Butterflies in November

THIRTY-SEVEN

There can be no doubt that some major construction is taking place in the vicinity. Gargantuan machines, the size of three-storey houses, crawl along a strip of gravel road, blocking off both ends and creating an obstruction on the highway. I trudge behind them and it is not until I come across a side road leading to a farm that I have a chance to overtake them.

The beams of my headlights unexpectedly illuminate two men in blue overalls standing at the foot of a sharp landslide with their backs turned to the road. They stand there motionless, like identical twins, with a few metres between them and no vehicle in sight or nearby farms. They’re looking up at the landslide; two sheep are perched on the summit and standing there perfectly still, looking down at the men. They simultaneously slip the rifles off their shoulders and take aim. I hear two almost concurrent shots and two balls of bloody wool come tumbling down the perpendicular mass of bulky rock. As I drive past the men, they turn to look at me. The white of their eyes appear yellow to me. I turn on the radio.

Water levels are steeply rising around the country after the uninterrupted rainfall of the past two weeks, says the reader of the lunchtime news. An increasing number of roads are becoming unfit for driving and muddy rivers are engulfing the pillars of bridges, which will soon have to close. A hundred-metre stretch of the Ring Road has already been cut off. Farms, horses and hay bales are surrounded by water, and fields have been inundated, locking people off on their farms, and there have been power cuts in many areas. In the highlands, the build-up of water pressure against the dam has exceeded expectations and rivers are beginning to overflow. The speaker botches his last sentence and repeats the detail about the overflowing rivers. He forecasts southern winds and persistent rainfall.

In fact I only have to glance through my windscreen to see that the country is half immersed in water; everything is quite literally awash in the sandy desert. The whole purpose of this pleasant journey around the island was to try to sort out my life, but now the thread has been abruptly severed. On a two-dimensional map, the world looks like a clearly delineated place, a fully defined and secure area in which rivers are just harmless blue strokes of the pen. Even though I may not know who I am, I can make out where I am and where I’m heading on this unfolded map.

Some of the countries further south are now experiencing temperatures of minus thirty degrees, the anchor continues, while just 200 kilometres from the Arctic Circle thermometers are hitting plus eleven degrees. Such is the unpredictability of nature, which will always take man by surprise.

Since I’m travelling under my own steam and, what’s more, with an unrelated child, I don’t have the courage to tackle the dark brown mass of water on the other side of the sand in my car and therefore have to find somewhere for us to spend the night in the black desert in the middle of this dark winter day.

I scan the map that lies open on the passenger seat beside me, first to see how long this sandy desert extends for and roughly count the number of blue lines, and then to look for the red points that represent made beds and breakfast buffets with orange wedges, muesli and teabags. It’s mainly on the narrow green strip along the coast that we have some hope of finding accommodation.

Ten minutes before reaching it, we can already start to hear the mounting rumble of the glacial torrent — dark grey, full of sand, stones and debris. We stop the car by the bridge to look into the water.

Tumi walks beside me, waving his arms about like a fearless man. Impossible to look at anything but the fury of the grey maelstrom, no firm point on which to fix our gaze. Drenched, we freeze a moment on the edge of the bridge, watching the enormous mass of muddy brown water run by.

By the time we get back to the car, it’s as if an entire hour’s worth of river had passed. I turn on the heater full blast and the boy writes two words on the foggy windows. Like an ancient Greek metaphysician: Water runs.

I take the warning sign, which the water-measuring experts have put up in the sand, seriously and don’t venture out on any unnecessarily risky explorations. The question, though, is whether we should cross the next bridge and then be trapped on that side or carry on along this side of the river and then be forced to turn around. The first option seems slightly better; at some point one has to stop brooding over the past. Besides, we need to stop for the night soon. A luxury hotel has recently been opened nearby, complete with solarium, jacuzzi and bar. The area that seemed utterly deserted earlier is now suddenly busy with traffic. “Allow yourself to be yourself,” the hotel’s slogan reads.

As I’m about to cross the last river in the sand desert, I suddenly come up against a white car in the middle of a single-lane bridge and slam on the brakes, as does the man in the car opposite me. We both step out.

“I thought you were going to stop,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were driving over until it was too late.”

“I somehow thought you were stopping as well,” I say, still blinded by his headlights. The engines of both cars are running.

“I’ll reverse then,” he says, “I was actually thinking of turning back to spend the night in the hotel anyway.”

“I can reverse too.”

“Are you driving east?”

“Yeah, I’m having a summer bungalow moved there.”

“Over Christmas?”

“Yes, over Christmas, are you going west then?”

“Yes, but I’ll be back soon, maybe we’ll meet again then.”

His glasses are all misty, which makes it difficult for me to make out the eyes concealed behind them. I rub the sleeve of his jacket, which is an odd response to a complete stranger. He’s dark and has such short hair that all his childhood scars are visible, both on his scalp and designer stubble.

“Are you a hunter?” I hear myself asking him.

“No, I’m no hunter. I came across some ptarmigan chicks on the road this summer and my car capsized when I slammed on the brakes. I’ve got a sick falcon in the car that I need to take to town. He needs some expert care, in the worst-case scenario he’ll end up being stuffed. You’ve got to keep quiet about rare birds that stop off here for just a few hours before heading on to America, or someone will try to stuff them. They want to have everything stuffed in the south, causes them the least hassle.”

When I’m back in the car, I realize I haven’t given the child anything to eat for much of our drive across the sand desert, so I stick a straw into a carton of milk and hand it to him. He stares at the floor as he clutches the carton with both hands, sucking its contents dry. I bite the peel of a banana, feeling its bitter taste in my mouth, and hand it to him, without taking my eyes off the road, without slowing down, without breaking our continuity.