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Of course the Minister of Home Affairs had objected to all this, but soon found His wife knew much more than he did before he could go public. And after his car Passed through the border he kept thinking to himself as he accelerated down The narrow country road, How careless to drive so fast and want so much so freely. 3 Liberation This is how water flies, whole shapes of liquid light, hovering, descending, pulling up and taking to air – gracefully, without any immediate organic strain * The iris contracts for the millionth time, a vessel shooting away into quiet, a shape vanishing into a warm journey, as fluent as water 4 The Composer What would he make of Reykjavik – the secret dinner on his first night, or the fishing harbour they’d pass through in a rusted truck – en route to a farm north of the island? His head was filled with thoughts, thoughts of gunmetal grey rocks steaming on the edges of pools, the yellow smell of sulphur, and Hekla thawing the winter skies. But he also thought of what he’d fled from – a whole lifetime of the unforgettable; his raw heart still developing like a Polaroid. For all those years in the dark he learnt how to dislocate himself from the truth surrounding him – taking comfort in remembering an article about Iceland’s hot healing springs, the bird cliffs and nesting grounds, turfwalls and summer midges… For years he had imagined their daylight and the images of the island bred in his mind. And he longed for daylight, any sort of daylight, all those days that had no end and melted into long black years of fear. But for now all he could think of was the city that would greet him – where a dear friend who held no blood-questions, and had no task to ask them, promised to meet him. They’d stay in Reykjavik for a night, have a quiet dinner to celebrate with a family of Danes, then drive out north, and there they’d meet with another friend who’d finally smuggle him to Thorvald’s farm – that vast quiet tract of naked land. At the precise moment he’d begun to think of the opening words of his speech, the phone rang. It was his wife, who immediately apologised for calling so late. She was in her hotel room, next door to his – checking if he’d finally managed to fall asleep. She insisted that he shouldn’t stay up all night 10
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worrying about the deer he hit and left to die on the roadside – then, after a few more words, she blew a kiss into the static line. But no words could calm his nerves. He shouted angrily down the receiver what he’d heard about and seen, how her father and the ‘butchering cunts’ now dealt with believers and those suspected of believing. He shouted with more conviction, asking about his siblings – had she heard nothing, nothing at all, nothing of them! Hadn’t she seen what they’d done to him? How could she honestly fail to see what was truly going on! As the hours passed he kept thinking of the island, how the winter light would suit his eyes – how the solitude would suit his soul, and most likely save his life. Having then realised he had drunk half the bottle of whisky on his own, he began to fear his incapacity for sleep, and wondered quite nervously if he’d ever make the morning ferry for Reykjavik. Then returned the thoughts of his own violent death – the shouts, the begging and pleading in the dark; all the lies he’d told his wife, all the reasons he never wanted a child; the secrets his father had hidden, the secrets instilled in him. And after a while he began to idolise the first idea of love, only to suddenly deplore it. Abandoning the whole notion with disgust, he reeled over and vomited in deep coughs of bright red blood. His room was cold; he sat weak on the edge of the bed adjusting and readjusting the belt around his neck. The first gold moments of dawn shivered on the sea as he stared out of the window – and he thought of the long drive that had brought him here, to this town reminding him of his own childhood town – the ice-cream-coloured houses he’d run from with nothing more than his shadow in the company of other shadows – across borders, into the freedom of music. Whole memories of his childhood came back to him with the smell of gunpowder and the taste of warm raw liver. But how had he forgotten Amalie, that one pure autumn, when they met everyday and watched the cold sea glimmer in the old harbour. The smell of fresh dill on her soft hands, the moles on her ankle and neck, and the smile that broke his heart entirely. How had he forgotten her, that sweet quiet hold of neglected pain. He thought of her now, how they touched, the first time their lips met – his hands on her hips, warm on her skin and wet with the entrails of the deer, its neck craning, its wide hopeless eyes loosely rolling like ball-bearings on a velvet cloth. He remembered the expensive car steaming in the ditch, its wide bonnet curled like a harelip. Again he became unbearably nervous. And all the rubbing and squeezing of his hands could not quieten the sound of the crash nor erase the image of the young girl who sat frozen in the passenger seat; her bright red hat and screaming face already buried beneath the reflection of sky on glass. 11

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Of course the Minister of Home Affairs had objected to all this, but soon found His wife knew much more than he did before he could go public. And after his car

Passed through the border he kept thinking to himself as he accelerated down The narrow country road, How careless to drive so fast and want so much so freely.

3 Liberation

This is how water flies, whole shapes of liquid light, hovering, descending, pulling up and taking to air – gracefully, without any immediate organic strain

*

The iris contracts for the millionth time, a vessel shooting away into quiet, a shape vanishing into a warm journey, as fluent as water

4 The Composer

What would he make of Reykjavik – the secret dinner on his first night, or the fishing harbour they’d pass through in a rusted truck – en route to a farm north of the island? His head was filled with thoughts, thoughts of gunmetal grey rocks steaming on the edges of pools, the yellow smell of sulphur, and Hekla thawing the winter skies. But he also thought of what he’d fled from – a whole lifetime of the unforgettable; his raw heart still developing like a Polaroid.

For all those years in the dark he learnt how to dislocate himself from the truth surrounding him – taking comfort in remembering an article about Iceland’s hot healing springs, the bird cliffs and nesting grounds, turfwalls and summer midges… For years he had imagined their daylight and the images of the island bred in his mind. And he longed for daylight, any sort of daylight, all those days that had no end and melted into long black years of fear.

But for now all he could think of was the city that would greet him – where a dear friend who held no blood-questions, and had no task to ask them, promised to meet him. They’d stay in Reykjavik for a night, have a quiet dinner to celebrate with a family of Danes, then drive out north, and there they’d meet with another friend who’d finally smuggle him to Thorvald’s farm – that vast quiet tract of naked land.

At the precise moment he’d begun to think of the opening words of his speech, the phone rang. It was his wife, who immediately apologised for calling so late. She was in her hotel room, next door to his – checking if he’d finally managed to fall asleep. She insisted that he shouldn’t stay up all night

10

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