The Fox Page 8

  ‘How about we go there when you’re home? Good idea?’

  ‘Go where?’ he asked in a hollow voice, his eyes closed. Patience, common sense and consideration, he reminded himself, the three key instincts.

  ‘The restaurant, of course. The new one,’ Inga said, with a hint of impatience. ‘The one we were talking about just now.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and felt his heart begin to race. He imagined Inga sitting at a restaurant table with flowers in a vase, opposite Finnur. He rubbed his eyes and pulled himself together. ‘Yes, it would be great to go out for dinner.’

  This jealousy was an unpleasant emotion, in fact, it was a terrible feeling, he thought. This was something that magnified his remoteness from everything, and made him miss his family, job and friends all the more. Now he’d have to get out of the house, as that would keep at bay the visions of his colleague and friend Andrés, the one and only Andrés.

  In his worst moments, Guðgeir saw his friend’s face rippled with pain and the green of his jacket soaked through with blood. Guðgeir let his plate clatter into the sink. Days off were a nightmare. He needed something to occupy him, something to keep his mind busy.

  He laced up his walking boots, snatched a coat from its hook and banged the door shut behind him. A few moments later he was behind the wheel, heading for the lagoon.

  13

  ‘Let me have it,’ Selma said. Sajee glanced at the sheet of paper to make sure. As far as she could make out, her signature was correct.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said, taking a seat on the kitchen bench. ‘Did Ísak go out?’

  ‘He’s out in the barn,’ Selma replied, her earlier sharpness gone. ‘I didn’t mean to be unpleasant just now, but the pain makes me short-tempered. It tires me out.’

  She stretched for a bottle of pills, shook two tablets into her palm and washed them down with a gulp of coffee.

  ‘I understand,’ Sajee said softly, and held out her phone. ‘Do you have a charger that fits this? I can’t find mine anywhere.’

  ‘No, we don’t have that type,’ Selma replied quickly, without looking. ‘Would you like me to make coffee for you?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said in a dull voice and stared out of the window. There was nothing to be seen in the gloom outside.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll ask Thormóður to pick up a charger for you. That’s as long as something that old-fashioned can still be found.’

  ‘I could go with Thormóður, do some shopping and come back,’ Sajee suggested.

  ‘He has better things to do than ferry you back and forth,’ Selma said.

  ‘I could stay at the hostel for one or two nights, and do some cleaning there in return. A bit of a break…’

  ‘Anyone would think that you’re wearing your fingers to the bone here at Bröttuskriður,’ Selma snorted. ‘You work a couple of hours a day, have a room to yourself and get healthy, home-cooked meals. There’s nobody going to tell me that you were so well off back in Sri Lanka. I’ve seen a few things on the television,’ Selma said, her voice again rising steadily.

  Sajee stood up without a word and began to clear dishes from the table. Her mechanical movements evidence of her unhappiness.

  ‘You could go outside,’ Selma said after a while. ‘A good walk is always good if you’re feeling down.’

  ‘Maybe I will. I seem to have a constant headache.’

  ‘A breath of fresh air will cheer you up,’ Selma said, more cheerful now. Her mood seemed to change from one moment to the next. ‘But don’t go far. The weather can always turn and we don’t want anything to happen to you. You don’t know how fierce the weather can be here in Iceland. A storm can be whipped up in the twinkling of an eye.’

  ‘I know,’ Sajee muttered.

  ‘Take the torch that’s by the window, because it’s getting dark. Don’t go too far from the house and don’t spend too long outside. People can lose their lives and there are lots of foreigners who have died of exposure in Iceland. They get lost in the dark and simply freeze to death, and it’s a dreadful way to go. Yes, and watch out for foxes. They can attack people. Once there was a man who fell and broke his leg outside in storm, and a fox chewed his foot right off.’

  Selma stared doubtfully out of the kitchen window. Sajee wondered whether she was telling the truth about all the foreigners who had lost their lives in Iceland, and she felt a fondness for the little fox who looked to be such an innocent creature. She hadn’t heard that there were any dangerous animals in Iceland, but Selma was right about the darkness. Even though it was now the middle of March, the daylight didn’t last long.

