I am writing you now from a four-windowed turret in the house of books
overlooking the lake in the middle of Reykjavik. It is five o'clock on a bright
June afternoon; I have been in Iceland nearly twelve hours. My intention is
to write you every day, to pretend to myself that I am keeping you abreast
of my progress, although I know full well you won't read a word of this until it's all over. I am writing by hand, in a red-and-blue spiral notebook I
bought in a stationery store in downtown Reykjavik today. The pages are of
a different dimension than ours, longer and narrower. It's odd to write by
hand again. I got used to rattling out my thoughts on the dark green keys of
your mother's typewriter, a one-to-one tippity-tap correspondence between
fingertips and letters. Birdie's Underwood is now sitting in the storage
locker in Queens. And I am here, on the lower lip of the Arctic Circle, pen
in hand.
And you?
The Wolf was waiting for me at the Keflavik Airport.
Perhaps that surprises you. Let me explain myself. To begin with, I did
not ask Ulfur to host me. Sigga and Stefan put him up to it. I'd planned to
contact him, but before I had a chance, a letter arrived: he'd heard from
Sigga that I was traveling to Iceland, he would be honored to host me during
my time in Reykjavik. My first instinct was to reject his offer. My memories of him from my last visit are not particularly fond. For the most part I remember him ignoring me. I remember his high forehead tilted skyward, his
long straight nose in the air. What had Saemundur called his father? The
Prime Minister of Sheepskin Manuscripts. I'd secretly called him Mr.
Myndarlegur, handsome and ambitious, but also brusque and intimidating.
An arrogant man, who for some reason Birdie found appealing.
And there you have it. I don't have to like him. Birdie did until he
dismissed her manuscript-and that's what matters. Is not Ulfur my
prime suspect? Who else is a more likely candidate to be the father of
Birdie's illegitimate child? True, Ulfur was married, but considering
Birdie's track record according to Vera, anyway-that would only make
him a more attractive prospect. He even has a child the right age to be
you: yes, Saemundur. Impossible, you say? I say maybe not. True, the
black-haired Saemundur looks nothing like Birdie. But all that might
mean is that Ulfur's genes overwhelmed Birdie's. And Ulfur is certainly a
dominating type, after all.
Of course this theory assumes that Ulfur and his wife adopted the child
he conceived with Birdie. Unlikely, but possible. Perhaps Ulfur couldn't
stand the idea of a child of his being raised by strangers in Canada-nonIcelanders, no less! and his wife acquiesced. While it might seem unlikely that Ulfur's wife would have agreed to adopting the child of her
husband's mistress, maybe she (I have to admit, I don't even remember her
name, have never met her; she still lives in Spain) was not the jealous type,
had affairs of her own, or simply liked the idea of raising a grandchild of the
great Olafur, Skald Nyja Islands, whose fame was already established in Iceland at the time.
So tell me now, Cousin: Are you Saemundur?
If not, there is still the possibility that Ulfur is the father of a child by
Birdie and arranged for the child to be raised by relatives of his in Iceland.
The Icelanders have a long tradition of fostering, dating back to Saga times.
Back then, a child might be raised by relatives or close friends of the parents,
sometimes out of financial necessity, sometimes as a way of strengthening
family or political bonds. This was not adoption in the sense we know it; in a
fostering situation, children know full well who their natural parents are, and
maintain their original family ties throughout their lives. The tradition has continued up to the present; as far as I've been able to find out, blind adoptions are nearly unknown in Iceland.
And, even if Ulfur proves not to be the father at all-and what kind of
proof can he offer me?-he is in the best position to help me track your father down. As part of his duties as host, Ulfur drove Birdie around, introducing her to people all over Iceland. He will know the men she met, and
possibly, hopefully, the one with whom she consorted.
Such is the state of my speculations to date, and the main reason I decided to accept Ulfur's offer. Money, I have to admit, is another factor. I
purchased an open-ended plane ticket extremely expensive, but how can
I possibly pick a return date? I have no idea how long this search might
take. A week, a month, more? Originally I'd planned to stay in a cheap bedand-breakfast in Reykjavik, but cheap is relative in Iceland, where according to the guidebook I bought in New York, a single glass of beer costs ten
American dollars, and you can't rent a car for less than a hundred dollars a
day. I had to face the facts: accept Ulfur's offer of a place to stay in Reykjavik, or limit my trip to a measly week.
