My question doesn’t seem to surprise him in the least.
— Wasn’t it veal?
— Yeah, that’s right. Two pounds.
— Yeah, eight slices, should be enough for five adults, he says.
— Yes, there were eight slices, I say. I’ve made some progress in the language; I can form short simple sentences and hold a conversation.
— You heat the pan, he says, then put four tablespoons of oil in it and fry the slices of meat in the oil, first on one side and then you turn them over and fry them on the other side. Then just salt and pepper. It doesn’t take long.
— How long? I ask.
— Three minutes on each side.
— What about a sauce? I ask.
— You pour red wine over the pan when you’ve finished frying the meat and let the sauce sizzle a moment.
— How long?
— Two minutes.
— And spices?
— Salt and pepper.
Forty-nine
She’s holding my daughter in her arms when she steps off the train, and there aren’t many people on the platform so they stand out in the crowd and attract plenty of attention. Flóra Sól is in a pink floral dress, stockings, pink shoes, and a knitted sweater. She’s grown; she’s no longer an infant. She’s wearing a yellow hat that is knotted under her chin, and two golden locks protrude from the rim over her forehead. I stare at the child, the fruit of a fleeting moment of carnal pleasure, whom I haven’t seen for two months, and she stares back at me with big, watery blue eyes, curious and slightly hesitant. Anna is wearing a blue jacket with her hair tied in a tail, and is visibly tired after the journey. I also get the feeling that she might be cold, even though it’s hot out and I’m wearing a shirt myself.
The first thought that crosses my mind when I see her getting off the train is that I should have made an effort to get to know her better. Three years ago I wouldn’t have noticed a girl like her on the street; it would be different today, though, because I’m not the same man anymore. They’re both eyeing me up, the mother and daughter: I’m in a freshly ironed shirt and have a new haircut, that’s the best I could do.
I greet Anna with a kiss on the cheek and smile at my daughter. She smiles back with a wet smile, rosy cheeks, and dimples on her pale porcelain face; there is a great brightness around the child. My daughter stretches out her hand toward me. Her mother looks at her in surprise and then at me, as if the child had somehow stunned her by immediately taking to her stranger of a father. She, nevertheless, hands me my daughter. She’s as light as a feather, about the weight of a big puppy, and all soft. She leaps into my arms. I stroke her cheek.
— She’s not afraid of strangers, her mother explains. She trusts people.
I should probably be asking myself how two virtual strangers could have conceived such a divine child in such a primitive and inappropriate setting as a greenhouse. I almost feel a pang of guilt. So many people play everything by the book, have exemplary courtships, gradually save up the things they’ll need, found a relationship, become mature enough to handle disagreements and meet all their payment obligations, and yet still don’t manage to create the child they have dreamed of.
It’s a fifteen-minute drive from the train station to the village. The lemon-yellow car that has been sitting there motionless for about two months reached its destination without a hitch.
— It’s incredibly beautiful here, the mother of my child says, as we approach the village. Although it’s more remote than I imagined, she adds.
I explain to her that from this point onward, it’s all uphill and that we have to walk.
— The apartment I’m renting is behind the church, I say, pointing up the hill toward the top of the village and my newly founded home. The monastery stretches out before us, but I decide this isn’t the right moment to discuss the rose garden.
Anna has a fold-up stroller which we open and place the luggage in; then I grab a bottle of wine for the sauce from the box I got from the proprietor of the restaurant and stick an additional two into the rack under the stroller. I’d forgotten the wine, and I can give Father Thomas a bottle now. I hold my daughter in my arms as we walk up the hill, and she looks around with curiosity. On the way I steal some glimpses of the girl walking beside me; she has a pretty profile.
— Have you heard anything from Thorlákur? I ask. Why on earth am I asking about him?
— No, I haven’t heard from him since we did a runner on him at your birthday party a year and a half ago, she says with a laugh.
I’m relieved she laughed at my stupid question. She has aquamarine eyes, so I can add that detail to the personal description I needed. She also has a pretty smile; it isn’t difficult to like her, and since I had to accidentally have a child I’m at least glad it was with her. It’s only been thirty minutes since the girls stepped off the train, and that’s all the reacquaintance I need to want to tell the mother of my child that I’m willing to be her friend and organize the child’s birthdays with her, and even volunteer to come over just before Easter every year to trim the trees in her garden — I don’t say in her and her husband’s garden. Then I realize that this is neither the place nor the time for openness.
I don’t ask her when she’s taking the train back; instead I tell her I’ve cooked dinner, which is my way of telling her that she’s invited to stay for dinner. I’ve already fried the veal and boiled the potatoes and only have to make the sauce now.
— This is quite an achievement, I say, I’m not exactly used to cooking. She smiles again, warmly.
The mother of my child looks somewhat taken aback when she enters the apartment.
— This is an incredible apartment, she says, like something out of an old fairy tale. She walks into the bedroom and runs her fingers against the fire lily wallpaper. And flowers everywhere, she says, when she sees the kitchen and I open the balcony door for her. I sense from her voice that she might be touched. As soon as mother and child step into my dwelling, my first attempt to create a home, it’s as if everything grows brighter, as if the place is filled with light.
— Are you sure it’s OK? she asks, gazing around her. It’s impossible to tell what feelings she might be harboring.
I’m still holding the child in my arms; the lower half of her body is starting to slide. I imagine she might need a change of diaper pretty soon.
— Well, I found a cot, I say, loosening my daughter’s hat. She’s got some blonde hair now, mainly over the forehead where the curls are. I quickly glance in the mirror to look at us together, my daughter and me; she’s full of miniature features and it’s difficult to pinpoint any obvious resemblance. I stroke her head.
— She’s got the exact same ears as you, says the budding geneticist, observing me.
She’s right, my ears are shaped in the same mold, same folds, same kind of earlobes. I swiftly compare her to her mother with aquamarine eyes, but I don’t spot any striking resemblance either, apart from the shape of the mouth, which is similar, two varieties of cherry mouths. But apart from the ears and cherry-shaped mouth, the person our daughter seems to resemble the most is herself, as if she were of some other origin. I sense Mom in her, though, is some undefined way, even though I can’t quite put my finger on it, except her dimples maybe, although I wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction of pointing it out to him. And also there was always sunshine wherever Mom was, no matter what the weather was like outside. She was full of light somehow; in the photographs it always looked like she was lit up by a spotlight, and in group shots she was the only one with radiant cheeks. You’d almost think the pictures were overexposed. There was light in Mom’s hair, like in this child’s hair, like glitter sprinkled over it, and there was a luminosity in the smile. I fully admit that I’m sensitive about Mom; I was sensitive about her when she was alive and still am now. I was born pale with a few straws of red hair, and my twin brother with dark hair, dark skin, and brown eyes.