‘Yes,’ Marion had said. ‘That’s obvious.’
‘But then I start wondering: what about all the others?’
‘Others?’
‘The ones left behind.’
‘What about them?’
‘The people I pity are the ones left to cope with the fallout. Who have to endure the sadness for the rest of their lives. It’s them I’m concerned with.’
‘Policemen can’t be responsible for men’s souls, Erlendur,’ Marion had said. ‘That’s what priests are for.’
‘But I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘And trying to help.’
‘If I can. But there’s so little one can do.’
Erlendur stared blankly into the black void of the house and listened to the moaning of the wind. Eventually, he put down his book and enjoyed a dreamless night’s sleep in the warmth of the gas lantern.
The road through the Fagridalur Valley had been snowploughed by the time Erlendur drove along it at lunchtime next day. He parked outside the care home in Egilsstadir and thought about all those who remembered the story of Matthildur and Jakob. Most were getting on; some, like Ninna and Ezra, were very elderly. Soon their tales would be forgotten, along with their lives and fates, their sorrows and triumphs. They would all vanish into the eternal silence, laid to rest under the green turf of the graveyard, where in the end their only visitor would be the wind in the grass.
Kjartan recognised him immediately in spite of his poor eyesight. He asked if Erlendur had found anything useful in his mother’s trunk. Erlendur nodded: actually he had discovered a letter from Matthildur that had provided a promising lead.
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Kjartan, after they had sat down together in the otherwise empty lounge. ‘So you’re back again, are you? I don’t know what more I can do for you. Did you say you were going to publish it in a book?’
‘I don’t know. It’s mostly to satisfy my own curiosity. I’ve spoken to a few locals and they’ve all been very kind. It’s extraordinary how much they remember.’
‘Yes, they’re good folk round here,’ agreed Kjartan. ‘I haven’t a bad word to say about them.’
Erlendur nodded again. On the drive through the Arctic landscape he had been debating how to bring up the subject of Kjartan’s father tactfully, and wondering whether the old man knew his true paternity. He used a different patronymic, after all. And judging from what people said, Jakob could be an awkward subject to broach with anyone – particularly his supposed illegitimate son. As both a stranger and no relation, Erlendur had absolutely no right to go around interrogating people about the past, and it was doubly despicable to talk to them under false pretences. He wanted to come clean; he abhorred using duplicity and underhand methods when dealing with honest people.
‘I’m not sure I’ve explained my interest in Matthildur’s death or disappearance properly,’ he said after a pause. ‘The subject came up recently when I was talking to a man called Bóas, but actually my fascination with the story of Matthildur and Jakob and their families goes back a long way.’
Kjartan fixed his unseeing eyes on him, puzzled as to what Erlendur was implying.
‘I’m a policeman from Reykjavík, on holiday out here. As it happens, my family comes from these parts and I first heard about Matthildur when I was a boy. Her story intrigues me. But I’m not trying to expose anyone. This is in no way a police investigation.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ asked Kjartan. ‘You didn’t mention it, did you? If you did, I don’t remember. I was under the impression you were a historian.’
‘No,’ said Erlendur, ‘I’m not a historian. I felt it was better you understood before we talked any further – if you still want to, that is.’
Kjartan considered this. Erlendur waited patiently. He couldn’t predict how the old man would react.
‘I’ve had to put up with a lot because of my family history,’ Kjartan said at last. ‘But I don’t believe it’s any business of the police. I’d be grateful if you’d be on your way.’
Erlendur hesitated, at a loss as to how to retrieve the situation. As he dithered, the opportunity slipped from his hands.
‘Good day,’ said Kjartan, standing up.
‘There’s a chance I might be able to find out what happened to Matthildur,’ Erlendur interjected hastily. ‘With your help, that is.’
‘Good day,’ repeated Kjartan and stalked out of the lounge and down the corridor towards his room.
Erlendur sighed. He watched Kjartan’s retreating back. The man’s objections were only fair: Erlendur had no right to interfere in his life. Yet he couldn’t leave it at that. Even if Kjartan wasn’t concealing any knowledge that would help uncover further details about Matthildur’s fate, the fact remained that he was an important link in the story.
