Black Skies

55

On Monday morning a groundsman for the Reykjavík cemeteries turned up to work in the old graveyard on Hólavallagata and unlocked one of the tool sheds. It was cold. There had been a heavy frost overnight and a northerly wind was blowing in off the highlands, but the man was well wrapped up in a woolly hat and thick mittens. He had a job to finish that he had been putting off, and now gathered the tools he thought he would need. He went about his business without hurrying, anticipating that the task would take him most of the morning. Once he had everything, he set off across the cemetery towards Sudurgata and the tomb of the independence hero, Jón Sigurdsson. Someone had used a spray can to write Jonny rules on the stone monument. He did not really object, taking it as a sign of the younger generation’s increased independence of mind. At least some idiot knew who Jón Sigurdsson was. Happening to glance to his left, the groundsman stopped short and peered across the graveyard: it looked as if a man was sitting against one of the tombstones. After watching him for some time without detecting any movement, he started walking slowly towards him and as he drew near he saw that the man was dead.

He was dressed in rags, covered with a shabby anorak, his knees clasped tight to his chest as if to ward off the cold. His deathly white face was turned, eyes half open, to the heavens, as if at the moment he died he had been looking up at the clouds, waiting for them to part for an instant to reveal a patch of clear blue sky.