He slung the jacket over the back of the empty chair. "I see you have been
discussing my bad habits again. Don't worry. I approve. It gives you something to bond about." He spoke in Icelandic, but I understood most of it.
Then he caught my eye. His eyes that same strange green, that glacial river
color. "Freya," he said, solemnly, still speaking in Icelandic. "Welcome back
to Iceland." He came over to my seat, I stood up, and he took my shoulders in
his hands and pulled me to him in a brief hug. Then he stepped back and
studied me, reconciling the me of now with the me of then? "It's good to see
you again, Freya, after all these years. Good of you to give Iceland a second
chance."
I nodded, but couldn't speak. My heart quivered like one of those skinny
whippet dogs you see shivering on the streets of Manhattan.
"Don't be rude," Johanna scolded Saemundur, in Icelandic. She'd mistaken
my silence for incomprehension. "Won't you speak English with our guest?"
"Why? She speaks Icelandic, don't you, Freya?" Saemundur took his
seat now, across from me at the table.
I composed a sentence in my mind, then offered it up: "Not very well,
anymore. I've forgotten so much. And it's so easy to make mistakes."
Saemundur clapped his hands. "Not bad! And it'll come back to you. If
you force yourself to speak it, that is, and don't worry about mistakes. We
Icelanders are easily impressed when anyone makes the least attempt with
our arcane and ridiculously complicated language, we forgive all mistakes.
Except my sister, perhaps. She is, as you may know, the captain of the Icelandic language police."
"Language ... police?" I repeated in English, to make sure I'd understood.
"What my brother refers to," Johanna responded, in English, "is my position on the committee that regulates the Icelandic language."
"The top language cop, that's what our Johanna is," Saemundur coun
tered, in Icelandic again. He poured himself a generous glass of red wine.
"She makes sure we keep our tongues utterly pure and uncorrupted."
I thought Johanna might flinch, but she seemed indifferent to Saemundur's teasing. "The committee makes sure that no horrid foreign words
infiltrate our precious ancient language," Saemundur continued. "Like
viruses. You'd be amazed, Freya, at how many of these words try to cross our
borders. Words like television and computer and telephone. Why, if we didn't
have Johanna and her word cops, we'd all be speaking English by now. American, no less. No insult intended." He winked at me. "So Johanna and her
committee sit around coming up with Icelandic versions of these same words.
Hence our word for telephone: Simi, the ancient word for thread. The word for
computer is particularly clever, I think: tolva, consisting of the word talc,
which of course means number, and volva, meaning seer or prophet. So a
computer is a number-prophet. And a computer monitor, this is my favorite
one, is taken from our old word for window, back before we had glass, nothing
other than the embryonic sack of a lamb! Quite modern, quite efficient, really,
don't you think, this recycling of obsolete words?" He was looking straight at
me, but did not wait for an answer. "And the committee protects us from various diseases of the language. The dreaded dative sickness, for example, a horrible illness that causes increasing numbers of Icelanders to substitute the dative form of the verb for the accusative. Something that in other countries,
mind you, is considered simply the normal progression of language, changing
over time. Evolving even. Language is alive, don't you agree? An organism.
But here in Iceland, we demand that the language must be spoken exactly as
the ancestors spoke it. God forbid any television or radio broadcaster makes a
grammatical mistake-why, he could be fired on the spot!" He paused for a
moment to take a long deep sip from his wine. "And then on the other side of
the table, we have my esteemed father, still toiling away on the ancient manuscripts."
If I thought Saemundur's family would be offended by his tirade, I was
wrong. They'd heard it all before. Only Ulfur seemed miffed. "Johanna has
made a great and valuable contribution to our society. She does work we
can all be proud of."
"And if you'd shut up long enough, Saemundur," interjected Gunnar,
speaking his first words since Saemundur's arrival, "then maybe we can
hear a little from our guest, who surely did not travel across the ocean to
hear you rant and rave."
"Yes, Freya," Ulfur urged. "Tell us about your life in New York."
I did the best I could to make it sound worthy. From a distance, the very
act of residing in New York City takes on a certain glamour, and photography can be made to seem a respectable career. Next they wanted to know
my travel plans. I told them I planned to visit Sigga's relatives in the East,
but beyond that had no itinerary. Immediately I received a torrent of suggestions: Ulfur would show me around the Arni Magnusson Institute, Johanna would take me on a tour of the university and the National Library.
