The Greenhouse

Thirty

I do my best not to wake up the girls while I’m preparing to leave. They don’t have to be at school until the afternoon. Before I go, I fold the sheets and blanket and place them on the mattress on the floor under a poster of a movie star in a shapely black dress, with drooping almond eyes, eyelashes like butterflies, and black tresses. Then I write a few lines to the three tenants to thank them for the fun evening and spinach lasagna and stick the note between the unwashed glasses on the kitchen table. So far chance seems to have thrown quite a few companions my way on this journey through the rainy forest, such as this actress and her friends. Dawn is at the point of breaking when I dash out to the trunk and fetch one of the two foreign rose plants with three pink buds, and then stick it beside my farewell note on the kitchen table. There seems to be a fair deal of chaos in these actresses’ lives, which is clearly reflected in the leftovers and dirty dishes in the kitchen. On second thought, I take the dishes and glasses and place them in the sink, wipe the table clean, and tidy up a bit so as to highlight the rose a bit better.

Although my mind occasionally drifts back to the movie star as I slowly drive the Opel over the mountain road and then down into the lowlands, I feel it’s good to be alone again; the physical proximity of a girl can throw a wrench into the works. For even though I don’t maybe think of sex all the time, I’m feverishly trying to work out the connection between myself and my body, as well as my body and the bodies of others. The next time I stop to consult the map, I move the rose cuttings out of the trunk and place them on the floor beside me. By now they’ve survived a flight, a stay in the hospital in sterilized plastic glasses, and fairly rudimentary storage conditions in the trunk and backseat of the car, for what will soon be over twelve hundred miles.

Since Dad is constantly worried about me, I give him a call from a phone booth at a gas station once I’ve crossed the border. When he’s finished asking me about the weather and the traffic conditions on the roads, he tells me that seven depressions have crossed the country in about as many days. Then he tells me that the halibut soup was a great success and that he’s now thinking of tackling Icelandic haggis.

— Just like your mom made it.

— The haggis season is another six months away.

— I just wanted to tell you well in advance. I think we need to uphold your mother’s traditions. Not least for Jósef.

I’ve no recollection of Jósef ever taking part in the haggis preparation, but Mom let me sew the sheep’s stomachs from when I was nine.

— This renovation mania is just something else, he then adds.

— How do you mean?

— Thórarinn, Bogga’s son, keeps on changing things in his apartment. As soon as something is two years old it has to be replaced. This renovation mania just isn’t natural. Like, there can’t be the slightest trace of age on anything. You could almost convince yourself that you could avoid dying if you spent your whole life replacing cables and fittings, says the electrician who still has the same light blue kitchen unit that he put together when Mom first moved into the house.

— You’re not short of pocket money, are you, Lobbi?

— No, I’m fine.

— And you’re not lonely on your journey?

— No, no.

— And people are helpful?

— Yeah, yeah, people are helpful.

In fact it’s true. People are incredibly helpful. I’m inclined to think that humanity is, broadly speaking, good and honorable, when given a chance, and that people, on the whole, do their best. If the person I ask hasn’t heard of the place I’m looking for or doesn’t know the way, he still tries to give me some directions to continue. At worst it might mean going astray in the mountains for a few hours because people can’t stop themselves from being helpful. Nevertheless, I’ve managed to cross three borders in the Opel without any hiccups since I dropped off the girl, eat various types of pâté and chocolate when I’m hungry, and sleep three nights with a roof over my head in about as many countries. Because I’m traveling alone I often have to stop to check the map. The only problem is that the map doesn’t tell you how steep the roads are, just the distances in miles and you wouldn’t want to be suffering from vertigo driving up the final thirty miles of a winding mountain road. The curves are terrifyingly sharp, and I thank god for the mist that prevents me from seeing the bottom of the valley below. In fact, it isn’t until I reach my destination that I realize there’s also a road beneath me in the valley. There’s very little traffic; I only meet one white car in the final miles up to the village.