‘The cold… doesn’t come from there. The intense cold I’m feeling. It’s directly connected to you. There’s something dangerous about it. Something you should beware of.’
Silence.
‘Is everything all right?’ the medium asked.
‘What do you mean, “beware of”?’
‘I don’t know. But the cold doesn’t bode well. I do know that.’
‘Can you summon my mother?’
‘I don’t summon anyone. She’ll appear if it’s appropriate. I don’t summon anyone.’
‘It was so brief.’
‘I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about that.’
‘He seemed very angry. He said: “You don’t know what you’re doing.” ’
‘You’ll have to decide for yourself what you want to read into that.’
‘Can I come again?’
‘Of course. I hope I’ve been able to help you a little.’
‘You have, thank you. I thought perhaps…’
‘What?’
‘My mother died of cancer.’
‘I understand,’ Erlendur heard the medium say sympathetically. ‘You didn’t tell me. Is it long since she died?’
‘Nearly two years.’
‘And did she make contact here?’
‘No, but I can sense her. I can sense her presence.’
‘Has she given you any sign? Have you been to any other psychics?’
A lengthy silence followed the question.
‘I’m sorry,’ the medium said. ‘Of course, it’s none of my business.’
‘I’ve been waiting for her to come to me in a dream but she hasn’t.’
‘Why have you been waiting for that?’
‘We made…’
Pause.
‘Yes?’
‘We made a pact.’
‘Oh?’
‘She… we talked about… that she would give me a sign.’
‘What sort of sign?’
‘If there was life after death she was going to send me a message.’
‘What kind of message? A dream?’
‘No, not a dream. But I’ve been waiting to dream about her. I do so long to see her again. Our sign was a bit different.’
‘You mean… Has she done it, has she given you a sign?’
‘Yes, I think so – the other day.’
‘What was it?’ the medium asked, the eagerness evident in his voice. ‘What was the sign? What kind of sign was it supposed to be?’
There was another long pause.
‘She was Professor of French at the university. Her favourite author was Marcel Proust and his work In Search of Lost Time. She had all seven volumes in French in a beautifully bound edition. She said she would use Proust. The sign would mean yes, there was life after death.’
‘And what happened?’
‘You think I’m mad.’
‘No, I don’t. People have been preoccupied with the question of whether there is life after death since time immemorial. We’ve been trying to find the answer for thousands of years, both scientifically and on a personal level, like you and your mother. It’s not the first time I’ve heard a story like this. And I don’t judge people.’
His words were followed by a long hiatus. Erlendur sat in his chair, engrossed. There was something strangely alluring about the dead woman’s voice, something unwavering and steadfast that Erlendur believed in. He was extremely sceptical about what she was saying and convinced that seances like the one he was listening to were of no use to anyone, and yet he was certain that the woman genuinely believed what she was saying, that what she had experienced was real to her.
Finally the silence was broken.
‘At first, after my mother died, I sat in the living room staring at Proust’s works, not daring to take my eyes off them. Nothing happened. Day after day I sat watching the bookcase. I even slept in front of the books. Weeks passed. Months. The first thing I did when I woke up in the morning was to look at the bookcase. The last thing I did at night was to check if anything had happened. Gradually I realised that it was pointless and the more I thought about it and the longer I stared at the bookshelves, the better I understood why nothing was happening.’
‘And why was it? What did you realise?’
‘It dawned on me over time and I was immensely grateful. My mother was helping me through my grief. She’d given me something to focus on after her death. She knew I’d be devastated, whatever she said. She did her best to prepare me for her death; we used to have long conversations until she became too weak to talk. We discussed death and how she would send me a sign. But of course all that happened was that she made the process of grieving easier for me.’
Silence.
‘I don’t know if you understand me.’
‘I do. Go on.’
‘Then the other day, almost two years after my mother died – I’d given up watching the bookshelves and Proust by then – I woke up one morning and went to put on the coffee and fetch the paper, and when I was on my way back to the kitchen I happened to glance into the living room and…’
The machine hissed in the silence that followed the woman’s words.
‘What?’ the medium whispered.
‘It was lying open on the floor.’
‘What was?’
‘Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust. The first volume in the series.’
Another long silence.
‘Is that why you came to me?’
‘Do you believe in life after death?’
‘Yes,’ Erlendur heard the medium whisper. ‘I do. I believe in life after death.’
8
When Erlendur woke up early next morning, his thoughts returned to the old man who had visited him at the police station to ask for news of his son, almost thirty years after the boy’s disappearance. It was one of the first cases that Erlendur had kept open long after everyone else had given up on it. In those days the CID had been based in an industrial estate in Kopavogur. He remembered from around the same time two other missing-person cases that he had not investigated himself but whose details he was familiar with nonetheless. One, which had occurred several weeks earlier, involved a young man who had left a party in Keflavik with the intention of walking to the neighbouring village of Njardvik, but had never arrived there. It was winter and a blizzard had blown up during the night. Search parties were sent out and after three days one of his shoes was found down by the tide- line. He had been on the right track but seemed to have been driven by the storm towards the sea. Nothing had been heard of him since. He had been wearing a shirt, with no coat or sweater, when he left the party and had
