Silence of the Grave

9

Robert Sigurdsson was still alive, but just barely, Sigurdur Oli thought. He sat with Elinborg in the old man’s room, thinking to himself as he looked at Robert’s pallid face that he would not want to be 90 years old. He shuddered. The old man was toothless, with anaemic lips, his cheeks sunken, tufts of hair standing up from his ghoulish head in all directions. He was connected to an oxygen cylinder which stood on a trolley beside him. Every time he needed to say something he took off his oxygen mask with a trembling hand and let out a couple of words before he had to put it back on.

Robert had sold his chalet long ago and it had changed hands twice more before eventually it was demolished and a new one built nearby. Sigurdur Oli and Elinborg woke up the owner of the new chalet shortly before noon to hear this rather vague and disjointed story.

They had the office staff locate the old man while they were driving back from the hill. It turned out that he was in the National Hospital, just turned 90.

Elinborg did the talking at the hospital and explained the case to Robert while he sat shrivelled up in a wheelchair, gulping down pure oxygen from the cylinder. A lifelong smoker. He seemed in full command of his faculties, despite his miserable physical state, and nodded to show that he understood every word and was well aware of the detectives’ business. The nurse who showed them in to him and stood behind his wheelchair told them that they ought not to tire him by spending too long with him.

“I remember…” he said in a low, hoarse voice. His hand shook as he put the mask back on and inhaled the oxygen. Then he took the mask off again.

“…that house, but…”

Mask up.

Sigurdur Oli looked at Elinborg and then at his watch, making no attempt to conceal his impatience.

“Don’t you want…” she began, but the mask came off again.

“…I only remember…” Robert interjected, wracked with breathlessness.

Mask up.

“Why don’t you go to the canteen and get something to eat?” Elinborg said to Sigurdur Oli, who looked again at his watch, at the old man and then at her, sighed, stood up and disappeared from the room.

Mask down.

“…one family who lived there.”

Mask up. Elinborg waited a moment to see whether he would continue, but Robert said nothing and she pondered how to phrase the questions so that he only needed to answer with a yes or a no, and could use his head without having to speak. She told him she wanted to try that and he nodded. Clear as a bell, she thought.

“Did you own a chalet there during the war?”

Robert nodded.

“Did this family live there during the war?”

Robert nodded.

“Do you remember the names of the people who lived in the house at that time?”

Robert shook his head. No.

“Was it a big family?”

Robert shook his head again. No.

“A couple with two, three children, more?”

Robert nodded and held out three anaemic fingers.

“A couple with three children. Did you ever meet these people? Did you have any contact with them or not know them at all?” Elinborg had forgotten her rule about yes and no and Robert took off his mask.

“Didn’t know them.” Mask up again. The nurse was growing restless as she stood behind the wheelchair glaring at Elinborg as if she ought to stop immediately and looking ready to intervene at any second. Robert took off his mask.

“…die.”

“Who? Those people? Who died?” Elinborg leaned over closer to him, waiting for him to take the mask off again. Yet again he put a trembling hand to the oxygen mask and took it off.

“Useless…”

Elinborg could tell that he was having trouble speaking and she strained with all her might to urge him on. She stared at him and waited for him to say more.

Mask down.

“…vegetable.”

Robert dropped his mask, his eyes closed and his head sank onto his chest.

“Ah,” the nurse said curtly, “So now you’ve finished him off for good.” She picked up the mask and stuck it over Robert’s nose and mouth with unnecessary force as he sat with his head on his chest and his old eyes closed as if he had fallen asleep. Maybe he really was dying for all Elinborg knew. She stood up and watched the nurse push Robert over to his bed, lift him like a feather out of the wheelchair and lay him down there.

“Are you trying to kill the poor man with this nonsense?” the nurse said, a strapping woman aged about 50 with her hair in a bun, wearing a white coat, white trousers and white clogs. She glared ferociously at Elinborg. “I should never have allowed this,” she muttered in self-reproach. “He’ll hardly live until the morning,” she said in a loud voice directed back at Elinborg, with an obvious tone of accusation.

“Sorry,” Elinborg said, without being completely aware why she was apologising. “We thought he could help us about some old bones. I hope he’s not feeling too bad.”

Lying flat out now, Robert suddenly opened his eyes. He looked around as if gradually realising where he was, and took off his oxygen mask despite the nurse’s protests.

“Often came,” he panted, “…later. Green… lady… bushes…”

“Bushes?” Elinborg said. She thought for a moment. “Do you mean the redcurrants?”

The nurse put the mask back on Robert, but Elinborg thought she detected a nod towards her.

