Sólveig Jónsdóttir

Forlagid Publishing

ua@forlagid.is; vala@forlagid.is

www.forlagid.is

Solveig Jonsdottir:

QUA RT E R “’I didn’t know you’d take your ring off before you go out clubbing. Sometimes it’s married men who pull harder, I’ve heard. Have you heard that, Baldur?’ Silja found how her voice was getting harder and the sore place on her hand was beginning to hurt. ’I do just about next to nothing these days. I’m looking for work. Or I’m supposed to be looking for work. So my time’s just sort of taken up with that,’ she added, lifting her glass and cigarette.”

Quarter follows the lives of four young Reykjavik women who have little in common except for their city-centre surroundings and their place of sanctuary at Café Quarter.

An effervescent tale of love and life that spans the whole spectrum of human emotions.

Chapters in English available.

Four film producers, no less, competed for the rights in Solveig Jonsdottir’s effervescent love story Quarter, which follows the lives of four young urban women who have little in common except for their place of sanctuary at Café Quarter.

Rights were optioned to the Icelandic Film Company.

R EV I EWS * * * ½ (3½ stars) “An engaging story from beginning to end … The language is lively and the characters convincing, the plot works well, skilfully split between four stories, for each of the girls… Quarter is first-rate chick lit.”

Morgunbladid daily, Ingveldur Geirsdottir “This book grabs you … Each quarter f lies by and cannot be put down. Smart and funny too. A sort of Bridget Jones without the inferiority complex.”

Frettatiminn weekly, Gunnhildur Arna Gunnarsdottir * * * (3 stars) “Quarter is pure enjoyment, with more to it than most chick lit but fitting seamlessly into the mould. It is a tale of the present, describing young women’s encounters with love and life.”

Frettabladid daily, Thorunn Hrefna Sigurjonsdottir * * * (3 stars) “… an outstanding début … Solveig’s sardonic style gives the story a darkness and hard-bitten sheen.”

DV daily, Kristjana Gudbrandsdottir ~ 2 ~

* * * (3 stars) “Solveig has a clear eye, writes with an unaffected style, and creates convincing dialogue … She is light-hearted, in many places ironic and funny … Quarter is easy reading and evidence of the emergence of a new writer maybe destined to build up a solid following …”

Frettatiminn weekly, Pall Baldvin Baldvinsson “… excellent character portrayal … good entertainment. She gets the reader to keep reading, even an old woman like me.”

Kiljan, Icelandic State Television, Kolbrun Bergthorsdottir “… a spirited piece of writing.”

Kiljan, Icelandic State Tele­v ision, Pall Baldvin Baldvinsson “This is a highly enjoyable book and a genuinely fine début …”

Vikan, weekly magazine, Gudridur Haraldsdottir “Overall I was very well satisfied with this book. It is written in a lively style, entertainingly constructed and well carried through. I read it almost at a sitting and got so fully involved in the lives of these women (who are all much of my age) that I have to confess to having shed a few tears at their misadventures.”

Druslubaekur og dodrantar, Hildur Knutsdottir “The story is well set up and written … The characters are … different by nature, but for each in their own way life is something of a struggle, often with unforeseen consequences, and the authors manages to weave together credible situations that most of us should be able to recognise.”

Pjattrofurnar.is, Sigrun Petursdottir

~ 3 ~

I N T E RV I E W “I think that people in their twenties, guys as well as girls, can find parallels between themselves and the characters in the book,” says author Sólveig Jónsdóttir of her debut novel Quarter (orig. Korter), a contemporary tale of four young women who all take shelter from their variously catastrophic lives at the same café in downtown Reykjavík.

Each of the four women is searching to find her place in a life that seems pretty bleak at the outset. All four women face setbacks and struggles, all occasionally stumble, but after running their gauntlet of trials and travails, they eventually they come through, all the tougher for it. And unforgiving as their realities are, the stories are nevertheless full of warmth and humour, and the reader empathises deeply with the characters and their circumstances.

The book takes places during winter, and the seasonal cold and darkness seem omnipresent. Though the respite provided by parties and nightclubs is welcome, it is also f leeting. Various relationships are described: family ties are strong and warm, exchanges with lovers and boyfriends by contrast distant, sometimes even hostile. The search for a life partner or soulmate is a constant leitmotif.

“We ourselves, as well as our society, demand that once we’re well into our twenties, we should have attained certain goals,” Sólveig says when we ask her whether the book describes the typical experiences of young urban Icelanders. “If these goals haven’t been checked off by the time we hit thirty, some of us no doubt feel that we’ve blown it.

You lose your confidence, feel that everything is a bit of a failure. Add a splash of heartbreak, poor self-image, a few drinks at the bar and some pitch-black Arctic winterl, and the final product isn’t far from the story’s plot. A mess that’s maybe a bit of a laugh, but needs to be sorted out.”

Did you have any real-life models for the story, then?

“The material came from here and there. Some of it I borrowed from people around me, other things came from people who simply crossed my way. My experience as a barista was also an asset, because I had a pretty good idea of the kind of people who tend to be café regulars.” ~ 4 ~

What about other books? Where they an influence?

“I wanted to write a book that was wholly my own. Therefore, I decided to refrain from reading comparable works while I was writing. I didn’t want to be overly inf luenced. and I’m happy with that decision.”