  She put on her coat and gloves, and looked longingly at Selma’s padded snow boots. But they were several sizes too large for her, so she slipped her tiny feet into the rubber boots she had bought for the trip she should never have taken.

  There was still some daylight and she walked briskly over the pasture below the scree. Fallen rocks lay here and there, boulders and smaller stones. She perched on one of them, pulled the hood of her anorak over her head and zipped it up tight under her chin. Then she closed her eyes and let her thoughts wander.

  She skipped in thin sandals between the stallholders as they called out across the market. She was again a little girl, tugging at Hirumi’s bright green skirt, trying to draw her attention to enchanting toys and tempting sweets. She could smell the newly baked bread with coconut, hear the soothingly repetitive music, until the cold from the grey stone seeped into every one of her bones.

  Home. She no longer knew what that meant.

  She opened her eyes and stared up at the mountainside looming over her, as she had done on the few occasions she had gone outside the farmhouse at Bröttuskriður. The mountain resembled a vast fist with sharp nails at the ends of long claws, and she had the feeling that the fish could clench and crush her.

  She tried to shake off her disquiet, switched on the torch and let the narrow beam of light travel up and down the steep mountainside. Nooks and crannies gave it the look of being pocked with scars, as if a giant sharp points had been pushed deep into the pasture. She was cold, her feet numb. It was becoming properly dark and she could hardly see anything other than what was within the beam of torchlight. All the same, she put off going back inside. Eventually she had to admit defeat, and set off.

  After a few steps she sensed a presence behind her. She glanced around, but saw nothing but the all-enveloping darkness. She took a few deep breaths and resolved to remain calm, but thoughts of the hidden people in the rocks above the farm came vividly to mind. Karl had talked about the elf woman who could drive people mad, or even make then disappear.

  Yesterday she had watched as Selma had hobbled up the largest of the rocks, taking with her a pot containing the remnants of a meat soup that she tipped out into the snow. Then she had spread her arms wide and yelled at the sky above. She was convinced that the old woman had been making an offering.

  She herself could never use a part of an animal as an offering, and any hidden people who took meat as a sacrifice had to be truly terrible. The idea made her shudder. The grey stone around her began to take on the shapes of people and her footsteps rustled in the gloomy silence. With every step she took, her trepidation grew, alongside her inner blend of fear and conscience over having neglected her own customs the previous evening when she had rolled, exhausted, into bed.

  There was snow in her boots, and the cold was eating into her shins. She tried to hurry, by the soles of her boots were too smooth for her walk fast, and she struggled to keep her balance. Without warning, she missed her footing and fell forward as she tripped. She cried out feebly, but to her relief she was unhurt and took off a glove to be able to switch on the torch. She had strayed to the fenced-off copse that they referred to as the family plot, and had tripped over a flagstone in front of the iron gate.

  Sajee struggled to her feet and went closer. The narrow beam of light flickered over one grave after another; five altogether. These were all impos
ing gravestones, with the largest one in the centre and she guessed that under this one lay Selma’s father, or even both of her parents. Illegible letters stretched out beneath large crosses. Maybe under the middle stone lay an old man with the same dark brow as Ísak and at his side an elegant old woman with steel-grey hair and blue-grey eyes beneath a low forehead. These were the eyes that Sajee sensed as she slept. It was terrifying to imagine these corpses lying beneath the frozen ground. Those poor dead people, she thought. Back home in Sri Lanka the dead were burned and their souls well looked after.

  Her breath came faster, forming clouds in the cold air. Under these heavy stones had to be the souls of people caught in desperation, locked in their earthly bodies. Had the priests or the people in the district held a vigil for them, or had they been abandoned for ever, left for months on end in nature’s deep freeze until the return of summer when the worms could return to their work? The terror that had fallen away for a moment gripped her again. Treating the dead like this could fill a restless soul with evil. She shivered, stepping back away from the gravestones, wanting to escape. Evil could give those souls the power to rise up into the world of men.

