Whale Fjord

Seventeen

Ingileif wasn’t home when Magnus eventually got back to her apartment in Vesturbaer on the hill above the Old Harbour, but Ási was.

‘Hi, Dad,’ the boy said. Magnus grinned. Having a little boy call him ‘Dad’ never got old. Though Ási wasn’t that little any more. He was only ten, but he was one of the tallest in his class.

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘She said she’ll be back at seven-thirty. Did you see the Patriots won last night? Beat the Steelers seventeen to fourteen.’

‘I did,’ said Magnus. Father and son spent a companionable quarter of an hour talking about football, while Magnus put some pasta on to boil.

Magnus wasn’t sure that Ási was genuinely interested in football, or any other sport for that matter. But since Magnus had arrived on the scene, his son had made an effort to find out about the Red Sox and the Patriots. It touched Magnus greatly that Ási would go to all that effort to find a connection with his father, but he sometimes felt guilty that it ought to be the other way around. One day, Magnus would take him to Foxboro to see the Patriots. Would Ási like it? There was only one way to find out.

Ingileif arrived a little after seven, and, as always, Magnus’s heart gave a little flutter to see her. She looked happy.

‘I think I’m going to get that fishing lodge in the East Fjords,’ she said as she began to lay the table. ‘Hjörtur wants me to fly out there next week. They want rustic-modern rather than rustic-quaint. That’s something I can do.’

‘That’s great.’ Ingileif’s interior-design business had gone into hibernation during the pandemic, but the post-COVID tourist boom was bringing her plenty of opportunities. She had a good reputation and excellent contacts among Iceland’s artistic community, but she was careful to avoid big and bland jobs, however remunerative they were. An upscale fishing lodge would suit her down to the ground.

‘Any news on those two bodies they found yesterday?’ she asked. ‘I heard something about it on the radio.’

Magnus told her a bit about the case, avoiding too much detail on the skeletons, for Ási’s benefit. After dinner, Ási went off to his room to practise his violin. He needed no encouragement — he loved the instrument, and he was getting pretty good at it. Magnus and Ingileif sat on the sofa with a beer and a glass of wine.

Ingileif’s apartment was tasteful in the extreme. Good art, good glass, good ceramics, elegant lilies. A wonderful view of the fishing boats in the Old Harbour between Vesturbaer’s rooftops. Plain but warm wooden floorboards. No clutter, apart from a dozen strategically placed candles. No stuff.

It was her apartment; there was very little of Magnus in it. He had never had much stuff, but half of what he did have had been packed in a couple of boxes and stored in his old landlord Tryggvi Thór’s basement when he had moved in with Ingileif. Magnus was happy with that; he didn’t want to mess up her lovely apartment, and she had at least designed an elegant bookcase for his books, which was what he cared about most. But it meant he felt like a visitor. A guest.

Maybe he was happy with that too?

‘How’s Vigdís’s mother?’ Ingileif asked.

Magnus winced. ‘Not good. Turned out she was drunk. But worse than that, after Vigdís kicked her out of her apartment, Audur drove home. And hit someone.’

‘Oh, no! Was she arrested?’

‘No. Hit and run. And Vigdís saw it.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘Nope.’

Ingileif looked at Magnus, understanding. ‘And you think she should have done?’

Magnus nodded. ‘I do.’

‘Is the guy she hit OK?’

‘Apparently. But her mother isn’t, clearly. Who knows what will happen next time she runs someone over?’

‘You can’t expect her to turn in her own mother, Magnús!’

Magnus shrugged. ‘They do this to you, alcoholics. They force you to become their allies. You have to stand up to them.’

‘You’re not going to report her yourself, are you?’

‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘Of course not. And I do feel sorry for Vigdís. She believes Audur hadn’t touched a drop for a year.’

‘Was Erla OK?’

‘Yes, Erla’s fine.’

They sipped their drinks in silence. Silence, that is, apart from the Beethoven minuet drifting in from Ási’s room.

‘So? Have you decided when we get married?’ Ingileif asked.

Magnus had expected the question. He couldn’t dodge it, and Ingileif deserved an answer. ‘I don’t want to get married. Or I do. But not now. Not for a couple of years.’

Ingileif frowned, and Magnus could see she was about to come out with a sharp retort, but she controlled herself. ‘I don’t understand why not, Magnús. I really don’t understand why not.’

‘Neither did I. I had to think about it.’

‘And?’

She had a right to know, but it was going to be difficult to tell her.

‘I think if we stay as we are for a few years, then we’ll be more certain it’s the right thing to do.’