And now that Sólveig has published her very own Reykjavík novel, it is fitting to ask whether she has any favourite examples in the genre.

“101 Reykjavík by Hallgrímur Helgason is a special favourite of mine,” she replies. “It’s a bit like the city itself: razor-sharp, cool and witty. It shakes things up.”

The parallels between the two works are not confined to their milieu: plans are now afoot to film Sólveig’s work, just as Hallgrímur Helgason’s urban tale of 90’s-era Reykjavík was. With Quarter, however, Sólveig has preserved a snapshot of the early 21st century city, and it will be interesting to see what kind of treatment it receives on the big screen.

Books of this kind are, in a way, a sort of guidebook to the cities they take place in, allowing the reader a familiarity with their streets, cafés and crowds that differs vastly from the wisdom offered by, say, a Lonely Planet volume.

To wrap things up, we asked Sólveig whether she herself had used literature to experience a new city.

“Yes, absolutely. For example, I read My Left Foot by Christie Brown before moving to Dublin, and immersed myself in the world of Inspector Rebus before going to Edinburgh, where I would eventually spend four years. You get to know the city, the people, in a completely different way than you would from traditional guidebooks.

I heartily recommend that people pick up a book before setting out.” http://www.sagenhaftes-island.is/en/book-of-the-month/nr/3408

~ 5 ~

• Hervör • Maybe she should just pick herself up, travel the world for a year or so. Burrow deeper into the MasterCard mire, and enjoy it. Maybe she could find work while traveling. Pick jasmine f lowers for French perfumeries, or coffee beans in Colombia. Pick and pick away, and find herself while she was at it. How long, she wondered, before he’d find another one to sleep with, after she had gone off on her little sojourn? Not long. While she was up to her ears in f lowers, beans and mystical introspection, he’d be working on some blonde or other, who’d find everything he said breathlessly hilarious, who might even try to impress him by asking whether this or that had “a parallel in Roosevelt’s New Deal.” Girls like that tend to have big boobs, too, and a car from Daddy to drive around in, so they have a pretty unfair head start in life. And then, finally, it would be revealed how little she meant to him. Or how lonely he really was.

Hervör had a habit of doing this. Sitting in the car with the engine running, totally lost in thought. She only came to when there was a rapping on the car window, which had fogged over by now. She started, and had to take a moment to compose herself before rolling down the window and letting in the sleet.

“I’m sure you realise, dear, that leaving the car running like that pollutes an awful lot. And I’d have that thing looked at if I were you.

It’s giving off blueish smoke.” ~ 6 ~

An elderly lady stood outside.

Hervör stared at her in disbelief and furrowed her brows involuntarily, wondering whether the woman had just been passing by, or had ventured into the parking lot expressly to badger her. Hervör stuck her head out of the open window and looked meaningfully at the woman’s shopping bags.

“I see you put your groceries in plastic bags. I happen to own a reusable bag, one of those f laxen, ethically manufactured things. So on balance, I don’t think I’m any guiltier than you of destroying the environment, even if I leave the car on while sitting in it, to keep from freezing to death. And I know it gives off blue smoke,” she added as she closed the window again. “It burns motor oil.”

This was, apparently, an unexpected reaction, and the woman glowered at her. Admittedly, the bad-assery of Hervör’s speech would have been more pronounced had the Volvo featured electric windows. It did not, and the handle was stiff, too, requiring the use of both hands and considerable force to winch up the window. The message was clear, however, and the woman stormed off, insofar as old people are able to storm off.

Hervör set off from downtown and headed towards the suburbs, Breidholt, to be precise. Initially, she had maintained that working and living in opposite ends of the city had its perks and disadvantages.

Now she was slowly coming around to the opinion that there were precious few perks to driving her geriatric Volvo, which was getting frailer all the time, across the entire city every day. Since the snow tires had gone completely bald, navigating the rapid city traffic gave her near-constant heartburn from worry. It had started to snow, and when she stopped at a red light, Hervör seized the opportunity to retrieve a CD that had somehow ended up under the front seat. A few years ago she couldn’t stand Bob Dylan. Now he was one of her favourite musicians. She didn’t know what had changed. It probably ~ 7 ~

wasn’t Dylan. The jewel-case around Blonde On Blonde was beat-up and cracked, but the disc itself was fine. The piercing harmonica solo of “Stuck Inside a Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again” filled the Volvo, and Hervör turned up the volume. She had a touch of butterf lies in her stomach, which was strange because she knew exactly what to expect. Maybe that was the reason for the butterf lies.

After dinner, Hervör took a deluxe shower. A deluxe shower entailed a comprehensive removal of unwelcome bodily hair, followed by the application of deluxe skin cream. She slipped into one of the better items from her lingerie drawer and spent a moment looking at herself in the mirror out in the hallway. This was one of the many advantages of living alone. She could, to her heart’s content and with total impunity, waltz around in her underwear, or without it. She adjusted her breasts in the bra, pressed them together and looked at them in profile.

She had never quite come to terms with the size of her breasts, or lack thereof. When she was fourteen, all the girls in the class had breasts.

