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  ‘That’s it. Used to be called Ceylon,’ Karl said, clearly proud of his general knowledge.

  ‘Like the tea,’ his wife added.

  ‘Are you a Tamil?’ Ísak asked, and Sajee shook her head.

  ‘Mr Knowledgeable,’ Karl said, the sarcasm clear in his voice. ‘That’s a man with years of learning behind him.’

  ‘I’ve just heard them talk about the Tamils on the news. There’s always trouble brewing over there. I expect you’re relieved to be here,’ Ísak said.

  ‘Are you from the country?’ Selma asked, breaking her own silence.

  ‘No,’ Sajee said. ‘I come from a district near a huge city called Colombo. There are millions of people living there.’

  They stared at her and silence fell again.

  ‘Thormóður said you’re alone here,’ Selma said. ‘He told me you don’t read or write.’

  ‘My aunt will come back soon from Sri Lanka and she has been away for a long time,’ Sajee said, keeping to the truth and not correcting the misconception.

  ‘Don’t you people have anything better to do than talk?’ Ísak broke in.

  There was a long pause, that ended as Marta and Karl got to their feet at the same time, and Sajee started at the sound of their chairs on the floor.

  ‘Well, my dear. It’s been interesting to meet you, and I can tell you that I’m not the type to be prejudiced but I’m all for keeping the stock pure. The Icelandic stock, I mean,’ Marta said with a smile of farewell for Sajee that seemed also aimed at Ísak. ‘In my opinion, it ought to be kept as pure as possible, preferably completely pure. It’s the same with sheep. There’s no good that comes of mixing dark wool with light. That’s my experience from years of keeping livestock.’

  ‘Quite right, Marta,’ Karl said. ‘There’s no value in mixed wool, no value at all.’

  Ísak fidgeted in the doorway. His agitation had grown with every passing minute, but the visitors appeared to be paying him no attention.

  ‘Will you be staying long here at Bröttuskriður?’ Marta asked, this time speaking directly to Sajee, but didn’t wait for an answer before turning to Selma. ‘I thought we’d agreed that we’d ask for a home help from Höfn? There’s more chance of that if there’s two of us need some support. Didn’t we agree on that?’

  ‘No, she’s not stopping long,’ Ísak interrupted before Selma could reply. ‘She’s not stopping long at all.’

  April

  8

  A storm had been forecast for the whole of the south coast, all the way to Vík. Gale force gusts could be expected and there wouldn’t be weather for travelling over Easter. Guðgeir had meant to drive to Reykjavík after work, returning on Good Friday, as he was on the rota to work both Saturday and Easter Sunday. But now it was Thursday morning and it was clear he wouldn’t be going anywhere, so he called Inga to let her know. His mood was gloomy, a mixture of disappointment and claustrophobia.

  ‘How about you? Could you make it?’

  He opened his eyes wide and took deep breaths, as if mental energy could be enough to make his own unspoken wish come true. ‘Could you get a flight and come here for a couple of days?’

  He heard her hesitate, knowing he had been too eager, but decided to stick with what he had said. What the hell? They were still married, and if it were up to him, they’d stay together.

  ‘Actually, no,’ she replied in a slow tone. He sensed her stepping away from the phone.

  ‘I can’t hear you very well? Is it on speaker?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can hardly hear you,’ Guðgeir said, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘Hello? It’s a bad connection. Hello?’ he called, louder this time. Had she put the phone down, or had the connection been dropped?

  ‘It’s fine this end, and I can hear you clearly,’ Inga said. ‘But I’m exhausted. There’s a lot of pressure at work and I was going to make the most of Easter to get some rest. Plus I need to clean the house and make a start on the garden.’

  ‘Can’t the garden wait?’ he asked, too eager, again.

  ‘It’s not going to clear itself up, is it?’

