Snowblind (9 page)

Ari Thór woke with a start, drenched with sweat and wondering where he was. Feeling like a prisoner in his own body, he struggled for breath. He sat up and peered around him, snatching short, sharp breaths and trying to drag them deep into his lungs. He glanced wildly around, sure that the walls were closing in on him; he longed to shout out loud, but knew that would be pointless. It was the same crushing feeling that had overwhelmed him at the police station on Christmas Eve. Pulling himself to his feet, he stared out of the window into the ink-black night. A glance at his watch, glowing faintly in the darkness, told him it was the middle of the night, and he could see that it had started to snow. He was in in his bedroom in Siglufjördur, he remembered. Reaching for the window, he opened it and breathed in a deep lungful of fresh air, clean and ice cold, but he continued to shake, his thoughts tumbling around his head. He had to lose this feeling of being overpowered, out of control. He looked over to his bed, the sheets tangled and damp. It was unlikely he was going to get any more sleep. Maybe he needed to get out – out of the house and into the night. As soon as the thought entered his head, he dismissed it. That wouldn’t be enough. No peace of mind would be found standing in the street with his eyes on the heavens, the snow filling his mind – knowing that every flake that fell increased the likelihood of his being snowbound in this strange place. A prisoner.

The floorboards downstairs creaked.

Suddenly he understood why he had woken so abruptly.

There was someone in the house.

He wasn’t alone.

His heart pumped a deafening beat. His fear confused him; he knew he had to think fast, had to stop thinking about the snow that had been stifling him a moment before. But he was unable to move.

He shook his head, and crept as silently as he could into the passage to the stairs, still aware of movement down below, faint sounds that indicated that whoever was there was not keen to attract attention.

Now more alert, Ari Thór swore silently.

Why the hell hadn’t he locked the door?

I shouldn’t have listened to Tómas.

He made his way down the stairs in as few steps as he could manage, aware that loose boards in some of them would creak, but unable to remember which ones they were.

He hesitated before going round the corner steps and down into the hallway. He felt more secure a little higher up. He had the advantage. He knew that the intruder was there – he could take him by surprise. But equally, he wanted to stay on the bend, remaining stock still. Trying to clear the haze from his mind.

In spite of all his training, he was still frightened.

He had no idea who he might meet, one person or several? A drunk looking for a night’s shelter, a housebreaker, or someone who meant to do him harm?

He shivered at the thought of someone creeping about the house in the darkness.

Hell!

The lights were all off; only the glimmer from a street light outside, shining through the little window at the end of the passage, allowed him to see anything at all. The living-room door was shut, and as he knew the curtains were drawn, it had to be completely dark in there. The hallway led to the living room and from there Ari Thór could reach the kitchen, beyond which was a small office. The unwelcome guest might be in any of those rooms. Time to do or die.

He opened the living-room door as quietly as he could manage. As old as the house, the door was solid, its surface painted white and decorated with fretwork patterns. It must have been years since its hinges had last seen a drop of oil.

He looked into the blackness and listened intently, but not a sound was to be heard. He waited, his hand on the doorknob, patient, waiting and alert to any changes in the silence.

The rustling resumed, now clearly emanating from the next room. The door between the kitchen and the living room was closed, but he had no doubt there was someone there. He kept the living room door open behind him to make use of the faint light from the hallway and took a few cautious steps into the room, tiptoeing to avoid alerting his visitor.

He realised his mistake as soon as he was halfway across the room. The ancient floorboards were wildly uneven, the floor – in fact, the entire, century-old house – set on an angle. The living-room door started slowly to close, reducing what little light Ari Thór had to a faint glow. Without a doorstop to hold it in place, it would gather momentum as it swung back in its quest for equilibrium. He turned around, quickly but silently, trying vainly to reach the handle.

The crash as the door finally banged shut wasn’t all that loud, but in the night-time silence it was like the banging of a drum.

Hell.

He stood motionless in the middle of the room, hoping that the noise hadn’t carried, but knowing that it had. The intruder reacted instantly, making no attempt to keep quiet now, and Ari Thór guessed that he would bolt for the front door, to exit by the most direct route.

I’ll catch him, I have to catch him.

He heard the front door close with a bang just as he set off from the now pitch-dark living room. He tripped in the darkness, feeling searing pain jolt through his shoulder as he fell hard against the living room table, and was sure that before he passed out he heard an anguished cry somewhere outside.