And not just breasts, but big breasts. The skinny ones too. But Hervör was f lat as the southern plains of Iceland, and her breasts made no real appearance until around seventeen, when she finally limped up to an A-cup. Now, a decade later, Hervör Egilsdóttir could proudly announce that she had achieved the astonishing benchmark of a B. And that was presumably that. Which wasn’t so bad, really. She gently pinched the blubber on her tummy and gave it a pat before going into her bedroom and opening her wardrobe. She needed something that looked as if she had thrown it on without a second thought, and yet managed to look unimpeachable. Which could be a tough call. She finally settled on tight jeans and a black cotton pullover, topping it off with a necklace given to her by a Catholic-as-the-Pope grandma on her fourteenth birthday: St. Christopher, patron saint of travellers, on a small silver shield hanging from a long chain. Hervör tucked her pants legs into her winter boots and zipped her thick coat all the way ~ 8 ~

up to the neck. She looked into the mirror one more time, before grabbing her keys and phone and jogging out to the car.

She headed to the western part of town, and reached her destination in no time. She parked the Volvo outside an apartment building and looked about. As always, there was no one to be seen; it was usually way past midnight when she dropped by on weekdays, as she did now. She sat in the car, wondering whether any children lived in this building. Or any people at all. She had never seen a living soul in there, at any rate. The January dark loomed overhead. Thick and black, it never seemed to have any trouble sapping all zest for life from this country. This was the time people wondered out loud what they were thinking, living in this godforsaken place, and not Spain or one of those Greek isles. And that talk, in turn, would be forgotten as soon as the bright-lit summer night held court a few months later, and Iceland was once again the best in the world. How handy it would be if you could just hibernate through the blackest winter dark. Just sleep for a couple of months – everyone felt like it during this period anyway – and then wake up to spring.

Iceland will not take part in any international sports events, trades or other international exchanges from November up until and including February.

Everyone is having a nap.

Have a nice one, The Prime Ministry.

Hervör shimmied over to the passenger side, opened the car and got out. She adjusted her hair in the window, and then pressed the top doorbell. And waited.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” she said.

A tiny, familiar buzz sounded, letting her in. He always said “hello” ~ 9 ~

in precisely the same tone. The way people do when answering their door phone. And in turn, she always said “hi” in precisely the same tone. The way people do when they visit their teacher in the middle of the night. He left the door half-open, as usual, and waited for her in the living room. The apartment was entirely indicative of a commitment-averse male. Some female person or other had, however, had a hand in picking and hanging up the curtains. Maybe his mother.

Maybe an ex. Maybe Hervör just didn’t care.

“Hi, sweetie,” he said, turning off the TV. Hervör had discovered that in this simple act lay the fundamental difference between dating an older man and a boy her age. The man turns off the TV when he has a visitor. The boy turns it on.

Hervör persistently maintained that the difference in age meant only that he had lived 19 year longer than she. Age and maturity don’t necessarily go together, as she regularly pointed out to him.

“Well, look at you. No need to get all dressed-up on my account,” she said and smiled.

“Oh, that.” He looked down at his clothes: black trousers and a white shirt. “I did decide against the bow-tie and sash, even though I knew you were coming. It might have been a bit much.”

She regarded him for a moment, as he stood in the middle of living room with, hands in pockets. Tall, dark-haired and handsome, he fit, to the letter, the cliché all women are supposed to fall for. She didn’t dare be an exception.

Tryggvi. Doctor Tryggvi Tómasson, no less. Professor of economics at the University of Iceland, graduate from Yale, special consultant to the Confederation of Icelandic Employers, and regular hook-up of one Hervör Egilsdóttur, who as it happened had recently completed a BA degree in economics from the University of Iceland. From the outset, she found him a cute, but tedious teacher. He was extraordinarily ambitious, and bristled when his students weren’t as feverishly ~ 10 ~

interested in the subject as he was. Hervör had lost interest immediately during her first semester, but had decided to keep on with her studies anyway, since she had no idea of what to do instead. They were bound to clash sooner or later, and it was only in the fourth week that he had enough and said that if she was going to snore through his class, he’d rather that she went home and slept.

“Serves you right for teaching a boring class,” she muttered, packing her books and wrapping her scarf.

“Serves you right for picking it,” he said, raising his voice a bit as she walked past him.

“I didn’t. Mandatory,” Hervör said on her way out, closing the door behind her.

They occasionally reminisced about this incident, lying snugly against each other as she ran her fingers through his hair, which thank god was still thick, although the hairline now vaguely resembled the McDonalds logo. This had been their first conversation. He had, however, noticed her on the first day, and soon decided that he wouldn’t let her perfect apathy towards the curriculum get on his nerves. He often stole a glance at her during lectures, as she sat and stared into the darkness with frosted-over eyes. He’d often wonder what she was thinking, because she had such a sad look about her. The class wasn’t the most exciting in the world, maybe, but hardly magnificently boring enough to call forth such a heavy expression on any face.

She stood unmoving on the living room f loor, looking at him with a half-smile. He started to fidget and stroked his chin unconsciously.

“Everything okay?” he asked gently.

“Everything’s fine,” she answered. “You should have gone for the sash, I think. For my amusement.”

He shook his head, walked over to her, smiling, and put his hands on her shoulders. ~ 11 ~

“Hi there,” she whispered, looking down. She was still a bit shy with him.