  He felt he could hear the hint of accusation in her voice. He smarted, but managed to hold back a sharp retort. She was the one who was making this long-distance relationship happen, not him. A year, she had said. After a year, we can take stock. They had spent Christmas together, and after that he had allowed himself to hope that they would come together again. All the same, he had slept on the TV room sofa the whole time except for New Year’s Eve when friends and family had vanished out into the smoky darkness. The two of them had been left alone in the house, and it was the way it had been before. In fact, better, more passionate, more urgent. But in the morning Inga acted as if nothing had changed. She had helped him pack his stuff and took it with him out to the car. There had been no drama, no accusations, not the slightest hint that he would be missed. That had hurt the most.

  ‘I’ll call, you, darling. See you at Easter,’ she had said cheerfully, giving him a fleeting kiss on the lips, but he held her tight.

  ‘You know I’ll do whatever’s needed to make amends, and maybe we won’t need a whole year,’ he whispered in her year, feeling her relax in his arms, just for a moment before she slipped out of his embrace and walked along the drive to their house; their home.

  They hadn’t seen each other for three months. The children had spent a few days with him in the middle of February, but Inga wouldn’t let herself be persuaded to come, and now it was Easter. The thought that she could have embarked on another relationship troubled Guðgeir more and more. It preyed on his mind, and it was painful – more painful than he was prepared to admit.

  As a child Sajee had frequently retreated into daydreams as an escape from difficult and often painful reality. The family lived in one of the many chaotic districts on the outskirts of Colombo. The house had never been properly rainproof, but provided shelter from the heat of the sun. Few of the streets lay in a straight line, but snaked through the district like veins pulsing vigorously with blood, alive with noise, smells and life. Sajee was the youngest of three siblings and only six years old when her mother, who had suffered from epilepsy, died. Her brother Janitha was thirteen at the time and her sister Chamudi was twelve. A little while later their mother’s sister Hirumi came into the household to care for them, but it wasn’t long before she was gone. Sajee wept until her eyes were sore, but her father said it was for the best and that the evil eye followed their mother’s family. Hirumi would visit occasionally when their father was away, but never stayed for long, and eventually she stopped coming altogether.

  One day a postcard arrived from Iceland, a country they had never heard of. Hirumi had met and married a man from Iceland, and now she worked cleaning houses in the capital, Reykjavík. Over the coming years more postcards with pictures of mountains and waterfalls arrived, and Sajee hung them over her bed.

  Janitha left home as soon as he was able, and when Sajee was ten years old, her sister Chamundi was married off to a middle-aged man in another district. That left Sajee alone with her father as he grew increasingly bitter at his lot and frequently vented his anger on her. She learned young that it was best to do as he wanted, and otherwise stay out of sight. She often spent as long as she could on the way home from school, playing with other children until she started spending time at Lakmal’s shop, the local massage and beauty salon.

  The women who worked for Lakmal were cheerful and talked endlessly. They treated Sajee kindly while she watched as if in a trance as their gentle hands massaged the tired feet of those who came into the shop. Before long she was running errands for Lakmal, who was pleasantly surprised at how quick she was to learn.

  She quickly picked up techniques from the women and before long Lakmal asked her to join them. Her father was relieved, got rid of the shack they had lived in and moved in with his elder daughter while Sajee slept with the other women in a room above the salon. The next few years we
re the happiest of her life. She was respected and no longer needed to sweep the pavement outside or stand with a smile on her face to encourage customers to stop. Her foot massages were popular, as she had the softest hands and knew how to use them, and she made a point of not chatting endlessly with her customers as some of the other women did.

  One day there was no sign of Lakmal at opening time and the women wondered what to do. They waited outside for hours as customers came and went, without being able to do anything for them. Late in the day a stranger came, and gave them the news that Lakmal had suffered a heart attack. For the next few days they waited in hope and fear, and the salon stayed closed as he was the key holder.