And we must take Freya to the Blue Lagoon, Gunnar added. Of course, he
continued, there were many things to do outside of Reykjavik as well. I
would have to spend a weekend at the summerhouse at Thingvellir Lake.
And see Thingvellir itself.
"She's already seen that," Saemundur commented. "On her last trip." A
silence fell over the table.
"Or you can let Saemundur drag you onto a glacier," Ulfur suggested,
and I realized his old sarcasm had not disappeared entirely. "He is, after all,
an official tour guide now. A professional."
"A glacier," I repeated. I felt rattled. I hadn't come to Iceland to play tourist, I'd come to find you, Cousin, and you alone. As I ate the ponnukokur Johanna served for dessert, I thought about Saemundur. Or to be
more precise, about whether Saemundur is you. Aside from his dark looks,
he seemed to me not so dissimilar to Birdie, with his dramatic entrance, his
teasing monologue, his black-sheepishness.
Before Saemundur departed, he invited me out for a night on the town
over the weekend.
"I must apologize for my obnoxious little brother," Johanna remarked
while we were washing up. "Don't feel obliged to go out with him on the
weekend. If that's not your kind of thing."
"Oh, I won't," I assured her. I did not say that I prefer my sheep black,
and feckless.
Damn light. It's five in the morning now, and no, thanks for inquiring, I
have not slept. Warning: do not expect any leniency from the Icelandic sun.
Yes, the Icelandic sun. I refuse to believe it's the same star as New York's.
The Icelandic sun requires no sleep-it dips under the horizon a bare hour,
hardly long enough to rest its head on night's black pillow, and then it's rising again, infusing everything-the sky, the lake, the buildings of Reykjavik,
my turret room, my brain-with its sly yellow-gray light. Or maybe it's the
light generated by my racing thoughts that's keeping me awake. I feel lit
from the inside.
Close the curtains, you say? You think I haven't tried? Flimsy and illfitting. I'm tempted to rip them off the windows. No, what I need is to spin
myself through a darkroom light trap. Or return in winter, when the Icelandic sun jaunts off to Spain like a wayward wife and abandons her people
to nearly unremitting darkness.
Yes, I'm in a foul mood. I've ruined everything, Cousin. I've pulled a
Birdie. I've offended Ulfur, irreparably. I might as well start packing.
We two insomniacs met by chance in the library an hour ago. It was exactly as I remembered it: four walls of floor-to-ceiling books, the built-in
bookcases making it seem the walls are themselves constructed of books.
The same pair of chairs still by the window, where Birdie had sat reading under the midnight sun. Except that now one was occupied by Ulfur, a lamp
illuminating his bald head like a glowing globe.
I startled him; he startled me. Ulfur blamed his insomnia on old age; I attributed mine to jet lag. I wished him luck getting back to sleep and headed
out the door, but he gestured for me to sit in the chair opposite him.
Mistake. We were both exhausted, strained. And yet I felt wide awake
and alert. The conversation began easily enough-we chatted about Sigga's
health, and I told him about the new museum opening in Gimli, and Stefan's efforts to complete what would soon become a permanent exhibit on
Olafur, Skald Nyja Islands.
"I'm sure it will be charming," he said.
I think it was that word, charming. It rubbed me the wrong way, and so
did the next words out of his mouth. "So, you've come to complete your tour
of Iceland?"
An innocent question, you think? I thought not. Beneath it I heard insult: that Ulfur does not take me seriously, that I am a failure, that unlike
Birdie or Olafur I could have no serious reason for visiting Iceland. Just another American making the well-worn trek to the homeland, entertaining
romantic notions of ancestral connection. Roots for whites, the whitest of
whites. "I'm not here as a tourist," I said.
"Really?" His voice had that arrogant tone I'd so hated on my last visit.
"Yes, really. I'm here on family business."
"Not looking for those lost letters of Olafur's, I hope."
"Of course not."
"A futile effort, I'm afraid."
"That's not why I'm here."
Why did I decide that four in the morning was a good time to introduce
the subject of Birdie's child? All I can say is that I'm sorry, Cousin. Poor
judgment. I got riled. Tactless. "It's about Birdie," I began.