Ugla sat at the piano and played an old tune, a light-hearted piece that dated back to the middle of the last century – a song she knew by heart and which Hrólfur had delighted in hearing. She played almost unconsciously as she waited for Ari Thór, who was late for his piano lesson.

It was still hard to believe that Hrólfur was dead. He had seemed so fit and healthy for his age … Damn it! Why couldn’t he have been more careful on the stairs? They could have carried on meeting for coffee, continued deepening their friendship. Suddenly she stopped playing, and remembered the argument between Hrólfur and Úlfur at the theatre. Had it ended badly? Could Hrólfur have been pushed?

She had to admit that Hrólfur had been quite drunk that evening. She had always tried to avoid him when he had been drinking. Alcohol brought out his darker side. Hrólfur had quickly realised that she preferred not to meet him under those circumstances, never inviting her for coffee unless he was completely sober. Although he could be abrasive, inside he was as gentle as a lamb and Ugla would certainly miss him. Her thoughts suddenly turned to herself. Hrólfur had always been her guardian angel at the Dramatic Society and she was fully aware of that. So what now? Would things change? They could hardly take her leading part away now, but next time? Maybe the lead would go to Anna in the future?

Úlfur had sent everyone an email to confirm that the opening night would be postponed by two weeks. It had been a short, clear
message that didn’t waste any words or, for that matter, express any emotion about the situation.

Of course there was nothing to be done but wait for the new opening night. Ugla would have preferred to get on with it. She had prepared for the performance as if it were an exam all of that week, and she didn’t know if she could bear to continue for another fortnight.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. She had been looking forward to Ari Thór’s visit, and not just because he was her only student. She enjoyed his company and there was a calming air about him. She couldn’t deny that he was a handsome man, elegant, even, but there was something else that attracted her to him, something invisible and intangible. Somehow he managed to smile with his eyes as well as his mouth. Was she attracted to him? The out-of-town girl with a crush on the out-of-town boy? No, hardly … but … She hadn’t allowed her thoughts to wander in that direction before. She didn’t even know if he already had a girlfriend down south. They had never talked about things like that, and he had never mentioned it. There was, at least, no ring on his finger. She had to admit that she had relished the strength and warmth of his embrace outside the theatre after hearing about Hrólfur’s death.

A knock on the door brought her back to reality with a start. Half an hour late, but the fact that he was here brought a smile to her face. However, as she opened the door, her anticipation and welcoming smile were soon replaced by shock.

‘Look at you! What happened?’

There was a large plaster on his forehead and an unmistakeable bruise showing under another plaster over his left eyebrow.

Ari Thór gave her a smile. ‘I wish I could say that this is the result of tackling a criminal,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

‘You’re late, but come in.’ she said warmly, smiling back at him.

‘So what happened to you?’ she asked when they were sitting down, touching his injured forehead gently. She was pleased to find he didn’t flinch.

‘I had a fall.’

She could sense there was more to it, so she sat quietly and waited.

‘Someone broke in the night before last. Well, if you can call it breaking in when the doors aren’t locked.’

‘People don’t lock their doors around here. It’s the same in Patreksfjördur. Did you catch him?’

‘No,’ Ari Thór said, pointing at the plaster. ‘I took a tumble in the dark and landed on the coffee table, which made me a bit giddy. It bled like nobody’s business, so I had to get something to stop the bleeding and couldn’t chase him, the bastard. I thought burglaries didn’t happen here.’

‘Perhaps it was someone from out of town?’ she suggested.

‘Maybe.’

‘Stitches?’

‘No. I closed it up with plasters and it looks like it’ll be all right.’

‘Are you sure it’s nothing serious?’

‘I hope not. A sore head, but I also hit my shoulder and that’s more painful.’

‘Any idea who it was?’

‘I haven’t a clue. I told Tómas and to tell the truth he didn’t seem to take it all that seriously. He just said that the town has a couple of heavy drinkers who sometimes find themselves in the wrong house after a few too many. He told me not to worry about it and said I should just be grateful that whoever it was didn’t decide to crawl into bed with me thinking he was tucking himself in with his wife!’

‘But what does Tómas think …?’ she started, then paused before continuing. ‘What does he think about Hrólfur?’

‘Hrólfur?’

‘Yes. Was it an accident?’

He hesitated before answering and she realised that it would be awkward for him to talk about a case still being investigated.

He replied with a question. ‘It looks like it, don’t you think?’

