Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

Sorry, but I find drippings disgusting.

Drippings have nourished the Icelandic people throughout the centuries.

Fortunately, we don’t have to eat the same old garbage anymore. How’d you go about growing that monstera?

You’re not the only one who’s asked, says Dýrfinna. My neighbor came here in the spring and measured the leaves and discovered that they’re bigger than the book says they’re supposed to be.

That’s quite an achievement, says Heiður.

You just have to remember to water it.

Don’t you have to go up to the attic every day to do so? I ask.

Preferably twice a day. Big plants need a lot to eat.

How do you manage?

I keep myself fit.

Aren’t you worried you’ll kill yourself with all that scrambling about? interjects Heiður.

I wouldn’t be worse off breaking my leg on the stairs.

Heiður laughs, gasping.

Now I can start taking it easier. It’ll make a difference having Harpa here to help me. Are you on your way overseas again?

Yes, I’m going to Copenhagen next week for a concert, and then on to Venice to meet my husband-to-be.

Isn’t it dreadfully polluted there?

I don’t know. It’s my first visit.

Pollution and debauchery.

I think it’s worse now in other cities besides Venice.

Aren’t you always in those big cities?

Sometimes.

Do you enjoy it?

I enjoy it sometimes, says Heiður, standing firm.

I don’t know what to make of this. I’ve known my aunt for thirty years and have never seen her like this. Yet isn’t that what they say a person is? New sides until the very end.

I should call Dad, I say. He’ll be done with his dinner.

By doing so I can kill two birds with one stone. Escape this puzzling bickering and speak to my dad before I betray him by asking Dýrfinna straight-out about the identity of my biological father. Just asking the question is a betrayal.

Dad’s phone rings a long time. If he leaves his room, no one answers the phone. His roommate’s so deaf that he doesn’t even hear the ringing.

I call the duty desk and ask to leave a message for Dad, because I don’t think I’ll be able to speak directly to him in the near future if my forecast about the progress of the evening proves true. It certainly comes in handy now to have a dad who’s so passive that I can rest assured he won’t be the one to call first.

Please tell Axel Óðinsson that Harpa Eir called and that the trip has gone well and everything is fine.

I feel relieved as I hang up. Relief at not having had to speak to Dad. Not now. At how precious it is to have put one matter to rest. Until tomorrow or the next day.

I go to find Heiður to wish her good night. She’s sitting on the bed that I started making for her, and I squeeze my way over beneath the overwhelming plant and sit down next to her.

Heiður?

Yes.

Do you think our friendship will be just as strong even though we said some nasty things last night?

We’ll survive. Don’t forget that if just the two of us had taken the trip, the knife wouldn’t have come between us.

I’m sincerely grateful for everything. I would probably be dead, literally, if I hadn’t had you to turn to.

I’d suggest you keep that to yourself.

No, I won’t tell anyone.

I stroke my friend’s cheek, and her eyes moisten a bit — the toughie herself.

You’re my best friend in the world, I say, even if you’re a little too impulsive.

I’ll smack you, she says, choking back a sob, if you’re going to be so sentimental.

Sleep well, my cutey flutey. Maybe one day I can repay you.

I hope not.

Beast. Good night. Sweet dreams.

Don’t push your aunt too hard.

No way. She’s made of reinforced concrete, as you can see. Good night and thanks for everything.

Good night.

I make my way downstairs. The only light in the living room glows from the lamp carved by my master-craftsman grandpa, as well as a few candles. The semidarkness hides how the walls are worse for wear. As soon as I came in through the door of the house, I noticed through the sea of plants and islands of photographs that it would be necessary to paint the walls on the ground floor. If I’m to paint upstairs, I might as well paint the living room, too.

Now is the time. The time of questions.

What’s the deal with me, Dýrfinna?

To ask or not to ask

that is the question.

Show me the way, my lifeline,

Jói, my friend.

If you hadn’t spoken I wouldn’t be here, free from the little monster I was chained to. Free from my old life, maybe, soon.

What will happen soon?

A black-and-white passport photo of Jói is in its place in my wallet. His beloved face, enclosed in a dark frame of shiny hair. His classical facial features and rather heavy yet delicate eyebrows, long straight nose, and handsome cleft chin, give him the combined look of an Indian prince and Icelandic farmer from around the turn of the century.

Show me the way, Jói. You must see it clearly from where you are now, you who are in the light and the world before it became.

My aunt sails in slowly with a pitcher and cups on a tray. She puts down the tray on the table before sitting in her chair. Its high seat and sturdy arms are custom designed for handicapped people. The candle flames cast a mysterious gleam on a slightly tattered and stained Icelandic flag that has slipped halfway down a silver pole. Aunt Dýrfinna pours hot chocolate into gold-trimmed white cups and adds dollops of whipped cream. Her broad, smooth face has the same radiance one might find in a seventeenth-century painting by a Dutch master of chiaroscuro, and her hair is a halo of silver.

I feel as if I’ve come to an ancient temple, and that the sibyl will let the cat out of the bag soon — not in the oracular style, but rather in clear words that don’t come as a surprise. That she’ll tell me how everything will go, what will happen next, and what will happen thereafter. For Edda as well. Whether we live or die. Who we are. And above all who I am, though I’m not sure I’ll care what she says. It won’t matter, since I’ve always known the truth and I’m doing nothing but gaining confirmation.

It’s Dýrfinna who begins: Do you want to ask me something?

Yes. Do you know what it’s about?

Let’s hear it, Harpa dear.

I don’t know how to start.

Just let out whatever it is that’s bothering you. It’s just me you’re talking to.

I want to speak, but the words are fighting against being spoken. Dýrfinna is silent and steadfast. She’s already portioned out to me all the assistance she has to give.

I look at my small feminine hands. The people on both sides of my family have big hands. Mom had masculine hands.

Everything has fallen silent in camaraderie with me: the land, the sea, and the people. Nothing ticks, nothing stirs. I hear nothing but the beating of two hearts, and even that beating must be my imagination.

Beating life.

Isn’t that the line of poetry Heiður liked? The one that Alli the dwarf made fun of the most?

Bright death of the heart, beating life!

Oh.

Yet I have the sense not to publish these shreds of poetry.

If only the clock with the glass dome worked, if only the carousel were still spinning, if only the audible timer worked, to help and support me.

Now I’ve got to speak. That’s why I’ve come, to push the leaden words out into the world, the unasked question that has thoroughly spoiled my days.

The time of questions has come.

I feel as if Jói is speaking, that it’s he who finds the words and has borrowed my voice to say them.

I felt I could never…I didn’t know how to ask Mom…because she surely would have told me first if she’d intended…if she’d wanted…to tell me…But I…I can’t believe that I can look like this, and I’ve never believed it…that I’m…Axelsdóttir.