Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

Heiður plunges straight into unloading the luggage from the backseat before reaching beneath the tarp for the cooler. One of the peculiarities of the master flutist is that she never takes breaks until absolutely necessary.

You’re so energetic, my dear. I almost feel like I need to tie you down.

She continues working like mad while I take it slower. I’m lazy as a dog after all those years of toil.

I don’t get this house, I say.

You’ve been here before.

Who designed it?

It was Dad’s idea.

That explains a lot.

The house is a cross between a castle and a large bungalow in the functionalist style. It’s square, with big windows, and is bordered on all sides by a wide deck. It wouldn’t look comical in a neighborhood of single-family homes in Reykjavík, but as a summer cottage in the wilderness it tickles the funny bone. A smaller house would have fit in better with the landscape here. A transparent tower juts out from the middle of the roof, where a chimney should be. The actual chimney, on the other hand, is unassuming, standing low and stout at one corner of the roof. It’s as if a child lacking manual dexterity stuck on a Lego block.

It may be spectacular, I say, but pretty it’s not.

Heiður looks insulted. It’s not good enough for you?

It’ll do, if I can have the tower to myself. How did your dad get permission to build here? I thought this was a national park.

Stop being so negative, Harpa. Damn, how boring you can get.

Oh, sorry, I say, without meaning it.

Heiður’s sulky. She knows that the house is an abomination, and she’s ashamed for her father, its tasteless creator. She’s stacked the luggage on the deck by the front door, which she opens with a large key. Here everything , from the key to the house, has to be large .

Edda hurries in ahead of us, draws the pale-yellow silk drapes from the window, and says: Wow.

Wow. Yellow silk drapes, just like in the apartment belonging to my faithful foreign friend, Gabriel Axel in Perpignan, above his shop.

This side of the house has a perfect view of the surrounding glacial rivers, gravel deserts, and sandy tracts, with the Öræfa Glacier and Hvannadalshnúkur Peak providing a backdrop.

On the other side, the windows are in close proximity to narrow waterfalls that rush headlong down masterfully sculpted cliffs. Dropwort grows by the deck, and the bluebell’s still in delicate bloom.

It’s almost as bright inside as it is outside. The light comes from above, too, from the tower, through the large opening in the ceiling where the spiral staircase ends. Through the convex tower, one of the last clouds of August can be seen floating southward, a milky, thick pillow. A traveling cloud for birds to sail on.

Once you’re inside, the brick building transforms into a wooden house. Paneling on the walls and ceiling, and a reddish parquet floor. In the middle is a picture-perfect kitchen, with a giant copper range hood and rods from which hang all sizes of copper pots and pans. On the other side of this accomplished area stands an oval pinewood table with lathed legs and matching chairs, and across from these, there are two deep seven-seat couches along the wall. Porcelain figurines, CDs, and a portable CD player line the shelves. Near the door is the gun collection, small and large rifles — one old, six in total. If the enemy comes, each of us can shoot with two rifles. That should impress Tough Teddi.

Heiður’s making the rounds through the house, opening the windows to air out the place, inviting in the remarkably warm evening breeze.

It’s nice in here, I say. You can’t tell that from the outside.

Heiður says nothing. The last time she decided to quit talking to me, it lasted a month.

Back then I swallowed my pride and called. After all, I’d insulted her; there’s no denying it. Now I’ve got to find a smart way to get her back in a good mood.

I like the way it’s been decorated, I add. It’s very tasteful.

Edda’s on a quick-fire tour of the house. She opens a door, comes back and announces, “Two lovely bedrooms!” She then opens the door to a tiled bathroom furnished with dark-blue toilet fixtures from Villeroy & Boch, gold faucets and mixer taps — in rococo style, no less — and fluffy red towels with the fancy gold monogram S. K. hung neatly from towel bars. Saga Kaaber, Heiður’s mother, is one of those people who wants her presence known, even when she’s nowhere near. But where were she and her decent taste when this box, with its obscene tower jutting from the middle of the roof and crappy little chimney in a corner, was being designed?

Edda’s gone up the spiral staircase, and she tramps across the tower floor, making it creak. Come here, Mom! she shouts. You should see this.

I rush up the stairs. This tower may look hilarious from the outside, but once you’re up in it, it’s like a fairy tale. The view opens up over the spruce trees and the entire stretch of sand, densely meshed by an irregular net of streams leading to the sea.

On this floor, I’m on a par with the glacier.

A red glow at the country’s highest peak. SUNSET ERUPTION. Remember to write a poem about it, I tell myself.

This transparent tower must be an architectural achievement, even though it doesn’t fit with the rest of the house. Wind doesn’t gust into it, and all its joints are made by the hands of a master. To stand here is like having traveled a considerable distance up into the firmament in a glass elevator. All the clouds, except for two, have stopped airing themselves today. They’re oval puffs, straight up over the tower, one of black smoke, on its way south, and the other of white wool, heading north. Their goal is union, the conclusion of an important process in the sky, and the start of a new one. Soon nothing will remain in the sky but one unified cloud, black and white — the thin veil of the moon. Then it will slowly grow darker than usual, because we’re far from human habitation, before a buxom moon and various seldom-seen stars come to light.

I’m going to sleep here tonight! I shout.

All the same to me! shouts Heiður in reply.

You’re seriously going to sleep on this crappy mattress? says Edda. And it’s true — the thin mattress with its blazing-bright-rainforest-and-exotic-wildlife sheet could hardly be intended as bedding for an entire night.

Did you want to sleep here? I ask Edda, constantly afraid of upsetting her.

No, I want to sleep in a proper bed. Hey — see that guy, Mom? Edda asks as she points outside.

Yes, darling. Iceland’s full of backpackers.

Yeah, but isn’t that Yves?

Oh, I think you’re right. I’d forgotten about him.

Darn! Why did he have to show up?

It certainly surprised me that Heiður invited him. Better to think twice.

It would have been much funner if it were just us three.

He won’t exactly be taking up much space.

Where will he sleep?

He can just sleep on the couch in the living room.

Aw, Mom, I don’t want him here.

Maybe I can make good use of him and practice my French. I shout from the tower: Guess what, Heiður? The French hiker is on his way here!

What?

Yves.

That’s okay. We’ve certainly got enough food for him.

I carefully inch my way down the spiral staircase, my sense of balance playing games with me.

Heiður’s finished bringing in the suitcases and bags and stowing away the food. She declares that she doesn’t feel like dealing with the gas refrigerator, not for just one night. It’ll be fine to keep the refrigerated goods outside. I see that my friend’s still in quite a sulk. Blame her if you like, but she drives me all the way east, and what does she get in return? Scorn and ridicule because of a superb house in an amazing place — free luxury accommodations for a destitute assistant nurse.