3
GUNNAR’S HOME, THE OUTSKIRTS OF REYKJAVIK
‘Gunnar! There is time! Come out!’
A bang on the window with the end of an ice hockey stick made Gunnar Eriksson spill his carefully curated coffee into the small saucer. Frustration bit and he raised his eyes to the kitchen window ready to admonish ten-year-old Magnús who was yelling at him from the front garden of their wooden home. But there was that wide-mouthed grin, those large clear blue eyes so full of enthusiasm and vivre for life despite everything he had been through. How could he be mad at someone who was looking like a poster child for idyllic Icelandic living?
‘Five minutes.’ Gunnar held his hand up to indicate the number.
‘You give in to that boy too much.’
Gunnar turned around and saw he had been joined by Hildur, the third person who lived here in their mismatch of ‘family’. She had paused by the table, as if knowing he would be studying her gait the moment she made a move.
‘You give in to him more,’ Gunnar answered, eyes still on Hildur. ‘You madekleinuragain yesterday.’ He should know because he had eaten two pieces of the vanilla-flavoured fried dough himself.
‘I like makingkleinur. It has nothing to do with Magnús.’
‘Would you like coffee?’ Gunnar asked her. ‘I have some right here.’
‘No,’ she answered, standing still. ‘I can make my own.’
‘O-K,’ Gunnar said, gaze unmoved.
‘Did you not say you were going to play hockey with Magnús?’
‘In five minutes.’
‘Then drink your coffee,’ Hildur told him.
‘Your hip is hurting.’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you not walking to the coffee machine?’
‘Because you are standing right there in my way.’
Gunnar side-stepped quickly, indicated the freed-up space.
She moved immediately, faster than she should, but it wasn’t fooling him. He could see she was in pain and that meant one thing was certain, she was not taking her medication again.
‘How many days?’ Gunnar asked without preamble.
‘Until Christmas? Gunnar, we have a calendar stuck to the refrigerator.’
‘You know what I am asking.’
She reached for the countertop with nimble fingers, the skin blanching as they took her weight. ‘When Magnús’s winter school show is?’
‘We can play guessing games if you like, Hildur, but it will change nothing.’
‘Then we are wasting time when I could be drinking coffee and you could be playing hockey with that boy who will perhaps break an arm unless you tell him to slow down.’
‘How long have you not been taking your medication? How long?—’
Hildur interrupted by pressing a button on the coffee machine, sparking it into noisy life, and turning to face him, triumph shining on her lined cheeks. By the time her drink was made and she raised the cup to her pursed lips, he knew that particular conversation was over for now.
‘It is going to get warmer from tomorrow,’ Hildur remarked. ‘An Icelandic heatwave in December.’