  They made offerings and they prayed, but without success. On the seventh day Lakmal died and they all lost their jobs, and most of them became homeless. Sajee was devastated. She sent a desperate letter to her aunt Hirumi asking for help. For the next few weeks she was able to lodge with a charitable family, but nobody seemed to have any use for her skills. At dawn she would rise and go out, but there was no work to be found. The patience of the family with its own numerous mouths to feed began to wear thin. Before long she would have no choice but to join the beggars in the street, as she was reluctant to impose on her sister who already had her hands full with a brood of children and a father who became more difficult by the day.

  Guðgeir brewed coffee and switched on the television. He channel hopped until green fields and steep slopes caught his attention. Next there were brightly dressed women with giant baskets on their backs, which as far as he could see were made of plastic. The women picked tea leaves, throwing them behind them into the baskets. They sang as they worked and the narrator explained that tea was Sri Lanka’s most important export. Then a bare-chested farmer riding an elephant appeared on the screen as Guðgeir drank the last of his coffee and switched the television off. He remembered that the woman Sveinn had talked about came from there. He went to the hallway, and pulled on his coat and boots. The gloom that waited for him outside was the complete opposite of the colourful scenes he had just seen on the screen.

  He strode rapidly down to the sea where there was a walkway that followed the shoreline. It was known as the Nature Trail and it provided spectacular views over Hornafjörður and to the distant ice caps. This was where Guðgeir had often spent time when he wasn’t feeling his best, and it had helped him through some dark days. As usual, he stopped at the large model of the solar system. Every time he stopped and examined it, he was gripped by the sense of his own smallness compared to the universe, and by a feeling that was strange, yet familiar. This was what he had called his 'alien feeling', when he was a child, failing to connect with the kids in the new district in Reykjavík after having been uprooted from the countryside in the west.

  His thoughts went back to the woman from Sri Lanka who must have experienced similar emotions while she had been weatherbound in Höfn. It must have been frustrating to be shut away in such an isolated spot because of circumstances beyond her control. He he had become painfully familiar with loneliness and homesickness, and felt an instinctive sympathy for her

  After the seismic events that had culminated in Andrés’s death, he had been plagued with such guilt that the physical pain he had endured was almost mild by comparison. If only he could turn back the clock and change the course of events, like an author tinkering with a plot.

  Guðgeir set off, gradually lengthening his stride until he broke into a run. The ice was starting to release its grip and as his pace increased, he could feel his mood improve as he ran. It was unfortunate that he was overdressed and knew that he should have stuck to his usual running gear. The weather was fine and there was nothing to complain about here, even if the wind was blowing hard further down the coast. He picked up the pace a little more, not slowing down until he had reached the end of the walkway. He turned, running with sweat, and on the way back he stopped at the swimming pool. He cursed silently when he saw that it was closed, and peered at the note on the door that displayed the Easter opening hours. He had left his glasses at home, but as far as he could make out, the pool would be open again tomorrow. That was a small consolation for the walk home.

  After a shower and a shave, he dressed and went out, this time to the coffee shop on the corner. It was opposite the flat, so he often went there and was on good terms with the staff, especially Linda, who seemed to take every extra shift offered.

  He was surprised to see that the place was full. Over the last few days there had been a steady increase in the number of tourists arriving in the town, but he hadn’t realised quite how many there were. Fortunately, Linda was at work and quickly found him a seat, with a warning that with business booming it could take a while to get something to eat.

  ‘The tourists are coming thick and fast. It’s never been like it at this time of year,’ she said, handing him a menu.

  ‘I’m in no hurry to eat, but a beer would help,’ Guðgeir said with a smile. ‘A large one.’

  The smile she sent back his way filled her whole face and lively eyes. Like Inga, she was slim and petite, but with a fairer complexion. He followed her with his eyes. She had tied her apron at the front so that the two tapes crossed above her bottom, which flexed gently with each step until she vanished through the swing doors. Guðgeir looked out of the window and at the people around him, before putting on the glasses he had this time remembered to bring with him to look through the menu. It hadn’t changed for a couple of days.