"Oh," he said. "Yes. Terrible. Such remarkable talent, wasted."
"Remarkable talent? I thought you didn't approve of Birdie's work."
"Did she say that?" He shook his head. "Perhaps I was more harsh than
was warranted. Birdie's work was very ... experimental. I'm a bit of a traditionalist, you see. I believe I told her Iceland wasn't ready for her book. I
should have admitted it was myself who wasn't ready."
Yes, you should have. But arrogant men don't admit to such things. "She
told me you called her manuscript eagle muck."
"Eagle muck? That's hardly I'm sure I never-"
"Are you saying she was lying?"
"Lying? Clearly, she was delusional. Did you know that she believed I
was some kind of wolf, pursuing her?"
"Not just any wolf. The Fenris Wolf. The one that swallows the sun."
We both smiled at that, awkwardly. "She had quite an imagination, your
aunt. I misinterpreted everything. I thought she was simply a high-spirited,
temperamental writer. Prone to flights of fancy. Still, I should have seen the
signs. Realized she was mentally ill."
Mentally ill? Of course Birdie was mentally ill. I know that for a fact.
But to hear those words come from Ulfur's mouth incensed me. "That
wasn't all she was, you know. She wasn't like that all the time. And many
people considered her to be tremendously talented."
"Of course she was," Ulfur said. He was placating me. "I only wish there
was something I could have done. To prevent things from taking such a terrible turn. It was Saemundur, you know, whom you can thank for your rescue. He knew somehow that she was on her way to Askja. At first I didn't
take him seriously, but he was absolutely adamant about it. It never would
have crossed my mind-stealing our jeep and fleeing to Askja!"
"I'm sorry about your jeep." Only I didn't sound sorry.
"That doesn't matter. And it wasn't your fault. You were a child. If anyone should be sorry it's me."
And he did sound sorry, and sincere. I took advantage of it. "Actually,
Ulfur, there is something you can do now." I studied his face as I explained,
and as far as I could tell, his surprise seemed genuine.
"A child? No, I never heard that. But I don't see why I would."
I had to be careful here. "Actually, I thought you might be ... of help to
me. In tracking down Birdie's child. I think the father may have been Icelandic, someone Birdie met on one of her trips here."
Ulfur shifted in his seat. "I suppose that's possible. Do you have any evidence?"
"No, but I know she was hospitalized after her trip to Iceland in 1961,
and that during her commitment she gave birth to a child that was given up
for adoption. Which would make that child around ... Saemundur's age
now.
No, Cousin, I was not subtle. I admit it. Ulfur didn't think so either.
"Saemundur? What does Saemundur have to do with this? Surely you
don't think that Birdie and I -that Saemundur is-?"
"Is he?"
"Are you out of your mind?" He began to laugh, a dry, hard laugh. Shaking his huge bald head. "Birdie and I were never ... involved. I swear to
you, Freya.
"No, I'm not out of my mind. It's a perfectly logical possibility. Perhaps
it's not true, and I've offended you by asking, and if so, I'm sorry. But I have
to find out. I have to find Birdie's child."
"Why?"
"Why? Because ..." But I couldn't get the words out. I'm embarrassed
to admit this, Cousin, but I started crying. "Because . . ." I struggled for an
explanation that would make sense to Ulfur. "Because Sigga is one hundred
years old. After she dies, I'll have no one. Not a single living relative."
"No relatives?" His eyes softened then, and his tone of voice. It's a difficult concept for an Icelander to grasp. So I guess it was the right thing to
say-if I prefer to have him pity rather than hate me.
"None." I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, took a deep breath. "Obviously,
I've made a terrible mistake. Please accept my apology."
I left the room before he had a chance to reply.
So there. I've wrecked everything, in a scant twenty-four hours.
It's a clear morning in Reykjavik. Out the window the morning sun
slants across the lake. A type of white-and-black bird I've never seen before is perched on my windowsill. I feel foreign, even to myself. I've hit
bottom, Cousin, up here in this turret. I've given up everything, my life in
New York, pitiful as it was, for nothing. It's clear to me now. You are not
Saemundur, and I'm never going to find you. You could be anyone, anywhere
on the planet.