  She took to her heels, but the slippery soles of her boots let her down, so she tumbled forward and found her fingers touching an ice-cold stone so smooth that it was almost soft. A white stone teddy bear sat atop a little gravestone. Sajee had not imagined that a child could be buried here as well. Selma had mentioned only parents and grandparents, but not a word about children. The thought of a child deep in the frozen earth was too much for her, and her eyes filled with tears. A tide of emotions rose to the surface inside her, twisting and colliding. She told herself that she mustn’t lose her grip, that she had to keep herself under control and not let her imagination run away with her.

  It wasn’t far back to the house, but it still felt like a long trek. Just like passing time in this place, she thought, reminding herself that spring was not far away, and by then she would have enough money for a flight to Reykjavík where she could find work cleaning or washing dishes.

  She stepped cautiously in her treacherous boots, taking care not to fall as she spoke calming words to herself. She saw a light in the barn as she came closer. First she would make it there, and then it would be an easy walk to the house. The fear followed behind her, as if it were breathing down her neck, but with Selma’s words about people who died of exposure in mind, she didn’t allow herself to run in the darkness.

  Outside the barn she saw the fox as it trotted back and forth, to the limit the chain would allow. As she came closer, it stopped and watched her, its dark eyes catching hers and she felt a pang of discomfort at seeing the animal tethered there, running ceaselessly back and forth all day long as it sought to break free.

  Music echoed from the barn; the same tune that Ísak had sung along with on the way back from Gröf.

  14

  As the door wasn’t locked, she went in. A long, burgundy-red car floated above the floor, jacked up so that she could make out the deep pit beneath it. Ísak was nowhere to be seen, so she crouched on one knee and peered into the darkness.

  ‘Hello?’ There was no response and she called again, louder, but still with no answer. ‘Hello?’

  She stood up and looked around her. Along the walls were shelves of tools and drawers for smaller items. Every tool shone like new, and it was obvious that Ísak was tidier here than in the house that was his mother’s domain. She was about to leave when hands fell on her shoulders and she felt heavy breath on the back of her neck.

  ‘Hello, Sajee.’

  Ísak stood behind her, his hands firmly on her shoulders.

  ‘You took me by surprise,’ she said. ‘Where were you? I didn’t see you down there.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ he breathed into her ear. ‘What are you doing out here in the dark?’

  His meaty hands squeezed and she could feel goose pimples form on her arms at his touch.

  ‘I went for a walk and I heard the music. Where were you? I didn’t see you when I came in here,’ she said, twisting out of his grip.

  He stood with his feet far apart as he looked her up and down. He was broadly built but with round shoulders, dressed in a grey overall. Pieces of shiny paper, with blue letters and an image of an imposing woman wearing a hat stuck out from a pocket – banknotes.

  ‘I was under the car. I’m fixing it up,’ Ísak replied.

  ‘I looked everywhere and couldn’t see you.’

  She turned and moved away from him, forcing a friendly smile.

  ‘No,’ Ísak said. ‘You don’t always see everything.’

  He took a step towards her and she instinctively edged towards the door.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, but when he didn’t reply, she tried to change the subject. ‘Are you going to pay me this evening?’

  She looked pointedly at this pocket and he took out one of the five thousand krónur notes, let the brand-new banknote flutter between his fingers for a moment, and then stuffed it back where it had come from.

  ‘No, not with this. It’s cash for parts I ordered for the car. But don’t you worry. You’ll be paid according to the terms of our excellent contract.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. There’ll be more money soon,’ he said pompously, preening like a rooster with something to be proud of. ‘You can bank on that.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Sajee said, not troubling to hide her relief. ‘Next time you go to Höfn, can you get me a charger for my phone? I don’t know what happened to mine.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said uninterestedly. ‘Looks great, doesn’t it?’ he asked animatedly.