“Who was it? Do you mean yourself? Do you remember the redcurrant bushes? Did you go there? Did you go to the bushes?”

Robert slowly shook his head.

“Get out and leave him alone,” the nurse ordered Elinborg, who had stood up to lean over to Robert, but not too closely so as not to provoke her more than she already had.

“Can you tell me about it?” Elinborg went on. “Did you know who it was? Who used to go to the redcurrant bushes?”

Robert had closed his eyes.

“Later?” Elinborg continued. “What do you mean later?”

Robert opened his eyes and lifted up his old, bony hands to indicate that he wanted a pencil and piece of paper. The nurse shook her head and told him to rest, he had been through enough. He clutched her hand and looked imploringly at her.

“Out of the question,” the nurse said. “Would you please get out of here,” she said to Elinborg.

“Shouldn’t we let him decide? If he dies tonight…”

“We?” the nurse said. “Who’s we? Have you been looking after these patients for 30 years?” she snorted. “Will you get out before I have you removed.”

Elinborg glanced down at Robert who had closed his eyes again and seemed to be asleep. She looked at the nurse and reluctantly started moving towards the door. The nurse followed her and shut the door behind her the moment Elinborg was out in the corridor. Elinborg thought of calling in Sigurdur Oli to argue with the nurse and inform her how important it was for Robert to tell them what he wanted to say. She dropped the idea. Sigurdur Oli was certain to enrage her even more.

Elinborg walked down the corridor and could see Sigurdur Oli in the canteen devouring a banana with an apish look on his face. On her way to join him, she stopped. There was an alcove or TV den at the end of the corridor and she retreated into it and hid behind a tree that was planted in a huge pot and stretched all the way up to the ceiling. She waited there, watching the door, like a lioness hiding in the grass.

Before long the nurse came out of Robert’s room, breezed down the corridor and through the canteen for the next ward. She did not notice Sigurdur Oli, nor he her as he chomped on his banana.

Elinborg sneaked out of her hiding place behind the tree and tiptoed back to Robert’s room. He was lying asleep in the bed with the mask over his face just as when she had left him. The curtain was closed, but the dim glow of a lamp shed light into the gloom. She went over to him, hesitated for a moment and looked around furtively before bracing herself to prod the old man.

Robert did not budge. She tried again but he was sleeping like a log. Elinborg assumed he must be in a very deep sleep, if not simply dead, and she bit her nails while she wondered whether to prod him harder or disappear and forget the whole business. He had not said much. Only that someone had been hanging around the bushes on the hill. A green lady.

She was turning to leave when Robert suddenly opened his eyes and stared at her. Elinborg was unsure whether he recognised her, but he nodded and she felt sure she detected a grin behind his oxygen mask. He made the same sign as before to ask for a paper and pencil and she searched in her coat for her notebook and pen. She put them in his hands and he started writing in big capitals with a shaky hand. It took him a long time and Elinborg cast a terrified look towards the door, expecting the nurse to enter at any moment and start shouting curses. She wanted to tell Robert to hurry, but did not dare to pressure him.

When he had finished writing, his pallid hands slumped onto the quilt, and the book and pen with them, and he closed his eyes. Elinborg picked up the book and was about to read what the old man had written when the cardiac monitor that he was connected to suddenly started to beep. The noise was ear-piercing when it broke out in the silent room and Elinborg was so startled that she jumped back. She looked down at Robert for a moment, unsure of what to do, then rushed straight out of the room, down the corridor and into the canteen where Sigurdur Oli was still sitting, his banana finished. An alarm rang somewhere.

“Did you get anything out of the old sod?” Sigurdur Oli asked Elinborg when she sat down beside him, gasping for breath. “Hey, are you okay?” he added when he noticed her puffing and panting.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Elinborg said.

A team of doctors, nurses and paramedics came running through the canteen and into the corridor in the direction of Robert’s room. Soon afterwards a man in a white gown appeared, pushing in front of him a piece of equipment that Elinborg thought was a cardiac massage device, and went down the corridor as well. Sigurdur Oli watched the crowd disappear around the corner.

“What the hell have you been up to now?” Sigurdur Oli said, turning to Elinborg.

“Me?” Elinborg muttered. “Nothing. Me! What do you mean?”

“What are you sweating like that for?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

“I’m not sweating.”

“What happened? Why is everyone running?”

“No idea.”

“Did you get anything out of him? Is he the one who’s dying?”

“Come on, try to show a bit of respect,” Elinborg said, looking all around.

“What did you get out of him?”

“I haven’t checked yet,” Elinborg said. “Shouldn’t we get away from here?”

They stood up and walked out of the canteen, left the hospital and sat down in Sigurdur Oli’s car. He drove off.

