Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

Of course I’m foreign, kind sir, you’re right about that, though I can’t prove it. It was right before Easter, and now it’s a new year. There were three phone calls from Ísafjörður. We spoke for a long time, laughed heartily. There’s no denying that we’re fun together on the phone.

Sirens come and sirens go. It’s been only one and a half days since Edda and I were rushed to the hospital under flashing lights and an ominous wail. My child came so close to leaving and never coming back again. That’s the last thing I could ever wish for. I don’t know what I wish, but I mustn’t be such a wretch as to wish that. I need to hold on to the idea that it often takes great storms to harness the winds so that the heavy clouds blow away to reveal the sun.

It will be a blessed day when my frozen child thaws out from the spells and changes back into a smiling person who draws pictures of turf farms by a round pond for Mom, the sun shedding rays on the turf roofs and water.

The snow crunches out on the street; footsteps draw nearer, but strangely slowly, as before. My heart beats faster. Why should someone walking down my street make it start doing so? Beat slowly, my heart, I order my heart, but it doesn’t obey. Someone passes through the gate to my yard, at an accelerated pace, directly. Then the gate is shut and the steps to my apartment are descended, without hesitation. The bell rings. I go to the door immediately, as I am, bare-legged in a nightgown.

Welcome, I say. I was just thinking about you, and I glance over his shoulder at the spruce trees across the street, heavy with sparkling snow, and at vivid pink northern lights dancing empowered across the sky.

Look, I say, pointing over his shoulder.

He doesn’t follow my index finger, and instead places his hand on my cheek and plants a dream-prince kiss on my mouth. He puts his arm around my shoulder, turning around so that we both face the northern lights as we stand side-by-side in the narrow hallway. I lean my head against his arm in total silence, as I’ve done in many a dream.

In the sea-green hallway before the open door I shiver, wearing nothing but my low-cut nightgown. My guest shuts the door when he feels me trembling, nudges me into the foyer, shuts the hallway door to keep out more cold, firmly strokes my bare arms to warm me. He smiles halfway to his ears, giving a glimpse of his long white eyeteeth, a defect that looks good on him, and his cat eyes glow in the darkness.

His green eyes

are not of human kin

but of the kin of cats.

Eyes of the sea, not land.

Cat’s eyes,

sea eyes.

Did they see me in the dark?

Would it be sweet to drown in them?

Are you home alone? he asks.

Yes, but for bad reasons.

Oh?

I’ll tell you afterward.

I’ll tell you afterward , not later. There won’t be any later .

My guest takes off his blue suede, fur-lined jacket and hangs it up. He unlaces his well-polished boots, revealing his white carded-wool socks. He takes the opportunity, while bending down, to stroke the sole of my foot, my ankle and shin, up to my knee.

Maybe he found my bare legs a bit forlorn.

Your foot is softer than your hand, he whispers in my ear.

He leads me into the bedroom and lays me on the bed, lays himself down beside me, and embraces me tightly. The darkness here is perfect. I’m glad of that for now. He releases his grip, I stroke the nape of his neck. It’s a highly rehearsed scene from my dreams, like my series of kisses along his neck.

He moves his hand beneath my nightgown, runs it along my body, along my outer thigh, hip, and side, up to my armpit. Then, with extreme care, he removes my nightgown, like I’m disabled and unable to assist. He places the gown on the chair next to the bed.

Are you pressed for time? I ask.

He doesn’t understand the gibe, and says: I can stay until eight thirty in the morning.

I realize that this is a serious matter and say: That’s an entire night.

A fully dressed man, still wearing his sweater, kisses me carefully from tip to toe, spending extra time with my breasts and hands.

Kissing hands is an art that’s practiced too little. It’s said that the eyes are the mirror of the soul. But the hands are the gateway to it. By kissing the backs of the hands, the wrists, the knuckles, the fingertips, and moistening them slightly with the tongue, it’s possible to pinpoint the bridge across which an individual stops being a patient soul and becomes an impatient body.

Take off your clothes. I can’t wait.

He gets out of bed and goes into the living room, returning with a lit candle, which he puts on the nightstand. He looks at me in bed and stands there unmoving, for what feels to me like a long time.

Then it’s as if he suddenly remembers what it’s all about. He quickly undresses. First his sweater, then his shirt and undershirt. Next his socks, and then his pants.

He lies on top of me and takes a good long time slipping it all the way in.

He lies still, and our mouths and lithe tongues melt together, our teeth touch. In this stationary vortex I exist less than I did before. I who have lived for thirty years now scarcely exist, yet I feel that I’m only now living. Is this what we ultimately live for? To be less existent, or as a part of another, literally? I don’t know, but I know that it’s barely me, not the person I used to be, who lies here beneath a long-desired weight, having finally reached my intended destination, having come all the way.

My guest still doesn’t move. He continues to kiss my lips, tease my tongue, but is otherwise completely still. The game is meant for me, the one who can’t wait, who must keep going. He wants to make me move first, creating a perfect motion between two bodies that work together for the first time, in complete accord. Play, play fast, very slowly in between, or stop playing, rest and gather strength, dance around the common goal, avoid it, for a long time, then shorten the path in dizzying motion, to a low shout that echoes long and becomes a nursery rhyme that slowly puts to sleep a traveler drenched with sweat.

Day doesn’t dawn brightly, not at this time of year, but when morning comes my guest remembers, having earlier been preoccupied with pampering my entire body, to ask me what happened with Edda. I tell him the whole story of my daughter and me, in a low voice with my mouth to his ear.

He embraces me with his entire body, arms and legs, lays his cheek against mine. He tells me to be brave, that I’ll find a way, and it will turn out all right.

I’m supposed to promise him never to let this moment cast a shadow on life, but instead make it brighter. If you’d dropped into my arms, he says, and splashed water on me a year earlier…He stops speaking, and I feel a tear fall. I explain to the guest that the years don’t matter, but to have an entire night until eight thirty in the morning means everything. No one can take it from us; we’ll always have it to think back on.

He says again: Just a year earlier . My hands are tied now.

I laugh and say: Time is always crazy — let us not take notice of it. I grab his clenched hands, releasing them from each other, lightly bite his fingers and direct them down to my loins, where they’re quick to find a special project. Nor do my hands remain idle. They can’t restrain themselves from investigating this man’s torso, the body hard with muscles, the soft skin, the masculine legs covered with rough hairs, as they should be. We’re in no hurry in bed, because our time tonight will have to last us for a very long time, well beyond this one January night. There are moments when I let it be in the past, and I envision myself recalling it in my mind when I am old. The night is fuel for a time to come, a future time. Tonight the roads of all time conjoin.