Once when I was upset with her, I called her Heiður the Velvet Bitch , which is one of many things packed away but not forgotten.

The violin suited dear Heiður better than the flute; there’s no denying it. It went better with her dramatic and volatile temperament. But maybe it’s best for musicians to choose instruments that go directly against their character, because it would create exciting tension. Who am I to say?

She became a soloist during her first year of study and certainly was majestic when she performed in the auditorium. She played “Mary, lofty and mild” the final day before Easter break, just before the morning devotion.

It was sung in the auditorium every single morning, while the red horses of the art teacher, one of the nation’s foremost painters, grazed on the school’s walls.

I was as noticeable as Heiður, but for other reasons. I was called Paper-Doll Harpa , as little as Thumbelina, with curly pitch-black hair, Bambi eyes, long eyelashes, and dark skin. Mom made me dress in strange getups that highlighted my uniqueness. I tried to fight against them, but it was a losing battle. Every day I was outfitted in extremely impractical and easily soiled clothes, like white angora sweaters and vivid pink blouses. One Christmas, Mom ordered me a sailor jacket and matching sailor pants from a German catalogue, with the help of Erika, her sister-in-law. Then she put ringlets in my hair, no doubt outmoded, and stuck a sailor hat on my head, with an inscription in gold letters reading “Gorch Fock.” I looked like a confused young transvestite. When I walked into the auditorium for the school Christmas celebration, I received a round of applause. I shrank back out and ran home crying.

Heiður ran after me, though she didn’t know me, and caught up with me by Laugarnes Pharmacy. It wasn’t cold out, but the ground was covered lightly with snow. Neither of us was wearing appropriate shoes, and we had trouble keeping our footing as we ran. Heiður’s dress was thick, with fabric like plush upholstery. She was wearing white lace pantyhose with a fancy pattern, black patent-leather shoes with low heels, and a señorita comb in her hair. She towered over me, and I felt a sting in my heart because she was tall and her clothes were so incredibly nice. But no matter how elegant she was, she couldn’t be called pretty, which perked me up a bit. She was slightly sunken-cheeked, with a sharp nose, rather thin lips, a long chin, and light freckles. For a freckled girl with bright-red hair, her dress, the same pink as Bazooka bubble gum, wasn’t the right choice.

You’re really pretty in your outfit, Harpa. Stop crying. You were by far the prettiest at the party. The kids were jealous of you because you’re sooo cute.

Yo-our dress is much pre-ettier, I blubbered.

It’s awful. I have to wear it because my mom ordered my dad to buy a dress for me when he went to Madrid. Do you think my dad can pick these sorts of things? It’s a child’s dress. But you look great. Come on.

Heiður tried to convince me to go back to school, but I wouldn’t hear of it, so she walked me home and missed out on the Christmas party as well.

How do you know my name? I asked when I was able to speak again.

Everyone knows who you are.

You think I don’t know I’m called Paper-Doll Harpa?

The girls are jealous of you because you’re the cutest in the school and the boys like you.

You must be nu-huts. Who do you think would li-hike someone so little?

It’s sooo cute to be so tan all year long. You also have such great curls and long eyelashes.

Oh, you don’t know how boring it is to be so little and ugly like me. My brother calls me The Ugly Duckling and Little Black Sambo .

I’ll beat him up for you.

As we approached my so-called house on Hrísateigur Street, I almost lost heart, because I was so ashamed of it. It had been transported from Skerjafjörður and looked like half a house, not a whole one — as if it were cloven at the shoulders.

I saw Heiður look in surprise at the sawed-in-two shell-sand stuccoed box where I lived, but she said nothing. I usually recall this when I’m frustrated with her. I think about her old nobleness until I calm down and the frustration passes.

I started plucking off the sailor suit as soon as we got inside, huffing to Mom that it was a carnival costume I’d never put on again. She delivered a short monologue about the poor black children at the Icelandic mission in Konso, Ethiopia, and how they received used woolen clothing — sweaters, scarves, hats, mittens — from the missionaries. They, my mother insisted, didn’t refrain from showing their delight and appreciation at receiving such nice Christmas clothes. My mother told me that I should be utterly ashamed of myself. Heiður was dumbstruck, and I led her to my room as Mom went on chattering in the hallway.