  ‘The car? It does,’ Sajee said quickly, remembering how much he relished praise. She went closer to it and ran numb fingers over the glistening burgundy lacquer to demonstrate her polite admiration.

  ‘It was my Dad’s,’ Ísak said, with delighted pride. He stepped closer to her and whispered. ‘Sajee, mother thinks that you were sent to us, that you coming here is something that’s hugely symbolic, and she’s terrified of losing you.’ He stared at her. ‘She says that we’ve waited a long time for you,’ he said and fell silent.

  ‘That’s so strange,’ she said awkwardly.

  ‘Yeah.’ He leaned against the car and grinned. ‘The old lady knows a few things. She’s not like other people. She sees people others can’t see, and she hears voices. Some people say it’s just crazy, but the truth of it is that she often knows more than the people around her.’ He stood close to Sajee and reached out to touch her misshapen upper lip. ‘Who knows? Maybe God himself sent you here,’ he muttered, and for a second it seemed that he was about to try to kiss her mouth, but instead he pinched her cheek hard. His thumb travelled across her lip and over her cheek. ‘Mother says you’re just like my sister was,’ he whispered, his eyes searching her like a doctor examining a patient. ‘Apart from the colour of your skin, of course.’

  ‘Just like? How?’ she asked. ‘I don’t understand.’ Sajee felt herself trembling. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your mouth,’ he said, relaxing his grip as a piercing cry cut through the night.

  ‘Is the fox in pain?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘No, he’s just whining,’ Ísak whispered, without taking his eyes off her.

  ‘Where is your sister now?’ she asked cautiously. She wanted to know more about this family that cold fate had brought her to.

  ‘The Hidden People took her. That’s the punishment that mother has to live with. ‘

  The anguished cry again made its way through the walls. Ísak glanced at the window.

  ‘He’s probably a bit hungry, poor thing,’ he said, going over to the workbench. It was suddenly as if nothing had happened. ‘He can’t go anywhere.’

  ‘The fox?’

  ‘Yeah, the fox,’ Ísak replied absently.

  ‘What do you give him to eat?’ she asked, relieved to have something everyday to t
alk about.

  ‘Raw meat,’ he said, sorting through the screwdrivers on the bench. He sorted them with care, almost obsessive care, by size. ‘In Sri Lanka you believe in reincarnation, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘That people come back to this world again and again?’

  ‘Yes…’ Sajee began. ‘And you?’ she asked.

  ‘Me? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t rule anything out. But I can tell you that there’s nothing happens in this world that’s a coincidence. That’s my experience,’ he said. The last screwdriver was in its place and he wiped his hands slowly with a clean rag. ‘You arriving here at Bröttuskriður, right here … well, that’s coincidence. Thormóður found you and everything he does has a reason behind it, so that makes you completely special.’

  Ísak looked at her intently, his eyes somehow distant. Sajee looked away and her black hair slipped over her face, so she lifted a hand to sweep it aside and tuck it behind her ears again.

  ‘Now I’m scaring you,’ Ísak said with a lighthearted laugh. His demeanour changed suddenly as if every care had been lifted from him. ‘Look at this. That’s an American car, a 1969 Ford,’ he said, opening a drawer. It was filled with cloths sealed in plastic packaging. Sajee had the feeling that the place was more like a showroom than a workshop. Ísak picked up a pack, bit into the plastic wrapper and extracted a clean cloth.

  ‘Everything looks so new,’ she said, relieved that the conversation had moved on from reincarnation.

  ‘That’s right,’ Ísak said. ‘We have good taste, mother and I. Look at the workmanship there.’ A finger slid along one of the car’s chromed edges. ‘This is no junk, because back when these were made, things were done properly and there was a pride in people’s work. They didn’t make rubbish like they do today. I’ve put a lot of effort into restoring this. Look at that front bumper,’ Ísak said, walking around to the front of the car to polish the chrome that was already so clean that it glistened. The admiration in his voice was unmistakeable. ‘You don’t see workmanship like this today.’