Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

I open the door to the deck, and the invigorating mountain air embraces me. The plump-faced moon wants to exist untorn and has moved off the sharp peak of Súlur. When I was taking in the scenery from the tower, I didn’t even notice the moon. THE MOON ITSELF ESCAPED MY NOTICE. I want to make coffee, put on my jacket, sit out on the deck with a steaming mug, and watch the sunset on the gleaming glacier.

THE MOON MUSTN’T ESCAPE MY NOTICE AGAIN.

Two wagtails come flying by in jerky fits, reminding me of Heiður. They settle on the deck’s handrail, wagging their tails and twittering, a tiny welcoming committee with a carefully rehearsed performance.

Are you hungry, Heiður?

I will be when dinner’s ready.

A simple wish like coffee and the sunset on the deck is too complicated to be fulfilled in this life. Something else always has to be done. Something other than what you wish for.

I’ll get going with dinner, I say. Go sit out on the deck, Heiður, and have a look at the glacier before it gets dark.

I can see it out the window.

It’s not the same as being outside. Take a break now, and I’ll start cooking. That was a long day of driving.

Okay, if you insist. I’ll make coffee and sit outside a bit with a cup.

As if spoken from my heart, I offer to start the coffee for her.

Isn’t that Frenchman almost here? Heiður asks.

Oh, that’s right. Yes, he’s almost here. Do you think it was a mistake to invite him? Edda isn’t too thrilled about it.

She wants to spend time alone with you. She’s jealous, the poor thing. But it’s not like she’s ever thrilled about anything that you do, whether you’re cooking dinner for a French tourist in a mountain hut or coming to find her in a drug den.

Don’t talk about drug dens. That was in a past life.

Suddenly I’m beset with weakness in my lower back, leaden feet, dizziness.

Where can I run? Impossible to run anywhere except to a kitchen stool.

I sit down on one next to the counter, with its Gaggenau gas burners, and pretend to examine the contents of a cabinet. Elaborate cast-iron cookware and more copper pots of all sizes. Ceramic plates.

THE RUNAWAY FROM LIFE. That’s what my biography should be called.

Can I scream? I ask.

You can do whatever you like.

I get up and go out onto the deck and try to scream in the most beastly way possible. As soon as I stop, I hear a thud from inside. Edda’s lying at the foot of the spiral staircase, holding her ankle.

Oh my God, Mom. Are you insane? I rushed down the stairs so fast that I tripped and fell.

Are you hurt?

Yes. Why would you scream like that?

Are you worried that we’ll bother the neighbors?

It’s not funny. I might be seriously injured.

I have to take pains not to laugh out loud. I don’t get it. I couldn’t care a whit if Edda’s leg were broken. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Then at least I’d know where she is.

The French traveler, the one I’ve forgotten exists once again, comes running as if the Devil’s at his heels, his red down jacket flapping wildly. He waves his hands, rushes up onto the deck, and shouts: What’s wrong?

Edda fell, I say.

Is she badly hurt? he asks.

I don’t know. It just happened.

Yves has a Swiss Army knife in his hand, blade open. He notices what I’m looking at, folds the blade back inside, and sticks the knife in his pocket, a tiny bit of embarrassment showing at the corners of his intellectual mouth. He’d clearly expected conflict, maybe even murder.

Was it she who screamed so horribly? asks Yves.

Yes, I say innocently. It’s so fun to lie in a foreign language when those who aren’t meant to understand don’t understand. Heiður, however, gives me a suspicious look.

I’d have probably refrained from screaming if I’d remembered there was a guest on the way.

Where’s your backpack? I ask.

I tossed it off when I heard the scream. I thought it was an emergency.

He must have learned about EMERGENCY SITUATIONS in his Scouting handbook. If a loud scream is heard in the field, not least in the wilderness of Iceland, you must cast off your pack, grab your Swiss Army knife from your pocket, and run as fast as possible toward the noise. If a confused assistant nurse has wailed on a deck for no apparent reason, you should do nothing, but if her problem daughter is beating her up, you must jump into the fray, though not with your knife, unless it’s a matter of life and death.

What happened to her? asks Yves.

Fell down the stairs.

Is she in a lot of pain?

We hadn’t gotten that far.

Yves bends over Edda, turns her leg every which way, and asks in his singular English whether this or that hurts. He determines that Edda’s ankle is sprained, lifts her from the floor, and helps her over to the couch.

Heiður finds an elastic bandage in her perfect first-aid kit, which appears to be designed for a large-scale accident at sea rather than a minor sprain on dry land.

Yves starts giving effective first aid, the start of Chapter Five, wrapping Edda’s ankle with southern élan, hands nearly flying, as Heiður and I shuffle our feet, redundant individuals. Edda sits there with an enigmatic look on her face, acting as if she has no part in this accident.

Do you need a painkiller? Yves asks his patient.

Yes.

The poor man has no idea that he’s speaking to a little junkie.

It crosses my mind that it would be most appropriate to go and get her dope bag and offer her one of her own pills. But this is certainly not the time to be cocky, and the poor girl might well be in real pain, so I give her a tablet from the first-aid kit.

Do you think it’ll take her a long time to recover? I ask.

Just a few days.

The French visitor is a master at wrapping ankles. We really should take a photo of the job he did it’s so perfect. But no, now I’m going to cook dinner, no monkeying around.

How about some red wine from our guest’s home country? says Heiður, after taking out a bottle with a lovely label.

Thank you so much, says Yves. Allow me to help. Once again, he pulls out his Swiss Army knife. He examines the bottle and says that the vintage is well chosen, 1987, but of course it would improve greatly with age.

Unfortunately, we don’t have time to wait for further improvements, says Heiður.

Yves goes on to tell us that this Cos d’Estournel that we’re about to start drinking comes from his neighbor’s farm in Bordeaux.

Edda looks at the foreign visitor as if he’s stepped out of a Grimm Brothers fairy tale.

It certainly traveled today, didn’t it? asks Yves, with worry wrinkles between his dark arched eyebrows.

What traveled? asks Heiður.

The wine.

Yes, it traveled with us, she says. By land.

It’s preferable not to drink wine the same day it travels. It gets so terrifically shaken, which is bad for the taste.

We’ll be gone tomorrow, I say. It’ll be too late to guzzle it after tonight.

Yves looks at me and says nothing. I’m not quite certain what this southern gaze of his means, and I look back with so-called inscrutable eyes.

What a magnificent house, says the visitor.

When you look out, yes, I say. You must have missed the exterior you were in such a rush.

Heiður takes three steps to the right and disappears into one of the bedrooms. Yet another faux pas on my part. THE BITCHY ASSISTANT NURSE AT THE FOOT OF LÓMAGNÚPUR.

I take out imposing wineglasses with fat stems. Stately glasses, for use in an Icelandic villa with a see-through silo. I notice Yves giving the glasses a puzzled look. Yes, my friend, this is the way nouveau-riche folk in Iceland like to have things.

Let’s let the wine breathe a bit, says Yves.