down to the station, either call the child social work team or their parents, take a statement from them, and then their parents fetch them or the police drive them home. I think the thirteen-year-old is on the child protection register, probably has an impossible home situation, the poor thing.”
“Isn’t it possible to do something for these kids? Give them some walls to spray as they please or something?” Hanna asks, but Gudny shakes her head.
“We’ve tried all that long ago. It makes no difference—problem kids just aren’t interested. That is, part of this graffiti culture is the excitement of doing something forbidden. Although they do sometimes get punished, for example, one lad was made to clean up the wall of a house he’d spray-painted.”
“I see,” says Hanna. “Art students from the Academy paint on walls where it’s permitted. They know what they’re about, and they want to do something stunning.”
“Mmm,” replies Gudny, looking at the clock. Hanna does not mind.
“I feel sorry for these kids,” Hanna says. “I had it so good when I was a child. It would never have occurred to me to go and graffiti a wall.”
Laufey laughs. “I don’t suppose there was a lot of that in Leirhofn or Kopasker?” Hanna smiles back, recalling the little village in the north of the country where she was born and brought up.
“I was always happy at home in Leirhofn.” She stares pensively out of the window, at the drifting snow. “I remember my bedroom window so well. It faced out toward the mountains, and when I sat up in bed I could see right up their slopes. I never wanted to have curtains. The hillsides, the snow, and the crags were like a graphics painting in wintertime. And in the summers I looked right onto the hollows full of berries. And in the evenings...” Falling silent for a moment, Hanna slips back in time and pictures the rural area she was brought up in. “In the evenings the slopes were a reddish-pink. Those mountains were like a friendly giant’s embrace.”
“Weren’t you only a young girl when you moved?” Gudny has finished eating and signals to the waiter. Hanna notices that she gets immediate service. She also notices that people at nearby tables recognize who Gudny is, but no one has bothered them.
“The earthquake was in ’76. I was nine then.”
“Where were you when it happened?” asks Laufey. Hanna has never talked about that time, and she hesitates. She is not sure she wants to go over that day. She was about to mentally raise her sword in self-defense, look up at the clock, and mention something about time flying, but she changes her mind. Why should she not tell them what happened? It was so long ago. She still glances at the clock, as a precaution, so she can stop when she wants, make the time an excuse to go.
“I was in school.” She hesitates, the earthquake vivid before her even though it was over thirty years ago. “The walls and thefloor were like waves. It was as if a blow thundered down on the building. Books tumbled off their shelves. Somehow we all got out and no one was hurt.”
Hanna takes a sip of water. Gudny stops, her phone halfway out of her bag.
“Then they drove us home,” Hanna goes on. “You see, the school was in Kopasker and children from the surrounding farms were bused in. There were crevices in the road, deep fissures created by the earthquake.” Hanna does not mention the fear that reigned in the school bus, the silence; no one knew what things would be like at home, what awaited them.
“When I came home, I was so lucky—I immediately saw Mom in the doorway. None of our family was injured.” Hanna hesitates again; she feels that no words can express what happened that day. She has always thought that it was then that her parents decided to split up. But in fact it was not like that. The family moved to Akureyri; the divorce came later. But she cannot help herself. She has always thought that if the earthquake had not
“Isn’t it possible to do something for these kids? Give them some walls to spray as they please or something?” Hanna asks, but Gudny shakes her head.
“We’ve tried all that long ago. It makes no difference—problem kids just aren’t interested. That is, part of this graffiti culture is the excitement of doing something forbidden. Although they do sometimes get punished, for example, one lad was made to clean up the wall of a house he’d spray-painted.”
“I see,” says Hanna. “Art students from the Academy paint on walls where it’s permitted. They know what they’re about, and they want to do something stunning.”
“Mmm,” replies Gudny, looking at the clock. Hanna does not mind.
“I feel sorry for these kids,” Hanna says. “I had it so good when I was a child. It would never have occurred to me to go and graffiti a wall.”
Laufey laughs. “I don’t suppose there was a lot of that in Leirhofn or Kopasker?” Hanna smiles back, recalling the little village in the north of the country where she was born and brought up.
“I was always happy at home in Leirhofn.” She stares pensively out of the window, at the drifting snow. “I remember my bedroom window so well. It faced out toward the mountains, and when I sat up in bed I could see right up their slopes. I never wanted to have curtains. The hillsides, the snow, and the crags were like a graphics painting in wintertime. And in the summers I looked right onto the hollows full of berries. And in the evenings...” Falling silent for a moment, Hanna slips back in time and pictures the rural area she was brought up in. “In the evenings the slopes were a reddish-pink. Those mountains were like a friendly giant’s embrace.”
“Weren’t you only a young girl when you moved?” Gudny has finished eating and signals to the waiter. Hanna notices that she gets immediate service. She also notices that people at nearby tables recognize who Gudny is, but no one has bothered them.
“The earthquake was in ’76. I was nine then.”
“Where were you when it happened?” asks Laufey. Hanna has never talked about that time, and she hesitates. She is not sure she wants to go over that day. She was about to mentally raise her sword in self-defense, look up at the clock, and mention something about time flying, but she changes her mind. Why should she not tell them what happened? It was so long ago. She still glances at the clock, as a precaution, so she can stop when she wants, make the time an excuse to go.
“I was in school.” She hesitates, the earthquake vivid before her even though it was over thirty years ago. “The walls and thefloor were like waves. It was as if a blow thundered down on the building. Books tumbled off their shelves. Somehow we all got out and no one was hurt.”
Hanna takes a sip of water. Gudny stops, her phone halfway out of her bag.
“Then they drove us home,” Hanna goes on. “You see, the school was in Kopasker and children from the surrounding farms were bused in. There were crevices in the road, deep fissures created by the earthquake.” Hanna does not mention the fear that reigned in the school bus, the silence; no one knew what things would be like at home, what awaited them.
“When I came home, I was so lucky—I immediately saw Mom in the doorway. None of our family was injured.” Hanna hesitates again; she feels that no words can express what happened that day. She has always thought that it was then that her parents decided to split up. But in fact it was not like that. The family moved to Akureyri; the divorce came later. But she cannot help herself. She has always thought that if the earthquake had not
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