“You’re a lot of fun,” he said and kissed her forehead.

She adored having him so close. His scent tickled her stomach, and she thought to herself that he must never, ever find out how she once sniffed almost every cologne bottle in a department store in the Smáralind shopping centre, which earned her a massive headache, until she had found his scent. A swimmingly expensive Armani.

Maybe being a college lecturer wasn’t the financial nightmare it was made out to be, after all.

They sat on the black, uncomfortable leather couch. He was nearer to the window, she on the side of the door. She would end up leaving through that door, so the choice seemed logical. They started the same chit-chat. What was going on, whether they were seeing someone else.

“No. Else I wouldn’t be here with you, would I?” He stroked her hair, tucking it behind the ear.

“How about you?” he asked, with puppy eyes.

“Lots and lots,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“What bunch of losers we are, Hervör dear,” he said and laughed.

He had a beautiful laugh. Lively and bright.

“You, maybe. I have oodles of guys.”

“So I’m just one of many,” he said and smiled.

“That’s right. I check on you when all the others are busy. Or when there’s nothing good on TV.” She moved closer to him.

“What do I know?” he answered. He stroked her face and rested his palm against her cheek. Then he pulled her over and kissed her carefully. As if they were kissing for the first time. It always started like that. Then she ran her fingers through his hair, like always. They didn’t even have to pay attention to this, it had practically solidified into a routine that would never change. He took her by the hand, ~ 12 ~

turned the light off in the living room and led her into the bedroom.

Just like always.

Hervör sat up in bed and looked at the clock on the night stand.

04:26.

“Damn, I’m sleepy. And I need to be up in three hours.”

The streetlight outside the window managed to trickle a few rays of light between the blinds.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asked, and there wasn’t even a hint of fatigue in his voice. She wondered if he took daytime naps when he received visits like this, because he always seemed maddeningly spry. He didn’t even indulge in so much as a yawn. A man his age.

“Young, upward-mobile female. That’s me. Making coffee, wiping tables, baking frozen pastries and whatnot.”

She put on her jeans, trying to pull them up without grabbing the waistband and jumping. Something she did when no one was looking.

“Cut it out. No one ever said you have to plunge into a glorious career mere seconds after graduating.”

“Really? That’s good. Because I have no idea what I should be doing in life besides working at Quarter. Sadly.”

“Nothing wrong with working in a café.”

“Quite a bit wrong with it, if you ask me,” she said and laughed mirthlessly. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my bra is? It’s black. And tiny.”

She steadied herself against the night stand while she looked under her bed. It was a futile effort, since the room was almost completely dark.

“What’swith you and your breasts? They’re not small at all. Just perfect.”

“I appreciate your kind words. Found it. I’m heading for bed.” ~ 13 ~

She slipped her bra on and began turning her pullover right-sideout.

“You are in bed.” He sat up and stroked her back while she sat on the bedside. “A bed for sleeping in. My bed.”

He put his head back on the pillow and watched her dress. She had never stayed the night. They had done it more often than she could count. Okay, she still kept count (53 times, 55 times after tonight), but never fallen asleep together. He had never been to her place. She had never invited him over.

Hervör was finished dressing, and pulled her dark brown hair into a knot. She crawled back into the bed, where he lay, half under the comforter, and rested her head on his chest. Breathed deeply, as if she wanted to inhale a large dose of him before leaving.

“So, are we good for now?” she said, stif ling a yawn so that her nostrils f lared sneakily.

“I guess. Until next time.”

“Until next time.”

She kissed him on the mouth and got out of bed.

“See you,” she said in the exact same tone as always, opening the bedroom door.

“Take care, sweetie. I’ll be in touch.”

She nodded, knowing that if anyone would be in touch with anyone, it would be her with him, sadly enough. Via text message. He had never called her, she had never called him.

Hervör waited a moment outside the apartment building’s entrance, until she had adjusted to the cold. Then she ran across the parking lot, opened the car and crawled over to the driver’s side. The night was terrifically cold. Perhaps it was always coldest around this time of the night, or perhaps the shock of leaving the warm bed for the freezing car made it worse. The Volvo had been acting up for the past few weeks, no doubt because of the cold, and Hervör was constantly ~ 14 ~

nervous that it would fail to start at a crucial moment. She tried the ignition gingerly, and was rewarded only with a puny cough from the engine. She f loored the gas pedal a few times and tried again.

The noise was a bit brighter, but the car still refused to start. Hervör sighed, warm air pouring out of her mouth like a column of smoke.

“Oh please, please, old guy...” she whispered, petting the dashboard gently as she tried one more time.

It finally gave in and sputtered to life, but announced, by means of a red light in the dashboard, that it would require an extra helping of oil after this exertion. The CD player indicated with a miniature light show that it was ready for use. It was probably worth more than the car. Hervör had made a conscious decision to buy a CD player instead of repairing the jammed door on the driver’s side. She didn’t mind jumping into the car on the passenger side and climbing over, though this was sometimes a bit of a challenge when parked in a tight spot or when the car doors froze in the wintertime. She set out towards home, and was so deep in thought that she ran a red light. That wasn’t so terrible, though, because she met a total of one car all the way home to Breidholt.