‘I guess. But what do
you
think?’

‘Tómas is sure. Completely sure. He wants to make as little of this
as he can. He finds the whole thing very uncomfortable, a famous writer falls down the stairs, drunk …’

‘But what do
you
think?’ she repeated.

Ari Thór put his hand to his head, as if trying to assuage his headache. ‘I haven’t really thought about it.’

‘I wondered if it had anything to do with that argument,’ she said.

‘Argument?’

‘Hrólfur and Úlfur.’

‘Really? I didn’t know about that,’ Ari Thór said. ‘What were they arguing about?’

‘Pretty much everything and nothing. It seemed to get worse as the afternoon went on. They were up in the gallery and were both in foul tempers. Hrólfur interfered more than usual and you could tell he had been drinking. It was really getting on Úlfur’s nerves. In the end it turned into a shouting match. Úlfur said something like …’ She paused before continuing. ‘
You’ll shut up when you’re dead.
That made everyone go quiet and Úlfur called a break in the rehearsal a few minutes later – dinner break – and then … well, Hrólfur was dead when we came back.’

‘You think that …?’

The seriousness of what she had told him was suddenly clear to her.

‘No, of course not. Unless, well, unless it was unintentional, by accident,’ she said and was silent for a moment. ‘Úlfur was the last one to leave, I think. There was nobody in the auditorium or the lobby when Karl and I left. We walked together because he lives quite close by, in Thormódsgata. I remember that Anna had already gone and so had Pálmi, but Úlfur was still up there in the gallery with Hrólfur. He must have left right after me.’

‘Yes,’ said Ari Thór quietly, not quite meeting Ugla’s eyes. ‘He must have.’

It wasn’t yet seven o’clock on Monday morning and a deep layer of snow had fallen overnight on Town Hall Square.

Deep in thought, Úlfur Steinsson walked into the square, just as Pálmi entered from the other side, walking towards him. Pálmi was the taller of the two, thin, slightly stooped and tired, as if he bore a heavy burden on his shoulders.

Úlfur looked up before Pálmi. They nodded to each other, slowly, almost simultaneously and silently, as if a stray word at that time of the morning could wake the whole town from its slumbers. Úlfur thought of stopping, but wasn’t really in the mood for a chat. Thankfully Pálmi didn’t show any sign of stopping either, so they both went their separate ways.

He remembered Pálmi from way back, as a young man. Now Pálmi was in his seventies, and looking like the old man he was.

A year to go
, Úlfur thought.
A year until I turn seventy too.
He had to accept that his age was starting to make itself felt. He could see it every time he looked in the mirror and felt it in the heart of his being, every day. Even the slightest exertion now left him short of breath.

The air was perfectly still and there was no snow falling. Úlfur wore his usual black felt hat to cover his bald head. On the rare occasions that he ventured out when it was snowing hard, he’d leave the felt hat at home and wear a pair of thick ear muffs and a wool hat instead.

How on earth had he ended up back here, in Siglufjördur?

He knew the answer better than anyone. He knew that the responsibility for the decision to move home to Siglufjördur when he had retired was his, and his alone. But on the days when he regretted the decision most bitterly, he preferred to place the blame on his former wife.

Sonja was twelve years younger than he was, and a remarkably beautiful woman. In fact, she was so attractive that he had never understood what she saw in him, a forty-year-old man, working at the Icelandic Embassy in Sweden. By the time they’d met, he had been there for four years and had made a reputation for himself. He spent his weekends in nightclubs and was known for being a generous host – the exciting diplomat from Iceland with a real future ahead of him.

She had been only twenty-eight, and charmed him from the moment they met. From Stockholm, she had recently ended a long relationship with the father of her six-year-old son, with whom she shared custody. She wasn’t overly maternal, and put off giving Úlfur an answer on whether or not they should have a child of their own.

The strange Icelander who had taken so long to get to grips properly with Swedish, he had never been able to step into the role of father to her son, never been able to forge a proper relationship with the boy. Sometimes he wondered if he should have been more persuasive about their having children, but he had always been so busy with his career, gradually getting closer to the top.

And now he was alone, walking around the deserted streets of Siglufjördur and taking deep, reassuring breaths of the fresh, morning air. It had snowed heavily in the town, but it was a breathtaking sight all the same. He knew how dangerous the snow could be in these northerly parts; the blinding snowstorms, people sometimes having to dig themselves out of their houses after heavy snowfall, the threat of avalanches. Just now, though, everything was quiet. The calm before the storm, perhaps?

