Butterflies in November

THIRTY-SIX

We drive over three bridges, one after another, and the water level has risen further.

While the car is being fixed, we use the time to write the postcard and eat shrimp salad sandwiches. The boy plucks four prawns out of his. It takes an hour and a half of my life to write the card for him. He dictates everything he wants it to contain for me. First, I jot down the words in my notepad, and then he takes a look at them and either nods or shakes his head. There’s no doubt this boy can read.

Dear Mom,

We’re on a journey in Iceland. The road isn’t straight. There’s a rear-view mirror in the car. I am well. It is raining. The sheep died and so did the fish. I have a kitten. The others drowned. I am well, but I will still come back to you. We send our regards (the last sentence is from me). All my love. Your darling son, Tumi.

That evening I call Auður.

“Guess who I met at my antenatal inspection this morning?”

“Who?”

“He looked up from a Norwegian gossip mag, he was peering at two-year-old photos of the royal family. The only man in the waiting room, because it was the middle of a weekday.”

“How are you doing?”

“But I only saw the back of her, she was going in to be examined in a fairly anonymous-looking coat, so I wouldn’t recognize her if I saw her on the street again.”

“That’s because you only saw the back of her. How are you?”

“She was wearing glasses.”

“On the back of her head?”

“I caught a glimpse of her in profile.”

“How are you?”

“I was expecting some brainless bimbo, but actually she’s not unlike you, it seemed to me. Except you’re more exciting, of course,” she hastens to add.

“Because I’m your friend and you only saw her briefly in profile.”

“Don’t take this personally, but I thought he looked pretty good, new haircut and rested. Actually, he seems to be in great shape.”

“What are the doctors saying? Have they set a date for the birth yet?”

“What, mine?”

“Yeah, your twins.”

“The 24th of December, provided there are no fuck-ups, they’re sisters.”

“Is everything else OK otherwise? In the ward?”

“You can imagine, I’ve never led such a monotonous life. I’m trying not to focus on sex and death too much, my mind is mostly on food these days and I’m reading recipe books between meals. And it’s always the same let-down when the food tray arrives, soggy biscuits and thick, lukewarm, tasteless cocoa soup.”

Then I ask her if the boy can read. Not as far as she knows, she hasn’t even had the time to teach him letters yet. She’s got enough on her plate with his speech therapy, sign language classes, occupational therapy, physiotherapy, apart from the fact that he has only just turned four.

“Well, he can certainly write words,” I say, “all kinds of complex words that he writes on the misty windows: MAMMY, FLY, OH, MIRROR, DADDY, WET, LAGOON.”

“How do you like being with a child?”

“Tumi is a very special child, a wonderful kid. I’ve started to learn sign language, to read more about it, he’s also teaching me, pointing at things and showing me their symbol.”

“Is he changing you?”

“I guess he must be.”

I can hear from her voice that she is fighting back some tears.

“Becoming a mother is the most important thing you can do in life. It’s a wonderful experience to have a child. Then all of a sudden you have to decide whether you’re just going to serve coffee or offer food at their confirmation parties and whether you should contact their fathers, or even go to a photographer’s studio together. By law, fathers are obliged to pay for half the costs of confirmations and funerals.”

“Well, first. . they have to be born.”

“I might die giving birth, all three of us might, it’s such a big responsibility.”

“Don’t give me that, nothing will happen to you this time.”

“But if anything does happen to me. . to us, I want you to take care of Tumi. You’re the best person I know. I’ve put it down in writing.”

“Nothing will happen to you, you’re so sensitive in your current state, they’ll look after you.”

“Precisely, it’s the exceeding confidence in this ward that scares me, they all love their jobs and record episodes of ER for each other when they’re too busy working.”

“You’re so vulnerable in your condition, if you like I could have a word with the obstetrician.”

“I’m such a dreadful friend, blabbing away about myself and asking nothing about you. Have you met any exciting men on your travels?”

“No, it’s mainly girls who operate the petrol pumps. Besides, I’m quite content to be alone with Tumi. We’re up to 300-piece jigsaws now.”

“I told you he’d change you.”

As I linger a moment at the mailbox and search for my car keys in my pocket, a man in an anorak with a fur-trimmed hood and a violin case in his hand turns towards me and speaks to me in Estonian in an amiable voice:

“Beautiful woman.”