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Authors: Ragna Sigurðardóttir
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it. If it becomes apparent that there’s an abstract painting underneath this landscape, then it’s almost certainly a forgery.”
For a moment Steinn hesitates; then, taking a deep breath, he begins talking uncharacteristically fast.
“Then we might just consider whether we should simply wash off the whole of the upper layer.” He breathes out again as if he’d been holding his breath for some time, and Hanna is startled. There it is. What he’d been thinking about all the while. This is what he wants.
“Wash off the entire top layer? But what about Gudrun’s landscape? What will happen to that?” Steinn looks at Hanna and then it dawns on her. The likelihood is there is no landscape of Gudrun’s on this canvas.
Steinn is sure of his case. Now that they’ve started on this journey there’s no turning back. They have to go the whole way, to see it through. In her head she draws her foil out of its sheath, lifts it up, and holds it there at the ready against an unseen enemy.
It’s her job to confirm his conclusions, to examine the images on the screen more carefully, alongside the painting on the easel. It’s up to her to write the report—she’s worried about the response it will trigger, she’s scared to hear something she doesn’t want to hear. Is that why she doesn’t ask Steinn about his eyesight? She sits still. She wasn’t expecting this.
Steinn turns the computer off. Hanna forces herself to move, to stand up. Walking over to the painting, Hanna gazes at the birch grove, as if she’s trying to reach out through time and space and make contact with Gudrun. With the person who painted this landscape. The painting hasn’t changed. The mountain is immovable, the birch trees are finely nuanced, the trunks are light and bright, and colors dance on the forest floor. Unchanged, yet not the same as it was. With a deep sense of disappointment, Hanna breathes in quickly and turns around, to Steinn. He’s standing there, waiting.
3
INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS CONFERENCE MOSCOW, 2004
Hrafn pulls his hands as far as he can up into his jacket sleeves. He has broad, meaty hands, like soft paws, which he tries to hide by wearing suits specially tailored for him, with sleeves just long enough to disguise the size of his hands. He is ashamed of them and thinks they bear false witness to years of toil as a workman, a farmer, or a sailor. Hrafn has never lifted his hands in manual labor; he hasn’t tilled the soil, let alone hauled a fish from the sea. The work his fingers recognize is tapping a computer keyboard, and his palm fits comfortably around a mouse. He is proud of never having had to do manual labor, but these hands run in the family, inherited from earlier generations, an inheritance Hrafn has no use for in his line of work.
He is sitting in an avant-garde conference hall in a new building in Moscow. The seats are wine red, wide, and plush, the color faintly reminiscent of old political leanings. The hall is crowded, primarily with men in suits of varying shades of gray. Hrafn has his computer open on the swivel table attachedto his seat, reading the business pages of the English newspapers while the words of the Icelandic minister go in one ear and out the other.
“As the minister for fisheries and agriculture it is a great pleasure for me to address this international business conference here in Moscow,” announces the minister. “For many decades, Russia and Iceland have enjoyed good business relations,” he continues. “In previous years, these relations were largely confined to fish processing, the sale of herring, fishing tackle, and equipment, but nowadays we have business deals springing up in many spheres. Today we not only have representatives of the Icelandic fishing industry, but also stakeholders of large telecommunications and pharmaceutical corporations. We have representatives from Icelandic banks and, last but not least, up-and-coming young musicians and artists.”
The
For a moment Steinn hesitates; then, taking a deep breath, he begins talking uncharacteristically fast.
“Then we might just consider whether we should simply wash off the whole of the upper layer.” He breathes out again as if he’d been holding his breath for some time, and Hanna is startled. There it is. What he’d been thinking about all the while. This is what he wants.
“Wash off the entire top layer? But what about Gudrun’s landscape? What will happen to that?” Steinn looks at Hanna and then it dawns on her. The likelihood is there is no landscape of Gudrun’s on this canvas.
Steinn is sure of his case. Now that they’ve started on this journey there’s no turning back. They have to go the whole way, to see it through. In her head she draws her foil out of its sheath, lifts it up, and holds it there at the ready against an unseen enemy.
It’s her job to confirm his conclusions, to examine the images on the screen more carefully, alongside the painting on the easel. It’s up to her to write the report—she’s worried about the response it will trigger, she’s scared to hear something she doesn’t want to hear. Is that why she doesn’t ask Steinn about his eyesight? She sits still. She wasn’t expecting this.
Steinn turns the computer off. Hanna forces herself to move, to stand up. Walking over to the painting, Hanna gazes at the birch grove, as if she’s trying to reach out through time and space and make contact with Gudrun. With the person who painted this landscape. The painting hasn’t changed. The mountain is immovable, the birch trees are finely nuanced, the trunks are light and bright, and colors dance on the forest floor. Unchanged, yet not the same as it was. With a deep sense of disappointment, Hanna breathes in quickly and turns around, to Steinn. He’s standing there, waiting.
3
INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS CONFERENCE MOSCOW, 2004
Hrafn pulls his hands as far as he can up into his jacket sleeves. He has broad, meaty hands, like soft paws, which he tries to hide by wearing suits specially tailored for him, with sleeves just long enough to disguise the size of his hands. He is ashamed of them and thinks they bear false witness to years of toil as a workman, a farmer, or a sailor. Hrafn has never lifted his hands in manual labor; he hasn’t tilled the soil, let alone hauled a fish from the sea. The work his fingers recognize is tapping a computer keyboard, and his palm fits comfortably around a mouse. He is proud of never having had to do manual labor, but these hands run in the family, inherited from earlier generations, an inheritance Hrafn has no use for in his line of work.
He is sitting in an avant-garde conference hall in a new building in Moscow. The seats are wine red, wide, and plush, the color faintly reminiscent of old political leanings. The hall is crowded, primarily with men in suits of varying shades of gray. Hrafn has his computer open on the swivel table attachedto his seat, reading the business pages of the English newspapers while the words of the Icelandic minister go in one ear and out the other.
“As the minister for fisheries and agriculture it is a great pleasure for me to address this international business conference here in Moscow,” announces the minister. “For many decades, Russia and Iceland have enjoyed good business relations,” he continues. “In previous years, these relations were largely confined to fish processing, the sale of herring, fishing tackle, and equipment, but nowadays we have business deals springing up in many spheres. Today we not only have representatives of the Icelandic fishing industry, but also stakeholders of large telecommunications and pharmaceutical corporations. We have representatives from Icelandic banks and, last but not least, up-and-coming young musicians and artists.”
The
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