“So, what did you get out of him?” Sigurdur Oli asked impatiently.

“He wrote me a note,” Elinborg sighed. “Poor man.”

“Wrote you a note?”

She took the book out of her pocket and flicked through it until she found the place Robert had written in it. A single word was jotted there, in the trembling hand of a dying man, an almost incomprehensible scribble. It took her a while to puzzle out what he had written in the notebook, then she became convinced, although she did not understand the meaning. She stared at Robert’s last word in this mortal life:CROOKED.

That evening it was the potatoes. He did not think they were boiled well enough. They could equally have been over-boiled, boiled to a pulp, raw, unpeeled, badly peeled, over-peeled, not cut into halves, not in gravy, in gravy, fried, unfried, mashed, sliced too thick, sliced too thin, too sweet, not sweet enough…

She could never figure him out.

That was one of his strongest weapons. The attacks always occurred without warning and when she was least expecting them, just as often when everything seemed rosy as when she could sense that something was upsetting him. He was a genius at keeping her on tenterhooks and she could never feel safe. She was always tense in his presence, ready to be at his beck and call. Have the food ready at the right time. Have his clothes ready in the morning. Keep the boys under control. Keep Mikkelina out of his sight. Serve him in every way, even though she knew it was pointless.

She had long ago given up all hope that things would get better. His home was her prison.

After finishing dinner he picked up his plate, surly as ever, and put it in the sink. Then went back to the table as if on his way out of the kitchen, but stopped where she still sat at the table. Not daring to look up, she watched the two boys who were sitting with her and went on eating her meal. Every muscle in her body was on the alert. Perhaps he would leave without touching her. The boys looked at her and slowly put down their forks.

Deathly silence fell in the kitchen.

Suddenly he grabbed her by the head and slammed it down on her plate, which broke, then he snatched her up by the hair and threw her backwards, off her chair and onto the floor. He swept the crockery from the table and kicked her chair into the wall. She was dazed by the fall. The whole kitchen seemed to be spinning. She tried to get back to her feet although she knew from experience that it was better to lie motionless, but some perverse spirit within her wanted to provoke him.

“Keep still, you cow,” he shouted at her, and when she had struggled to her knees he bowed over her and screamed:

“So you want to stand up, then?” He pulled her by the hair and slammed her face-first into the wall, kicking her thighs until she lost all the strength in her legs, shrieked and dropped back to the floor. Blood spurted from her nose and she could barely hear him shouting for the ringing in her ears.

“Try standing up now, you filthy cunt!” he screeched.

This time she lay still, huddled up with her hands protecting her head, waiting for the kicks to rain down upon her. He raised his foot and slammed it with all his might into her side, and she gasped with the scorching pain in her chest. Bending down, he grabbed her hair, lifted her face up and spat in it before slamming her head back against the floor.

“Dirty cunt,” he hissed. Then he stood up and looked at the shambles after his assault. “Look what a mess you always make, you fucker,” he blared down at her. “Clear it up this minute or I’ll kill you!”

He backed slowly away from her and tried to spit at her again, but his mouth was dry.

“Fucking creep,” he said. “You’re useless. Can’t you ever do anything right, you fucking useless whore? Aren’t you going to realise that some day? Aren’t you going to realise that?”

He didn’t care if she was left marked. He knew there was no one who would interfere. Visitors were rare. Occasional chalets lay scattered around the lowlands, but few people ever went to the hill, even though the main road between Grafarvogur and Grafarholt ran nearby, and no one who had any business called on that family.

The house they lived in was a large chalet that he rented from a man in Reykjavik; it was half built when the owner lost interest in it and agreed to rent it to him cheaply if he would finish it. At first he was enthusiastic about working on the house and had almost completed it, until it turned out that the owner did not care either way, and afterwards it began to fall into disrepair. It was made of timber and consisted of an adjacent sitting room and kitchen with a coal stove for cooking, two rooms with coal stoves for heating and a passage between the rooms. In the mornings they fetched water from a well near the house, two buckets every day that were put up on a table in the kitchen.

They had moved there about a year before. After the British occupation of Iceland people flocked to Reykjavik from the countryside in search of work. The family lost their basement flat. Could not afford it any more. The influx meant housing became expensive and rents soared. When he took charge of the half-built chalet in Grafarholt and the family moved out there he started looking for work that suited his new situation and found a job delivering coal to the farms around Reykjavik. Every morning he walked down to the turning to Grafarholt where the coal lorry would pick him up and drop him off again in the evening. Sometimes she thought his sole reason for moving out of Reykjavik was that no one would hear her screams for help when he attacked her.