She wasn’t feeling good. She was sleepy as hell, and not looking forward to her day at work. Emptiness washed over her, and she felt the pitch-black night swallow her back up, after she had allowed herself to forget the everyday for a few hours. To top things off, it was snowing again. After a bit of an inner debate, she decided to stop at a Subway in Ártúnshöfdi, a pathetic detail of her routine with Tryggvi.

She was usually starving on the way home, so she would embarrassingly often drop by at Subway, mascara running out to her temples, her face scratched by his stubble and her hair a mess. She wouldn’t be surprised if the Subway staff thought she was a hooker. The Volvo hooker. ~~~ ~ 15 ~

A pimply, sleepy teenager dragged himself to the counter, saying good morning and meaning nothing by it.

“I’ll have a 12-inch Pizza Sub, please. Toasted.”

She sat at a table and ate her sandwich disinterestedly. Aside from the staff, no one was around. Once again, Hervör felt tragically alone in the world. A large television hung from the ceiling in a corner.

Music videos filled the screen silently, skimpily clad, oiled, brown bodies gyrating to music heard by no one. She ate fast, so fast that she choked badly, then threw the wrappings in the garbage and said thanks on her way out, though no employee was in sight.

The basement apartment she had rented for a year was small, but suited her well. The only problem was its location, a basement in Breidholt, which made it inevitable that there had been three breakins. Since Hervör, however, didn’t seem to own anything worth stealing, the thieves had left empty-handed each time. Her landlord, who lived on the upper f loor, would wander downstairs, change a window or a door lock, and that was the end of it. Without brushing her teeth, she crawled straight into her cold bed. The wind sang softly outside her window, and before long she was asleep.

Hervör woke with a start and looked at her alarm clock, which she had slept through.

8:02.

She jumped out of bed, stringing together all swearwords that sprang readily to mind, and attacked her wardrobe, snatching out clothes for the day.

She whirled her hair into a ponytail, looked into the mirror defeatedly, stuck the toothbrush in her mouth and grabbing her beauty bag on her way out to the car. True to the theme of this Friday morning, the Volvo’s door was frozen shut. Further inspection revealing every door to be equally immobile, she ended up crawling in through the trunk. Once inside, she resorted to violence until the passenger door ~ 16 ~

opened, then grabbed the Blonde on Blonde jewel case, used it to scrape a small hole in the ice on the windshield and jumped back into the car.

In a display of kindness that could only have come from Sweden, the Volvo started immediately, as if it couldn’t wait to get tangled up in the urban battle of the morning traffic. Hervör sometimes wondered if the car realized that it was, almost without fail, the senior member of the city traffic. Bright-red Yaris models and tiny Suzukis, courtesy of amazingly reasonable car loans, zoomed effortlessly by, while the Volvo seemed to have to exert itself unfathomably for every single kilometre. But she owned her Volvo completely. She didn’t even have to pay vehicle tax on it anymore; it qualified as a vintage model. She had no desire for a shiny, f lawless car that would stand out like a sore thumb against the rest of her life. She wouldn’t ever sell the Volvo, never mind that no one would probably buy it, except to squish it into scrap metal.

She brushed her teeth on the way downtown. She had once read an article that warned solemnly against the swallowing of toothpaste, because it could cause cancer. But Hervör had spent her life swallowing toothpaste and wasn’t about to stop now. At any rate, she suspected that the study had assumed that if people swallowed a bathtub’s worth of toothpaste every day for three weeks, there was a possibility that they might come down with cancer. After an uneventful journey from Breidholt downtown, she wandered upon the perfect parking spot. A spot that any Yaris or Suzuki owner would have killed for.

She was late. Nothing new in itself, but unpleasant nevertheless. She raced through the door of Quarter, and was greeted by the warm and invigorating scent of coffee.

Quarter. Or Café Quarter, rather. The new owners felt compelled to add café in front, and also repainted everything to impart a funkier vibe to the place. Brown and beige qualified as funky, and these had ~ 17 ~

been the dominant shades at Quarter ever since Hervör started there, alongside her studies to begin with, but full-time since her graduation in October. The paintings on the walls were changed regularly, but shared the unifying trait of being ugly. They were abstract oils by the owner’s cousin, who created art when he was either drunk or in rehab. In consequence, the works varied considerably in appearance, although a very robust theme of bitterness ran through them all. Small circular tables with two, sometimes four chairs were scattered around the place, and three high stools were lined against the table plate under the street window. The counter was roughly the size of a postage stamp, but nevertheless managed to accommodate the world’s largest espresso machine, as well as an astonishing variety of cakes, pastries and sandwiches. Beyond the counter lay the staff area, which consisted of a small kitchenette with a dishwashing machine, table, chair and sandwich grill. And the punch clock no one used.

The regulars were already there, nursing a cup of same as usual at their tables, reading the papers with one eye and alternately looking at everyone else. The line of people wanting their morning coffee to go was uncomfortably long.

“Hi and sorry. Sorry in droves. I overslept and the doors were frozen and I had to scrape the windshield and...” Hervör fired off while shedding her coat and throwing her bag into the kitchenette.

“Good morning to you. Don’t bug out. Deep breaths,” Georg said mellowly, smiling at Hervör. “Always nice to see you, anyway.”

