He had transported it here from Reykjavík in his own car, following the unmetalled roads all the way east. It had taken him two days, with an overnight stay in the northern town of Akureyri. As it had always been his intention to erect a joint memorial to both his parents, he had never put up a temporary cross over his mother’s grave. He had nothing but his own dilatoriness to blame for the shameful length of time that elapsed before guilt finally drove him to contact a stonemason. But there was a reason for his negligence. Deep down, he dreaded returning; the emotions his old home stirred up were too painful. When he did eventually brace himself to make the journey, however, it was as if he had broken a spell and since then he had visited at regular intervals, for shorter or longer periods. He had accepted now that he could never flee his past.
He had tried in vain for years to recall memories of their life before tragedy had struck. But after Bergur vanished the past had been obliterated, as if their life had not really begun until then. As the days turned into years, however, his recollections of the time before the disaster began to return with increasing frequency. Some were fleeting snapshots that he had difficulty pinning to a specific time or context. Others were clearer. Occasions like Christmas: his father wearing an Icelandic Yule hat; the tree they had decorated together; listening to a radio serial on a winter’s evening. The images glimmered before his mind’s eye like the dim flickering of a candle. An excursion to Akureyri. A boat trip to the island of Papey; his fear of the water. Summer days. Sitting on a horse; his mother’s hand on the leading rein. The hay harvest. Men drinking coffee and smoking outside the house. He and Bergur playing in the sweet-scented hay in the barn.
Some of these memories aroused a sensation of profound loss that would return again and again to haunt him. As he stood by his parents’ grave, he heard the far-off notes of a mournful refrain that he recognised as his father’s violin, and saw his mother standing in the sitting-room doorway, her eyes half closed. A long summer’s day behind them, their faces ruddy from the sun, the boys nodding off on the sofa. His father’s hands moving with such sensitivity over the instrument. She tilted her head as she listened, her eyes on her husband.
‘Play something cheerful now,’ she said.
‘The boys are falling asleep,’ he protested.
‘You can play quietly.’
Changing tempo, he embarked on a muted rendition of a spirited waltz. She listened smiling from the door, then went over and pulled him to his feet. He laid the violin aside and they danced together in the quiet room.
Bergur was dead to the world beside him, but Erlendur woke him so they could surreptitiously watch their parents treading the steps in silence, wrapped in each other’s arms. They were conversing in whispers so as not to disturb the boys and his mother smothered a giggle. She found it easy to laugh. Bergur took after her. They were alike in so many ways; the same features, the same generous smile. Bergur was invariably sunny-tempered, unlike his brother who was inclined to be irritable, overbearing and demanding. Smiling did not come easily to him either; he took after his father in looks and temperament.
The memory was accompanied by the summery scent of newly mown grass and a sultry Icelandic heatwave. Earlier that day he and Bergur had been playing down by the river, walking along its bank and dipping their hands in the water to splash its refreshing coolness on their faces.
It was the last summer the four of them spent together.
Erlendur caressed the weathered basalt. An icy breath of wind stole down the slope and pierced his padded jacket. He glanced up at the mountains, pulling his coat more tightly around him, then hurried back to the petrol station. The weather forecast had predicted a drop in temperature for the east of Iceland, and the bitter gust was confirmation that it had arrived, sweeping down from the mountains like an ill omen.
27
‘Why are you lying here?’
Startled by the question, he peers towards the source of the traveller’s voice, lost in the gloom.
‘Are you still here?’ he asks.
‘I’m still here,’ comes the reply.
‘Why? What do you want from me?’
‘I’ll go when you do.’
‘Where do you come from?’ he asks.
‘From far away,’ says the traveller. ‘But I’m going back this evening.’
28
He started awake from a deep sleep, disturbed by the sound of a car. Day was breaking. He felt bleary and disorientated, having only managed to drop off shortly before dawn. A door slammed and he heard the snow creaking under approaching footsteps. The visitor was alone. Erlendur crawled from his sleeping bag. Snow had piled up in one corner of the room and the place looked miserably uninviting.
‘Anyone at home?’ called an instantly recognisable voice. Bóas’s face appeared outside the broken window.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked.
‘Not at all.’
‘I brought you some coffee and a Danish,’ the farmer announced with a grin. ‘Thought you might welcome a bit of company.’
‘Come on in,’ said Erlendur.
‘You’re too kind,’ said Bóas, entering the doorless house and joining Erlendur in the remains of the sitting room. He was carrying a Thermos flask and a paper bag from which wafted a delicious smell. ‘I brought two mugs just to be on the safe side,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure how comfortably you live up here.’
‘I get by,’ said Erlendur, accepting a cup of coffee.
Bóas took in his sleeping arrangements — the blankets, sleeping bag and gas lantern. His camp was neat enough, if not exactly a suite at the Hilton. Erlendur had made a giant ashtray out of a milk churn that he had found on the property. It stood in one corner, the bottom filled with water, into which he chucked his stubs. Next to it was a folding chair and a few books piled on a dry patch of floor.
‘I see you’ve made it nice and homely,’ said Bóas. ‘Have a thing about tramps, do you? Thinking of becoming one yourself?’
Erlendur smiled and took a bite of freshly baked Danish pastry. The coffee was strong and scalding hot. He sipped gingerly to avoid burning his tongue.
‘It’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘You’re welcome. Seen any ghosts?’
‘There are always a few around.’
‘The kids used to claim this place was haunted,’ said Bóas. ‘Back in the days when kids could be bothered to play outside and knew what a haunted house was. Though that’s many years ago now. They’d come up here, light fires and tell ghost stories. A bit of hanky-panky went on too, of course, and illicit drinking.’
‘They’ve scribbled graffiti on the walls,’ said Erlendur.
‘Yes, always the same old lovers’ marks. But nobody comes here any more, as far as I know. Apart from you, that is.’
‘And that’s not often,’ said Erlendur.
‘It’s a beautiful spot, though. Are you thinking of staying on?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Forgive an old busybody — I don’t mean to pry,’ said Bóas. ‘Anyway, I mentioned that matter you asked me about to some local hunters. You know, about whether foxholes and ravens’ nests might provide any clues about your brother. But nothing came of it, I’m sorry to say.’
‘No,’ said Erlendur. ‘I didn’t really expect it to. But thanks for looking into it.’
‘What about your case, how’s that going?’ asked Bóas.
‘My case? You mean Matthildur?’
Bóas nodded.
‘It’s hardly a case. I don’t know what to say, though it appears Ezra might be able to fill me in on a few things.’
‘How’s that?’ asked Bóas, inquisitive as ever.
‘I just got that impression after having another chat with Hrund,’ Erlendur said, unwilling to reveal more than was necessary. He had no intention of bringing up Ezra’s affair with Matthildur, though there was a chance that Bóas already knew. Still, it was a private matter and he had no wish to encourage rumours. ‘It’s just an idea,’ he added, hoping to put Bóas off the scent.