Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

I lean against the bed of the little white pickup truck, where selected bits of my household belongings lay piled beneath a canvas tarp. I breathe so deeply that I grow giddy from the heavenly air and the view of the glacier, wishing simultaneously that the truck would change into a helicopter, Heiður into a pilot, and Edda into the good girl she once was, and that we could waltz on polished, airy dance floors over the highlands all day long and sing all the songs that came to mind.

Heiður’s standing in the shop door as I enter, and she gives me an anxious look, making her even more long-faced and as off-putting as the figure in The Scream , the painting that hangs in every last hotel room in Oslo, troubling the dreams of international travelers.

Edda’s chatting with a lanky fellow in sap-green leather pants. They lean against the counter, as if incapable of standing up straight. The back of the boy’s head is shaved from his neck up over his ears, and a greasy ponytail hangs down between his shoulder blades. Oh, the Chicken is here. No wonder I didn’t recognize him right away; he’s changed his haircut.

The posture of the two at the counter reminds me of the scene when the Chicken came to Bollagata with Edda broken-armed, her face bruised and cut, a remarkable spring-night pair oscillating awkwardly at the front door like spastic Siamese twins.

I walk slowly into the restroom as if I were on official business, with Heiður right behind like an assistant, holding on to a child’s ice-cream cone dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with puffed rice. Why should it bother me if some teenage boy makes a trip to the countryside?

Who’s that? Heiður hisses.

That damned Gerti Chicken from the gang.

Why in God’s name is he called “chicken”?

His parents kept chickens in an old Dodge in their yard, in one of those charming fishing villages down south by the sea. They felt it unnecessary to pay a fortune for eggs, not when they had such fine facilities at their doorstep. They were astounded when the Public Health Authority started asking questions.

Heiður laughs her spasmodic laugh, which inspires more dread than cheer in those who aren’t used to it.

That boy cuts an awful figure, says Heiður, after regaining her composure. He’s like a seventy-year-old wino who’s borrowed a leather outfit from the Hells Angels.

He came very close to shooting himself into the great beyond last year.

Oh my God, are these people into heroin?

Not as fancy as that, as far as I know. No, they grind up aspirin tablets and inject them. The poor Chicken definitely got hold of something stronger.

God, I’ve never heard anything more funny and pathetic. What sorry excuses for addicts.

It isn’t so funny. Even if the stuff isn’t that strong, they could still contract AIDS or hepatitis.

Edda shoves open the door with a loud crack and storms in, chin protruding.

Gerti’s going to Reykjavík. He offered me a ride.

We’re going the other direction, remember? I say, acting as unaffected as possible. If I show any signs of weakness, all is lost.

Yes, maybe you’re going the other direction. But I decide where I’m going.

Don’t be so ridiculous, says Heiður. It’s a done deal.

Maybe it’s a done deal for Harpa Eir, Edda says.

It doesn’t bode well when my child starts calling me by my baptismal name. Now my every little move has to be considered carefully, because one misplaced word would be enough, or simply a look that Edda Sólveig Loftsdóttir doesn’t like, and she could be in a car with Gerti Chicken, heading back toward Reykjavík, in order to finish herself off slowly or quickly, depending on circumstance. It occurs to me, and not for the first time, that I should maybe indulge her.

Keep out of it. It’s none of your business, I say so brusquely that Heiður sputters and coughs over the sink, the melting ice cream in her hand. Hopefully, she’ll understand that I needed to bristle at her, despite it being ludicrous, if I’m going to win this round of the match.

I’ll wait out in the car, I say, and hurry out of this stupid restroom, cursing Gerti, Heiður, and Edda in my mind. I treat everyone equally, you can grant me that. As I walk past Gerti, hanging bowlegged from the counter with a can of Coke and a Camel cigarette, I resort to the excellent idea of sticking out my poetic tongue at him. The hand holding the Coke can freezes halfway to his mouth, but his expression doesn’t change, not one bit.

Unluckily, a young backpacker, a foreigner in a red down jacket, witnesses my mockery, and his southern face screws up from his forehead to his chin and out to his ears. I smile to show him that I can do that as well.

It’s a refreshing relief to come out under the bare sky, and I feel good about my negotiation of human relations. Maybe I’ll make it a rule to stick out my tongue at assholes and hoodlums. But, hmm. It would be a lot of work. I’d be like a lizard, constantly shooting out my tongue and having time for nothing else.

Gerti’s yellow car is parked outside the gas station next door. It’s a smaller version of a delivery van with a high roof and no rear side windows, and goes by the name The Little Yellow Hen .

I’ve got to be careful not to let Edda intimidate me. She’s coming with us. I don’t look back; that would be fatal. If Edda noticed me looking back to check on her, she’d turn me into a little pillar of salt and rush off to Reykjavík with her brain-damaged friends.

Edda’s left her bag in the car. I open it up and find two pill bottles, one half full of acetaminophen, the other full of valium. Her hangover kit. No suspicious tablets, no powder. I confiscate a small portion of both types, assuming she hasn’t inventoried her supply. I must remember to reiterate to the Andey couple to hide all their medicines, worm medicine included. Unless that’s what Edda needs. An anthelmintic to drive out worms.

I hear footsteps, but it’s not Edda. Edda drags her feet like a storybook ghost. It’s Heiður’s jerky gait. She climbs straight into the car.

What fucking fuss was that?

Sorry, Heiður. You don’t deserve this. I was trying to save the situation by scolding you. I had to do it to prevent the girl from actually going back to town with that idiot.

Oh, of course, I should have realized that. What do you think she’ll do?

Who the hell knows? What do you think of Gerti’s car?

It’s funny. Is he a delivery boy?

Yes, he’s a delivery boy for the father of Hreinn Elías, who’s one of Edda’s so-called friends. We saw Hreinn Elli outside the house on Bollagata this morning. The poor boy is sometimes called Hreinn Brain for some reason, and his father, who’s called Pituitary, brews moonshine on a large scale. Theodór the Ringleader — by far the biggest shithead of Edda’s friends — manages the sales, and Gerti makes the deliveries.

Theodór’s in charge? Isn’t he the same age as Edda?

He just turned sixteen. Celebrated his birthday in Hotel Saga’s Homestead Room, with coffee and sandwich cakes, traditional refreshments for wakes. He’s a soft-spoken businessman to whom picking up the phone and dealing with hotel managers comes as naturally as ordering pizzas does to most kids his age.

Edda rushes back and squeezes into the backseat among all the luggage. My daughter’s grown out of buying ice cream in Selfoss. She’s holding a can of Pripps low-alcohol beer and a pack of peanuts.

You stuck out your tongue at him, you rude bitch.

Hold on a minute, says Heiður, with a laugh.

You stuck out your tongue at Gerti.

Did the Chicken complain to you? I ask, cool as day, while fiddling with my twisted seat belt.