The Day is Dark (26 page)

Neither said anything further. Everything carrying on as usual meant two things: futile drunkenness for them, and contempt from those villagers who hadn’t gone down the same road as they had. These people were in the majority, more likely to be out and about and therefore more likely to pass one by on the street. The others – the ones who were in the same boat as the two of them – seldom left their own houses and slept late waiting for the hangover to pass so they could get up and start the vicious circle once again.

‘I also told the woman about Usinna.’ Oqqapia didn’t know why she was mentioning this. If Naruana was sensitive about his father, the topic of his sister was even more explosive. He never brought it up unless he was so drunk that he was no longer in control of what he was saying, and then he would usually doze off soon after. Since Oqqapia generally did the same when she drank, she could rarely remember what had come out of his mouth. Yet she did recall some bits and pieces, so strange that she was sure she had misunderstood or misheard him. Some sort of gibberish about marks and ancestors that he couldn’t let down, an awful story about Usinna’s fate that there was no way of confirming. Whether she misremembered or not, it was certainly true that the day after saying those strange things about Usinna Naruana had started talking about children, whether they should maybe just have one kid. He never mentioned this topic otherwise – they weren’t a couple in any formal sense and neither of them was in any condition to raise children. At first she’d been flattered when he brought it up, but when she started to suspect that it was less than sincere she pressed him and discovered that his desire for a child wasn’t connected with her at all. He simply needed offspring and she was the one who happened to be at hand. His sister’s soul required that the family line be maintained and he alone was left to save it. Oqqapia had suffered a lot over the years but this hurt the most. The harsh reality that he couldn’t care less about her. His sister was topmost in his mind, despite the fact that she had died long ago.

‘What did you tell her?’ Naruana remained standing by the closed refrigerator, his back to her. The long, slender muscles of his sinewy shoulders clenched and his breathing slowed.

‘Nothing. I told her that Usinna had died there. Nothing else.’ She wished she hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps she’d wanted to hurt him for choosing his sister over her. It was an incredibly stupid decision on her part, and hardly likely to change anything. His sister would never have done or said anything so hurtful; she was too perfect for that. For a moment Oqqapia considered pointing out to him that his sister had been too perfect for life in the village and would have been the last person to stick to old traditions if she were alive. If their fates had been reversed, she would never have had children just to guarantee the return of his soul. Usinna had been a few years older than Oqqapia, but she still remembered her quite well. It was impossible to forget her. Her grace and spirit were apparent to everyone. She had gone abroad to study when Oqqapia was a teenager and returned several years later, even more elegant than before, but now the light that seemed to shine from her had an added cosmopolitan aura. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that Naruana wanted to ensure her reincarnation.

‘Don’t you dare even speak her name, you fucking whore.’ He turned around and punched the refrigerator door with all his might. A large dent appeared on the scratched surface.

Oqqapia said nothing. She hadn’t been raised by a violent, drunkard mother without learning a few lessons. In moments like these it was wiser not to stand up for oneself. But he had called her a whore. And this was her home, however unglamorous it was. She wasn’t such a whore that he couldn’t live under her roof or drink the beer that she’d procured by giving out some insignificant information. On that basis, he was the whore, not her. She had never sunk to the depths like him; she had simply been born at the bottom of society and stayed there. As a little girl she would never have dreamed that Naruana, the son of the great Igimaq, would later live under the same roof as her, the daughter of the village slut and a good-for-nothing father who had passed out drunk outside one winter and frozen to death. She did not remember him, but her mother and various others who enjoyed reproaching her for her heritage reminded her constantly of his wretchedness. The only thing that Oqqapia could thank him for was having been man enough to build the house in which she now lived. Like a large proportion of the houses in the village, the material for the house had been donated by the Danes, who provided it to those Greenlanders who wished to build themselves homes. If people did so, and lived in the house for several years, they then gained ownership of it; so Oqqapia had inherited something from her parents besides a bad taste in her mouth. The only people who had shown her any kindness were the teachers who came rather irregularly throughout her childhood to see to the education of the village children. She remembered them all fondly. The departure of each one had caused her the same feeling of disappointment as the broken promise of a good job with the mining company. They had never called her a whore or other bad names. They told her that she was just as good as anyone else, and some had even said that God and his Son loved her no less than the others, however wretched her parents.

