Fifty years ago. New Year’s Eve, 1958. For fifty years her death — her horrible death — had been on his conscience. She had said goodbye to this world while others were saying goodbye to the old year. She was called Sóley, named after a sunflower, bright and beautiful, with her long blond hair.
And now he was back in Reykjavik, standing outside of Hotel Borg, a city landmark which had changed very little during the years.
For one short moment he travelled back in his mind to that fateful day fifty years ago, but he did not stay there for long. Now it was 2008 again. On Austurvöllur Square there were unusually many people for a cold day in December. People were protesting against the government and the general state of things following the collapse of the Icelandic banks. Some were holding picket signs or shouting, others were making noise with pots and pans. Police officers tried to protect the parliament building.
What had happened to Reykjavik since he moved abroad? Had the small town turned into a big city? Or did that maybe happen fifty years earlier? There was a dark cloud of anger over the downtown area. The noise from the protests was overwhelming and the protesters uncomfortably close to him. He hurried into the hotel lobby, where he felt safe. At least for the time being. The currency of Iceland had collapsed with the banks, so his hotel room turned out to be much cheaper than when he had made the booking.
He was still burdened with guilt, after all those years. Why the hell had he done what he did? Sóley — the girl he had loved more than anything in the world. What came over him?
An elderly lady was sitting in a comfortable chair in the lobby, reading an English translation of a book by the Icelandic Nobel laureate Halldór Laxness. He was still able to read Laxness in the original Icelandic; he had not totally forgotten his origins in spite of the exile.
He was a sailor through and through, traveled extensively when he was a young man but always returned to the harbour in Reykjavik. Then he met this charming girl. He intended to marry her. But everything changed on New Year’s Eve 1958.
A few days after her death he had gone on yet another ocean voyage, but this time around he didn’t want to return home. He made a home for himself abroad. Sóley was gone forever, existing only as a memory in the shadowy place in his mind that he tried to avoid at all cost.
He was a young man when he started drinking. At first he drank to relax, but then — later on, when Sóley had died — he drank to avoid relaxing, so that he would not have to think of her. He had been under the influence of alcohol that day in 1958 — that New Year’s Eve. He had been drinking with his buddies on the previous evening; the evening turned into night and then the night turned into day — and he was still drinking. Was he not able to control his drinking, as he had always believed?
He could still envisage her — as she had been before she died, but also her gruesome lifeless body. What had he done?
Everything reminded him of her. His heart was still filled with guilt.
She had invited him to a New Year’s dance at Hotel Borg — he accepted the invitation with anticipation. He never imagined it could end this way. Of course not — of course it never occurred to him. Things would have gone differently if he had not taken that first drink on the day before the dance.
They were to meet in front of the hotel at half-past nine.
In front of the hotel.
Now, fifty years on, he was standing in the lobby and staring out the window. He wanted to grab a cup of coffee and something to eat, but the restaurant was closed due to a live television broadcast. The leaders of the political parties in Iceland were to discuss the political highlights of the year. The protesters had now moved closer to the hotel.
He could remember how she looked that night, young and charming in a new white dress — looking forward to celebrating the New Year with him. She had no intention of dying that night. During the last summer of her life, when they were sitting in the shade having a picnic, she actually told him that she was planning on living forever. On that occasion they discussed their future together. He was going to give up his job as a sailor and find something else to do. They planned on building a small house in Reykjavik, the village which was fast spreading out and turning into a city. It was no longer a luxury of the upper classes only to own a house in Reykjavik. A friend of his had, in fact, built a house of his own. This same friend invited him to the party on the evening before New Year’s Eve — the party which, in a way, cost Sóley her life.
Sóley had been in her first year at university, a country girl from a farm in the eastern part of Iceland, the only daughter of an elderly couple. Her father had been determined that she would enjoy the education he had missed. He saved money and made sure she finished her college studies and that she would then go on to study medicine at university. “It will be good to have a doctor in the family when we start losing our health,” he said with a joyful smile, but his voice indicated that first and foremost he wanted his daughter to have a secure and bright future.
Her parents had not been particularly happy hearing about her relationship with the sailor, who was a few years her senior and had little education. They had hoped she would finish her medical studies and go to Denmark for further studies before falling in love. The money in her university fund could possibly have been sufficient to pay for such a trip abroad.
Sóley lived with her aunt in Reykjavik. Her boyfriend had occasionally come over there for supper, a polite young man. Sóley’s aunt put in a good word for him and little by little Sóley’s father started accepting him — emphasizing, however, that she could not give up her studies even though they were to be married. He met his future son-in-law once, in the autumn, in Reykjavik.
The farmer had spoken to the young man after dinner and said these words, which were unforgettable, even half a century later: “I’m trusting you with my daughter. You shall not betray that trust.”
Yet, that was exactly what he had done. Betrayed the trust of Sóley and her parents. He could blame the alcohol or himself — it didn’t really matter. He had deprived her of the opportunity to lead the life she had been expecting, the bright future she was facing until she met him.
Why on earth did she have the misfortune of meeting him?
They had met at a sailors’ festival in downtown Reykjavik. He was with his friends, she was experiencing the big city by herself. He started speaking to her and subsequently invited her down to the harbour where he was to take part in a rowing competition. This was almost love at first sight. She was confident, smart, and sought after. Way too good for him, he felt. Every time he went out to sea he said a reluctant goodbye to her, worried that during his absence she would find another man, a better man. She never betrayed him. In hindsight, he wouldn’t have had to worry or be jealous; he should have focused on his own problems. In the end he turned out to be her worst enemy.
The protests outside of the hotel grew louder by the minute. The political party leaders had taken their seats in the restaurant and the televised debate was beginning. He didn’t know the names of any of these political figures, he never read any news from his old country, was only an Icelander by name — in the passport he carried.
The protests became more violent, a group of people — angry at the state of the economy following the total economic meltdown — attempted to breach the police barriers and make their way into the restaurant. For a moment he felt that they were coming for him, to punish him. He looked away and suddenly felt as if his hands were covered in blood. The blood of the woman he had loved.