Georg had worked at Quarter for four years, and had achieved some sort of boss-status, by virtue of his singular industriousness. He had a nasty habit of showing up at least twenty minutes before his shifts started, making those who showed up on time look bad, and those who were a few minutes late even worse. Hervör liked Georg.

They occasionally went to the movies together, and sometimes met when they were out on the town. A few times they had hung out at Ölstofan until one of them passed out on the table. Georg’s mind was ~ 18 ~

ravenous for knowledge, and he would often ask Hervör’s opinion of current events that he had already studied exhaustively. He was calm, genial and one of the most Icelandic people she had ever known. He practically knew the Icelandic sagas by heart, could recite interesting/ useless factoids from Icelandic contemporary history, and was moved to tears on New Year’s Day when the national anthem was played on TV after the presidential address. He never complained of the winter darkness, or the slush in the streets when the snow melted and then later decided to refreeze. Icelander, tooth and claw. His hair, admittedly, was jet-black, and his skin a rather darker hue than the traditional blueish-white Icelandic complexion, owing to the fact that Georg was from Guatemala. However, he tended to downplay that part of his life, as he had lived considerably longer here than there. His father was a literary scholar, his mother an owner of a shoe shop on Hverfisgata Street. Together, after waiting for a long time, they had traveled to Guatemala and picked up Georg, who was one years old at the time. The family only counted three, and circumstances at home had conspired to produce an unusually well-read young man with a fabulous shoe collection. Some of his pairs tended a bit towards the wild, but somehow, he always managed to come off stylish, whether in peach-coloured Converse trainers or dark-brown granny shoes with a fringe. Today, it was grey, lacquered shoes with a tapering toe, which complimented his black trousers and black Quarter shirt perfectly.

“Great shoes today, Georg,” Hervör said, nodding at his feet while she tied her apron at the speed of light.

“Mama takes care of her boy,” he answered, smiling.

The morning rush died off at around ten, so they sat down at the window with coffee and a nut-f lavoured danish, which they cut in two and shared. Georg brought a double espresso and set it carefully on the table in front of Hervör. Eight hours left of her shift, and she had no greater wish than to lie down on the f loor and die.

~ 19 ~

Flowers and wreaths respectfully declined, but those wishing to honour her memory are advised to speak to Ms. Gudlaug at www.creditcard.is, where they can contribute towards paying off the MasterCard debt of the deceased.

The coffee, easily strong enough to raise the dead, worked its magic.

They sat silently by the window for a while, watching passersby walk like morons to avoid slipping on the ice-laden ground. A man in his forties, dressed in a suit and long overcoat, slipped but didn’t fall, and looked around, embarrassed, before heading off again, much more carefully than before.

“Anything new?” Georg asked without taking his eyes from the window.

“No. Everything old,” she answered, sipping her coffee and fixing the ice piles on the pavement with a frozen stare. It had begun to snow.

“Are you feeling sick, Hervör?”

“No. I just slept too little. That’s all.”

Georg nodded and looked out the window again. He took a sip from his coffee and then cut a small piece of danish and nudged it in Hervör’s direction on the plate. She smiled and popped the piece in her mouth.

“Where you with him?”

She wasn’t smiling anymore and looked down. Nodded and picked at an imaginary stain on the table.

“I don’t even know why I’m doing this,” she finally answered. “I don’t think I’m in love with him, and I know he isn’t in love with me. Still, I don’t like the thought of him seeing anyone else. Finding a woman. And I don’t particularly want to go looking for... someone else, because then I wouldn’t be seeing him in the meantime.”

“How do you know he’s not in love with you?”

“Just... you know. He never calls, never gets in touch. It’s always me asking to see him. Like a total wimp. Whining to see him when ~ 20 ~

he has time and can be bothered. I don’t especially want to sleep with him every time. I just like being with him. But I feel like I have to sleep with him to have permission to be with him. Since we’re not taking this anywhere else. And then I always feel horrible afterwards.

So lonely that I want to put a stop to the whole thing, cut off my arms, throw them at him and start crying.”

Georg listened to Hervör’s colourful descriptions and made commiserative noises in the proper places. Sometimes Hervör herself was a hair’s breadth from giving up on the great soap opera starring herself and Tryggvi. Georg had often listened silently but thoughtfully to her explaining, at great length, the nature of her relationship with Tryggvi, which she herself, however, didn’t understand and was increasingly distraught by. He sat and listened, hugged her when she was at the point of tears and smiled when she was animated and happy at the prospect of meeting Tryggvi after work. Now he seemed on the point of saying something, slapping the table lightly, as if he had some great announcement to make, when a couple walked in and gazed at the home-baked pastries, oblivious to the fact that they were all bought frozen from abroad, and the carrot cake’s sell-by date was the end of next year. The coffee break was over.

The service industry had never been a source of joy to Hervör.

