Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

By now, I could have been DOCTOR HARPA EIR. Though a doctor in what, I have no idea.

If I’d had the heart to ask, even as late as two years ago, I could have gone abroad with Edda, and she never would have wound up in this mess.

Those who don’t ask, don’t get any answers, find no solutions. Not asking can be fatal.

Yet I’m thankful for having finally stammered out the question.

Which yields answers.

And the answers propagate stealth.

Stealth in dealing with my dad, and stealth in dealing with Edda, at least as long as my dad is alive.

Maybe forever.

But where to begin? How to answer the next questions?

Should I betray my father in Reykjavík , as my genetic father in Perpignan so deftly called him? Betray him in his old age and go to the other father, the man Mom had an extramarital affair with during the blackest winter days more than thirty years ago? Wouldn’t that be beautiful? Is it even possible to use the word beautiful in such a scenario?

On top of everything else, Arnbjartur’s come all the way here, like a representative of his brother, the artificial dad in the capital.

I stop stirring the hot-chocolate sea, stop intoning, having gotten nowhere with my sorcery. The unmagical little sorceress arranges snacks on a metal tray — flatbread with butter and smoked lamb, homemade bread with egg and cucumber — and then brings the treats into the living room.

As soon as I put down the tray on the coffee table, the phone rings.

It’s probably your boyfriend, says Arnbjartur, in his squeaky voice.

I don’t have one.

Not that you know of.

Hello, Harpa, it’s me, says the nervous voice of the man I bring with me everywhere — even on this journey east.

Is that you? Hello. Wait a moment.

The telephone cord is short. I can just barely slip inside the kitchen door, and speak with my mouth at the door crack as if I’m whispering an immense secret into the foyer.

You’re not alone? he asks.

No. Can you hear me well enough if I speak this quietly?

Yes, I can hear you.

You found out where I am, the first night.

I also tried yesterday, but your aunt said you were coming today.

Strange, she didn’t mention anything.

Strange. Can you come see me?

It depends a bit on where you are.

I’m in Ísafjörður.

I’m not on my way there.

No, of course not. I have to go to Egilsstaðir.

I see.

Could you meet me there?

I don’t really think I trust myself to travel from fjord to fjord in my aunt’s Willys.

Could you take a bus?

I suppose so.

Can I come to you?

When?

The day after tomorrow.

I don’t know, I say. I need to paint my room.

So?

Would you be able to stay a while?

Two nights.

Would you need to leave between evening and morning?

Yes.

Is anything special going on?

I’ve got to see you.

Has that become a reason?

Don’t be cold to me, Harpa. I think of you day and night.

Yes.

How was your trip?

There’s so much to tell, I wouldn’t know where to begin. It would take volumes to make a full account of it.

Did something special happen?

Nothing that I’m able to discuss on the telephone.

It’s awful to think of you way out there and worried about your girl.

Actually, things are pretty darned good here. I’ve stopped worrying about Edda. I’ve had so many worries that there’s no room for any more. Now I’m just raring to get away and start some serious learning.

Oh, Harpa, you’re not leaving Iceland, are you?

Do you want to keep me here so that you can use me twice a year?

It might be possible to increase the number of times.

How many do you offer on an annual basis?

We’ll see. Please, can I come visit you?

Uh, no.

You must be completely exhausted. Can I call you back tomorrow?

I can’t prohibit you from doing so.

Oh, Harpa, I feel like my tongue’s pasted to the roof of my mouth. I can’t seem to say anything that I want to say.

You could try writing it.

Are you hiding something from me? It’s like you’ve changed.

We haven’t seen each other in over half a year. A lot can change in that time.

Have you met someone else?

Would you find that strange?

Harpa, you have to tell me what’s going on.

Of course I don’t have to . Besides, who’s to say that I know what’s going on?

Listen, I can hear you’re in no mood to talk right now. Let me call you tomorrow. You probably just need some time to figure things out.

You think so?

I’m hanging up now, Harpa. Talk to you tomorrow. Good-bye and good night.

Bye.

I fully expect Arnbjartur to be eavesdropping, but he’s still in the living room, with his paws in the silk folder, having a look at Gabriel Axel’s letter to me, without his glasses. He sure knows how to pry into other people’s business.

What do we have here? A foreign letter from ’84, in a freshly opened envelope, it looks to me.

Dýrfinna gives me a collusive look. She expects me to try to wriggle my way out of this.

What’s an old letter to Harpa doing here with you, Dýrfinna? And who’s this Gabriel Axel?

It’s from my dad.

I’ll be damned. That’s what I’d call news.

I thought you weren’t interested in genealogy.

I’d say this is a bit more than the usual names and dates. Is the man’s name really Axel?

His family name is Axel, yes.

It’s practically an act of providence to have them both named Axel.

I can’t see that it matters, says Dýrfinna. The main thing is that little Harpa is of such fine character.

What does poor Seli have to say about this?

This is a secret, Arnbjartur, says Dýrfinna. No one invited you to read that letter. I strictly forbid you to mention this to anyone. Your brother has no idea. You can imagine how he would react.

I can’t fathom how he wouldn’t suspect something. Anyone in his right mind can see that he’s as much Harpa’s father as the cat’s. Her mom never played with a full deck.

Many a person missteps without being branded crazy as a result, says Dýrfinna gravely. We shouldn’t judge so sharply. There are people here and there who don’t fall for temptations, but who’s to say that they’re any better than the rest?

Thank you for the kind words, Finna dear.

A door slams violently somewhere in the house.

I don’t know what that can be, says Dýrfinna.

Arnbjartur replies excitedly: The leg’s here. I’ll never be rid of it.

When Dýrfinna asks what he means, she is treated to the entire story. Arnbjartur curses the ungrateful limb that he took under his wing, the damned gam that he placed in a well-crafted box in consecrated ground and sang a hymn over, and which repaid the favor by returning from the grave and kicking down doors. And now, it’s obviously followed him out here to the Eastfjords.

Do you think Bettý might be able to help you get the bastard under control?

I’m scared shitless of your sister.

Uff, I’m far more dangerous than she is.

Quite possibly. People never have the sense to fear those who are truly dangerous.

Sæmundur the cat dashes in, light on his feet, and jumps into my lap.

Where’ve you been, Sæmundur dear?

He answers only when I start stroking him devotedly, as in the old days. It sounds to me as if he’s been sitting at the seaside, meditating, as the very last rays of the sun played in his fur.

Sæmundur’s purr reminds me of my late mother’s voice. Yet how much more pleasant it is to listen to him.

How much purring cats have over speaking mothers.

Mine, at least.