Read Online Season of the Witch by Árni Thórarinsson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Árni Thórarinsson
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company?”
“I didn’t say that,” she says. I detect intelligence and a strong will behind her reserved exterior.
“OK,” I say, starting the tape recorder. “Let’s begin at the beginning.”
The story began when she was walking down by the docks and saw some boys of about ten chasing a little dog. Björg recounts the whole story, articulately and complete with self-deprecating humor. While Jóa is taking photos I wander around the living room. Against one wall is an old piano. Among the cacti on top of it stand several framed photographs of Björg with an attractive woman, presumably her mother, at various ages: she is about the same height as Björg but with fairer skin and hair—worn up in all the pictures—but the resemblance is striking. Mother and daughter wear beaming smiles in every single photo. I suggest that Jóa takes some photos of Björg and Pal in front of the piano. As we take our leave, I ask Björg:
“You live here with your mother, do you?”
She nods.
“This Kjartan Arnarson,” I ask, “the teacher who got into this embarrassing situation. What’s he like?”
“I was never in any of his classes,” Björg replies. “He looks a bit odd, but I’ve always heard that he’s nice enough.”
We wish her a happy Easter and set off for the car with Pal on his leash. The dog glances back toward the house with a muffled bark.
PAL’S ADVENTURE IN AKUREYRI
Once upon a time there was a little dog named Pal…
I start my heartwarming essay on the mutt and his savior. As I add the finishing touch to my account with the words
And they all lived happily ever after
, I find myself suddenly overcome with exhaustion. I swing my feet up onto the desk and light up. The back of my chair almost touches the closed door. So my closet of an office is, according to my rough calculations, about as long as my coffin will be. It’s past five o’clock. I send in my piece and immediately feel better. I stand up and go to the break room. Ásbjörn, Karó, and Pal have gone upstairs. I can hear quiet barking through the wooden ceiling. Jóa has sent in her pics, and she says she’s going to a movie. I’m going home to lie down. But I have a cup of black coffee without sugar all the same. I light another cigarette and return to my closet. On top of the pile is the third of the message slips, the one I couldn’t identify. Karólína has written the name
Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir
and a telephone number. I pick up the phone and ring.
“
Hóll
. Good afternoon,” answers a woman’s voice.
“
Hóll
?” I ask. “What’s that?”
“
Hóll
is a care home.”
“I see. My name is Einar. I got a message to contact Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir. Is she a member of staff or a resident?”
“Gunnhildur lives here with us.”
“May I speak to her?”
“That depends. For instance, on how she is. Or whether she’s awake. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll find out.”
I wait for two minutes.
“Gunnhildur is asleep. She’s had a difficult time for the past few days. Especially yesterday and today.”
“Oh? Was it something in particular?”
“It’s always hard to lose a child. Even when you’re nearly eighty and sometimes a bit confused.”
“What happened?”
“Her daughter died yesterday, after an accident. She fell into the Jökulsá River on Saturday and sustained a severe head trauma. She died without regaining consciousness.”
“Would you let her know that Einar returned her call?”
“Yes, I will.”
I thank her and hang up, wondering what Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir can want with me. On top of everything else, can I have made some mistake in reporting the accident?
Then I go home to Polly, hastily clean and tidy the apartment to prepare it for my daughter’s arrival, and try to put from my mind this day of joy and tribulation for Icelandic families.
“Hi, Dad,” says Gunnsa’s sweet voice.
“Gunnsa, darling. It’s so good to hear you. Are you all packed for
“I didn’t say that,” she says. I detect intelligence and a strong will behind her reserved exterior.
“OK,” I say, starting the tape recorder. “Let’s begin at the beginning.”
The story began when she was walking down by the docks and saw some boys of about ten chasing a little dog. Björg recounts the whole story, articulately and complete with self-deprecating humor. While Jóa is taking photos I wander around the living room. Against one wall is an old piano. Among the cacti on top of it stand several framed photographs of Björg with an attractive woman, presumably her mother, at various ages: she is about the same height as Björg but with fairer skin and hair—worn up in all the pictures—but the resemblance is striking. Mother and daughter wear beaming smiles in every single photo. I suggest that Jóa takes some photos of Björg and Pal in front of the piano. As we take our leave, I ask Björg:
“You live here with your mother, do you?”
She nods.
“This Kjartan Arnarson,” I ask, “the teacher who got into this embarrassing situation. What’s he like?”
“I was never in any of his classes,” Björg replies. “He looks a bit odd, but I’ve always heard that he’s nice enough.”
We wish her a happy Easter and set off for the car with Pal on his leash. The dog glances back toward the house with a muffled bark.
PAL’S ADVENTURE IN AKUREYRI
Once upon a time there was a little dog named Pal…
I start my heartwarming essay on the mutt and his savior. As I add the finishing touch to my account with the words
And they all lived happily ever after
, I find myself suddenly overcome with exhaustion. I swing my feet up onto the desk and light up. The back of my chair almost touches the closed door. So my closet of an office is, according to my rough calculations, about as long as my coffin will be. It’s past five o’clock. I send in my piece and immediately feel better. I stand up and go to the break room. Ásbjörn, Karó, and Pal have gone upstairs. I can hear quiet barking through the wooden ceiling. Jóa has sent in her pics, and she says she’s going to a movie. I’m going home to lie down. But I have a cup of black coffee without sugar all the same. I light another cigarette and return to my closet. On top of the pile is the third of the message slips, the one I couldn’t identify. Karólína has written the name
Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir
and a telephone number. I pick up the phone and ring.
“
Hóll
. Good afternoon,” answers a woman’s voice.
“
Hóll
?” I ask. “What’s that?”
“
Hóll
is a care home.”
“I see. My name is Einar. I got a message to contact Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir. Is she a member of staff or a resident?”
“Gunnhildur lives here with us.”
“May I speak to her?”
“That depends. For instance, on how she is. Or whether she’s awake. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll find out.”
I wait for two minutes.
“Gunnhildur is asleep. She’s had a difficult time for the past few days. Especially yesterday and today.”
“Oh? Was it something in particular?”
“It’s always hard to lose a child. Even when you’re nearly eighty and sometimes a bit confused.”
“What happened?”
“Her daughter died yesterday, after an accident. She fell into the Jökulsá River on Saturday and sustained a severe head trauma. She died without regaining consciousness.”
“Would you let her know that Einar returned her call?”
“Yes, I will.”
I thank her and hang up, wondering what Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir can want with me. On top of everything else, can I have made some mistake in reporting the accident?
Then I go home to Polly, hastily clean and tidy the apartment to prepare it for my daughter’s arrival, and try to put from my mind this day of joy and tribulation for Icelandic families.
“Hi, Dad,” says Gunnsa’s sweet voice.
“Gunnsa, darling. It’s so good to hear you. Are you all packed for
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