She suddenly felt the same as she had in her youth, when in all innocence she had believed it when people said that she was no less worthy than others. It was true, after all, and this furious jackass in front of her was living proof of that. His family had good people in it on both sides, yet he had ended up the same as her. His mother was in the same position, and although his father didn’t drink his reputation had diminished in the eyes of the villagers. No, he was the one who had fallen furthest, not her. For her, the only way was up. Her heart swelled with indignant anger at everyone and everything, not least herself. Her life was in her own hands and she could still save herself from destruction. She still had all her own teeth, so she wasn’t as unfortunate as her mother had been at her age, and her body, despite everything, was still strong and fit. Maybe the God her teachers had spoken of had held a protective hand over her after all, made sure that she had the opportunity to change if only she could find the desire to do so. She stood up.

‘You’re one to talk. I never did anything to your sister.’ She decided to look for the book that the man from the alcoholism charity had left behind. Although she’d never been much of a reader, it couldn’t have been thrown away, any more than any of the other rubbish that had come into the house. She looked at him and saw a waste of space, just like her mother had been. ‘Pity the same can’t be said about you.’ She spat out the words that she knew would cut him to the bone. ‘When you’re half asleep and rambling on about it, you’re always whining that it was you who treated Usinna worst of all in the end.’

He screamed like an animal and jumped towards her. Just before his fist struck her face she recalled her deceased mother and thought how little she missed her.

Thóra finished washing her face with the lukewarm water that Matthew had apportioned to her. In the morning he had gone and filled a large pot with snow, heated it and split the water between them. In the absence of a shower this was better than nothing, and after Thóra had dried herself she felt much better. She dressed in the finest outfit she could find in her suitcase, a felt tunic top and skirt that she could wear over leggings, which she hoped would serve as thermal underwear. She was relieved when she saw that she’d been right about Matthew’s baggage. He had run out of casual outfits and had started wearing formal shirts beneath a fleece jacket with suit trousers. They stuck out like a sore thumb in comparison with the others, but that was just too bad; they all had other things to think about at the moment besides Thóra and Matthew’s fashion blunders. It wouldn’t be as noticeable if she could find a smaller coverall to put on over her outfit. They were going to go straight to the village in the hope of making a phone call.

Everyone was sitting in the cafeteria but Bella, who, like Thóra, was taking plenty of time over her makeshift bath. Friðrikka was also absent, but that came as no surprise to Thóra, since she was standing firm and refusing to set foot in the accommodation block. She was adamant about remaining behind in the office building when Thóra and Bella came over. No one looked very enthusiastic about their breakfast, which had become increasingly sad with each day that passed. It had taken the edge off their appetites knowing that there was a body in the kitchen freezer, so close to the dining hall. Thóra took a seat but made do with a cup of coffee and a dry biscuit. Her preferred option would have been to starve herself until they left, but that was inadvisable in the light of how cold it was outside. The doctor had been strictly supervising their food intake, and since it was thanks to him that they hadn’t put anything in their mouths that predated their arrival at the camp, Thóra felt it best to follow his advice. If he hadn’t been so insistent, they would all have eaten something from the freezer.

‘When are we leaving?’ Thóra broke her biscuit in half and dipped it into her cup.

‘As soon as we can.’ Matthew had finished eating and was itching to get going. ‘Just the two of us. We thought it best that as many people as possible remain here, to make sure no one goes into the freezer. They’ll keep watch on each other, so to speak.’

Thóra smiled to herself. It was more likely that those who remained behind would make a pact to all look in the freezer together – apart from Friðrikka, of course. Thóra was sure that she herself would succumb to the temptation. What was horrifying could also be extremely fascinating. The other possibility was that they all go down to the village, but that wouldn’t work. The more of them that went, the smaller the likelihood of them being allowed to use the phone. This must not look like an invasion of the village. She stuck the final piece of biscuit in her mouth and mumbled: ‘I’m ready.’

At the coat rack she tried to find the smallest coverall available. Behind one huge one she found another that fitted her quite well, and she put it on. When she held it up in front of her to stick her feet into the trouser legs she noticed what was written on the collar:
Oddný H
. Thóra hesitated, but common sense quickly won out. What difference would it make if she wore Oddný Hildur’s clothes? It could hardly matter. She pulled herself together and put on the coverall. But before leaving she had to steel herself. In her mind there was no doubt that Oddný 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

22 March 2008

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
ex
-husband.’

‘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.’