Quarter was a fine place to work while she was in school, but she felt slightly doomed after starting there full-time. She often thought about the customers, and regularly wondered why people hadn’t realized that being rude to a person who is about to handle your food isn’t such a great idea. Hervör had always restrained herself when she ran into rude customers. Even that time when she had to deal with the miserable worm who held her personally accountable for the café’s exorbitant prices, which, in his opinion, ought to be brought to the attention of the Consumer’s Association immediately. This, however, did not stop him from ordering a large cup of coffee and a sandwich ~ 21 ~

before throwing the money at her, muttering indecipherably. Hervör kept her cool, took the sandwich from the shelf and brought it into the kitchenette. Then she removed the plastic wrapping, lifted the top slice off the sandwich and looked at it for a good while, gathering saliva in her mouth. Ultimately, she came to her senses before emotion got the better of her, closed the sandwich, put it in the grill, and finally cut it in two before serving it with a bon appetit to the man.

This done, she leaned against the shelf behind the counter with her coffee cup and watched the man eat, wishing he’d never return.

Tryggvi never came to Quarter and Hervör was glad of it. There were lots of other cafés for him downtown . No doubt, it would be the height of awkwardness if Dr Tryggvi Tómasson, who had seen her naked from various angles and more, would saunter in from the street and ask for a quick one. Ristretto, that is. The clock had barely crept to two-thirty. Three and a half hours left, and no matter how fixedly Hervör stared at the second hand of the clock, time did not perceivably speed up. She felt as if she had sandpaper on the insides of her eyelids. Why did she bother? Why sacrifice precious sleep and gasoline to spend a few hours with a man to whom, admittedly, she wasn’t wholly indifferent? Still, she would hardly jump in front of a speeding truck if he stopped seeing her. The thrill of sleeping with her teacher had dulled considerably after graduation. Probably because it wasn’t as strictly forbidden as during the time they went over chapters from her thesis together, buck-naked in his bed. Maybe she was fond of him. But that was all. Presumably, the best thing to do was end it.

She would beat him to it, and spend the next year concentrating on making up for lost sleep, using the money she would otherwise have spent on gas to pay for more useful things. Shoes, for instance. She truly doubted he would be devastated if she announced that enough was enough.

~ 22 ~

Hervör was jolted from her thoughts by a resounding crash. She wasn’t up to this sort of stuff today. Of course, some genius had managed to smash a cup and saucer, spattering coffee on the wall. She assessed the damage over the top of the espresso machine, and sighed quietly as she reached for a rag, broom and dustpan. Walking to the scene of the accident, she found the saboteur on all fours, picking up the pieces.

It was a young woman, wearing a long, grey hoodie. She had a huge shock of strawberry-blond hair, which sat like a bonfire on her head while she hunched on the f loor. Hervör bent down and started picking up the biggest pieces.

“It’s okay, I got this,” she said f latly.

The woman looked up. She was pretty, but her face was haggard and the eyes puffy, as if she had been crying for days. On their hands and knees, they looked each other in the eyes for an instant.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said quietly and wiped her nose. “What a klutz. I was reading the paper and just bumped against the cup and it...”

“Really. It’s okay,” Hervör said more gently, regretting her earlier frumpiness. “It can happen to anybody. No problem. It’s going to be fine. And it’s not me who has to buy new cups,” she said, smiling.

The woman smiled weakly, stood up and looked around, embarrassed.

Hardly anyone had been ruff led by the crash; people were again engrossed in newspapers or conversations with their friends. Hervör mopped up the coffee and swept the fragments together. She would clean the wall later. The woman sat back down, rested her elbows on the table and put a hand against her temple. Her eyes were wet, and Hervör supposed she had something more than a broken coffee cup on her mind.

“I’ll just bring you a new one,” Hervör said, smiling as she finished wiping the coffee off the table.

The woman nodded and starting feeling for her wallet in her the pocket of her hoodie. It was undone, and Hervör glimpsed a number ~ 23 ~

of small bruises on her upper arms. She quickly looked away, as you do after staring too long at something that’s none of your business.

“It’s okay. This sort of thing can always happen.” Hervör looked firmly at the woman and stroked her arm lightly. Georg, of course, was on top of things and had already made the coffee, so Hervör only needed to fetch the cup and set it on the table.

“Thanks so much,” the young woman said, looking directly into Hervör’s eyes, as if she were thanking her for something more than just a free cup of coffee. A line was forming at the counter and Georg gestured with his head to Hervör, who hurried back to the espresso machine.

She noticed a red light blinking on her phone as she steamed the milk, but she supposed it couldn’t be anything momentous, so she pushed the phone under the shelve holding the tea tins. The day went on forever, and although the obscene quantity of coffee imbibed by Hervör during the day started doing its job in the afternoon, she was nevertheless very relieved when Georg f lipped the Open sign on the outer door. They were quick about closing down, and while Georg swept the f loor and Hervör settled the cash register, she glanced at her phone, which she had almost forgotten about.

Hi sweetie, you forgot your necklace last night.

Should I bring it to your place tonight?

Hervör looked at her phone for a long time. She read the text at least five times and went back and forth between the sender’s name and the words. Tryggvi. Tryggvi had texted her. He had texted her of his own initiative, and wanted to visit. Tonight. Not with huge notice, far off in the future, but very spontaneously in a few hours. Hervör put the phone away and gathered the credit card receipts together before pick~ 24 ~

ing the phone back up and reading the text two more times.

“Is everything okay?” Georg said and asked Hervör to throw him the dustpan. He had been unusually silent today. Thoughtful, as always, but silent.

“Sure. I think,” she said without much conviction and put the phone in his face so he could read Tryggvi’s text.

