THREE BREASTS
I follow Fifi down to the basement, past the storage room, and through a door which he opens and closes with a key.
The mural that appears before us is huge, bigger than I expected, and divided into two. On one side is the original wall, the antiquity the town prides itself on, and which was discovered when it was dug up during the construction of the hotel. On the other side, there is a kind of continuation of the wall, with more recent tiling that was probably added when the hotel was built. The original wall is separated from the baths by a glass wall, but the hotel’s spa baths are dry, no water.
“The baths were first built six hundred years ago,” the young man explains.
We stand side by side, two men, taking in this manless world, masses of flesh flash before us, chubby female forms, small breasts like half-lemons, thin waists, broad hips. How many bodies did I get to know before I met Gudrún? K makes two appearances in the diary, there was B and M and twice E, is it the same E? Then there’s J and P and S, who appear three times. If I compare these bodies to those of the women I have known intimately—I dig deep—I come to the conclusion that I don’t remember them as a whole; I remember segments of bodies, one breast, I might remember a wrist, I remember a white neck, skin texture, or whether a lamp was on, maybe there was an open wardrobe door through which I could see a dress on a hanger—but I don’t remember a complete body.
In the background one can see the same turquoise colour as the tiles in the bedroom, not unlike the hue of the icebergs on the Jökulsárlón lagoon back home by the pitchblack sand.
“The stones catch the light,” Fifi explains. “That’s why it looks like the light is glowing from inside the wall.”
What interests me the most, though, is the fact that some sections of the mural seem to have been cut out of the wall here and there and lie in scattered pieces around the floor.
He explains that antiquities and relics of cultural value were systematically destroyed in the war, which was why they had been hidden or moved. The plan had been to transfer the mural to save it, which is why they had started to rip down parts of it.
In one spot a woman is missing a breast, in another an arm, a crotch in another, a missing heel, a missing wrist, a missing ear, and missing buttocks.
“I’ve been trying to sort through the fragments and to work out what goes where and mark them. I think I’ve found all the pieces except for three breasts. They should be here somewhere,” he says, looking around.
I notice he has placed handwritten labels on some of the fragments.
“People don’t know how to work properly,” he says apologetically, adding that they’re expecting a group of archaeologists to evaluate the damage to the wall. Within a few weeks. Hopefully.
The new wall is altogether different and, as far as I can make out, seems to have been made with ordinary bathroom tiles. The subject matter is the same—naked female bodies—but the execution and anatomy are completely different; big breasts, small childlike hips, and long skinny legs like insects.
“Barbie,” Fifi comments with a smile, and I nod.
It’s the tile fragments the young man has been working on. There is a bowl of plaster on the floor and beside it a trowel and other tools. Ceramic fragments lie in bundles on the floor.
“I’m trying to fix it,” he says, pointing at the cracks where the tiling has crumbled. “We’re planning to get the baths working again by next year. If the truce holds.”
He doesn’t seem to have a lot of confidence in his repairs and it’s obvious that he doesn’t know how to handle a trowel. I’ve tiled enough bathrooms to wonder whether he is using the right joint filling.
I knock on the wall, the cracks don’t seem to be deep. But more of the tiling needs to come off and the underlying layer needs to be cleaned before new ones go up.
“I consulted a curator and he said that the repairs should be visible,” he says hesitantly. “He was a friend of Dad’s.”
He suddenly falls silent and turns away.
His hands are shaking.
Then he picks up the thread again.
“Otherwise it’s in pretty good condition, compared to other things in this country.”
His sister had said the same thing.
FIFI
On the way back upstairs, I stop by the storage room to look for a drawing pad. Fifi says he has started to sort through the stuff and has obviously shifted some boxes around, as well as moving the postcard stand to the lobby. But it’s impossible to make out what exactly has been sorted. We help each other move some things and I find a drawing pad and also dig up some coloured pencils and markers.
He says he’s found another box full of unclaimed property and points at an open one on the floor.
“It’s incredible what some people take on their holidays and don’t miss when they leave.” He gropes through the box.
“Here’s a wedding certificate, silver sugar tongs, a passport, a real estate contract, a wedding ring—just one—inscribed with the initials LL.”
He hands me the ring to examine and says he searched for the matching one, but hasn’t found it.
“So they weren’t together when they removed them,” he adds.
Then he remembers something he has been meaning to mention to me.
“There might be some tools in the basement. What did you say you needed?”
I list off several tools and tell him what they’re used for. I end by mentioning a carpenter’s plane.
He wrinkles his forehead as if trying to solve a riddle.
“No, I don’t think there’s anything that fits that description,” he answers. “Maybe it would be best if you just take a look yourself,” he adds.
I look around.
Could that be a
