The Shadow District

22

As Konrád listened to Ingiborg describe her encounter with Thorson, he wondered if he dare ask whether she had stuck to her guns. But he didn’t know her at all and realised that he himself would take offence at this kind of prying.

‘Thorson was good to you,’ he said instead.

‘He was a lovely man,’ said Ingiborg. ‘A genuinely kind man.’

‘He settled in this country, as I said. Did you have any contact with him after the war?’

‘No, none. I left town. And never ran into him again after I came back. I assumed he’d returned to Canada.’

‘Actually, I understand he lived in Hveragerdi for many years before moving to Reykjavík about twenty-five years ago.’

‘Did he have a family? Children?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘What about Flóvent?’

‘I have almost no information about him,’ said Konrád. ‘All I know is that he was one of the pioneers of the Reykjavík CID. His name crops up in accounts of the history of the department. Never met him myself — he was rather before my time.’

‘I was pregnant and had no idea where to turn. I’d heard of people who could help out — some girls I knew were talking about it. Then I got a message from Frank that just goes to show what kind of man he was. A friend of his came to see me and told me about a woman I could visit. Frank knew what he wanted. He swore the child had nothing to do with him, but in spite of that he directed me to a woman I could talk to if I wanted to go down that road. I don’t know how he knew about her. I just hoped it wasn’t from experience.’

‘And did you go and see her?’ asked Konrád hesitantly.

‘I did,’ Ingiborg replied, after a little pause.

‘So you changed your mind?’

‘I couldn’t see any other way out. And I didn’t have much time if I was going to...’

‘But you wanted to keep the child?’

Ingiborg looked at him, offended.

‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean...’

‘What do you think?’ she snapped.

The woman Frank sent her to see lived in a low, concrete farmhouse set among the small hills east of the Ellidaár rivers, just outside the city limits. It was quite a trek from Ingiborg’s home and it took her a long time to get there. She hadn’t spoken to her parents about her dilemma, her fear, dread and confusion, or to any of her friends or relatives. She felt so ashamed of what had happened to her that she couldn’t bear the thought of people knowing, especially after the way Frank had behaved — lying and making a fool of her like that.

When she reached the bridge spanning the rivers, she sat down briefly on a rock to catch her breath. She had a bad taste in her mouth. How did he know about the woman on the hill? Had he sent another girl there before her? Did the soldiers know about her for obvious reasons? Was she herself really going to follow his advice? Advice from Frank, of all people! Could she really stoop that low?’

She stood up and forced herself to go on, her reluctance growing with every step as she struggled up the final stretch to the farmhouse. The concrete building had an air of neglect: flaking patches of paint here and there bore witness to the fact that it had once been whitewashed. Adjoining the main house, and enclosed by a chicken run, was a tumbledown disused cowshed with a turf roof. Hens wandered in and out under the watchful eye of an alert cockerel. Two children, playing on the grassy roof, paused and subjected Ingiborg to a silent stare. It was a mild, windless day and there was a beautiful view north to the snow-covered form of Mount Esja.

Avoiding the children’s gaze, Ingiborg knocked at the door. It was opened a crack by a woman in her forties.

‘Good afternoon,’ Ingiborg began.

‘What do you want?’ asked the woman.

‘I was told I should talk to you, ma’am.’

‘“Ma’am?” Well, aren’t you posh? I don’t call anyone “ma’am” and you shouldn’t either.’

‘No, sorry... I... don’t know how to put it... I was told you could help women like... in my position.’

The woman studied her through the narrow gap.

‘Gone and got yourself knocked up, have you?’

She asked the question bluntly, but without any trace of accusation or disapproval, and before Ingiborg knew it she was nodding and confessing to this unknown woman both her fall from grace and the crime she had come here to commit.

‘How did you find me?’ asked the woman.

‘I was referred by someone.’

‘Yes, I expect you were. Who by? Who told you about me? Your parents? It can hardly have been a doctor. Your gentleman friend, maybe?’

Ingiborg nodded.

‘Soldier, is he?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Come in, then.’ The woman opened the door wider. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

The woman ushered Ingiborg into her kitchen and asked if she wanted anything to drink. Ingiborg shook her head. The kitchen was primitive and very cramped, with a larder off to one side. The woman had been rinsing eggs in the sink and packing them into boxes.

‘How far along are you?’ she asked. She was short and wore her hair in a bun. What drew Ingiborg’s attention most were her hands, which were unusually large. Arthritis had twisted the little fingers and ring fingers into her palms, rendering them almost useless. The long, dirty nails resembled talons. Ingiborg averted her eyes.

‘I don’t know, not exactly.’

‘More than twelve weeks, you reckon?’

‘No, not that long. More like eight or nine.’

‘I see,’ said the woman, turning to her and drying her hands. ‘That’s all right, then.’

Ingiborg didn’t move.

‘No need to look so terrified,’ said the woman. ‘It’s a very simple operation. I know what I’m doing.’

Ingiborg found herself staring at the woman’s fingers again and wishing that she had never entered this house.

‘I... I didn’t know what you charge for... how much money I should bring.’

‘Does it look like I do this for the money?’ asked the woman, glancing around her humble kitchen.

‘No. I don’t know.’

The woman studied her for a while. ‘Maybe you need more time to think.’

Ingiborg nodded. ‘I think I’m making a mistake.’

‘It’s up to you. You shouldn’t be here unless you’re sure this is what you want to do. You can’t allow yourself any doubts. There was a girl here a while ago who was like you, scared out of her wits, with the oddest excuse for her condition, though I’ve heard worse.’

‘Excuse?’

‘Claimed she was a respectable seamstress. That she didn’t know any soldiers. She was hardly in her right mind after I’d dealt with her — kept rambling on about some bastard who’d forced himself on her; apparently he said some strange stuff about the huldufólk.’

Ingiborg struggled to keep her gaze from straying back to those hands with their twisted fingers.

‘You should go home,’ said the woman, resuming her washing of the eggs. ‘Go home and think about it, and if you want you can come back and we’ll see what I can do for you. You’ve still got a bit of time on your side.’

Ingiborg fell silent. Neither of them spoke for a while as she lost herself in her memories of the concrete farmhouse on the hill and the woman with the twisted fingers.

‘Did you go back?’ asked Konrád, finally venturing to break the silence.

‘No, I didn’t, and I never saw the woman again. My parents found out once I began to show, and I had to confess to having sinned with Frank. They banished me to the countryside. I had the child, but it was taken away for adoption. Where, I don’t know. I never asked.’

‘You must have had some say in the matter?’

‘I agreed to it. I let them decide. Let them push me around instead of doing what I wanted. The worst part was that I didn’t know what I wanted. I couldn’t make up my own mind. Somehow it was easier to let other people take over, hope that it would all fade over time. Perhaps it was even worse than an abortion. I don’t know. I’ve tried not to think about it. My father insisted, and I obeyed. I had no choice. But at least the woman in the farmhouse was honest. The alternative has involved living a lie for the rest of my life. My husband never knew. My son still doesn’t. I hope I can trust you to keep it to yourself?’

‘That goes without saying,’ said Konrád. ‘But your story’s hardly unique.’

‘No, naturally I wasn’t the only one.’

‘Did you ever see Frank again?’

‘No. Never.’

‘What did that woman mean about the huldufólk?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. But Thorson happened to mention to me that Rósamunda had worked as a seamstress and made beautiful dresses, so I put two and two together. I thought I’d better let him know and rang him. It turned out that the police were already aware she’d had an abortion but didn’t know who’d performed it.’

‘Was it the same woman?’

‘I expect so,’ said Ingiborg. ‘Though I never heard any more about it.’