Walking Into the Night by Olaf Olafsson

a new world while the old one burned. The Great War had lasted for three years already and there was no sign of an end. Trade with Europe continued to decline, both imports and exports. The Icelandic Home Rule government had signed a treaty with the British that no ship would receive permission to sail from Iceland to Europe unless it went via a British harbor. He could still export saltfish to Spain, but the ships were more intermittent than before and he could no longer rely on being paid for the cargo.
    But here there was no war, no trenches, no killing, and ships sailed freely between Iceland and New York. Every now and then some lunatic got the idea of trying to urge American participation in the war, but, of course, that sort of madness found no support. There was spring in the air as early as March. The buds appeared on the trees a month earlier than usual. People’s footsteps were light, their faces full of optimism. The days were getting longer, the evenings merry, the short nights passed in dreamless sleep. The streets were washed early in the morning when the smell of bacon wafted from the windows and mingled with the sea-smell from the river. At dawn, birds flew with sparks of light on their carefree wings.
    Here nothing burned but one’s fetters.
    “Will you be away as long as last time, dear?” was all she had said. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember how he had responded. He had taken a hot bath before setting off for the party, ordering a whiskey from room service and sipping it slowly as he soaked in the tub, enjoying the sensation as it burned its way through his mouth and throat. He had left the window open so he could listen to the thrum of the city outside. In the distance someone was playing music. “By the light . . . of the silvery moon,” they sang; he recognized the tune and whistled softly so as not to drown out the faint notes that entered on the light wind.
    A deep sense of well-being that arrived without warning and needed no analysis. He had dried himself in the warm breeze from the window and dressed in a leisurely way in white shirt and dark blue suit, flicking a duster over his shoes and running a comb through his thick, fair hair. “The silv’ry moon is shining through the trees . . .” The party began at six.
    She was wearing a white dress the first time he saw her. “This is my friend, Klara,” Andrew B. Jones, his agent, told him and kissed her on the cheek. “Swedish. Dances like an angel. Klara, this is Christian Benediktsson from Iceland. We call him the Icelandic Baron.”
    He knew at once. As he looked into her eyes. Knew what would happen. He was filled with fear and anticipation, held out his hand to her, releasing hers after the briefest touch. He knew right away, even pictured it in his mind.
    They first made love the day before he sailed for Iceland. It was hot in his hotel room, and afterwards they lay in silence side by side, watching the curtains billowing in the breeze.
    Now he was back in New York again. The
Gullfoss
had made its sedate progress up the East River just before dawn the previous day. The city was wreathed in white fog as the ship drew near. Here and there the buildings pierced the mist.
    And somewhere she was sleeping, under this white blanket. Perhaps Jones lay beside her, her lover, a cheerful young man, practical and eager to please. Maybe she would sense his arrival and toss on the edge of consciousness, smelling the fog outside the window; the fingers of one hand would contract, then relax one by one, her hand resting on the quilt as her lips parted.
    The ship sailed beneath the fog. He had arrived.
    “Welcome back, Mr. Benediktsson. There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the coffee lounge.”
    Andrew B. Jones, Jr., was an early riser. He got to his feet, putting down the paper he’d been reading, and greeted Kristjan warmly. At breakfast, he gave Kristjan the rundown on business: he had managed to get hold of all the wheat Kristjan