The Greenhouse

Seventy-four

I sense a mounting restlessness in Anna. Yet everything seems normal on the surface. Even though she’s behaving pretty much as she should, I suddenly feel I’m running out of time.

— What? she asks. You’re staring at me so intensely and look all kinds of worried, and you’ve got that same accusing expression that Flóra Sól has when she’s looking at me.

— Are you leaving? I ask as nonchalantly as I possibly can, but I feel my voice is trembling.

— Yes, she says.

To be honest, I was starting to believe that my hunch was groundless. But life has a habit of surprising you like that: when you’re expecting something good, something bad happens; when you’re expecting something bad, something good happens. I’m quoting from a movie, a boring western in this case that I saw before I started watching quality movies with the priest.

— When?

— The day after tomorrow. I’ve done as much as I could here; I’ve reached a conclusion.

I don’t dare ask her what conclusion it is, whether it’s linked to scientific research or our relationship, so I stick to film dialogue instead. I long to say to her that, if she’s willing to give our relationship a chance, then everything might be different than she expected. Everything is crumbling inside me, but I don’t let on.

— Sorry, she says softly. You’re a wonderful guy, Arnljótur, kind and generous; it’s just something with me, I’m so confused.

I feel dizzy, as if I’m losing touch with my surroundings, and my nose suddenly starts to bleed. I drag the stream of blood, like a red veil, behind me to the sink. I suck it up my nostrils, lean my head back, swallow the blood, and hold on to the edge of the sink. There’s a torrent of blood, like some sacrificial ritual is taking place and an animal is being led to the slaughter.

Anna gets a wet cloth and helps me to wipe the blood off. She looks worried.

— Are you OK? she asks.

I sit down at the kitchen table and lean my head back. Anna stands on the floor in front of me; she’s wearing a fuchsia sweater, a very special color I’ve never seen before.

— Are you absolutely sure you’re OK? she asks again.

We’re both silent; then looking down she hesitantly says:

— I feel there’s so much I have to do before I become a mother.

I take the cloth away from my nose; it seems to have stopped bleeding. There’s no point in me telling her that she already is a mother.

— I’m just not ready to have a child straight away, she says, as if we were still a childless couple planning our future. She’s silent for a brief moment.

— I’m incredibly fond of you, but I just want to be alone — for a few years — and find myself and finish my degree. I feel I’m too young to found a family straight away, says the two-years-older genetics expert.

I clutch the cloth in my hand; it’s red from the blood and there are splatters of red on my shirt, too.

— You and Flóra Sól get on so well, much better than I do, she adds. You immediately became so close and are always doing something fun together, and you’ve created this world for the two of you that I feel I’m not a part of. I mean, you’re both left-handed, she swiftly adds.

— But she’s just a kid.

— You always agree with each other.

— What do you mean?

— You even speak Latin together. I feel I’m one too many.

— It’s a bit of an exaggeration to say she speaks Latin. She knows a few words, five or ten, I say, probably seven, I add after thinking it over a short moment. She just picked up a few words at the masses. Kids do things like that.

— Ten months old?

— Of course, I don’t have any experience of other children.

— I don’t get as much out of the mother role as you do out of the father role.

— Maybe I just wanted to attract your attention, to impress you.

— By teaching her Latin?

— By taking good care of her. And you, too, I say very softly.

— You’re a great guy, Arnljótur, she repeats, good and intelligent. Then she says she’s very fond of me.

— These forty days have been wonderful, she continues, but I can’t expect you to hang around waiting for me, she says, burying her face in her hands, while I’m finding myself, I mean.

— No, I say, you can’t. Still though, she could always try asking me to wait, I think to myself.