Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

Gerti Chicken’s sitting behind the wheel, and Teddi, Hreinn Elías, and Edda promptly disappear into the windowless backseat, Edda in the middle. The scene is reminiscent of a movie kidnapping. They even peel out.

What should we do? asks Heiður.

I’ll be damned if this isn’t the first time I’ve heard her speak these words.

We can’t do anything, not for now.

What on earth are they planning?

They wouldn’t know that themselves. Incredible disposition. Not to let her leave in peace, knowing what bad shape she’s in.

What should we do? asks Heiður again.

Wait. See if she comes back.

Call the good cop.

My cousin Rikki? I say. What good do you think that’ll do?

Call anyway. Maybe the police can put a stop to this.

How? It isn’t certain that she’s going anywhere with those idiots. They could just as well return right away.

Did Rikki know that you were heading east?

Yes, I always let him know what I’m up to.

No one could have imagined that they would chase after her.

Never. It’s completely baffling, what they’re up to.

A power play.

We get into the car, look each other in the eye.

Don’t give up, Harpa. Maybe you should go back inside and call Rikki. You never know, he might have something up his sleeve.

I’ve come all this way on just a trace of hope. I quit my job, ended my lease, emptied my apartment, scoured it from top to bottom, loaded all the appliances into the truck, left dear old Dad. After doing all that, the least I can do is make one little phone call now that my rescue operation is threatened. But I want to wait and see first. Wait and see. I should know how to do that. I haven’t done anything for an entire year but wait and see, in despair.

Just call, says Heiður.

Naw. I’m going to hang on. She might just get herself back here.

Well, we can wait for a little while, says Heiður, tapping the wheel with her fingers.

You who are better at most everything besides waiting.

I know who I am.

Should we go after them?

We could, of course, just as well do that as hang around here. Damn, those boys are freaky.

Don’t assume their character is any better than their appearance. Only one of them, that poor Hreinn Elli, has any excuse. Teddi and Gerti come from so-called normal families, though the fact that Gerti’s parents raise chickens in their Dodge could suggest they have some rather exotic ideas…Hreinn Elli, however, is the third generation of petty criminals. There’s nothing but riffraff around him, everywhere you look. His paternal grandfather, Lilli Ódó, is a famous creature. He’s doing time in Litla-Hraun Prison for beating the brains out of his best friend with a crowbar. Hreinn Elli’s father, who’s called Guðmundur Pituitary or Mummi Pituitary, is a petty criminal and moonshiner, and rumor has it that he uses petty crime as a front for major criminal operations. It’s whispered that he was involved in the disappearance of two people. I think it’s probably true.

Hreinn Elli’s maternal line is no better. They’re all drunks, and his grandmother is the worst. His maternal aunt once left a one-year-old child alone in a crib with twenty milk bottles while she went off for a weekend drug binge in Amsterdam. The residents of her apartment building heard the baby wailing, and the police had to break down the door.

Hreinn Elli’s been systematically wrecked since he was born. Sometimes when I look in those empty eyes of his, I feel as if there’s nothing inside him. I suppose children don’t survive such circumstances without becoming quite torpid.

How is it possible in a civilized society to allow children to be raised in such a way that they never have a chance?

What would you do? Take them away from their parents?

Wouldn’t that be the only way?

Where would we be heading then?

Oh, there — see, what did I tell you?

The yellow delivery van slips toward us between the breast-shaped hills of Landbrotshólar.

They’ve changed their minds, the little oafs, says Heiður.

What do you know.

We wait at the turnout for what comes next, and lo and behold, the yellow vehicle stops.

Teddi gets out and opens the door for Edda. He offers his hand to her like a courteous fiancé, and she steps out with care.

He hands Edda a book, which she sticks in the pocket of her leather vest.

What do you think that’s all about? asks Heiður.

Don’t ask me. Maybe they’re playing bookmobile.

Edda walks slowly in our direction, followed by Teddi. Just like hostages are handed over in the movies.

I roll down the window, and Teddi declares in a gloating tone: I’ll leave her with you for now.

Thanks.

He adds: The sands are still impassable.

Thank you, jackass.

Edda’s face pales, and she gives me a look that’s more frightened than angry. Teddi opens the back door for her and she steps up into the white pickup truck as docile as a lamb.

Poor you to have such a mother, says Teddi.

I know, says Edda. I really think she’s about to start crying.

Heiður laughs sarcastically. It’s the first time I notice any reaction in Teddi. Now he’s angry. He’s not used to being ridiculed, and fear of derision is his Achilles’ heel, just like any other tyrant.

Heiður drives off so abruptly that Teddi’s nearly shoved off the road. After regaining his balance, he stands there motionless, as if waiting around for something.

Edda grabs at the door handle, but Heiður has presciently put on the child lock. She floors it, sending gravel flying from the wheels, and barely lets up on the gas despite the road curving toward a bridge.

I wonder what passed between Edda and the boys in the van. Most likely, they never intended to take her back to town, and were just teasing me. I’ll leave her with you for now. They knew how to word things, those control freaks. They used the sandstorm as a pretext for dropping all their plans. Ridiculous.

Good job giving it to that idiot, whispers Heiður, leaning over to my ear.

I know.

Look at you, whispering like you’re at a kid’s birthday party. Fucking lesbians. Gross.

Heiður gives another sarcastic laugh. What kind of kids’ birthday parties have you been to, Edda?

Fuck yourself with a stick.

Sorry, Heiður, she can’t control herself.

That’s fairly obvious.

I look toward the backseat, fully expecting the girl to launch a new, fiercer attack with her fists. But at that moment she’s spreading a blanket over herself, all the way up over her head, her Walkman headphones in her ears.

I don’t even know how to apologize to you, I say tearfully to Heiður, like the loser and fool that I am.

You shouldn’t apologize to me. What does it look like inside the head of a child who talks like that?

I have no idea what she’s thinking. She’s in an entirely different world, like a schizophrenic.

You know, from what I’ve seen of your daughter today, I find it a miracle that you managed to get her to come along at all.

It was a tragedy, mainly, that led to her agreeing to it. I don’t think she would have come if little Rúna hadn’t died. It was Edda who found her. To see death with your own eyes isn’t the same as hearing about it.

What happened to Rúna?

She choked on her own vomit in her sleep.

Just after little Rúna died, a crack in the icy mass enclosing Edda started melting, and we had long chats. I tried to do everything I could to please her — I pampered her anxiously, made waffles and brought her into the living room where she sat and watched splatter films that Gerti Chicken had given her. The first night she ate the waffles and drank the hot chocolate and we talked into the night, in between bouts of her sobbing and snuggling up to me. I couldn’t help but cry too. We met Rúna when she was seven or eight years old. She was in the same grade as Edda, an awfully cheerful and clever girl. Then she changed schools, and she and Edda didn’t meet again until after they were both deep in the shit. I’ve also known her mother since the girls were little, but I’m such a wimp that I haven’t been able to bring myself to speak to her since it happened.