Still, I feel like a traitor, a guest in the lair of the Wolf, the man who conspired to suppress Birdie's great opus. Except I'm not sure I believe that. I
know as well as anyone what it's like to become the object of Birdie's paranoia. Remember how she used to call me my mother's little spy? We've all
taken our turns: Sigga, Stefan, my mother, me. And those are only the traitors in Birdie's immediate circle. Birdie could pull enemies out of a hat.
True, Ulfur denounced Birdie's Word Meadow, called it eagle muck. But
who am I to judge even that? I've never read a word of it, Birdie never let
me. And readers are entitled to their opinions, are they not?
Yes, yes, I'm rationalizing. And believe me, I was plenty nervous about my
decision. I stole the man's jeep, after all, dragged his name into scandal. Yet
Ulfur is a known entity, which counts for something when arriving solo in an
essentially foreign country. Indeed, when I stepped out of the airport at six
o'clock this morning I recognized absolutely nothing. This was because I
could see nothing. Fog obscured everything. The air outside the airport was
nothing more than an oozing white sponge that turned my skin clammydamp. I shivered, and was bending to pull a jacket out of my suitcase when I heard someone say my name. I stood up, saw no one. Then a large bald head
emerged from the mist like a glowing planet. "Ulfur?"
I imagined I heard Birdie sigh. Gone was her handsome myndarlegur
scholar; in his place stood an old man, shorter and stouter. His glasses
looked impossibly thick, and magnified the bags and wrinkles under his eyes.
Not frail, but depleted somehow. He took my hand, then pulled me to him in
a hug. I found myself staring down at the barren planet of his head.
"You've grown." He laughed, pulling away and studying me at arm's
length. "Or else I've shrunk. Another indignity of aging." He drove slowly
through the fog, which lasted nearly the entire distance to Reykjavik. No
matter how hard I stared out the window there was nothing but white. The
black lava fields were out there, somewhere. I could sense their enormous
blankness. But I could see nothing.
"I haven't seen fog this thick since ... the last time I was in Iceland." The
image of the spiral-horned sheep rose in my mind-the one Birdie had hit
and run on our madcap race to the East-and I regretted having mentioned
the fateful trip so soon in our meeting. Ulfur didn't seem to mind.
"We're good at fog, here in Iceland. It's part of our ... mystique."
We spoke in English, which I felt slightly ashamed about. Icelandic
only, Birdie had ordered. But I suppose Ulfur was used to speaking English with American visitors, and I was too exhausted and nervous to attempt anything else. Mostly I listened while Ulfur caught me up on his
family news, and I was relieved to find him friendlier, less remote than I'd
remembered. He was still living in his parents' house on the lake, he explained; they'd both died in recent years and left the house-and the book
collection-to him. Ulfur occupied the first floor, while his daughter, Johanna, her husband, Gunnar, and their children lived on the second and
third floors. I would be staying on the fourth floor, in the guest room across
from the library.
The house was empty when we arrived. Johanna and Gunnar were both at
work; their daughters were visiting Gunnar's parents in the countryside, and
Ulfur would be spending the day at the Ami Magnusson Institute, where he
was retired in name only. Ulfur assumed I'd want to rest, and I did, but it was
not to be. By the time we'd arrived in Reykjavik the morning skies were clear, and the wisps of curtain on the four windows of this turret do little to deter
the light. The views are spectacular, distractingly so: the lake in one direction, Mount Esja in the other. My mind was abuzz with memories and plans,
and by nine a.m. I gave up on sleep and went out walking. I didn't take a
map, I wasn't planning to go far. I stood for a time on the bridge that crosses
the lake, the bridge where I first caught sight of the black-haired loping Saemundur. Ulfur had said Saemundur might or might not come to the family
dinner tonight. "I left a message on his answering machine. We'll see if he
shows up or not. It's impossible to know his schedule these days. He's often
out of town."
"For work?"
Ulfur laughed. "I suppose you could call it that. He leads tours into the
interior. For hard-core nature lovers. Masochists, I call them. Who would
want to spend their summer vacation wandering around a barren lava field?
Apparently, people do. `Deep Nature' he calls this outfit of his. `Experience
the last wild place in Europe.' At least he is employed and not living off the
government anymore."
