During the break Tumi eats a pastille and gives one to me and one to my friend. Then he closes the box. It’s a drag for him not to be able to lip-read the actors on screen and follow their mouth movements. He sees nodding heads, people squinting their eyes and laughing, but he can’t grasp the words.
His eyes barely reach the top of the seats, so I lift him up and sit him on my lap after the intermission. He’s no taller than a three-year-old child; I can see the screen over his head. Our friend slips into the boy’s seat.
“Was that for pretend?” Tumi asks when the lights come back on.
Should I tell him that it’s all for pretend? That you can see the reflection of spotlights in those make-believe tears?
“No, the things that we experience and imagine are also real,” I say, and he knows exactly what I mean.
“You don’t need a man,” he says from the back seat as I’m fastening his safety belt in the car, “you have me.”
“Who says I’m looking for a man?”
“You look at him.”
“Really?”
“And he looks at you.”
I don’t tell him I’m expecting a guest when he falls asleep.
SIXTY-ONE
Everyone gets a nocturnal visit at some stage. There are no curtains in the windows, no point in locking out the darkness when there’s nothing but brown lyme grass and heather in front of them, and nothing behind us but the brown moors. Everything is still in the darkness outside. Five degrees, and for the first time in ages there is a ray of moonlight, which filters down diagonally from the top left-hand corner of the window, like a subtle reading lamp. Despite the day’s rainfall, some clothes are still hanging on the sheltered line on the deck. Inside the scene is as follows: I’ve finished reading a story to Tumi, who is now sleeping with the kitten. I limit myself to the candlelight in the living room, coupled with the glow of the moon, that spotlight provided by the Almighty above. On the window sill there is a blue boot with a yellow rim, size 26, and our pet butterfly is up and about. How much longer can it live for? The time is 00:17 and I hear the gravel crunching under his feet. Not only am I connected to the moon and stars above, but I’m also in close intimate contact with the Santa Claus, who comes to visit me every night. Not down the chimney, but over the railing on the deck in his black boots. He swiftly tackles the hill, with the moon at his back and a pink halo hovering around his head. He slips out of the darkness over the glittering Christmas lights into the candlelight, like a true professional. First his feet, clad in black leather boots, and then his red coat with its white fur trim and black belt.
He’s holding my washing from the line in his arms and knocks gently on the window. Then he takes off his hood. The parcel is too big to fit into the boy’s boot.
“I have enough time to tell you a long story,” he says.
I loosely brush my fingertips against his black trousers, almost imperceptibly at first, but then stroke him hard enough for him to feel me and then harder again. Next I tackle the white cotton hair, tangling it around my finger to make a skein.
I loosen the buckle of his black belt, slide my hand inside, and pause. His skin is warm; I linger on every pause, concentrating on every detail, and then go searching for a warm mouth and eyes. The nocturnal guest’s imagination knows no limits, although I feel no need to divulge any of that here.
I suddenly hear what sounds like a faint swish and, at the same moment, the candle on the table extinguishes itself, leaving a lingering spiral of smoke. And, as if that wasn’t enough, I see from the total darkness in front of me that the Christmas lights have gone out on the deck. I feel compelled to break the silence and put my visitor’s technical expertise to the test:
“Could you help me with the Christmas lights afterwards?”
He’s quick to solve the problem; they only needed to be switched back on. And he also relights the candle.
“You probably need some earthing,” he says.
“Really?”
“I have to go,” he says, “but I’ll be back.”
As I’m sweeping up the soot from the chimney, along with the other remains of the night, and pick up the clothes scattered around the living room, I look for evidence of his visit and find a tiny stain — sufficient proof to incriminate the right man.
SIXTY-TWO
It seems that no one knows exactly where the flooding came from, but understandably it’s the only thing people can talk about in the shop. The village is covered in sand and black sludge, basements are full of puddles, most of the Christmas lights have been smashed to smithereens and garden decorations have been destroyed. Everywhere one goes there are men in orange overalls mopping up, clearing the streets and scooping water out of cellars. The water seems to have flowed down the slope on the eastern side and taken the church with it, although the village itself has been mostly spared.
“We were planning on building a new church anyway,” say the men in a positive spirit; “the old one was just a heap of mouldy trash that we’re happy to get rid of.”
The situation is analogous in the two neighbouring villages. Everyone is flabbergasted; nothing is as it should be. It appears that several rivers in the highlands suddenly broke their banks and started to forge new and unpredictable courses in all directions. The area where the locals used to pick blueberries is now completely inundated. The only thing that doesn’t seem to have changed is that rivers still flow into the sea, albeit not in the places where they are expected to. People are totally puzzled by the freakish behaviour of their watercourses, which cannot solely be attributed to the incessant rainfall of the past forty days and nights.
The greatest mystery of all is the whale. The most likely scenario seems to be that it was beached and then somehow carried to the car park in front of the savings bank, although it might look as if it had been carried there by the water over the highlands.
Its giant black mass is visible all the way from the chalet, a fully grown whale, probably fifteen metres long. And pregnant, it would later transpire.
“It doesn’t matter where she came from,” says the man, “we’ll carve her up this afternoon and share the meat around.”
Other sea animals have been thrown up on dry land here and there: cod, catfish and redfish. The main thing is that the people were spared.
I give Mom a call to tell her to have no worries; we’re preparing our return to the city.
“Good job it wasn’t worse and no one was hurt.”
“Well three dogs are still missing.”
“Is it raining?”
“No, Mom, it’s cleared up, just like it has in the city, and the whole country it seems, if the weather forecast on the radio is anything to go by.”
“Have you sorted out your affairs?”
“Yes, we’re clearing things up. We only have the Christmas presents to pack now.”
“How’s it going with the boy, does he eat well?”
“Yes, he eats well.”
“How are you managing to talk to him?”
“Well, it’s a world beyond words.”
“How are you?”
“Fine, we’re going to celebrate Christmas in the city and then I’m going abroad for a few months.”
“What, on a job?”
“I can work from anywhere I want, Tumi is coming with me. I’ve spoken to Auður about it and she approves. She’ll be so busy with the baby twins, she’s afraid he might be neglected.”