Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

Schnapps and shark.

Are you nuts?

No, I just felt that this was what I needed.

You’re really starting to go a bit overboard, Harpa. Day and night.

Shouldn’t you be congratulating me?

Maybe if that shark didn’t stink so much of ammonia.

It transforms into an internal fragrance. By the way, don’t try filling the tank behind my back.

I toss three thousand krónur on the table. Heiður gives me a harsh look and says, You’re exasperating, Harpa.

I won’t go any farther with you unless you take it.

Heiður stands up, takes the money, shakes her head, and goes to the counter. I know exactly what she’s planning to do. Order a coffee and apple cake with whipped cream, which is in fact advertised as a package deal for three hundred krónur. Once you’ve known someone long enough, every single little movement of theirs becomes predictable: what they eat, when they’re going to be appalled, how often they need to go to the bathroom.

Here in this glorious refuge on the sandy wastes, where postcards, wool sweaters, and shark are sold, is where I would wish to spend the rest of my life, gazing out at the luminous lagoon and the tourist boat now resting ashore, waiting for the last cruise of the year.

I can easily imagine starting each and every day on a cruise around this lagoon filled with icebergs that have the texture of a sponge but break with a metallic sound. Listening to the amplified cracking when the sun shines intensely and watching the bergs split, melt, turn in circles — ensuring that the lagoon’s appearance changes from one minute to the next. Between cruises I could look out to sea, awaiting ships that don’t land because there’s no harbor.

Now that I’ve begun, I find myself wanting to keep gobbling down more cured shark, the most revolting dish on the planet, chased with the worst schnapps in the world, Icelandic brennivín. This food makes you toxic enough to deal with the dead and the living, both equally hopeless.

Heiður eats so quickly that I feel queasy watching her. Studies suggest that the speed at which people ingest their food is inborn, and I suppose there’s comfort in that.

Is it nice to work here? I ask the girl at the counter as I get up to leave.

She gives me a silly look and says that it’s good when things are steady. On the other hand, things are never steady, because everyone comes in groups, meaning the place is either packed or there isn’t a soul.

Is the shark popular?

Icelanders don’t want it, naturally, because they know how it tastes. Of the foreigners, it’s mainly the Germans who dare to try it. They want the most for their money. In English it’s apparently called the full experience .

How’s the pay?

It comes out okay on a monthly basis, but the hours are long.

Do the employees live in this building?

There are sleeping accommodations for two.

And don’t you find the natural beauty incredible?

It’s beautiful when there’s a full moon.

Who owns this shop?

Reynir Teitsson, from Höfn. He also owns GLACIER TOURS EVERY DAY OF THE SUMMER, INC.

Do you have his phone number?

I do. But he’s also in the phone book. He lives at Hnúkarimi 7 in Höfn.

I need a job next summer, you see.

Are you in school during the winter?

No, I’m not in school. I should be, though.

My rude best friend, maybe my only friend, knocks on the window. I’m just waiting for her to press her nose against the glass.

I smile apologetically at the girl and say that it looks like I’ve got to get going. She smiles at me apologetically and even says, I’m sorry, as if it’s her fault, as if she’s held me up with her chatter and not the other way around.

My hot-tempered driver tears off with intense concentration and a gaze that’s more piercing than the current visibility requires. As soon as she hits third gear, she screws up her nose and rolls down her window. I suspect that my breath reeks.

The monster in the backseat sits up, thrusts her head forward, and roars, Who’s been drinking brennivín?

Not you, I hiss. Not this time.

The monster falls back and puts a towel over her head. I lean toward my window and pull my scarf over my trap to make my presence in the car as bearable as possible.

As I neared my apartment on New Year’s Eve, I couldn’t help but think about my child, and my hope flared that when I returned Edda Sólveig would be snuggled under the covers, and I could go to her bed and spread the quilt over her bare toes, just as when she was a child.

After that, I could indulge in half a glass of red wine from my open bottle, light a candle, listen to a recording of Dietrich Bacon singing Leise flehen , and be fifteen years old, not pregnant. I’d watch the snowfall through the arched window and recall how the singer looked at me as he sang at the second hour of the New Year.

I hurried to Edda’s bed without even taking off my boots, but my daughter hadn’t come home, of course. I felt quite sad as I systematically removed my coat and hat, folded my sweater, and put my wool socks in a drawer, and fear, my constant companion, welled up inside me. A piercing cat’s wail came in through the window of Edda’s room. It wasn’t shut well, and I hurried to fasten it securely, because I didn’t feel like talking to more cats today.

I did everything else I’d envisioned doing. As soon as I’d arranged myself on the sofa, with my legs up on the glass table and Dietrich singing Durch die Nacht zu dir , a new round of snow started falling softly — very, very slowly and sparsely. I imagined that I lived alone in this apartment, that I was an ordinary thirty-one-year-old single woman. I tried not to think about the unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink. Rare was the occasion when the crockery remained unwashed overnight. The thought of it assaulted me like the fiercest temptation. The dishes had such a magnetic power that my fingers itched to go and clean up, but I didn’t give in. For the moment, I would do nothing, though it took an effort, and I hunkered down tighter on the couch and struggled to sit and gaze at the garden through the arched window. The snowfall wasn’t serious; only a few unnaturally large flakes fluttered before the window.

The phone rang. Teddi asked for Edda Sólveig. I said she wasn’t home and asked where he’d seen her last. He’d gotten separated from her downtown. What time? I asked. It was around three, said Teddi. Is there something you should tell me? I asked. No, he said, but I detected a sort of undertone to his voice, and the weakness in my lower back flared and poured straight down, so heavily that my knees buckled and I collapsed onto the stool next to the phone. Did she tell you where she was going? I asked. She said she was going to lie down in the garden. Which garden? I don’t know — she was just blathering. Was she completely stoned? Too bad I lost track of her. Since when do you think you’re looking after Edda, you who’ve brought her to ruin? Filthy bastard. I hung up the phone and trembled with agitation. Then I lifted the receiver and slammed it down again, though the bastard wasn’t on the other end anymore, of course.

She was going to lie down in the garden? Was she lying in the Botanical Garden in Laugardalur like a sick old snow-woman, in my footprints? Did she mean our little yard? There were plenty of other possibilities. It was only twenty degrees outside and Edda was always poorly dressed. No matter what I tried. Asking her to dress more warmly had cost me black eyes, punches, and shoves.

I took off my black chiffon dress with tulle wings and prepared myself for further outdoor activities on the first night of the year. I put on a Norwegian angora undershirt, thick tights, long trousers, a long-sleeved cotton T-shirt, a wool sweater, cotton socks, wool socks, boots, a winter coat, a balaclava, and shearling mittens. I would make the circuit of the neighborhood, look in people’s yards and at Hlemmur bus station. If I didn’t find Edda within an hour, I was going to call my cousin Rikki, the cop, and ask if he knew anything. I could also turn to Sibbi and ask him to drive me to several choice locations, or loan me his car if he were too hungover to drive. I put out the candle before leaving, but left a lamp lit in the living room window.