Iceland review - 2019, Page 118

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Iceland Review
chain before opening the door.
“Hi, afi!” says his granddaughter cheerily. She
gives him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, so that
he catches a whiff of a sweet perfumey scent that’s
entirely at odds with everything in the apartment
before she saunters in and starts taking off her
things. Her brother trails behind her, pausing in the
doorway as if he’s waiting to be invited in. He nods at
Sólmundur and says, “Hi, afi,” seems unsure about
whether he should follow the greeting with a hug, but
eventually settles for extending a hand. Sólmundur
doesn’t say anything, just takes his hand and nods
in return.
“We just wanted to see how you’ve been,” says the
girl.
“We stopped off at the bakery,” says the boy,
holding up a greasy paper bag. They pile their coats
on the chair by the door and Sólmundur waves them
in and follows them to the living room. The boy sits
in the middle of the couch with his knees together
and the bag of pastries on his lap like a pet.
“I don’t have anything to offer you,” says
Sólmundur. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’ll take care of it, afi,” says his granddaughter.
“Just have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
She takes the pastry bag from her brother and asks,
“How do you take your coffee?” with a bright smile.
“I don’t want any coffee,” says Sólmundur, sitting
down. “I was just offering it to you. I’ve already had a
cup and two is too much for my stomach. But make
some for yourself and your brother.”
“Milk and sugar for me,” says her brother, but she
acts like she doesn’t hear him.
“Are you sure? Should I make something else for
you? Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you, but you two go ahead.”
“Two sugars,” says her brother.
“Afi, you’ve got to have something with your
Danish.”
“I just ate – I’m not hungry.”
She nods and turns around.
“The coffee pot’s broken, but there’s some
instant in the cupboard,” he calls after her. “And
there’s still water in the kettle from this morning.”
The only answer from the kitchen is the clatter of
the cupboard doors as they open and close. This is
the first time his grandchildren have come to visit on
their own. When they were younger, Elenóra, their
grandmother, would make the coffee. Then Sólveig,
their mother, when she used to visit. Sólmundur and
his grandson are left alone in the living room.
“Well, now,” says the boy. “What’s going on, afi?”
“Not much. I was actually on my way out.” He’s
about to explain the thing about the walk, but then
stops at the last minute and says instead, “I’m going
to meet my friend down at the community centre.”
“That’s good to hear,” says the boy. He’s in his
thirties, but still dresses like a teenager, has on
a hoodie and sweatpants. The boy has the same
coarse facial features as his father, Sólveig’s ex-hus-
band. A heavy brow, broad jaw, and red cheeks. A
rough voice that’s always a little too loud. Sólmundur
can hardly see anything of his daughter in the boy,
although there is actually something familiar about
his restless hands, the way they’re constantly fidget-
ing as if they don’t know what to do with themselves.
“That’s good,” repeats the boy, mumbling to him-
self and looking at the paintings in the living room,
which he hasn’t seen in a few years. They’re mostly
amateur pieces Sólmundur and Elenóra bought to
support friends and acquaintances, but intermixed
are some land- and streetscapes that they brought
home with them from their trips abroad, purchased
in street markets from the artists themselves.
He hears the whistle of the electric kettle from
the kitchen and shortly after, his granddaughter
appears in the doorway with a tray of coffee and
Danish. “Here we are. Bon appétit,” she says as she
sets the tray on the table, moving slowly so as not
to spill. She’s cut the pastries into small pieces so
they can all have some of each and arranged every-
thing on a plate with a picture of the Kremlin that
Sólmundur and Elenóra bought when they went to
Moscow. There are three cups of coffee on the tray,
and she puts one in front of him.
“I poured you a small cup, just in case. Black with
a little sugar, right? That’s the way Mom always
made it for you.”
“Thanks, but I can’t drink any more coffee. I’ll get
a stomach ache.”
The cup in front of him is from the good tea set.
The glossy white china is so thin that he can see the
shadow of the coffee through it. A fine crack runs
from its lip through a watercolour image of yellow
buttercups with green stalks. It says Martius in
pretty script under the flowers. The good tea set
has twelve cups in total – one for each month. His
granddaughter’s cup says September and has a
picture of lilac-blue forget-me-nots. The boy has
Februarius and a picture of violets with wide, dark
petals. Elenóra only ever used the October cup with
plump, orange marigolds on it for her tea, since her
birthday was on the 21st. She forbade him to ever
put coffee in that cup because she said it would leave
an aftertaste. She didn’t drink coffee. The saucers
are also decorated with flowers, but those have been
left behind in the kitchen. The girl probably didn’t
find them. It’s been a long time since the good china
was last on the table and Sólmundur wonders if she
took the time to wipe the dust out of the cups before
pouring the coffee.
“It’s so stuffy in here, afi,” she says. “Why don’t Location: Behind Icelandair Hotel Reykjavík Natura at Reykjavík Airport
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