Oblivion

25

On the way back to town Marion stopped off at the old sanatorium, having meant to go there for a while but never finding the time or the right occasion. Now that occasion had arrived out of the blue, postmarked Denmark. Over the years, the urge to visit the sanatorium had become more and more infrequent and it was a long time since Marion had last walked up the hill to Gunnhildur’s Cairn. If patients made it up here in the old days it was a sign they were on the road to recovery. Marion had been admitted to Vífilsstadir, the TB sanatorium, as a child, with only one working lung, and had watched as other children the same age died.

The pavilion where the patients used to lie and recuperate in the fresh air still stood to the west of the main building but was dilapidated from years of disuse and neglect. After parking near the pavilion, Marion lingered briefly among the broken windows and flaking paint. The lights from the hospital cast a faint glow over the surroundings down as far as the lake. Now that TB had been eradicated, the hospital treated patients for other types of respiratory disorder.

Standing in the run-down pavilion, feeling the cold, Marion recalled the visitors who used to come at weekends and talk to their loved ones through the windows of the hospital because they weren’t allowed inside. Many of Marion’s most painful memories were associated with this place, and also with a spell at the Kolding Sanatorium in Denmark, arranged by Marion’s grandmother, which had eventually led to recovery. There had been another Icelander there, a girl called Katrín, who had survived a severe case of pulmonary tuberculosis thanks to a procedure known as thoracoplasty, which involved sacrificing several ribs on one side so the infected lung could be collapsed and cleaned out. Their friendship had developed over the years into a kind of love affair, though Katrín had lived abroad for the most part, working for charity organisations around the world.

The letter from her mother, which had arrived that morning, was in Marion’s pocket, read, reread and read again until the words were etched into the memory. Katrín’s mother wrote that her daughter was dead. She had been diagnosed with cancer the year she sailed out to Iceland and ended her relationship with Marion. At the time she had only expected to live another twelve months at most. But in the event she had lasted another seven years. According to her wishes she had been cremated and her ashes scattered in Kolding Fjord.

Marion took the letter out now and read it one more time by the faint illumination from the hospital, and thought about Erlendur and his fascination with people who met sudden deaths in accidents, perished from exposure or were lost in the mountains. Once, finding him immersed in this sort of account, Marion had tried to understand what was going through his mind. The young policeman was a frequent source of curiosity to Marion since he seemed so independent in his thinking, was old-fashioned in his manner, never spoke about himself, disliked city life, and took little interest in the times he lived in except when they got on his nerves. He was single-minded, felt no need whatsoever to wear his heart on his sleeve and was perpetually absorbed by this peculiar fixation with ordeals and disappearances.

‘What is it about people’s suffering and death that you find so gripping?’ Marion had asked.

‘You can learn a lot about people from these stories,’ Erlendur had replied.

‘Who all just happen to have lost their lives in unusual circumstances?’

‘You could put it like that.’

‘But what’s so instructive about that? About people getting lost? Dying? What is it you learn from that?’

Erlendur clearly found this hard to answer.

‘Why are you asking?’ he said at last.

‘Because I’d like to know,’ said Marion. ‘You’re the only person I’ve ever met who’s obsessed with this subject.’

‘I wouldn’t say I was obsessed.’

‘Well, you must admit you have an unusual fascination with these tales of ordeals.’

‘What interests me are stories about survivors,’ said Erlendur. ‘People who escape with their lives from dangerous situations in the Icelandic wilderness. How do they cope? Why do some live while others don’t, though the circumstances are similar? Why do some get into trouble and others not? What mistakes do people make? How can you avoid them?’

‘I reckon there’s more to it.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I get the feeling these stories have a personal significance for you.’

‘No, I...’

‘Am I wrong?’

Erlendur stared at Marion, as if unsure whether to speak his mind.

‘I suppose it’s not exactly... not really about the people who get lost or die, but...’

‘What?’

‘... but the people left behind, left to struggle with the questions raised by the events.’

‘You mean you’re interested in those left behind to cope with the grief and loss?’

‘Yes, maybe that’s it,’ said Erlendur. ‘They matter too. “Which am I? The one who lives, or the one who died?” I sometimes wonder.’

‘Are you a fan of Steinn Steinarr?’

‘I think people who experience profound grief feel as if a part of themselves has died, and in my opinion he captures that very well.’

Marion read the letter again, thinking back to this conversation with Erlendur and the quotation from Steinn Steinarr’s poem ‘Time and Water’.

Enclosed in the letter had been a small piece of folded paper which, when opened, turned out to contain a pinch of Katrín’s ashes. Katrín’s mother would not herself have come up with the idea of sending them. She must have done it at Katrín’s behest, as a final farewell between them. Marion could think of nowhere better to scatter the ashes than the pavilion, and holding out the paper, watched the dust gradually disperse in the wind.

Marion refolded the letter from Denmark, put it back in the envelope and pocketed it again, then gazed over to where the ashes had become one with the darkness, reflecting on Steinn Steinarr’s enigma of life and death until the pale blue eyes blurred over with tears.