Iceland review - 2019, Side 121

117
Iceland Review
I open a window?” She pulls open the heavy drapes
and the sun shines through the lace curtain and
casts a net of delicate shadows over the living room.
He usually keeps them closed so that there won’t
be a glare on the TV. “It’s so beautiful out,” she
says, fumbling a bit with the window hooks. The sun
shines through her hair.
“Yes, I know. I was just telling your brother that I
was on my way out for a walk.”
“Yeah?” says the girl. “We can come with you.”
“No, I’m going to meet a friend down at the com-
munity centre,” says Sólmundur, reaching for the
stack of coasters in the middle of the coffee table. He
deals out the coasters like cards from a deck, placing
one in front of each of them and a third under his
own cup.
“Oh, that’s great,” says his granddaughter. “A
lady friend, perhaps?” she adds with a sly smile.
“No,” answers Sólmundur curtly. “We worked
together at the ministry.”
“But still, you shouldn’t rule it out. People meet
and fall in love, even at your age, afi.”
“I’m perfectly happy with the way things are,
thank you very much.”
She lifts her eyebrows as if to say, have it your
way, old man. With the sun behind her, she looks
almost exactly like her mother. Except for her hair.
Her mom has frizzy hair that invariably looks like
she’s just stepped in from out of a hurricane, but the
girl either got her hair from her father’s side or, as
Sólmundur thinks is probably more likely, has put a
lot of effort into keeping it under control. Except for
the odd golden strand that’s escaped the clutches of
the flat iron, it hangs straight down her back.
“How is your mother?” he asks.
“Fine, I think. She’s in Antwerp at a conference at
the moment.”
“She’s always gadding about, your mom. Is she
ever actually at home?” He can see that she’s ruffled
by the question.
“Yes,” she says shortly. “She’s lucky to have an
exciting job where she gets to travel so much.”
The boy is silent, his facial features relaxed. He
reaches for a piece of Danish, takes a bite and chews,
crumbs at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s better than being stuck behind a desk,” she
continues.
“Your amma and I were big travellers in our
own right,” says Sólmundur. “After your mom left
home, we travelled all over the place.” He turns to
his grandson and asks, “Do you still live with your
mother?” The boy’s mouth is full. Sólmundur waits
for him to answer and hears the boy breathing
through his nose as he chews. He swallows and wipes
his mouth so that the crumbs fall into his lap.
“Yes, but I’m looking. Everything’s so expensive. I
need to find a flatmate. But I pay mama rent and help
around the house.”
“It’s good that you’re making yourself useful,”
says Sólmundur.
“Who is this friend you’re going to meet?” asks
his granddaughter suddenly.
“Steingrímur Oddi,” says Sólmundur. “We worked
together at the ministry.”
“Ah, yes, you said you’d worked together. I don’t
remember him – did we ever go camping with him
and his wife?”
“No, not with him. It was usually friends of your
amma’s that we went camping with. He and I some-
times meet up and have a coffee down at the com-
munity centre.” He doesn’t mention Steingrímur’s
funeral, which was just over a month ago and is
probably why the man’s name popped into his head
so quickly. They weren’t particularly good friends
in the old days at the ministry but had recently
started meeting up every now and then for a coffee
– their other, closer friends having passed away. He
hasn’t been down to the community centre since
Steingrímur died.
His granddaughter wrinkles her brow. “Didn’t
you say you can’t drink more coffee because of your
stomach?”
“Yes, because I’m meeting Steingrímur later,”
he says quickly. “Like I said, I can drink two cups a
day, but not more than that. I was planning to have
my second cup with Steingrímur.” She doesn’t seem
convinced, so he adds, “If only you’d called...” and
throws up his hands in resignation.
“We tried to call,” says the boy apologetically.
“We kept getting a busy signal.”
“Oh, right,” says Sólmundur. “Now I remember.
I took the phone off the hook. A salesman called.”
When was that again? Yesterday? Earlier in the
week? He can’t remember.
“You can’t do things like that, afi,” says the boy.
“We were worried.” He blushes and looks down.
Brushes the crumbs from his lap and onto the floor.
The girl is silent, lifts her cup to take another sip,
but then stops and picks up the coaster instead.
“I remember these from when I was a kid,” she
says intently. “Where did you get them?” The coast-
ers are made of transparent, honey-coloured resin
and have dried flowers in them. When she holds the
coaster up in the light from the window to take a
better look, the sun shines through the resin, send-
ing and a golden orb with a skeletal shadow in the
middle skittering across the wall behind her.
“I don’t remember,” says Sólmundur. “Your mama
must have bought them somewhere.”
She looks at him. “What now? Mama bought
them?”
He shakes his head peevishly. “No, not mama –
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