She almost spat out the last word.
Garún bristled. Bragi looked alarmed, but most likely only at the thought of losing the sale. Typical. She felt herself clench her fists and forced herself to loosen her hands. She’d not let them see they had got to her. Those fucking pigs.
Sigurður turned to the painting and took it in.
“Just think of having it in the dining room for the next dinner party.”
That painting could pay for five times the delýsíð she needed. It could pay her rent for the year. It could change her life, if it sold. If one person bought it, then another would surely follow. She knew how these circles were. Word got around quickly in Reykjavík, doubly so among the so-called elite. But she also knew where their money came from. She would change her life, but it wouldn’t be because of the patronage of people like Thorvaldsen. It would be on her own terms.
“It’s not for sale.” Garún’s voice turned cold. “It is not for the likes of you.”
Now it was her turn to spit out the last word with all the resentment she could muster.
Anna Margrét and Sigurður stared at her, incredulous.
“Excuse me?’ he said, puffing up like a rooster. She stared him down.
“You heard me. Not for sale. It’s as you said, you don’t get it. It’s not for people like you.”
She walked away.
Sigurður and Anna Margrét started yelling at Bragi, who started apologising profusely.
“This is a misunderstanding, surely, Garún – wait! Garún!’
He caught her in the alleyway outside the gallery.
“Garún, come on, don’t fuck this up for us! We’re close – come in and apologise and make this better! This is an insane amount of money, we talked about this! This will be a game changer.”
“I’m not apologising for shit, Bragi. That painting is not for sale to those assholes, got it? Now, I’ll be needing the commission for the pieces already sold.”
Bragi stared at her, stunned.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You show up here, fuck up all the hard work I’ve done on your behalf, and then demand to be cashed out? I’d be glad to, dear, but the payments are done on delivery of the artworks and this wreck of an exhibition is up for another month, remember?’
She gritted her teeth in frustration.
“What?’ he kept on. “Thought I’d do you a favour and pay you the advance? I’ll goddamn think about it – if you come in and put this right.”
Garún considered this.
“Right. I see how it is.”
She walked away without sparing him a look back. Fuck them and their money. Her integrity was not for sale.
* * *
She hadn’t been to Sæmundur’s place since last spring, when it had all blown up and she’d finally recognised how toxic their relationship was. Nice as it had been, at certain moments. But in retrospect that’s all it had been. Moments.
It was a raised single-storey house, with the basement floor being only half-sunken. The windows let in some light as a result, but it didn’t matter in Sæmundur’s case. He kept them curtained with heavy, dark drapes.
The rush from telling off the Thorvaldsens and Bragi had quickly worn off as she’d walked from downtown to the university campus. She’d probably burned whatever bridge she had built with Bragi and the gallery in the process. How the hell was she supposed to pay for the delýsíð she needed now? The works already sold at the exhibition would pay her rent for a few months when she eventually got paid, but then what? How was she going to make a living after that? Word didn’t only get around fast with the money-hungry upper class – it spread like wildfire in Reykjavík’s tiny art world. The gallery had already been hesitant to take in a blendingur. If she got on Bragi’s bad side she’d be frozen out for good. Fucking hell. Goddamn assholes. She felt anxious, but also relieved. It had felt so good to walk away with her head held high. If that came at a price, then so what? She’d gladly pay it. She’d fought for everything her entire life. She’d made something out of nothing before. And she would do it again, if she needed to.
That still left the current problem with the delýsíð.
Shit.
But one headache at a time. She needed to call in a favour. One she had hoped she wouldn’t have to ask for.
Garún knocked on Sæmundur’s door, a bit harder than she intended. The whole encounter had left her a bit strung up. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and lit up when little Mæja came trotting along the house, her tail straight up and curled at the end like a question mark, mewing in a complaining tone as Garún picked her up.
“Hi, love.” Garún pressed the cat against her, stroking her little head as she purred loudly like a broken engine. “I’ve missed you, baby.”
She still regretted leaving her with Sæmundur, but at the time it had felt like the right call. There were too many noxious fumes in her apartment from the paints and the delýsíð, a cat could easily die when exposed to them. Or so she thought. At least with Sæmundur she got to go outside.
Sæmundur opened the door wearing a dark look of anger that instantly faded into shock when he saw her. This is how they had last said goodbye to each other. Garún holding Mæja at his doorstep. Except then it had been in the pouring rain.
“So,” she said after a short silence. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
Fjögur
BEFORE
They’d woken up late, that day. Garún got up before Sæmundur and made breakfast. The cold spring sun lit up the small apartment through grimy windows. Mæja jumped off the kitchen cabinet, where she usually slept. The cat stretched and mewed. Already she was begging and
