Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

Right up near the farmhouse, in a little clearing in the garden, we find an old tent. It resembles the tent we used on camping trips in days gone by, when Dad in knickerbockers and kneesocks heated Maggi soups on a Primus stove and squeezed Vals ketchup onto our hot dogs. As I recall, the old tent was pretty much the only place where Mom ever behaved like a normal person.

Heiður and I gaze over the plain and a small strip of the sea as well, where two boats dawdle idly on our side of the haze. The tranquility is so overpowering that it’s as if a highly efficient silence-machine had been started in order to drown out all sounds, except for the dull babbling from the tents. Here, now, humans have the floor, and the animals make their absence conspicuous by saying nothing. The drizzle and the stillness have rocked both the domestic and wild animals to sleep. Not a whimper from the dog, no buzzing of flies. the migratory birds are either gone already or are silently gathering strength for their lengthy flights.

So it is real! exclaims Heiður, skipping off down the slope along a path marked with glossy black sea stones.

Aunt Bettý comes to the door with Edda at her heels, like a dog or Uncle Arnbjartur’s pet lamb at Glóra. Bettý seems even taller than I remembered, not an inch below five eleven. She’s thin, and her curly, tangled, blackish-gray hair is formed in a peculiar wreath, its ends meeting beneath her chin. She waves to us with a discreet royal swing of her hand.

The welcoming ceremony at Útheimar is a CEREMONY OF SILENCE. As we make our way out of the garden, past the old tent, and through the garden gate to the farmhouse, we say nothing. The word hello isn’t spoken until we come up to the door, and then it’s spoken softly, as if it’s sacrilege to utter a sound, as if we’re guests at a funeral and the ceremony is about to begin.

Either my aunt has lost weight since last time or I’d forgotten about her sunken cheeks and spindly, wrinkled neck. Beneath her deep-brown eyes, dark rings reach down to her cheekbones. Her eyebrows, thick and steel gray, meet in the middle, like those of a Mediterranean male. Nothing about Aunt Bettý is worth noticing but her eyes and their amazing enclosures, which draw all the attention. They’re the center of this woman.

If you can manage to tear yourself loose from the overwhelming power of Aunt Bettý’s eyes and make an attempt to assess her overall appearance, it’s clear, without any doubt, that it’s more akin to beauty than ugliness, more akin to youth than old age. But this is a strange conclusion when considering each detail in and of itself.

Bettý speaks so softly that even a person with perfect hearing has to focus hard to catch what she says, or even more, has to read her lips at the same time.

Would you like to come in? asks Bettý. I thrust my head forward in order to hear better. She misunderstands my gesture and thinks that I’m going to kiss her, so I give her an awkward kiss that lands near her ear.

Maybe you’d like to start by having a look in the tent? she says, or so it seems to me.

What?

The tent here in the clearing.

It’s just like the tent we had when I was a kid, I say.

It’s the very same one.

Okay, I say with ordinary politeness.

Actually, people are generally much more polite than might be claimed. They take what’s handed to them, and say, at their most prudent, okay , when they’re served up some sort of crap. Does that mean I’m no exception, saying okay instead of asking how on earth our old tent has come to be here?

Your mom feels most at home inside it, says my aunt.

Edda dashes ahead, now with a cat suddenly at her heels. Damned if it doesn’t look like Mr. Björn from Bollagata.

I didn’t know about the family reunion, I say.

I wouldn’t call it that, says my aunt, dragging out her words.

Bettý leads the way while I take the opportunity to study her appearance. Her pink flannel garment is neither robe, smock, nor apron, nor is it a dress. It has short sleeves, reaches down to midthigh, and is tied at the back. The cut is reminiscent of a surgical gown, but its material resembles that of an infant’s pajamas. Bettý’s wearing thick-soled sandals that increase her already considerable height. They don’t look comfortable.

The tent is empty except for a thin mattress and an old Primus stove, just like the stove from the camping trips of my youth.

That’s how Primuses were when I was a kid, I say, turning to Edda, who’s sitting next to me.

In the dim light inside the tent, Bettý’s eyes are two black holes that shine, however that might be possible. Aren’t black holes naturally opaque?

So you’re on your way to Dýrfinna’s.

Yes, I’m going to stay with her this winter, and Edda’s staying in Andey.

I’m sure you’ll both be quite comfortable.

Mom insisted, says Edda grumpily.

It will be grand, says Bettý. Hasn’t the trip gone well?

Sure, absolutely, I say. But I have no mind to discuss it in any detail.

It most certainly hasn’t gone well, says Edda. Heiður’s always running off the road, and was even going to head back to Reykjavík yesterday.

Yes, and why was that? I ask.

There are five men following you, says Bettý, without warning.

The Primus flame illuminates her hair-wreath and the black holes of her eyes. She looks like a foreign demon, from the heart of darkness. I decide to leave the tent to avoid being exposed to spiritual blather, but my rear end is so heavy that I can’t be bothered to move.

Five men following you, repeats Bettý.

I heard you, I say. I glance at Edda, who appears to be smiling.

There are only three men, says the girl.

The oldest has dark skin and dark hair. Tall, slim.

Similar to you, Aunt, I say. But it’s like splashing water on a goose.

He’s very fond of you, but I don’t understand what he’s saying.

Something wrong with his vocal cords?

He’s speaking a foreign language.

Can’t you ask him just to speak his own language?

I think that’s what he’s doing. He’s not Icelandic, that’s for sure.

What a hopeless spirit — it can’t even make itself understood by the medium.

Who said that it’s a spirit?

Are you starting to see living people as well?

You know him, and your late mother knew him. He wants to get in touch with you, Harpa. He’s a very sad man.

He’ll have to stay sad. I’m not psychic.

You don’t have to be psychic to see him, he’s as alive as day and urgently needs to speak to you.

Then he should pick up the phone or drop me a line.

But the other four, aren’t they alive too? asks Edda.

One of them is a strikingly elegant man, very tall, but rather stout. He’ll soon need to lose weight for health reasons. He’s wearing a little hat and a woolen cape.

Good Lord, says Heiður.

You know him.

What more can you tell me about him?

His hair is grayish, face angelic. Big, beautiful hands.

Dietrich Bacon, I say.

Impossible, says Heiður. He can’t be on our heels. He’s my boyfriend, and I’m going abroad next week to see him.

I only say what I see, says Bettý.

What about the other three? asks Edda.

Indeed. It’s just three little whelps, carrying an extremely dangerous book. You should burn it, little Edda, if they try to foist it off on you.

They’ve already let me have it. It’s mine.

Burn it, along with everything that’s in it.

Is that the book they let you have in Kirkjubæjarklaustur?

Yes.

What’s the book? I ask.

Vendetta and Voodoo , says Edda, trying to make her voice sound terrifying.

Heiður bursts out laughing.