missing long, but the circumstances are certainly unusual. With the first night this evening, and all that.”
“Have you been to the apartment where he lives?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more.”
On an impulse, I make one more phone call.
“Good afternoon,
Hóll
.”
“May I speak to Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir?”
“Just a moment.”
Two minutes.
“Hello. Yes, hello.”
A wavery, nervous voice.
“Hello, Gunnhildur. This is Einar at the
Afternoon News
. I got a message a few days ago asking me to call you. But I haven’t managed to reach you until now.”
A long silence.
“Hello? Gunnhildur?”
A massive throat clearing resounds down the phone. “Hrhuhrummmmm.”
I wait while she clears her tubes.
“Sorry, my boy,” says Gunnhildur, wheezing slightly. “When you’re as old as me, everything gets clogged up.”
“I gather that you’re Ásdís Björk’s mother. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. They often say you can never really grasp the reality of death until you bury your own child. That…That…”
It sounds as if the old lady is on the verge of tears.
“That is absolutely true,” she manages to say.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I ask to keep her on track. “Why did you get in touch with me?”
“I don’t know whether you can do anything for me.”
“But…?”
“I’ve tried talking to the police. But they won’t listen to me. They probably think I’m a senile old bat. Too many people assume all old people are daft and deaf and have lost their marbles.”
“I’m sure that’s right,” I say, wondering if I am one of them. I realize that my remark was ambiguous and hasten to add: “That far too many people think that. It’s nothing more than prejudice, of course.”
“I don’t envy people who think that way, when they get old themselves. Or hopefully not.”
Although I don’t want the conversation to develop into a discussion of old age, I playfully reply: “Why do you say that? You’re not wishing those people an early demise, are you?”
“No, I’m just expressing the hope that no one need be humiliated or ignored just because of their age. The same applies to children. And teenagers. Everyone has rights.”
“I’m with you there. But,” I add, “why did you call me?”
Irritated, Gunnhildur raises her voice to a harsh and grating tone: “Because the police dismissed me! Just like that! Dismissed me!”
“Why?”
“I told them Ásdís Björk’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“What?”
“And I won’t have it!” she shrieks into the phone. “I won’t be dismissed, not until I leave this godforsaken world feetfirst, in my coffin!”
“But why do you say your daughter’s death wasn’t an accident?”
She lowers her voice and whispers her secret to me with melodramatic emphasis: “Because, my boy, she was murdered. Murdered in cold blood. In the coldest of blood that flows through human veins.”
In the beginning was the wish.
As Good Friday dawns, the main idea in my mind is the simple, sincere wish that I may get through this day without doing anything. Not a single damned thing. If I may use such language in the present situation. But, as we know, wishes are not always granted.
On the dining table I find a note: “Gone to meet You Know Who. Hope to see you later.”
Next to the note Jóa has left a selection of pastries she has bought somewhere that remains open on this holiest of days. A gas station, probably. When I was young, gas stations just sold fuel for cars. Now they seem to be mainly for refueling the drivers.
Relishing Jóa’s little treat, I open the door from the living room into the garden and sit at the table on the small terrace with my coffee and cigarette. I bask in the sunshine, which is as bright as yesterday. There’s not a trace of snow, so the skiers who have made their way to Akureyri, hoping to swoop down the slopes, might as well have stayed at home. In the
“Have you been to the apartment where he lives?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more.”
On an impulse, I make one more phone call.
“Good afternoon,
Hóll
.”
“May I speak to Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir?”
“Just a moment.”
Two minutes.
“Hello. Yes, hello.”
A wavery, nervous voice.
“Hello, Gunnhildur. This is Einar at the
Afternoon News
. I got a message a few days ago asking me to call you. But I haven’t managed to reach you until now.”
A long silence.
“Hello? Gunnhildur?”
A massive throat clearing resounds down the phone. “Hrhuhrummmmm.”
I wait while she clears her tubes.
“Sorry, my boy,” says Gunnhildur, wheezing slightly. “When you’re as old as me, everything gets clogged up.”
“I gather that you’re Ásdís Björk’s mother. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. They often say you can never really grasp the reality of death until you bury your own child. That…That…”
It sounds as if the old lady is on the verge of tears.
“That is absolutely true,” she manages to say.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I ask to keep her on track. “Why did you get in touch with me?”
“I don’t know whether you can do anything for me.”
“But…?”
“I’ve tried talking to the police. But they won’t listen to me. They probably think I’m a senile old bat. Too many people assume all old people are daft and deaf and have lost their marbles.”
“I’m sure that’s right,” I say, wondering if I am one of them. I realize that my remark was ambiguous and hasten to add: “That far too many people think that. It’s nothing more than prejudice, of course.”
“I don’t envy people who think that way, when they get old themselves. Or hopefully not.”
Although I don’t want the conversation to develop into a discussion of old age, I playfully reply: “Why do you say that? You’re not wishing those people an early demise, are you?”
“No, I’m just expressing the hope that no one need be humiliated or ignored just because of their age. The same applies to children. And teenagers. Everyone has rights.”
“I’m with you there. But,” I add, “why did you call me?”
Irritated, Gunnhildur raises her voice to a harsh and grating tone: “Because the police dismissed me! Just like that! Dismissed me!”
“Why?”
“I told them Ásdís Björk’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“What?”
“And I won’t have it!” she shrieks into the phone. “I won’t be dismissed, not until I leave this godforsaken world feetfirst, in my coffin!”
“But why do you say your daughter’s death wasn’t an accident?”
She lowers her voice and whispers her secret to me with melodramatic emphasis: “Because, my boy, she was murdered. Murdered in cold blood. In the coldest of blood that flows through human veins.”
In the beginning was the wish.
As Good Friday dawns, the main idea in my mind is the simple, sincere wish that I may get through this day without doing anything. Not a single damned thing. If I may use such language in the present situation. But, as we know, wishes are not always granted.
On the dining table I find a note: “Gone to meet You Know Who. Hope to see you later.”
Next to the note Jóa has left a selection of pastries she has bought somewhere that remains open on this holiest of days. A gas station, probably. When I was young, gas stations just sold fuel for cars. Now they seem to be mainly for refueling the drivers.
Relishing Jóa’s little treat, I open the door from the living room into the garden and sit at the table on the small terrace with my coffee and cigarette. I bask in the sunshine, which is as bright as yesterday. There’s not a trace of snow, so the skiers who have made their way to Akureyri, hoping to swoop down the slopes, might as well have stayed at home. In the
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