Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

Evil brook, from here on out I shan’t forget, not once, you see.

It was possible to leave her to herself on a tiny islet in one place, where the water was shallow on both sides. Mommy could wander a bit and plant one thing or other, pluck grass that was choking new saplings, gather moss and leaves for vulnerable plants at the onset of autumn. But she never let Edda out of her sight. Small children can drown in almost no water at all, before you even notice it. Their faces end up in puddles, and they don’t think to lift them out. Doesn’t this remind you of something? The lives of some people as they live them?

Grandma Sól was with us in the garden sometimes. Four generations in Grandma’s Grove. I’ve never understood the purpose of life, except on nice days there, a bit in Perpignan, and then maybe right during a kiss. The forehead kiss, for example, which led to other kisses. Nearly an entire gestation period beforehand.

Are you seeing what I’m seeing?

She’s making a dam.

I must be getting old and soft, because I can’t stop the tears that push their way into the corners of my eyes, as mucus sticks to my palate and throat. The changeling is exchanged once more, and the tough delinquent child turns into a little girl who arranges stones in a streamlet.

It doesn’t add up.

Any more than the day itself. The mist is not Icelandic, and the same can be said of the temperature. Even way up here, the wind is warm and the grassy heath deceives us with the green colors of summer: September is not tomorrow, lie the grasses, or the next day or the next.

On the way down we find ourselves a picnic spot resembling a proper glade. Heiður sits and plays the dutiful housewife, spreading out the little embroidered cloth on the lush slope and laying out smörrebröd, apples, a thermos of coffee, and cups.

My friend notices a little tear. Don’t be sad, dear, she says.

I can’t get over how quickly the wild beast can become a child.

It’s good that she wants to be out under the open sky. She really can use the fresh air, as burned-out as she is.

No one knows better than I how burned-out she is. But I can’t bear to hear Heiður say it. I want to punch her for blabbing about what’s none of her business. This monster’s mine, and it’s best to leave her to me to deal with, as best that I can.

I lie down, being careful not to crumple the geraniums, which are still in bloom, as if they’ve been waiting for me in particular. I mustn’t pay them back by crushing them. A robust branch of an old birch hangs down over my face, and through the leaves I catch a glimpse of the hazy sky. The branch transforms itself into a fluttering fan. The stream babbles in my jaded ears, the same stream that delighted the nuns of old. If they were troubled, the same sound would have soothed their anxiety, like the anxiety that gnaws at me constantly, even though I might not always notice it. Now my troubles yield sweetly to the murmur of the stream. It will be all right, it says. Everything will be all right.

A kindly blossom, Lord, make me.

I recited this to Edda in the evenings.

With smiles for all in store

in frost and heat my heart carefree

and tranquil to the core.

That’s how I would want to be. In frost and heat my heart carefree. I’ve been so anxious about so many particular things in my time, and about all possible things in general, that I’m sure my anxiety will soon be used up. Blessed be the day when it happens. The day of my death, or thereabouts.

There’s a rustling of aluminum foil. The insatiable Heiður gobbles down sandwiches. She must burn enormous amounts of calories, this spindly woman. She can eat if she wants. To sleep is what I want.

Footsteps approach. I imagine that it’s Edda, but it’s not; it’s the red-jacketed man with the backpack. The outdoors freak from somewhere south, the fellow who saw the most petite woman in Iceland stick out her tongue in public. I sit up on my elbow and bid the man bonjour . He replies and smiles widely once more, lengthily. From my standpoint, he’s sparkling, his skin, his smooth black hair, his teeth. He lingers longer than a total stranger should in this women’s stead.

I lie back down, contrary to decorum, and say nothing more. Heiður takes matters into her own hands and asks the man in English to sit with us and have a bite to eat. A pity she doesn’t speak French, the poor girl.

The foreigner puts down his backpack and confidently sits between us. Heiður offers him bread and coffee, and in strongly accented English he thanks us profusely. Boor that I am, I turn on my side, not bothering to sit upright in the presence of a guest, yet toward him, at least. The sound of the chatter between Heiður and the foreigner makes me drowsy. I think I hear him say he’s studying geology, and last summer went to the South Seas to have a look at volcanic islands, some of which resemble Iceland. But the climate there is better. He laughs, and there’s great brightness in his voice. I think I’m not dreaming that his name is Yves. Heiður has also introduced herself and he says “Ei-dur.” This is my friend Harpa Eir, Heiður says. He tries to repeat it, “Arba Ire.”

As I awake from my slumber, Yves is pronouncing Edda’s name flawlessly. She snarfs down one of my sumptuous open-faced salmon sandwiches, her knees muddy after her dam work. I contemplate whether I should still pretend to be asleep, but I decide to be alert, since I’m awake anyway. I sit up like a fully functioning person, and Yves acts nervous, as if he’s afraid of upsetting me, which is perhaps no wonder, considering what he caught me doing this morning. He hurriedly says that these are remarkable sandwiches, the best smoked salmon he’s ever tasted. I realize that I haven’t heard everything. I’d dozed off for real. Heiður’s gone and offered the boy lodging for the night at her father’s summerhouse. There’s enough space, she says, after marking the location on a map. She explains how we can’t drive him because the car is packed full, but the house is only a half-hour walk from the highway.

I ask about his travel plans. He’d been planning to go to Skaftafell National Park that evening, but maybe he’d come to our place instead. It could be fun to sleep under a roof for a change. He’s going to continue eastward, take the ferry from Seyðisfjörður.

Edda sits at a distance and nibbles a sandwich like a little lady. Yves smiles at her, and she does so in return. She’s done throwing sandwiches, for the moment, anyway.

So you’re mother and daughter, says the foreigner, pointing at Edda and Heiður.

No, says Edda, alarmed at the thought, pointing between me and her.

Luckily, I don’t have any kids, says Heiður.

The man swings his head up in awkward surprise but tries to nullify his embarrassment by reiterating: You look more than a trifle alike.

No one knows what to say. Heiður and I smile politely. Edda shakes her head, with the look of an insulted gentlewoman.

What was Heiður thinking by offering this stranger accommodation at her parents’ wilderness palace? How will it be if he comes? Could it be that Heiður has her eye on him? That her interest in Dietrich Bacon is starting to flag and she’s planning a little action? Or did she do it just for the heck of it? Could she have thought that Edda would behave herself better with a foreign guest added to the mix? It isn’t a clever thing on Heiður’s part, because I’m dead tired and I can’t imagine having to carry on a conversation with him as the day wears on, not to mention having to pamper him with dinner, and work myself into a huff to boot because my French has grown so terribly rusty.

Buzzing in my head on the way down is the notion that what the man said is true, that the redheads Heiður and Edda do resemble each other. They’re both long, slim beanstalks, jerky in deportment and movement. And what’s more, this obvious truth has escaped my notice. On the other hand, my daughter and I resemble each other as little as me and my alleged father. All things are born under the sun. Why can’t I remember that and stop these lame speculations about my paternity? Forget about pestering Dýrfinna with the question of whom I belong to on my father’s side. She’d send me to a shrink.