Ulfur's view of Saemundur has clearly not improved much over the last
seventeen years. We'll see what I think. If he shows.
But back to the bridge. I stood a long time, letting my thoughts drift
along the surface of the sun-glittered lake. Everything I saw seemed extraordinarily vivid to me. The colors of the buildings on the opposite bank
appeared bright and saturated, with red-, cream-, and rust-colored bricks
topped by red and blue roofs. White birds circled, then alit on a small island in the middle of the lake. Mottled clouds swarmed the distant whitepeaked Mount Esja. I felt the shock of it, standing there. I am not in New
York anymore. I have no job, no home. There is no more Sub, no more subterranean apartment. Only me here now on the island where I went missing
seventeen years ago. I began to walk.
I found myself on Odinsgata. Odin's Street. Then Thorsgata, Baldurs-
gata, Lokastigur: Thor's, Baldur's, Loki's streets. And finally: Freyjugata.
Freyja's street. It was quite ordinary, Freyja's Street, trim houses with tiny
gardens bursting with red poppies and purple pansies. I remembered the
bags of black-cat Freyja licorice Birdie had purchased as our sole source of sustenance for the trek to Askja. Birdie's revered goddess, reduced to
branding licorice. And streets. She alone of the gods yet lives.
I continued walking, past churches and graveyards and school yards,
away from quaint god-charmed streets onto busy urban thoroughfares lined
with tall gray apartment buildings, the type you'd expect to see in some
stark Eastern European city, but not here. In a place where the weather, the
land itself, is so harsh, it's hard to believe people would build such bleak
constructions. Compared with New York the sidewalks seemed empty, a
few pedestrians here and there.
In a small market I asked the clerk if he sold licorice, in Icelandic. The
Freyja kind, I explained. With the black cat. He chuckled some comic error of my grammar I supposed. And a postcard, I added. I have decided to
write Sigga a postcard every day of my trip. To make up for the ones that
Birdie never mailed. And this red-and-blue notebook I bought there too. At
the corner of a busy street called Sudurgata I found a flower stand, and for
three times what I would spend in Manhattan bought a bouquet of freesia
for Ulfur's daughter, Johanna, who is hosting me for dinner tonight.
I crossed the bridge sucking salty licorice, inhaling freesia, thinking of
you, and your mother, and wondering whether you are Saemundur, and if
not, how will I ever track you down? I'll have to speak to Ulfur, as soon as
possible. See what he knows of the matter, or rather, what he might be willing to reveal. It's late afternoon now, time to shower and change, ready myself for dinner and for re-meeting Saemundur, bestower of my first kiss,
who may or may not show up, who may or may not be you.
Dinnertime. How do I look?
It is nearly midnight now, I am back in my turret room, looking out over the
city that seems not to know the meaning of the word night. I have so much
to tell you by way of my clumsy hand, my fingers straggling light-years behind my mind.
At first, our dinner party consisted of me, Ulfur, Johanna, and Gunnar.
Johanna seemed nothing like Saemundur, a serious and sensible brownhaired woman in her late thirties, a linguistics professor at the University of Iceland. She thanked me politely for the flowers, but I found her hard to
read. Her husband seemed even more inscrutable. We sat at the same table
where Ulfur and his parents had hosted the welcome dinner for Birdie and
me seventeen years ago. The same table with the one empty plate. "Is Saemundur coming?" I ventured.
"Oh, we set a place for him," Ulfur said drily. "Like a ghost." He began
carving the roast lamb.
"He's completely unreliable," Gunnar said. "I don't know how he manages that business of his."
"Saemundur," Johanna added, "is feckless. I believe that is the right
word. Careless and irresponsible. What you Americans would call the black
sheep of our family."
"Baaah!"
A loud and perfect imitation of a bleating lamb, nasal and gravelly, so real
I thought for a moment there was an animal in the room with us. It was only
Saemundur, standing in the kitchen doorway. He wore a scuffed leather
jacket. His long black hair was gone, cut short now, but not neat. Curly and
askew. Yet he had that same wide mouth like a mime's, the same high cheekbones. He seemed impossibly handsome to me in that first moment, and at
the same time, I wondered if he might in fact be homely and odd-looking,
and I was simply under his strange spell again.