One of the first things she did after they moved to the hill was to get the redcurrant bushes. Finding it a barren place, she planted the bushes on the south side of the house. They were supposed to mark one end of the garden that she planned to cultivate. She wanted to plant more bushes, but he thought it was a waste of time and forbade her to do it.

She lay motionless on the floor, waiting for him to calm down or go into town to meet his friends. Sometimes he went to Reykjavik and did not come back until the next morning. Her face was ablaze with pain and she felt the same burning in her chest as when he had broken her ribs two years before. She knew that it was not the potatoes. Any more than the stain he noticed on his freshly washed shirt. Any more than the dress she sewed for herself, but that he thought was tarty and ripped to shreds. Any more than the children crying at night, for which he blamed her. “A hopeless mother! Make them shut up or I’ll kill them!” She knew he was capable of that. Knew that he could go that far.

The boys darted out of the kitchen when they saw him attack their mother, but Mikkelina stayed put as usual. She could hardly move unassisted. There was a divan in the kitchen where she slept and spent all the day as well because that was the easiest place to keep an eye on her. Generally she kept still after he came in, and when he started thrashing her mother she would pull the blanket over her head with her good hand, as if trying to make herself disappear.

She did not see what happened. Did not want to see. Through the blanket she heard him shouting and her mother shrieking in pain, and she shuddered when she heard her smash into the wall and slump to the floor. Huddled up under her blanket, she started to recite silently to herself:

When she stopped, it was quiet again in the kitchen. For a long while the girl did not dare to pull the blanket away. She peeped out from beneath it, warily, but could not see him. Down the passage she saw the front door open. He must have gone out. The girl sat up and saw her mother lying on the floor. She threw off her blanket, crawled down from her sleeping place and pulled her way across the floor and under the table to her mother, who was still lying hunched up and motionless.

Mikkelina snuggled up to her mother. The girl was thin as a rake and weak, and found the hard floor difficult to crawl across. Normally, if she needed to move, her brothers or mother carried her. He never did. He had repeatedly threatened to “kill that moron”. “Strangle that monster on that disgusting bed! That cripple!”

Her mother did not move. She felt Mikkelina touch her back and then stroke her head. The pain in her ribcage did not let up and her nose was still bleeding. She didn’t know whether she had fainted. She had thought he was still in the kitchen, but since Mikkelina was up and about that was out of the question. Mikkelina feared her stepfather more than anything else in her life.

Gingerly her mother straightened herself, moaning with pain and clutching the side he had kicked. He must have broken her ribs. She rolled over onto her back and looked at Mikkelina. The girl had been crying and she wore a terrified expression. Shocked at the sight of her mother’s bloody face, she burst into tears again.

“It’s all right, Mikkelina,” her mother sighed. “We’ll be all right.”

Slowly and with great difficulty she got to her feet, supporting herself against the table.

“We’ll survive.”

She stroked her side and felt the pain piercing her like a sword.

“Where are the boys?” she asked, looking down at Mikkelina on the floor. Mikkelina pointed to the door and made a noise that conveyed agitation and terror. Her mother had always treated her like a normal child. Her stepfather never called her anything but “the moron”, or worse. Mikkelina had contracted meningitis at the age of three and wasn’t expected to live. For days the girl had been at death’s door at Landakot hospital, which was run by nuns, and her mother was not allowed to be with her no matter how she pleaded and cried outside the ward. When Mikkelina’s fever died down she had lost all power of movement in her right arm and her legs, and also in her facial muscles, which gave her a crooked expression, one eye half-closed and her mouth so twisted that she could not help dribbling.

The boys knew they were incapable of defending their mother: the younger one was seven and the older one twelve. By now they knew their father’s state of mind when he attacked her, all the invective he used to work himself up to it and then the rage that seized him when he screamed curses at her. Then they would flee the scene. Simon, the older one, went first. He would grab his brother and snatch him away too, pulling him along like a frightened lamb, petrified that their father would turn his wrath upon them.

One day he would be able to take Mikkelina with them.

And one day he would be able to defend his mother.

The terrified brothers ran out of the house and headed for the redcurrant bushes. It was autumn and the bushes were in bloom, with thick foliage and little red berries swollen with juice that burst in their hands when they picked them to fill tins and jars that their mother had given them.

They threw themselves to the ground on the other side of the bushes, listening to their father’s curses and oaths and the sound of breaking plates and their mother’s screams. The younger boy covered his ears, but Simon looked in through the kitchen window that cast its yellowish glow out into the twilight, and he forced himself to listen to her howls.

He had stopped covering his ears. He had to listen if he was to do what he needed to do.