— Come on, she’d say, dragging me by the hand across the paved courtyard. Let’s go up to my place. Once she strokes my hair in the same way that she stroked her boyfriend’s a few moments ago, I’m not sure I’d have anything to say to her. I ponder on whether my experience of six women is a lot or a little for a man of my age. Is it above average, just average, or way below average?
I open the window and the smell of food whets my appetite. I decide to rummage through the kitchen to see if there’s anything to eat, and I look into two cupboards. My brief search reveals some rye crackers and packets of asparagus soup. I grab the rhubarb jam from my backpack and eat three crackers with jam while the soup is boiling. I’m taken aback by the quantity of kitchen implements my friend has; she seems to have four of everything. Then I open the cupboard where the crockery is kept and look for some drink receptacle. The cups have floral patterns and gilded rims; I’m scared of dropping her precious china and root through the bottom of the cupboard until I find a plastic cup to drink water from.
What would my home be like? — It takes two to make a home, Mom would say; the only thing I couldn’t live without is plants, although I picture myself more out in a garden than standing indoors. I’m not like Dad, who is a born handyman. He doesn’t wander into the garage without a tie or a phillips-head screwdriver and reducer close at hand. I’m not one of those DIY guys, like those family men who can do everything: lay pavement, do the electrical wiring, make doors for the kitchen cupboards, build steps, unblock drainpipes, and change windows, or smash a pane of double-glazed glass with a sledgehammer — all those things that a man is supposed to be able to do. If I put my mind to it I could probably do some of those things, if not all of them, but I’d never enjoy them. I could put up some shelves, but putting up shelves could never become a hobby of mine, I wouldn’t waste my evenings and weekends on stuff like that. I don’t picture myself screwing some shelves together while Dad does the electric wiring. My future father-in-law could turn out to be an expert floor layer, so the two fathers-in-law could plan things together, each with his own coffee thermos resting on my shelves. Or the worst thing would be if it were just Dad and me and he’d be teaching me things like I was his apprentice. The more I think about the idea of founding a home, the more I realize I’m not cut out for it. The garden is another story altogether; I could stay in the garden for days and nights on end.
Dad phones me as I’m finishing the asparagus soup. He wants me to confirm that I’ve eaten. Then he wants to know what was for dinner, so I explain to him that they advise you to eat lightly after an appendix operation and that I had asparagus soup. He tells me that he was invited to Bogga’s for lamb soup. Then he asks me about Thórgun and I tell him she’s just popped out. He wants to know if I’m recovering and I tell him I’m feeling a lot better. Then he asks if it always gets dark at the same time.
— Yeah, at around six.
— How’s the weather? he asks.
— Same as this morning, cloudy and mild, spring weather really.
— What’s the electricity like there?
— What do you mean? The lights work, I say.
I know zilch about electricity. Dad tried to teach me how to change a plug on the morning of my ninth birthday, and I remember how stunned he was by my lack of interest. It was as if I were telling him that I had no intention of becoming a man. When he asks me about the electricity, I get the feeling that he’s checking my manhood levels.
— I’ve never liked the darkness, Lobbi lad, says the electrician before wishing me good night.
After saying good-bye to Dad and sending my regards to Jósef, I get into the pajamas they both gave me and lie under the girly duvet. The sleeves and legs are a bit on the short side. Since my operation I’ve been thinking a lot more about the body, both mine and the bodies of others. When I say the bodies of others I mainly mean the bodies of women, although I notice men’s bodies, too. I wonder if my increased awareness of the body might be a side effect of the anesthetic I had four days ago. My tummy is still sore, but nevertheless I feel incredibly lonely under this quilt. The best thing I can come up with is to grope myself, check my body to feel I’m still alive. I start off by feeling its individual elements, as if to persuade myself that they’re still a part of me. Although I’m clearly condemned to a period of solitude while I’m recovering from the appendix operation, I can nevertheless tangibly feel the longings of my male body. I can’t sleep, and my mind begins to wander. I even wonder if I should have gotten a phone number from the brown-eyed nurse who took care of my rose cuttings and helped me into bed on that first night, the one with the butterfly in her hair. Or the one who helped me into the shower and changed my bandage afterward.
Twelve
The following morning there’s a strange cloud in the sky, shaped like a child’s bonnet with a frilly rim. Having pulled through my death and resurrection, I’m back on track again, and when I gently press the stitches, the pain is almost completely gone. It automatically makes me look at things differently at the beginning of a new day.
— All it needs is sleep and time, Mom would have said.
I can’t say I feel any longing to go home, that there’s anything pulling me there. Perhaps it’s unusual for a twenty-two-year-old man to be feeling so ecstatic about being alive, but after the misfortunes of the past few days I feel there’s cause for celebration. There’s no such thing as an ordinary day so long as one is still alive, so long as one’s days aren’t counted. The plants seem to be doing well on the windowsill; some tiny, white, almost invisible root threads are beginning to form. I decide to get dressed and to go out and buy some food.
The moment I get back in with some bread and salami sausage, the phone rings. It’s Dad. He asks me how I am and if I’ve had any breakfast yet. Then he asks me about Thórgun again and the weather. I tell him about the strange cloud formation, and he tells me they’re still being blasted by the harsh northern wind and the grass is withered. Then he says:
— Guess what, your graduation photograph fell off my bedside table and the glass broke.
— There never was any graduation photograph of me.
I didn’t have a graduation cap when I graduated. But Mom took a photograph of me in the garden that day. Mom was smart. Then she took a picture of Jósef and me together. He held my hand, as usual; I was a head taller. In the end Jósef took a picture of Mom and me, by the fire lily bed, in which we are both laughing.
I don’t know whether he’s losing his hearing or whether Dad just chooses to ignore some of the things I say to him.
— I was adjusting it when it fell on the floor. Thröstur at the frame shop is putting it in a new frame, slightly bigger than the one it was in. He agreed with me that it could take a bigger mounting, the white passe-partout will compensate for the absence of the cap.
I no longer have the energy to talk to Dad.
— I chose a mahogany frame.
— Well, I’ll have a better chat with you later, Dad.
— Are you happy with mahogany, son?
— Yeah, perfectly happy.
I’m on vacation until my stitches are removed, so I can just lie in bed and read. I read all day. In the evening I dig my gardening book out of my backpack and quickly browse through the first chapter on lawns, the main concern of any gardener, then indoor plants, before I pause on the chapter on trimming trees. From there I move on to an interesting chapter about grafting, which has been difficult to find information on.