A member of staff came in and asked if he could help him, and Erlendur explained that he was on his way out. He traipsed down the corridor, past Kjartan’s room. The old man had left his door ajar and Erlendur paused outside. For an instant he considered testing the old man’s patience still further, but in the end decided to leave well alone.
‘Are you still there?’ came Kjartan’s voice.
Erlendur pushed the door open. Kjartan was sitting on the bed, his eyes on the floor.
‘There’s not much to do here but listen for footsteps,’ he said.
‘I’m leaving,’ said Erlendur. ‘I just wanted you to know that I’m not prying. I’m not some sort of ghoul. And I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m simply looking for answers. I’ve been in contact with your aunt Hrund.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t know her.’
‘So I gather.’ Erlendur lingered in the doorway.
‘What do you think happened to Matthildur?’ asked Kjartan.
‘I don’t know,’ said Erlendur, beginning to ease his way into the room. ‘She probably died of exposure on the way to Reydarfjördur.’
‘My mother and I didn’t get along,’ said Kjartan, ‘so I left home as soon as I could. I know it sounds harsh but there it is.’
‘Was that in part because you were aware of your father’s identity?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you find out it was Jakob?’
‘Why do you need to know that?’
‘I need to understand the bigger picture,’ said Erlendur, choosing his words with care. ‘Everything matters, especially details that seem trivial.’
‘I’ve known ever since I was old enough to understand,’ said Kjartan. ‘I feel like I’ve always known. But I moved out east long after he died, so I never met him or heard from him as a child. I suppose I moved here partly because my parents used to live in the east and my mother always spoke well of the people here.’
‘So she told you about Jakob?’
Kjartan nodded. ‘Apparently he always denied being my father. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was to do with his past. I’ve often wondered. I don’t think my mother was lying. She didn’t really know much about him – could hardly utter his name. She was full of bitterness, hatred even. It’s not a very pleasant subject for me, as you can imagine.’
‘No, I can understand that,’ said Erlendur. ‘You call yourself Halldórsson.’
‘My mother was very lucky to meet such a decent man in Reykjavík. He was always kind to me.’
‘Did your mother have any further contact with Jakob that you’re aware of?’
‘No, none,’ said Kjartan. ‘That would have been unthinkable. He rejected her, rejected her child. I can’t blame her.’
‘What about Matthildur then? They wrote to each other.’
‘Did they? I wasn’t aware of that, but then she died very young.’
‘She didn’t know about your mother’s relationship with Jakob until your mother wrote her a letter telling her the whole story. By then she and Jakob had been married for some time. Naturally, the letter had repercussions. What did your mother say when Matthildur vanished? What did she believe had happened?’
‘Have you uncovered something new?’
‘No,’ said Erlendur. ‘Nothing.’
‘She didn’t know any more than the rest of them,’ said Kjartan, his vacant gaze still on his threadbare felt slippers. ‘Naturally she was beside herself with grief – I can remember that – but it goes with the territory when you live in Iceland. People accept it. At least, that was the attitude in those days. Still is, I believe.’
‘There were rumours.’
‘Yes, I know. I heard some of them when I came out here. Aren’t they just part of the whole syndrome? All this endless gossip? My mother never paid it any attention, nor did her sisters. I gather Jakob wasn’t a very . . . how shall I put it? . . . easy man to get along with. The family were just sad not to be able to give Matthildur a proper funeral. I heard my mother say once that they’d have liked to have been able to bury her.’
‘How did your mother react when Jakob drowned?’
‘“Good riddance.” That’s all she ever said.’
Kjartan raised his eyes in the general direction of Erlendur’s face.
‘Since you’re asking about reactions . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I once looked up that aunt of mine who’s always lived here. I had some idea about wanting to meet my relatives.’
‘You mean Hrund?’
‘Yes. It was the first and only time I met her. She was very cold. Said I must take after my father in looks, and she didn’t mean it as a compliment. She claimed she couldn’t see any resemblance to her family, then told me not to bother her again. I expect she must have been listening to gossip.’
‘You never know.’
‘I’m aware it sounds childish but . . . I’ve always felt hurt by that.’
Erlendur thought.
