pulled herself together and put on the coverall. But before leaving she had to steel herself. In her mind there was no doubt that Oddny Hildur was dead and it was strangely uncomfortable to wear a dead person’s clothing. To her knowledge she’d never done so before. She could not avoid the thought that perhaps the trouser legs would take control and lead her against her will to where the owner of the coverall lay. In her mind’s eye she saw her own frozen body alone and abandoned out on the ice, staring with glazed eyes up into the dim morning sky in the hope of seeing a falling star, so that she could wish to be found and brought home to rest in peace under Icelandic soil. ‘Is everything all right?’ Matthew stood with his hand on the doorknob.
‘Yes, I was just a bit distracted.’ What was wrong with her? As if clothing could bring her messages from the other side!
It wasn’t until she was on the way out that she felt the notebook in the coverall’s large side pocket.
Chapter 21
The breakfast was actually not bad, but Arnar had no appetite. He had never found breakfast to be the most important meal of the day as general wisdom often proclaimed, and it was enough of an effort to eat lunch and dinner. Yet he did know that he needed to eat. That way he could maybe overcome the feeling of gloom that was overwhelming him. He stirred his yoghurt distractedly.
Suddenly the sad woman from the night before was standing beside him, holding a tray and asking whether she could sit down. Arnar said yes and then watched in surprise as she chose the chair next to him, even though there were plenty of free seats at the table. At first the woman stared silently at her tray, but then she lifted her cup in her scrawny hands and sipped her coffee. She took it black. ‘I can’t stand toast.’ The woman took another sip. ‘It reminds me of a hotel. Hotels remind me of bars and bars remind me of alcohol.’
Arnar did not make the connection. However, he couldn’t recall ever having had breakfast at a hotel, so it could very well be that hotels only had toast on offer. ‘Is it your first time here?’
‘Yes.’ The woman put down her cup and started scratching the back of her hand. The skin there was red and irritated but her expression did not alter and she appeared to feel no pain.
‘I’ve been admitted several times.’ Arnar fished his spoon out of his yoghurt and put it on his tray. That was enough stirring. Although he still wasn’t hungry, the company cheered him up somewhat. He hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been recently. ‘You feel better little by little. About a minute longer each day.’ He smiled flatly at the woman, who was staring at her tray again. ‘There are 1,440 minutes in a day so you should be feeling good all day and all night in about four years.’
‘Fantastic.’ There was no joy in the woman’s voice, nor anger or bitterness. She was perfectly lifeless.
‘Do you have children?’ Arnar asked the question as gently and warmly as possible for fear of causing the woman even further distress.
‘No.’ The woman must have realized that her replies were too curt, because she hurriedly added: ‘You can’t drink during pregnancy. At least not in peace.’ She raked at the back of her hand even more fervently. ‘My husband didn’t think that was a good enough reason not to increase the world population.’ She added hurriedly: ‘My
‘Oh.’ Arnar hadn’t thought about that. Naturally, alcohol passed from the mother to the foetus during pregnancy. How many mothers were there in the cafeteria who had drunk while carrying children? The thought of being hungover inside another individual and unable to have even a painkiller was more than he could handle. ‘You can still have a child later if you want to. Unlike me.’
‘You can’t know that.’ The back of the woman’s hand had become swollen from her scratching. Suddenly she stopped and placed both hands in her lap. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m an engineer.’ Arnar decided not to try to make his job sound more impressive by saying that he worked overseas. Neither of them was in the mood to try to outdo the other, fortunately. In this place the conversation most often centred on who had been the hardest drinker, and the stories were, almost without exception, saturated with regret.
‘Bridges and stuff like that?’ The woman seemed happy to have something other than their troubles to talk about.
Arnar smiled for the first time in many days and immediately felt better. ‘Most engineers end their professional careers without having ever worked at anything connected with bridges. I work for a contractor.’
‘Wow. I’m unemployed. I’m actually a massage therapist but I was fired from my job at the gym after I fell asleep on top of a client on the table.’
‘I can’t believe they fired you for something so trivial!’ Arnar smiled at her, and this time she noticed and smiled back. Her smile was crooked and fleeting. It had been even longer since she had smiled.
‘I know, right?’ She took another sip of coffee, then put down her cup and stared into it. She seemed unsure of whether she wanted to allow herself to feel better by chatting with Arnar. He felt the same; it seemed much easier to plunge into depression. Then he could allow himself to do nothing, either mentally or physically, and right now that prospect was extremely attractive. It was much harder to rise up out of it. The woman glanced at him. ‘There was such a strong scent from the massage oils that they masked the smell of the booze. How about you? Did you drink at work?’
Arnar shook his head. ‘No. I’d been dry for around two years. However, I did used to when I worked for the Highways Agency in the old days, but no one ever noticed. I worked alone so much.’ The feeling of sadness returned. Was there anything more wretched than having been drunk in a crowded workplace without anyone noticing?
‘Great. I should have studied engineering. Then I could have postponed my detox by several years. Being fired was the last straw. It doesn’t mean much being an alcoholic if you can’t afford to drink. I’ve never been able to drink grain alcohol or anything like that, I find it disgusting, so this was an expensive hobby for me. Actually, hobby isn’t the right word; I became a professional.’
‘I can relate to that.’ If this were utopia and everything were free, Arnar could quite easily contemplate drinking his whole life. He had no sense of ambition and his job was not important to him. In fact he did not understand
‘I’d like to be a lighthouse keeper. They don’t need to do anything and no one ever visits them. I could use my wages to buy all the white wine I needed and sit up in the tower and count the circles the light made.’ The woman looked up at Arnar again. ‘And you?’
‘I don’t know. No matter what I do, I’ll always be me. If I could be someone else I’d be willing to try a few things.’
‘You’re stuck with yourself and I’m stuck with myself, just the way we are.’ She sighed quietly. She would perk up when she’d been here longer, thought Arnar, but it would take time. The first stretch of treatment was always the worst. That’s when you started waking up to how you had treated yourself and others. The woman sipped her coffee again. ‘You’re not so bad, so I don’t know why you’re complaining.’
Even though she had played down the compliment and said it in a monotone, Arnar felt himself cheer up at hearing these words from an unfamiliar woman. He wasn’t used to people speaking to him that way. Ever since primary school he’d been teased, insulted and bullied, and if people expressed their opinions of him while he was in earshot it still always hurt his feelings. ‘Thanks.’ The yoghurt did not look any more appetizing than before, but suddenly Arnar was able to face the idea of eating a piece of bread. ‘Thank you for sitting with me. Yesterday the walls of my room were my only companions.’
The woman turned in her chair and looked at Arnar. ‘Are you going to join this AA thing?’
‘I’m already a member of AA,’ replied Arnar. ‘Maybe not its most active member, but still.’
‘And have you gone through the twelve stages they were talking about in the lecture?’ They were forced to listen to so many lectures that they all ran together in Arnar’s mind. He didn’t quite know which lecture she meant but understood that she meant steps, not stages. The twelve fucking steps. ‘Yes, I have.’ He didn’t feel up to
