Read Online Blackout by Ragnar Jónasson - Free Book Online

hoping to have a week in the south of Iceland to get over the pressure and the overwhelming fatigue I was experiencing.
    I was planning to work on the article about my grandmother, although I was maybe still searching for some sense of what my grandmother had written in her diary, something I had probably been seeking since the moment I watched my grandfather throw the book into the incinerator.
    Of course I had always known that the diary was lost. In my heart of hearts I knew I’d never really know what she had written in it, yet I still found the fact hard to accept.
    Maybe Grandad Lárus, who has been dead for many years now, was right. Ísbjörg had written the diary for herself, not for anyone else.
    I drove eastwards in the rust bucket, on my way to Landeyjar, forced by the car’s modest power to keep to the legal speed limit.
    Finally, as I rounded the last bend of the rutted gravel road, Grandad’s old house looked down at me. It stood on a low hill of its own, with a view over the green lowlands on the landward side, high mountains with snow still crowning their peaks in the far distance and, on the other side, the Westman Islands rising from the sea.
    It had been a boundless playground for a small girl visiting her grandparents. There was always a brisk breeze blowing here, bringing the smell of the sea with it, even at the height of summer – or that’s what my memories of the place told me.
    I drove up the track to the house, opened the gate with its crown ofbarbed wire, forgetting for a moment that a couple with two small children had bought the house after Grandad died.
    A newish pickup was parked in the yard and a cheerful dog greeted me as I got out of the car.
    In terms of my article, it was unlikely that I would gain anything from this visit, but something drew me to this place.
    A young woman came to the door and stood in silence as she looked me up and down, taking in the scar on my face and then averting her eyes, pretending not to have seen it. Her pause was long enough to remind me how much I stood out from the crowd.
    People have suggested exploring plastic surgery, but it’s not something I’ve ever contemplated. I suppose that deep inside I don’t mind being different, taking on the world and swimming against the tide.
    ‘Good morning,’ the young woman said, at last, and with a smile.
    ‘Hello. My name’s Ísrún.’
    ‘Yes. You’re on the news, aren’t you?’ the woman asked, and looked over my shoulder. ‘No cameraman?’
    ‘What…? No, I’m not exactly at work. I’m working on an article about my grandmother,’ I said. ‘She lived here.’
    ‘In this house?’
    ‘That’s right. Do you mind if I come in and look around?’
    She invited me in. I guess it was difficult to say no to someone who was a regular visitor on her TV screen.
    I did my best to enjoy the visit. Memories came flooding back, even though the new owners had made many changes to the place. There was a new kitchen, and the bathroom had been fixed up properly. And, to an extent, the house’s charm had evaporated; this was no longer the familiar ramshackle old house where Grandad had lived, but a smarter, more modern version of it.
    I’d have liked to have spent the night there, if that had been offered. But I had arranged to stay with a cousin who had a farm not far away. I could write my article there, relax and share memories of my family.
    I had also set up some time to meet with two women who had knownmy grandmother Ísbjörg well. They had said they’d be glad to recall their memories of the old days for me.
    I was buzzing with anticipation for any clues, any tiny details that could give me an insight into my grandmother’s life.

10
    Svavar Sindrason sat in the old wicker chair and gazed into the distance. This was where he sat most often to watch the weather. The view in itself was nothing special, consisting mostly of next door’s wall. But that didn’t matter. It was the sky he liked to