  A babble of languages could be heard around him as he picked out familiar words from English, Swedish, German and French, as well as languages he couldn’t identify. An Indian family sat at one table, clearly recovering from some adventure in the wild weather on the hills below the Vatnajökull ice cap, as they had plenty to talk about and their exhausted children were half asleep where they sat.

  He took a long draught of ice-cold beer and called Inga, who answered breathlessly, telling him that she had trimmed the hedge and pressure-washed the patio. These were the kind of garden chores he had always disliked, but now found himself missing.

  ‘You could have waited for me. I’ve a long weekend coming up so I’ll come down and get on with it,’ he said, watching Linda placing plates on the neighbouring table. He could smell the lamb cutlets.

  ‘Well, I’d had enough of seeing the garden looking like that,’ Inga said, without a trace of irritation in her voice. ‘A bit of exercise doesn’t do any harm,’ she added. ‘It’s as good as a workout.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you were so tired. Didn’t you say something about taking it easy over Easter?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, quickly.

  ‘You can leave the clippings and the rubbish. I’ll borrow a trailer at the weekend and clear it all up,’ Guðgeir said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Finnur stopped by with his jeep and a trailer and offered to give me a hand,’ Inga said, words tumbling out.

  An image of the newly qualified Finnur, Inga’s colleague at the legal practice, flashed into Guðgeir’s mind. He felt a tightness in his chest. If he remembered correctly, this was the smooth guy who wore expensive suits when he wasn’t pedalling at speed around Reykjavík on his top-of-the-range bike, open-water swimming in the freezing cold or sweating at CrossFit. The caricature of the man stuck in his thoughts and was like a needle punched into his heart.

  ‘Finnur? Is that the new guy who spent ten years getting his law degree?’ Guðgeir asked, unable to hide the scorn in his voice.

  ‘Don’t be like that. Finnur had to work alongside his studies, plus he was always doing competitive sports as well. You ought to know we don’t take on just anyone. It’s not as if lawyers are in short supply,’ she retorted.

  He didn’t reply, and rubbed his forehead hard. Why had she become so defensive? Because she had taken the man on, or was there something else?

  ‘Are you there? Hello!’ Inga called out. ‘Now the bad connection’s my end. Guðgeir?’
/>   ‘Yes,’ he said, staring at the pine-panelled wall. A gold-painted fan swirled about his head as if it wanted to break free and drift away.

  ‘There’s no need to sulk.’

  ‘I just feel it could have waited until I could get home. You shouldn’t need to get your colleagues to help you round the house. Of course I’ll deal with it,’ he said and watched the Indian family as he spoke. One of the children had fallen asleep in the father’s arms.

  ‘It’s not as if I’m sleeping with Finnur. He just gave me a hand in the garden,’ Inga said and her voice had suddenly become clearer and harsher. Sometimes it’s as well for those who live in glass houses not to throw stones for fear of smashing something, Guðgeir thought to himself and shut his mouth tight. How had he managed to let the conversation go on this direction? He rubbed his jaw, angry with himself, and looked around in discomfort. Linda was serving the Indian family’s meals.

  ‘Inga, I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘Sorry, Guðgeir. But when you don’t mean this or that, it gets on my nerves,’ she snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, my love,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m in a café and the place is full so it’s not a great place to talk. It’s good to know you had some help around the garden and I wasn’t trying to imply anything. Please say thanks to Finnur and give him my regards. I’ll call tomorrow and talk to the children.’

  He held the phone in his hand and pressed the red button before she could say anything in response. He stared out of the window to calm himself down. It had started to rain.

  The beer deadened some of the pain in his chest, and when his cod arrived, he asked for a glass of white wine to go with it.

  ‘The place is packed,’ Guðgeir said, looking around. He was the only one with a table to himself.

  ‘It’s starting to quieten down now and I should get a break soon,’ Linda said. ‘I’ll come and keep you company if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Linda!’ a voice called from the kitchen and she turned in response.