Black Skies

23

Sigurdur Óli was lurking in his car outside the block of flats for the second Sunday in a row, keeping an eye on the newspaper that protruded from one of the postboxes in the lobby. He had taken up position early that morning, shortly after the paper was delivered, and watched the comings and goings, keeping himself warm with the car heater. He had brought a Thermos of coffee and something to read — the papers and a handful of new holiday brochures for Florida. If anything, there were even fewer people about than the previous Sunday. No sign of the girl who had staggered up the stairs, or that waster who called himself a composer. Time crawled by. Sigurdur Óli read every word of the papers and pored avidly over the sunny images in the Florida brochures. He had switched on the radio but could find nothing to his taste, despite flicking from talk shows to music stations and back again. Finally he found a station playing classic rock and settled on that.

An elderly man walked into the block carrying a bag from a nearby bakery. He did not give the paper so much as a glance, but at the sight of the man’s bag Sigurdur Óli was assailed by hunger pangs. The bakery was only just round the corner; he would be able to see the sign if he reversed a few metres. He considered his situation. He could almost smell the aroma of fresh baking, so strong was his desire, if only for a scone, but on the other hand he might miss the thief. I wonder if there’s a queue? he thought, craning his neck in the direction of the bakery.

Little of interest happened until just before midday when an elderly woman came down into the lobby and, after peering out through the glass door, turned to the postboxes, seized the newspaper without hesitation and pushed open the door to the stairwell again. Sigurdur Óli, who had been struggling with the crossword while trying to stave off his hunger, threw it down, leapt out of the car and charged inside, jamming his foot between the inner door and the frame, and caught the woman red-handed as she began to climb the stairs.

‘What are you doing with that?’ he demanded sharply, taking hold of the woman’s arm.

She stared at him in terror.

‘Leave me alone,’ she said. ‘You can’t have my paper!’ She began to cry ‘Thief!’ in a weak voice.

‘I’m no thief,’ said Sigurdur Óli, ‘I’m from the police. Why are you stealing Gudmunda’s paper?’

The woman’s expression relaxed.

‘Are you Gagga’s son?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Sigurdur Óli replied, taken aback.

‘I’m Gudmunda, dear.’

Sigurdur Óli released her arm.

‘Didn’t Gagga talk to you?’ he said. ‘I was going to keep an eye on the paper for you.’

‘Oh, heavens, yes, but I did so want to read it.’

‘But you can’t read the paper if I’m supposed to be watching it.’

‘No,’ said Gudmunda, continuing on her way up the stairs, unperturbed, ‘that’s the snag. Do give my regards to your mother, dear.’

Shortly afterwards, as he prepared to tuck into the lunch she had cooked for him, Sigurdur Óli reported this exchange to Gagga, adding that he had no intention of lying in wait for the paper thief again. There would be no more of that nonsense.

Gagga seemed to derive some amusement from her son’s displeasure. She stood behind him, struggling to suppress her laughter, then offered him a second helping and expressed surprise at his appetite.

When she had poured the coffee, she asked if his father had spoken to him. Sigurdur Óli described how he had turned up at the station with the news about his prostate.

‘I expect the poor man was a bit anxious?’ said his mother, sitting down with him at the kitchen table. ‘He sounded pretty subdued when he rang to tell me.’

‘Not that I noticed,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I’m going to look in on him later as the operation’s tomorrow. He said I should get myself checked out — that I was in a risk group.’

‘Then you should do it,’ Gagga said. ‘He mentioned it to me too. Don’t put it off.’

Sigurdur Óli sipped his coffee, thinking about his father and mother and their relationship back in the days when they were still together. He remembered overhearing a conversation about himself; that for his sake they could not get divorced. That had been his father. Whereas Gagga had said she could look after him perfectly well on her own. His father had done what he could to avoid a divorce but it was no good. It had felt inevitable when he moved out, taking a couple of suitcases stuffed full of clothes, an old trunk that had been in his family a long time, a table that was his, pictures, books and various other bits and pieces, all of which disappeared into a small van parked outside the block of flats. Gagga had been out that day. Sigurdur Óli and his father had said their goodbyes in the car park, though his father had pointed out that it was not really goodbye as they would still see a lot of each other.

‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ he had said. ‘Not that I really understand what’s going on.’ The words had stuck in Sigurdur Óli’s mind.

When he had asked his mother why, he had received no satisfactory answer. ‘It’s been over between us for a long time,’ she had said, then told him not to pester her any more with such questions.

As long as he could remember, his father had bent over backwards to please her, until by the end he was completely under her thumb. She used to humiliate him in front of Sigurdur Óli who would wait in vain for his father to react, to do something, say something, lose his temper, shout at her, tell her in no uncertain terms what an unjust, domineering bitch she was. But he never said a word, never showed any backbone, just let her walk all over him. Sigurdur Óli knew that his mother was not blameless — she was born demanding and inflexible — but he also started to see his father in a new light and began to blame him, mentally accusing him of spinelessness and of failing to keep their family together. He trained himself to be indifferent to him.

He would never allow himself to be pushed about in a relationship like that; he would do his damnedest to avoid turning out like his father.

‘What did you see in him when you first met?’ he asked his mother, finishing his coffee.

‘Your dad?’ Gagga said, offering him more. He refused it and rose. He needed to head over to the hospital and wanted to call at the station afterwards.

‘What was it?’ he asked again.

Gagga regarded him thoughtfully.

‘I thought he had more guts, but your dad never had any guts.’

‘He was always trying to please you,’ Sigurdur Óli pointed out. ‘I remember it distinctly. And I remember how often you were nasty to him.’

‘What’s this about? Why are you raking this up now? Is it because of what’s happened between you and Bergthóra? Are you having regrets?’

‘Perhaps I sided with you too much. Perhaps I should have stuck up for him more.’

‘You shouldn’t have had to make the choice. The marriage was over. It had nothing to do with you.’

‘No,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘It had nothing to do with me. That’s what you’ve always said. Do you think that was fair?’

‘Well, what do you want me to say? Anyway, why are you brooding over this now? It was all such a long time ago.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Whatever, I’ve got to go.’

‘I had nothing against Bergthóra.’

‘That’s not what she says.’

‘Never mind what she says; it doesn’t make her right.’

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Give my regards to your father,’ said Gagga, clearing away the cups.

His father was asleep when Sigurdur Óli went to visit him in the urology ward at the National Hospital on Hringbraut, near the old town centre. Unwilling to wake him, he sat down to wait. His father had a room to himself and lay there, wrapped in silence under the white bedclothes.

As Sigurdur Óli waited for him to stir, he thought about Bergthóra, wondering if he had been too inflexible and whether it was too late to rescue the situation.