Whale Fjord

Nine

September 2023

After dropping Vigdís off at police headquarters so she could drive her own car back to Hafnarfjördur, Magnus had gone straight off to Grafarholt to interview this Gudni.

It was such a shame about Audur. Vigdís had seemed pleased and proud that her mother had finally kicked the habit, although Magnus was aware of her underlying fear that that particular habit could never be kicked.

A fear that now seemed justified.

There were plenty of single mothers in Iceland, and the society was far more welcoming of the situation than many other countries, but most had a large Icelandic extended family to fall back on. Not Vigdís. Her black father had returned to America unaware of her existence. And her mother was useless. Worse than useless. Dangerous.

Yet Vigdís had known what she was getting herself into. She was an attractive woman, at least in Magnus’s estimation: long legs, a lithe body, a certain aloofness that some men might find appealing rather than off-putting. She had had two serious boyfriends in the years Magnus had known her: an Icelandic TV executive based in New York and a German environmental activist. Both nice guys. Both in the wrong countries.

Magnus had assumed that Vigdís had resigned herself to no children, but then he had become aware that she was getting heavily involved in internet dating, of the one- or two-night-stand variety. When she had become pregnant — at the age of forty — Magnus had supposed she would be upset about it. Not a bit of it. She went through pregnancy with a serene smile of happiness.

Although Vigdís never acknowledged it publicly, Magnus had a pretty good idea who the father was.

The birth had been problem-free despite Vigdís’s age, and there was no doubt that Erla had made her happy, even taking into account the occasional administrative hiccup.

As Magnus’s own son Ási had made Ingileif happy.

Ingileif had been a bit younger than Vigdís when she had given birth — thirty-six rather than forty-one — but like Vigdís she had been careful not to acknowledge the father, or even tell him. Magnus had only found out when he and Vigdís had bumped into Ingileif and her four-year-old son in the street. And it was Vigdís who had spotted the similarity.

Now they were together, the three of them: Magnus, Ingileif and Ási, and all was well in Magnus’s world.

But then, last weekend, Ingileif had done what Ingileif loved to do. Upset everything.

This time, it wasn’t mischief-making. Quite the opposite. But for reasons Magnus didn’t yet understand, it had had the same effect.

It was Sunday morning and they had been lying in bed after a particularly vigorous and very satisfying half-hour of intense physical activity.

His breathing was just settling down. He reached over and stroked Ingileif’s naked thigh gently. She purred.

He and Ingileif were right together. He had realized that very soon after they had first met, and it was a realization which had refused to go away during the ups and downs in their relationship since then.

In the long years when she had moved to Germany and then been married to someone else, there had been a few other women in Magnus’s life, but he had never been able to summon up much enthusiasm for them. With the exception of the last, Eygló.

Yet even then, Ingileif had come back, and here he was.

Happy.

She raised herself up on her elbows and ran her finger down his cheek. She was smiling; her eyes were smiling. He noticed, as he always did at moments like this, that little V-shaped nick above her eyebrow, which had become so familiar over the years.

‘So where shall we have it?’

‘Have what?’

‘The wedding.’

‘What wedding?’ Magnus was still stroking her thigh.

‘Our wedding?’

Magnus’s hand froze. ‘Our wedding!’

‘Yes. I’ve waited so long: I’d like a proper wedding. In a church. Perhaps that cute one at your grandparents’ farm at Bjarnarhöfn?’

‘What?’

‘You know we’re getting married, right? We agreed that when we got back together. I said we would have to be committed to each other. No sleeping around. And marriage. Didn’t I say that?’

‘You did. And we haven’t slept around. Or at least I haven’t.’

‘And you think I have?’

‘No, no! I know you haven’t,’ Magnus said. He couldn’t trust Ingileif in the years before Ási was born, but then Ingileif hadn’t professed belief in monogamy then. Now she did.

‘But we also said we’d get married.’

‘Er... You said that. I didn’t.’

‘I’d noticed,’ said Ingileif. ‘And I was waiting. For a proposal. I know what an old-fashioned American you are.’

‘I know. And I’m sorry.’

‘What’s the matter?’ said Ingileif. ‘Don’t you want to get married? I thought that’s exactly what you wanted?’

‘So did I. And I do. I think.’ Magnus was confused. He did want to get married, didn’t he? Hadn’t he spent most of the last fourteen years wanting to get married to Ingileif? And yet. ‘Can’t we stay the way we are?’

‘You’re such an Icelander after all,’ said Ingileif. ‘But I want to do this.’

‘Why?’ said Magnus.

‘Committing myself to you was a big deal for me. I’d like to do it properly. In front of our friends and what’s left of our families. Make a public promise.’

‘I see.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then? What’s the problem?’

‘I don’t know, Ingileif,’ Magnus had said. ‘I just don’t know.’

But there was a problem. And Magnus had to figure out what it was.