This conversation was not going to be about the love in their lives.
'We've been together now for, what, three or four years, and nothing's happening. Not a thing. You pull faces as soon as I start talking about anything that vaguely resembles commitment. We still have completely separate finances. A church wedding seems out of the question; I'm not clear about any other type. We're not registered as cohabiting. Having children is as remote to you as a distant galaxy. So I ask: What's left?'
There was no hint of anger in Bergthora's words. So far, she was still only seeking to understand their relationship and where it was heading. Sigurdur Oli decided to capitalise on this before matters got out of hand. There had been ample time to ponder such questions over his drudgery in Benjamin's cellar.
'We're left,' Sigurdur Oli said. 'The two of us.'
He found a CD, put it in the player and selected a track that had haunted him ever since Bergthora started to pressurise him about commitment. Marianne Faithfull sang about Lucy Jordan, the housewife who, at the age of 37, dreamed of riding through Paris in a sports car with the cool wind in her hair.
'We've talked about it for long enough,' Sigurdur Oli said.
'What?' Bergthora said.
'Our trip.'
'You mean to France?'
'Yes.'
'Sigurdur…'
'Let's go to Paris and rent a sports car,' Sigurdur Oli said.
Erlendur was trapped in a swirling, blinding blizzard. The snow pounded him and lashed his face, the cold and the darkness enveloped him. He battled against the storm, but he made no headway, so he turned his back to the wind and huddled up while the snow piled up against him. He knew he would die and there was nothing he could do about it.
The telephone started to ring and kept on, penetrating the blizzard, until suddenly the weather cleared, the howling storm fell silent and he woke up at home in his chair. On his desk, the telephone rang with increasing intensity, showing him no mercy.
Stiffly he got to his feet and was poised to answer when the ringing stopped. He stood over the telephone, waiting for it to start again, but nothing happened. The telephone was too old to have a caller ID, so Erlendur had no idea who could be trying to contact him. Imagined it was a cold caller trying to sell him a vacuum cleaner with a toaster thrown in for good measure. He silently thanked the telesales person for bringing him in from the blizzard.
He went into the kitchen. It was eight in the evening. He tried to shut the bright spring evening out with the curtains, but it forced its way past them in places, dust-filled sunbeams that lit up the gloom in his flat. Spring and summer were not Erlendur's seasons. Too bright. Too frivolous. He wanted heavy, dark winters. Finding nothing edible in the kitchen, he sat down at the table with his chin resting in his hand.
He was still dazed from sleeping. After returning from a visit to Eva Lind at the hospital at around six, he sat down in the chair, fell asleep and dozed until eight. He thought about the blizzard from his dream and how he turned his back on it, waiting for death. He had often dreamed this dream, in different versions. Yet there was always the unrelenting, freezing blizzard that pierced him to the bone. He knew how the dream would have continued if his sleep had not been broken by the telephone.
The ringing began again and Erlendur wondered whether to ignore it. Eventually he lunged out of the chair, went into the sitting room and picked up the receiver.
'Yes, Erlendur?'
'Yes,' Erlendur said, clearing his throat. He recognised the voice at once.
'Jim from the British embassy here. Forgive me for calling you at home.'
'Did you ring just now?'
'Just now? No. Only this time. Well, I just spoke to Ed and I thought I needed to get in touch with you.'
'Really, is there anything new?'
'He's working on the case for you and I just wanted to keep you in the picture. He's phoned America, looked through his diary and talked to people, and he thinks he knows who blew the whistle on the theft from the depot.'
'Who was it?'
'He didn't say. Asked me to let you know and said he was expecting your call.'
'This evening?'
'Yes, no, or in the morning. Tomorrow morning might be better. He was off to sleep. Goes to bed early.'
'Was it an Icelander? Who grassed on them?'
'He'll tell you about it. Good night, and my apologies for disturbing you.'
Erlendur was still standing by the phone when it started ringing again. It was Skarphedinn. He was on the hill.
'We'll uncover the bones tomorrow,' Skarphedinn said without any preamble.
'About time too,' Erlendur said. 'Did you call me just now?'
'Yes, did you just get in?'
'Yes,' Erlendur lied. 'Have you found anything useful up there?'
'No, nothing, I just wanted to tell you that… good evening, evening, ehmm, let me help you, there you go… er, sorry, where were we?'
'You were telling me that you'll reach the bones tomorrow.'
'Yes, some time towards evening, I expect. We haven't uncovered any clues as to how the body ended up being buried. Maybe we'll find something under the bones.'
'See you tomorrow, then.'
'Goodbye.'
Erlendur put the phone down. He was not fully awake. He thought about Eva Lind and whether any of what he said got through to her. And he thought about Halldora and the hatred she still felt for him after all those years. And he contemplated for the millionth time what his life and their lives would have been like had he not decided to leave. He never came to any conclusion.
He stared at nothing in particular. An occasional ray of evening sun broke past the sitting-room curtains, slashing a bright wound into the gloom around him. He looked into the curtains. They were made of thick corduroy, hanging right down to the floor. Thick, green curtains to keep the brightness of spring at bay.
Good evening.
Evening.
Let me help you.
Erlendur peered into the green of the curtains.
Crooked.
Green.
'What was Skarphedinn…?' Erlendur leaped to his feet and snatched up the phone. Not remembering Skarphedinn's mobile number, he desperately called directory enquiries. Then he rang the archaeologist.
'Skarphedinn. Skarphedinn?' He blared down the phone.
'What? Is that you again?'
'Who did you say good evening to just then? Who were you helping?'
'Eh?'
'Who were you talking to?'
'What are you so worked up about?'
'Who's there with you?'
'You mean who I said hello to?'
'This isn't a videophone. I can't see you up there on the hill. I heard you say good evening to someone. Who's there with you?'
'Not with me. She went somewhere, wait, she's standing by the bush.'
'The bush? You mean the redcurrant bushes? Is she by the redcurrant bushes?'
'Yes.'
'What does she look like?'