He lived on Sudurgata, a few minutes’ walk from the theatre, in what had been his parents’ house. His father was long dead, lost at twenty-six when Úlfur was only four years old. He had hazy
recollections of his father and his memories were linked to the sea, the placid sea of a calm day. But the sea had been far from calm on the day of his father’s last voyage. The boat was a big, well-founded vessel that had weathered plenty of storms. Úlfur’s father and several of his old schoolmates had taken turns manning it for years, sailing close to the wind more than a few times, but always making it home. Until that winter’s day and what people described as the worst of that winter’s weather. Caught in the fierce conditions, the boat had finally limped into port, bruised and battered by the all-out fury of a winter north-easterly storm and two crew members short. The whole town mourned the men who hadn’t made it back, and a boy of four wept for his father.

The idea of following in his father’s footsteps had never even crossed Úlfur’s mind. He avoided travelling by boat as much as possible, and was even repelled by working in anything to do with fish or fishing. Siglufjördur was no place for a young man who could not appreciate the silver of the sea, as they called the herring. He moved to Akureyri, the nearest large town, as soon as he was able, finished college and then went on to Reykjavík. But the fjord that had been home maintained a strong attraction, in spite of the sorrow that was tightly bound to it – and the presence of the dock that was the last piece of dry land his father had stood on.

Úlfur’s mother had lived in Siglufjördur to her dying day, alone in the big house after Úlfur had left home; he often felt guilty about leaving her there. Sitting in the darkness, with only the light of his lamp over his college textbooks, there were times that his thoughts drifted towards his mother, alone by that mighty fjord where the forces of nature could be so cruel. She never complained, and she encouraged him to move on, to find his own way and make the most of his talents.

Talents? Had his talents been used to their fullest extent? He brooded over this during his long daily walks around the town – when he raked over the past. He was at an age at which it would be proper for him to sit down and write some kind of memoir, but who
would have the slightest interest in reading about his life? It didn’t occur to him to put words down on a page. Instead he used his long walks to reminisce and write his memoirs in his mind.

He hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of being idle since moving north and had written several plays that he was pleased with. He found the theatre stimulating. He had directed several productions and was now the Dramatic Society’s regular director, a coup even if it was an amateur theatre group – and an unpaid job. He had always been fascinated by the arts, although he knew deep inside what he found so enchanting about this position: he was in charge, gave instructions, was treated with respect. He had been in positions of authority for so many years in the diplomatic service that it had been a shock to lose it all so suddenly – to become an ordinary pensioner living in a small town in Iceland.

The Dramatic Society had given him a new platform, but his ambitions went further than that.

He had sat over his latest play, night after night, polishing and refining it. He dreamed of seeing it in production the following year, when it could mark his seventieth birthday, with himself as both playwright and director. Until now the main obstacle had been Hrólfur. Úlfur had shown Hrólfur a draft, feeling rather proud, but Hrólfur had dismissed it after reading only the first couple of pages.

‘It’s very poor, Úlfur,’ he had said. ‘You may have been a good diplomat, but you’ll never be a writer. Stick to what you’re good at.’

That had been that, and now they were staging Pálmi’s play instead.

But everything had changed, now that Hrólfur had died.

And who was Hrólfur to judge him? Yes, he had written a good book. A very good one, Úlfur had to admit. But Hrólfur had certainly been resting on his laurels for decades. He hadn’t written for years, but he made the most of his past fame, continuing to sell publication rights around the world and travelling widely on the lecture circuit. He had lived in Reykjavík after the war, but had moved to Siglufjördur as his star began to shine less brightly. To all intents and
purposes, Hrólfur had retired early, which was probably a shrewd move on his part. Moving back to his home town, where he was well respected, where everyone knew him and where everyone had read his book, allowed him to reclaim some glory. He had continued to lecture and to attend literary festivals, sometimes in return for generous fees. There was no denying that the old man had been smart with his career, and he had probably been able to accumulate a small fortune.