‘I found an obituary of your father in the trunk. His friend found plenty of kind things to say about him.’
‘Was that the piece with “bastard” written across it?’
‘Yes.’
Kjartan smiled bitterly. ‘That was the start I got in life.’ He turned to face Erlendur again. ‘I’d like you to go now,’ he said. ‘And please don’t bother coming back.’
ERLENDUR LEFT EGILSSTADIR
towards evening. He was impatient to confront Ezra with Hrund’s claims about his affair with Matthildur but decided it was rather late to pay him a visit and resolved to wait until the following morning. The question preoccupying him was whether Jakob had learned of their secret and, if so, how he had reacted. Had he found out before Matthildur went missing or had he remained in ignorance? Years later Ezra had told Hrund’s mother the story of their relationship, but only after much pleading. Could he have told anyone else? Who else was in the know? Erlendur felt a certain trepidation, guessing that Ezra was unlikely to be cooperative. But he knew his insatiable craving for answers would overwhelm his doubts.
He stopped at the petrol station in Eskifjördur, where he bought a sandwich, filled his Thermos with coffee and topped up his supply of cigarettes. Then, on an impulse, he left the car where it was parked and strolled over to the graveyard which he had often visited on his trips here. It was situated on a slope on the outskirts of the village: an oasis of silence, enclosed by a handsome stone wall. Now, in the twilight, a thin dusting of snow lay on the ground but the grave inscriptions were still legible. As always he admired the austere, orderly beauty of the place, the hushed atmosphere, filled with the spirits of the departed.
Many years after that journey east with his father’s coffin, his mother had passed away after a short spell in hospital. He had been at her bedside; had not left it since the day she was admitted. They had hardly spoken, but towards the end she sensed his presence and it was enough. She had always talked of being buried beside her husband Sveinn, in the plot that awaited her in Eskifjördur. So Erlendur had flown out with the coffin and, repeating his father’s last journey, his mother was transported over the final stretch by lorry. The roads had improved little in the intervening years and by some extraordinary stroke of fate it was the same driver that had transported Sveinn to his last resting place. He was no less talkative now.
‘Didn’t you have your mother with you last time?’ the driver asked. He was a brash, thoughtless man; all his actions were accompanied by the maximum noise and fuss. They had been lifting the coffin onto the back of the lorry when he made this remark.
‘Yes,’ Erlendur had replied. ‘This time too.’
‘Eh?’ The driver looked puzzled.
Erlendur maintained a stubborn silence until the penny finally dropped.
‘You mean . . .?’ he asked, embarrassed and unable to complete the question. He drove much more considerately over the rough gravel roads than before, and they sat without speaking for most of the way.
The vicar who conducted the service was a genial man. Erlendur had never met him but they had discussed the main events of his mother’s life over the phone. There were few mourners in church – just a handful of people who had known his parents or else distant relatives who were virtual strangers to Erlendur.
At last the coffin was lowered with slow ceremony into the ground.
‘Make sure you take care of yourself,’ his mother had said. She had been delirious until then, failing to recognise him: this was a brief moment of lucidity.
Erlendur had nodded.
‘You don’t look after yourself properly.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he had said.
‘Goodbye . . . my darling boy . . .’
She had fallen asleep with these words on her lips, only to wake up again shortly afterwards. Seeing Erlendur sitting at her side, she had tried to smile, then asked if he had found his brother.
‘Bury him with us . . . if you find him.’
Less than a minute later she was gone.
He walked without haste across the small cemetery, leaving a trail of footprints in the soft snow. The headstone he had raised over his parents’ grave was carved from basalt, its polished face inscribed with their names and dates. Beneath was a simple prayer or plea, depending on your point of view, for mercy: ‘Rest in peace’. Erlendur still kept the old cross that had once marked his father’s grave at his flat in Reykjavík. He had no idea how to dispose of it. Even after all these years he had never been able to bring himself to do so.
Lichen had grown on the headstone before him, birds had perched there, it had been weathered by northerly gales and caressed by southerly breezes to a worn, blurred grey. Time spares no one and nothing, thought Erlendur, running a hand over the ice-cold basalt. The stone would always bind him to this place.