‘What does that mean, Magnús? Don’t you trust me? The whole point of this is to demonstrate that we trust each other.’

‘Of course I trust you. Now.’

‘Now? What do you mean now?’

Magnus took a deep breath. ‘I mean, you change, Ingileif. That’s one of the things I love about you, but...’

‘But what?’

‘You married Hannes, didn’t you? When you did that, that was a commitment, wasn’t it? And then you started seeing other men. You did the same thing with me before. You might do it again. I know you don’t mean to now. Just like Vigdís’s mother didn’t mean to drink again.’

Colour rose to Ingileif’s cheeks. ‘Oh, so you think I’m some kind of sex addict, do you?’

‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m sorry, Audur was a bad comparison. But I do want to be sure you don’t walk off again.’

Ingileif looked as if she was about to explode. But she lowered her voice. ‘Don’t you see, Magnús? That’s the whole point. I have changed. And I want to stay changed. With you.’

There was anger, but also sadness in her eyes. ‘It was different when I married Hannes. It wasn’t just that I didn’t love him as much as I love you. I went into it with a different mindset. He wanted to get married and I thought marriage would be kind of fun. It’s true I didn’t take it too seriously — I had a couple of flings but they didn’t mean anything. He was the one who ran off with someone else. And then, when he wanted to come back, I decided I wanted to be with you. Properly.’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t you believe me?’ Her grey eyes looked into his, beseeching.

‘Of course I do,’ Magnus said.

‘Well then?’

‘I just don’t want to have the same thing happen to me as happened to Hannes. Again.’

Ingileif shook her head. She looked down into her empty wine glass.

‘Is that the only reason?’ she muttered.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Magnus.

He waited for Ingileif to speak. She looked up. ‘What about Erla?’

‘What about Erla?’

She took out her phone and fiddled with it. ‘Look at this,’ she said.

Magnus took the phone. It was a picture of Erla on a swing in a playground in Hafnarfjördur, taken when Magnus and Ingileif had been round to lunch with Vigdís the previous month. It was a close-up. She had a big smile on her face.

‘OK,’ said Magnus.

Ingileif took her phone back and fiddled some more. ‘Now look at this.’

It was a picture of a red-haired toddler of about the same age having just as much fun on another swing.

‘That’s Ási, isn’t it?’ Magnus hadn’t met Ási until he was three years older, but it was clearly their son.

‘Don’t you think they look similar?’

Magnus swallowed. ‘No. Erla’s skin is darker — Ási’s is pale. Her hair is black, Ási’s is red. So no, they don’t look similar.’

‘Oh, come on, Magnús, of course they do! Look at that smile. Look at the nose.’

Magnus resolutely shook his head. He returned Ingileif’s phone. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying they could be brother and sister. Or half-brother and — sister.’

‘You think I’m Erla’s father?’

‘Who is her father?’

Magnus shrugged. ‘Not me.’

‘Magnús. You have form for fathering children you know nothing about.’

‘That’s hardly my fault,’ Magnus said. ‘You never told me about Ási. I had no idea he even existed!’

Ingileif’s eyes were hard. ‘Have you slept with Vigdís?’

Magnus hesitated. Ingileif noticed. ‘No.’

‘No? Magnús?’

Magnus knew this wasn’t the time for half-truths. Or half-lies.

‘No. But I did kiss her. Once. Over ten years ago. When you left to go to Germany. We got drunk. It was a mistake. We never did it again. We never talk about it.’

‘You never told me about that,’ Ingileif said.

‘No,’ said Magnus.

‘You were drunk?’

‘Yes. We both were. We both regretted it.’

‘And it was just a kiss?’

‘Yeah. But not just a peck on the cheek.’

‘I see.’ Ingileif nodded to herself. ‘I was doing some calculations. Erla’s about eighteen months old, right?’

‘I think so, maybe a little younger.’

‘Which means she must have been conceived in the summer of 2021.’

‘Does it?’

‘When you and Vigdís went out drinking and you came home at five in the morning. You know, when your brother and his friends came over to Iceland.’

‘I didn’t sleep with Vigdís,’ Magnus said.

Ingileif showed her phone to Magnus. ‘And you still say Ási doesn’t look like Erla?’

Magnus nodded. ‘I don’t think so.’

But the little boy did look a lot like the little girl. He knew that and Ingileif knew that.

‘I don’t believe you, Magnús. I don’t think it’s me you can’t trust.’ She glared at him, sadness once again tingeing her anger. ‘I think it’s you.’