Úlfur had to admit that in some ways he would miss the old man. Hrólfur had sometimes invited him and Pálmi over to his house for a drink, where the three of them had been able to chat into the night, like equals, all quarrels forgotten. Hrólfur had been quite a character, a cosmopolitan figure. There had been many memorable evenings when they had sat in the half dark, sipping red wine and discussing arts, culture or current affairs, listening to opera. Sometimes there had just been silence, apart from the music in the background. All three of them would fall silent when Jussi Björling sang
Una furtiva lagrima
, and it was agreed that talking over such artistry was little short of heresy. Normally they played recordings of old masters on vinyl records, and it was a surprise when Hrólfur acquired a CD player – he and technology were never the best of friends. Most of the time it sat, gathering dust, in the corner, its provenance a mystery. Úlfur had heard that it was the mysterious girl from Patreksfjördur, Ugla, who had convinced Hrólfur to buy the player and a handful of CDs. He had followed her advice, and Úlfur couldn’t help but wonder what spell Ugla had cast over the old man. Hrólfur had become inordinately fond of this girl who had once rented his basement flat, and who he continued to meet over coffee. The whole of Siglufjördur knew the story, and watched the unlikely pairing with interest.

Úlfur was certain that Hrólfur would never agree to his writing for the Dramatic Society. Hrólfur had been kinder to Pálmi, the old teacher. In fact, despite Pálmi’s raw and less-than-promising first efforts, Hrólfur had continued to support him, giving him one
opportunity after another. It had paid off. His work had improved – even Úlfur had to admit that. There was no doubt that the damned teacher had talent.

But that wasn’t a problem any longer.

Úlfur had already decided that he would quietly offer to fund the performance of his play himself – surely that would be enough to convince the Dramatic Society to stage it to coincide with his seventieth year. He wasn’t short of cash; his long diplomatic service saw to that. Despite his enjoyment of high living, he had invested shrewdly. The divorce had cost him dear, but there was plenty left of his savings.

The
divorce. His suspicions that something was wrong had become too strong to ignore around the time of Sonja’s fiftieth birthday. The age difference had never been a problem, until then. She was fifty and he was in his sixties, now an attaché at the Oslo embassy, a respected and highly placed diplomat, but with a few extra pounds around his middle and his hair long gone. Sonja had retained her youthful looks remarkably well. He knew what was coming the moment she mentioned to him – her voice sweet and unrepentant – that there was something they needed to discuss. She had met a younger man. In fact, quite a lot younger, a forty-five-year-old engineer from Oslo.

Although he had half-expected the news, it still came as a shock to hear the finality in her words. He didn’t sleep for days, took sick leave for the first time in years, and lay at home in the dark trying to work out what had gone wrong.

He had seen some twenty good years with her, but had wanted more. He had known in his bones that it wouldn’t last, but as the years went by, he held on to the slender hope that it would.

Eventually they divorced, and Sonja moved in with her Norwegian engineer. Úlfur stayed on his own, suddenly an old man, carrying out his duties through force of habit rather than embracing new opportunities, waiting quietly for retirement to roll around.

Two years later, his mother passed away in Siglufjördur. She had lived in the same big, old house where she’d raised her family far into
her old age. Úlfur took three weeks leave and flew home to Iceland to arrange the funeral. He had been an only child, the last of his family. There was little chance that he would produce any heirs now.

The funeral had taken place in the Siglufjördur church on a balmy summer’s day. His mother had been well liked and had many friends. Úlfur felt deep sadness at her passing, but he knew in his heart that she had waited patiently for over sixty years to meet his father on the other side. The ceremony was deeply moving. His mother’s close friend from the church had sung, and Hrólfur had offered to read a poem, a beautiful poem from his famous book,
North of the Hills.

An old schoolfriend ran a part-time estate agency business and offered to advertise the house for sale. ‘An elegant building in the best part of town’ the draft of the advert had read. ‘Would make a magnificent summer residence.’

Úlfur asked for a little time to think it over and decided to stay in Siglufjördur for the remainder of his leave. Many years had passed since he had spent such a long time in his home town. He had tried to make the trip to see his mother once a year, normally at Christmas, Easter or during the summer, and generally with Sonja. Some years his mother had visited them, but stopped accepting invitations to travel to see them when her health began to fail.

He spent a couple of strange weeks in the old town. His feelings of loss were magnified while he stayed in the house, missing his mother and mourning his father, and feeling that he needed to stay there. There was something about this small town that had a strong attraction for him: the sea, the towering mountains, the old houses. He realised he had even missed the snow.

At least once every day he walked down to the dock and gazed out over the fjord, thinking of the father the sea had snatched away from him.

It was something of a revelation to realise that he had made his peace with the fjord and the sea.

It was time to come home.