The next thing he says is that he sees I’ve shaved. He also hasn’t failed to notice that I’m wearing the same red shirt and to draw the conclusion that I need a change of clothes. He says he can pull a few strings and talk to the owner of a shop down the street.
“The problem is that it’s closed, but not really closed,” he says.
The owner has a small stockroom, but one has to phone him to place an order. How many shirts do I need and what else apart from shirts? A belt?
If, on the other hand, I need a suit, he knows a guy who knows a guy who knows another guy who can tailor a suit for me out of the best material. He himself has a tailor-made jacket. He’s in his shirt, but his jacket is on a hanger in the cloakroom by the entrance. He fetches the jacket and puts it on. As he’s about to show me the lining, a revolver flashes in the inside pocket. He swiftly removes the jacket again and hangs it on a hook.
“It would be nice to wake up without having killed anyone,” he says as he adjusts the jacket.
After a moment’s thought, he adds:
“You just don’t know if the truce will last.”
I notice a photograph of a young married couple hanging on the wall. It occurs to me that the reception must have been held here. I have no recollection of photographs being taken at my and Gudrún’s wedding. We got married in a cold spring rain and she wore a light blue dress. It was open in the back and I thought that was beautiful.
I ask him about the photograph:
“My daughter,” he says, turning away to dab the corners of his eyes with the dish towel.
Then the report continues. In addition to wandering alone on the beach, he says he has heard I’ve taken on additional odd jobs for the siblings at Hotel Silence.
I give nothing away about that.
“We heard that you have black tape,” he said, “and can fix anything.”
Judging by his expression, he’d like me to confirm this. He says that he’s heard I fix lamps.
“So you do electrical things as well, not only plumbing.”
“It’s temporary,” I say.
After the soup he wants me to have coffee and pulls up a chair to sit opposite me at the table. He wants me to work for him and brings up the swinging doors he had mentioned the other day.
“Wing doors,” he reiterates.
It transpires that he has been working on a new drawing, a new version of the doors.
“With measurements,” he says.
He pulls a sheet out of his breast pocket, carefully unfolds it, brushes the crumbs off the table with his hand, and places the drawing in front of me. I notice that he has drawn in shadowing and scribbled numbers.
He says he’s improved the quality of the drawing, as he puts it.
I ask if he’s managed to procure the tools. He says he’s working on it.
“What tools were they again?” he asks gingerly. It’s obvious from his expression that he hasn’t fully grasped the concept of this project, so I turn the sheet around and indicate that I want to draw. He doesn’t want me to ruin his original work, so he gets me a new sheet and I sketch out various tools with the ballpoint pen marked “Hotel Silence.”
He nods.
Then he wants to draw.
It takes some time, during which I glance around. No sign of the cat.
He pushes the paper over to me. He seems to have drawn a pipe wrench and a roll of sealing tape.
And he adds:
“There is a leaking sink.”
The next time I come he says he’s going to offer me meat in a sauce with prunes.
“Old recipe. Speciality. From my grandmother.”
He dabs the corners of his eyes with the dish towel again. Before I leave, I place some banknotes on the table and tell him I need two shirts.
The following evening the shirts lie folded on the table. One is chequered white like the dish towel, the kind bankers wear, and the other is pink.
The earth was formless and empty
The boy, on schedule to start the day’s work, sits at the table and opens the drawing pad. Over the following days he fills one sheet after another with similar drawings, sometimes in black, sometimes in red. The drawing pad follows him between rooms and he gets straight down to work, searches for a table to draw on, hoists himself onto a chair, and begins. The drawings are like the scribbles of a young child, bonfires and sparkling flames. In addition to darkness. In the evenings, he takes the pad up to his room with the black and red pencils. The other colours he leaves behind.
On the fourth day he draws a horizontal line right across the sheet, just above the middle. There can be no doubt that it’s a horizon. Then he draws a circle on the upper half of the page, strikingly perfect, as if the child had used a compass. The world is split in two and for that purpose two colours are used, red and black. The sun is ink black and the earth below is ablaze with fire.
Eventually the pencils are reduced to two little black and red stubs, and ultimately just a thread of colour, and finally they’re finished. There is no choice but to broaden the palette. The boy gets a new sheet, turns the box of pencils upside down, and contemplates the colours, looking for the right ones. He first chooses blue and draws a small circle. We stand side by side, the mother and the man with the drill, and observe the creation of a newborn
