Erlendur brushed a hand over the old man’s forehead. He pictured Gudrún and Davíd as it finally became apparent that they would not be able to escape from the car and they held hands, resigned to their fate, as their life ebbed away and their hearts stopped beating in the cold water.
‘I wish I could have come a bit sooner,’ he said.
The nurse crept out of the room, leaving them alone.
‘He’d met a girl,’ Erlendur said after a long silence. ‘He didn’t die alone. It was an accident. He didn’t commit suicide. He wasn’t depressed or unhappy when he died. He was happy. He was in love with a girl he had met and they were fooling around – they were in high spirits; you’d have understood. They died together. He was with his girl and he was probably going to tell you about her when he got home, that she was at the university and was great fun and absolutely obsessed with lakes. That she was his girl. His girl, for ever.’
37
Erlendur stood by the derelict farm that had once been his home, looking up at Mount Hardskafi. It was difficult to see the mountain because of the icy fog that was sinking ever lower over the fjord. He was well equipped, in his old walking boots, thick waterproof trousers and a warm down jacket. After gazing at the mountain for a long time in solemn silence, he set off on foot, with a walking stick in his hand and a small pack on his back. He made quick progress, enfolded in the hush of nature now fallen into its winter sleep. Before long he had disappeared into the cold fog.
Arnaldur Indriðason
