Butterflies in November

EIGHT

When my husband opens the door with yet another new tie around his neck, I’ve already opened both of the bottles of wine that were being kept for the next special occasion. He immediately mentions the peculiar smell in the apartment, which the well-seasoned bird in the oven fails to mask. It’s true that there are some feathers in the kitchen and bathroom, and even one feather on the bed, as I discover later that evening, as well as several bloodstains sprinkled on the parquet.

It had been a difficult operation.

We normally sit face to face to feel each other’s proximity, but we now sit at the far extremities, each occupying their own end, since I’ve extended the table by two leaves, both because we’re separating and also because it gives the occasion a festive air. There is a huge gap between us, the vast distance between conciliation and separation. On the white tablecloth there are new candles in tall brass candlesticks and six side dishes with all the things he likes: baked potato wedges, home-cooked red cabbage, French beans, carrot mousse, salad and succulent redcurrant jelly, made from berries out of Auður’s garden.

It occurs to me that this may be my last chance to ask him about things I haven’t asked him up until now.

“How is your mother?”

“Fine, thanks. And yours?”

“Good.”

“Thanks for everything,” he says, visibly moved.

As soon as he wants to speak, I will allow him to, because I’m a woman and know how to remain silent. He hasn’t prepared a speech.

“You’re welcome.”

“I just want you to know that I’ll never forget you.”

He doesn’t say that he will cherish me in the depths of the blood-red chambers of his heart, because he would never put it that way.

“Thank you.” I refrain from replying likewise, at moments like this one doesn’t necessarily say what one is thinking.

“I won’t say it was exactly the way Mom does it, but there was something special about it, something personal.”

“Thank you.”

“It was wonderful to meet you. . I mean marry you. . and live with you. . but sometimes things don’t turn out the way you expected. . but differently. . you’ve also been quite busy lately. . we haven’t seen much of each other. .”

He has stood up and I realize how tall he is, he is literally towering over the table. He hands me a parcel wrapped in gilded paper, after fishing it out of the inside pocket of his jacket. I finish the remains of two glasses before opening it, exhausting my annual ration of alcohol in a single day.

It’s a wristwatch.

“Thank you, you shouldn’t have, I don’t have anything for you.”

“It has a calendar, so you’ll be able to see both the time and the date. Forewarned is forearmed,” he says with a smile.

In addition to the calendar, the watch has two dials, a bigger one that says HOME and a smaller one that says LOCAL, the local one presumably indicating the time of the place where one happens to be at that moment. They both therefore follow their own time.

“A bit like you,” he says with a touch of warmth.

It is true that I didn’t actually have a watch, but I do have a compass in the car that has always enabled me to find my way, even though I may not always know the precise time in terms of minutes.

He stands behind me at the table and loosely places his hand on my shoulder, as he explains the watch to me. I sense a creeping weakness in my body and suddenly feel that this relationship still stands a chance that entirely hinges on me being able to dissimulate the fact that I know how to read the time, that’s my trump card right now. Because I’m a woman and he’s a man.

“So you can set whatever time you want on one dial, free time, your own personal time, whereas the home dial will show you the time we other ordinary, boring, mortals live on,” he says in a soft voice. “Do you have any plans?”

“I’m thinking of taking a late-summer holiday and travelling,” I say, even though the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until I heard myself say it. “At least I’ll know what time it is,” I add, flashing the golden watch.

“I see you’ve already removed your ring.”

He’s right, I’m not wearing the wedding ring because I took it off when I was cleaning the insides out of the bird. But I only have to glance at the glistening draining board to realize that it actually isn’t there any more; it has vanished with the innards of the goose and vegetable peels. Tomorrow, when I’m in a more lucid state, I’ll rummage through the garbage and go through the bird’s entrails again, digging for gold.

He doesn’t seem to be taking the ring issue too personally and is already thinking of something else.

“Shall we lie down for a bit?”