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Authors: Bernard Scudder
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the wind, and tried to protect her hair by wrapping a scarf over her head. It was hardly fashionable but earned her hair a respite from the gusts. After this ceremony, she hurried after Matthew.
When they finally reached the building he looked around for the first time since they had left the car. He stared at her with the scarf over her head. She could just imagine how elegant she looked, which he confirmed when he raised his eyebrows and said: "There's bound to be a bathroom you can pop into when we get inside."
Thóra yearned to fire a retort at him, but restrained herself. Instead she gave him a rigid smile and threw open the door. She strode over to a woman pushing an empty steel trolley and asked where they could find the doctor they were supposed to meet. After asking whether he was expecting them, the woman directed them toward an office at the end of one of the corridors. She added that they should wait outside because the doctor was not yet back from a morning meeting.
Thóra and Matthew sat down in two battered chairs by the window in the corridor.
"I didn't mean to offend you. Sorry," Matthew said without looking at her.
Not interested in discussing her appearance, Thóra ignored the remark. She took the scarf off her head with as much dignity as she could muster and put it in her lap. Then she reached over for a pile of tattered magazines that were lying on a little table between the chairs.
"Who could ever be interested in reading this stuff?" she muttered as she flicked through the pile.
"I don't think people come here looking for something to read," Matthew answered. He was sitting up straight, staring ahead.
Thóra put down the magazines, irritated. "No, maybe not." She looked at her watch and said impatiently, "Where is that man, anyway?"
"He'll be here," came the curt reply. "Actually I'm starting to have second thoughts about this meeting."
"What do you mean?" she asked peevishly.
"I think it may be too shocking for you," he replied, turning to face her. "You don't have any experience with this sort of thing and I'm not sure it's a good idea. It would be best if I just tell you what he says."
Thóra glared at him. "I've given birth to two children, with all the accompanying pain, blood, placentas, cervical plugs, and God knows what else. I'll survive." She folded her arms and turned away from him. "So what do you know about gross stuff?"
Matthew did not seem impressed by Thóra's experience. "Lots of things. But I'll spare you the details. Unlike you, I have no need to beat my chest."
Thóra rolled her eyes. This German wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs. She decided to find out what The Watchtower had to say rather than try to sustain a conversation with him. She was halfway through an article on the bad influence of television on world youth when a man in a white coat came hurrying along the corridor toward them. He was around sixty, starting to gray at the temples, and very tan. His eyes were flanked by wrinkles from smiling, which led Thóra to conclude that he had had a good time in the sun. He stopped in front of them and Thóra and Matthew both stood up.
"Hello," the man said, offering his hand. "Thráinn Hafsteinsson."
Thóra and Matthew returned his greeting and introduced themselves.
"Do come inside," the doctor said in English so that Matthew would understand, and opened the door to his office. "Excuse me for being late," he added in Icelandic, addressing his words to Thóra.
"That's fine," she replied. "The literature out there is so fascinating, I wouldn't have minded waiting a bit longer." She smiled at him.
The doctor looked at her in surprise. "Yes, quite." They entered the office where there was little in the way of empty space. The walls were covered with bookshelves filled with scientific works and journals of all sizes and descriptions,
When they finally reached the building he looked around for the first time since they had left the car. He stared at her with the scarf over her head. She could just imagine how elegant she looked, which he confirmed when he raised his eyebrows and said: "There's bound to be a bathroom you can pop into when we get inside."
Thóra yearned to fire a retort at him, but restrained herself. Instead she gave him a rigid smile and threw open the door. She strode over to a woman pushing an empty steel trolley and asked where they could find the doctor they were supposed to meet. After asking whether he was expecting them, the woman directed them toward an office at the end of one of the corridors. She added that they should wait outside because the doctor was not yet back from a morning meeting.
Thóra and Matthew sat down in two battered chairs by the window in the corridor.
"I didn't mean to offend you. Sorry," Matthew said without looking at her.
Not interested in discussing her appearance, Thóra ignored the remark. She took the scarf off her head with as much dignity as she could muster and put it in her lap. Then she reached over for a pile of tattered magazines that were lying on a little table between the chairs.
"Who could ever be interested in reading this stuff?" she muttered as she flicked through the pile.
"I don't think people come here looking for something to read," Matthew answered. He was sitting up straight, staring ahead.
Thóra put down the magazines, irritated. "No, maybe not." She looked at her watch and said impatiently, "Where is that man, anyway?"
"He'll be here," came the curt reply. "Actually I'm starting to have second thoughts about this meeting."
"What do you mean?" she asked peevishly.
"I think it may be too shocking for you," he replied, turning to face her. "You don't have any experience with this sort of thing and I'm not sure it's a good idea. It would be best if I just tell you what he says."
Thóra glared at him. "I've given birth to two children, with all the accompanying pain, blood, placentas, cervical plugs, and God knows what else. I'll survive." She folded her arms and turned away from him. "So what do you know about gross stuff?"
Matthew did not seem impressed by Thóra's experience. "Lots of things. But I'll spare you the details. Unlike you, I have no need to beat my chest."
Thóra rolled her eyes. This German wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs. She decided to find out what The Watchtower had to say rather than try to sustain a conversation with him. She was halfway through an article on the bad influence of television on world youth when a man in a white coat came hurrying along the corridor toward them. He was around sixty, starting to gray at the temples, and very tan. His eyes were flanked by wrinkles from smiling, which led Thóra to conclude that he had had a good time in the sun. He stopped in front of them and Thóra and Matthew both stood up.
"Hello," the man said, offering his hand. "Thráinn Hafsteinsson."
Thóra and Matthew returned his greeting and introduced themselves.
"Do come inside," the doctor said in English so that Matthew would understand, and opened the door to his office. "Excuse me for being late," he added in Icelandic, addressing his words to Thóra.
"That's fine," she replied. "The literature out there is so fascinating, I wouldn't have minded waiting a bit longer." She smiled at him.
The doctor looked at her in surprise. "Yes, quite." They entered the office where there was little in the way of empty space. The walls were covered with bookshelves filled with scientific works and journals of all sizes and descriptions,
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