Anton’s mom is tiny and fat and definitely older than my mom; his dad is very tall and thin. Anton is often with his mom and even walks with her to the store. Sometimes they are even hand-in-hand. All the kids stop playing and start giggling when they see them walking together. There is something freaking hilarious about seeing them.
— Is that Tony Terylene out walking his dwarf?
You’re a dork if you’re out with your mom. I’d rather drink a bottle full of piss and eat blowflies than go to the store with my mom.
Generally, I’m not allowed over to Anton’s. Everything in his room is so nice that he doesn’t want me to touch anything. There’s also a strange smell in his home. When I ask for him, we go out to play; I’m only allowed into the living room.
Still, I know his brothers better than my brother.
I also have a sister named Kristín. She lives in Norway. I don’t know what she looks like. When she calls, Dad speaks tremendously loudly on the phone. He asks her what the weather is like in Trondheim and tells her about the weather in Iceland. When Mom talks to her, she asks what’s happening and how everyone is.
Dad isn’t bothered about how people are, just whether it’s good weather in Trondheim, and making sure everyone there knows the weather here. When guests come to visit, he tells them about it loudly, like it’s something everyone has been waiting for:
— It was cold in Trondheim last weekend!
Dad thinks Norway is the most remarkable country in the world. If someone comes to visit who has just returned from overseas and is trying to tell stories about the trip, Dad tops all their stories with some fact or other about Norway and starts telling stories about his trip to Norway. Nowhere has such good weather, such interesting buildings, or such spectacular scenery as Norway. If people try to talk about other countries, Dad drowns it out with Norway. He thinks it’s pointless to travel to other countries. He doesn’t think much of people who head off to Denmark.
— Did you have a good time? asks Mom.
— It was awesome.
— What was so special about it? asks Dad.
— How was the weather?
— At least twenty the whole time.
— The temperature reached twenty-five in Trondheim yesterday, Dad announces.
— Did you meet the Queen? Mom asks jokingly.
— It will never be as hot in Copenhagen as Oslo, Dad interjects.
— How hot was it when we were there? he asks Mom.
— I don’t remember, she replies, brusquely.
— We went on a tour of Kronborg Castle. It was spectacular.
— But have you ever been to the cathedral in Trondheim? Dad asks loudly.
— Er, no.
Dad shakes his head. He thinks the cathedral is the most striking building in the world. Neither the pyramids in Egypt nor the Eiffel Tower in Paris are half as good as the cathedral in Trondheim. Anyone who has not been there has not seen anything.
He begins to tell the story of when he was in Norway. Mom sighs. We’ve all heard this story many times. Our guests fall silent and smile awkwardly.
~ ~ ~
I rummage through Grandma Anna’s stuff very carefully. The only material evidence I had found of her existence were some pictures of an obese old woman with messy white hair. That was until I found a tape in Runa’s stuff. It’s the recording of a party. Runa and her girlfriends are drunk. They are listening to music and talking. You can’t hear anything they’re saying until, suddenly, one of the girls says loudly:
— Are you always alone?
— Huh? asks a sick, old woman.
She repeats the question, even more loudly.
— Are you always alone?!
— Yes, says the old lady.
Then the girl shouts back:
— Is everyone always mean to you?!
The old lady agrees.
— And you never get anything to eat?!
— No, says the old lady.
They all start laughing.
That’s Grandma Anna they’re teasing. I don’t understand why Runa had her at a party.
Judging by her things, Grandma Anna was super infirm. There’re all kinds of rubber hoses and medical junk and assorted syringes with plastic needles. I took one of the syringes. I use it as a water gun or a fire extinguisher for Action Man.
~ ~ ~
I’m looking for information about these people. I get my information from their possessions. I paw through stuff and examine their drawers, studying pictures and reading postcards. No one tells me anything. If I ask Mom, she has amnesia.
— How did you meet Dad?
— I don’t remember; it was so long ago.
— Where was our first home?
— I already told you.
— Where was it again?
— On Skipholt.
— Where’s that?
— Oh, stop pestering me.
It’s like the past is hidden in a haze. It’s like nobody wants to remember what happened. If I ask my dad, he usually just replies with total nonsense. It really depends on what sort of mood he’s in. Sometimes he talks to me like I’m handicapped, or the way you talk to a toddler. I’m not a baby. Sometimes he just talks about something other than what I asked about. Often I’ve heard it before.
Sometimes he holds my hand with one of his hands and strokes my cheek with the other while he tells me some boring story about how everything was in the old days, when he was little: how poor everyone was and how everyone was always cold, especially him.
He tells me the same stories over and over. They are sad and also often sentimental. One story is about how when my dad was little, he and his brother killed flies on the windowsill. Then they went out and saw a dead bird and began to cry. He looks deep into my eyes as though the story is hiding some deep message about life.
He’s often told me this story. I don’t understand the moral. I think it’s just a silly story. It’s okay to kill flies.
I try to hide my hands behind my back so he can’t reach them. It’s uncomfortable when he holds me so hard. It’s mean and annoying. He squeezes my hand and makes it hurt.
It seems like I’m an instrument on which he’s trying to play a tragic, sad song.
The worst is when I need to ask Dad for money. Like when I need money to buy something or go to the movies. I try instead to ask Mom.
— Mom, can I have money for the movies?
— Ask your father.
Mom never has any money.
I get a knot of anxiety in my stomach and my mouth goes dry when I need to ask Dad for money. Sometimes it’s okay and he just lets me have the money. If he’s in a good mood. But if he is in a bad temper then it’s not alright. When I approach him he stretches out his hand towards me. I give him my hand. Then he smiles gently at me. I have a strong feeling that he knows I’m going to ask him for money so I pretend to have some other reason for approaching him. Maybe he wants me to tell him that I am fond of him or some crap like that. You don’t say such things to your parents. Though there are small children who do, and they get a treat in return.
Maybe he’s hoping I’ll ask him to tell me some old story. It’s like I’m meant to do something for him, or else he’ll be bored.
It’s a play. One he makes up. A play about a sad, benevolent dad and an ugly, ungrateful son.
— You want to have a conversation with your dad?
— Yes, I mumble.
— Tell me something interesting.