Georg took his time reading, and then looked up and nodded, looking rather surprised.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said.

“But there’s no smiley or anything... so I don’t know whether he thinks he’s doing me a favour by bringing the necklace and nothing else, or...”

“Hervör! Cut it out. He doesn’t send a smiley because he’s pushing fifty. Old people don’t use smileys. He texted you and asked to visit because he wants to see you. Maybe he’s finally coming around.”

Georg swept the pile into the dustpan and dumped it into the trash.

Hervör was suddenly wide awake, all plans of throwing herself straight into bed after work gone up in smoke.

“Do you mind if I run off?” she said innocently. “Practically everything’s done, anyway. All that’s left is to throw the earnings into the safe and lock up.”

“Of course. I’ll handle the rest,” Georg said and smiled.

“You’re the best.” She smiled back before pitching her apron into the laundry bin and diving into her coat. “You’re working tomorrow, right? We’ll meet again tomorrow, my dear, and I’ll tell you how it worked out,” she said and darted towards the exit.

“You do that. Thanks for today, and have fun tonight,” Georg said.

Hervör waved and hurried off.

The apartment was in a sorry state, since Hervör had left in blur that morning. A bunch of dishes as well as two pots wallowed, half-sub~ 25 ~

merged, in the kitchen sink; piles of clean and dirty laundry were slung across the back of a chair, the desk and the bedroom f loor; and six months of dust covered her shelves and furniture charmingly.

Hervör looked dejectedly at the mess and then back at the text that Tryggvi had sent her on the way back home.

Heading out. OK to drop by in ca 30 mins?

And, like an idiot, she had said yes and sent her address. That was twenty minutes ago, leaving her precious little time to work on the appearance of herself and the apartment. She pounced on the kitchen sink like a crazed animal, poured the water from the pots, piled dirty dishes, glasses and cutlery together and stuffed the lot into the cupboard under the sink. Then poured dishwashing liquid in the sink and gave it a quick scrub, and swabbed the table at light speed. She ran into the living room, where she quickly went through her DVD collection, throwing 27 Dresses, The Wedding Date and Bridget Jones 1 and 2 under the sofa, leaving only the masterworks of Polanski, Hitchcock and Kubrick in view. Dust was thrown into the air, where it f loated serenely about before descending to the sofa. Hervör decided to leave it for later and hurried into her bedroom. She wadded all of the clothes together, whether clean or dirty, and pushed whatever couldn’t be forced into the wardrobe under her bed. She made the bed roughly and threw her teddybear under it. Finally, she inspected the bookshelf above the bed, quickly expunging from it all books she deemed insufficiently cool .

He had to be coming. Hervör looked at the clock, distraught. Why was she so nervous? Why should she lose her shit just because he decided to come over to her and return her necklace? Why was he coming? Why couldn’t he just keep an eye on the necklace until the ~ 26 ~

next time she came over? And what did she care if he found out that she watched uncool movies occasionally, read books on how to land prince charming and didn’t necessarily keep her apartment spotless?

She looked wearily into the mirror and pinched her cheek gently, trying to bring a bit of colour to her face, gave herself one squirt of perfume, applied lip gloss and then immediately wiped it off because it was a little too glossy. Then she waited. Ten minutes later, she heard him walk over the pavement and towards the stairs leading down to the apartment. She saw a distorted outline of him through the shaded, textured glass of the door and let a few moments pass after he knocked and until she opened the door. He had his back to the door when she opened, but turned around and smiled as soon as he saw her.

“Some view you have here. The whole city, no less!”

“Yes,” she said, a little hesitantly. “One of the many perks of living in Breidholt, I suppose.”

He smiled, reached out and kissed her on the cheek. She ushered him in and went into the apartment. He dried his feet carefully, and then followed her inside and surveyed her home.

“You have a nice place, Hervör. You must be comfortable here.”

She wondered what to make of this polite chit-chat, and watched as he took in every nook and cranny of her living room. Not that it took long, there weren’t many square metres to cover.

“Sure. It’s fine,” she answered. “Can I get you anything?”

“I wouldn’t mind a glass of water,” he said, rubbing his hands rapidly as if cold.

He wore a woollen greatcoat over a suit. He had a reputation as a dandy, unfailingly showing up to lectures in a suit when other teachers made do with sweaters and jeans.

He had the necklace in his hand when Hervör returned with the glass of water.

“Thanks. Grandma wouldn’t have been happy if I’d left it with some boy-toy,” Hervör said, laughing quietly. ~ 27 ~

He laughed as well, unconvincingly, put the necklace on the sofa table and remarked that it was pretty.

“Saint Christopher,” she explained. “Patron saint of travellers.”

“And does Hervör Egilsdóttir have any plans to travel soon?”

“Maybe...” she said, knowing full well that the longest journey MasterCard would allow her was to the neighbouring town of Mosfellsbær.

They were silent for a while, an awkward atmosphere descending on them.

He cleared his throat, took another sip of water and put the glass carefully on the table. Now he was the one sitting closer to the front door. He would be the one leaving. She was considerably calmer than he, and even found her earlier state of nerves a bit funny. Now he was twice as nervous as she was, and a blind man could see that he had something on his chest.

“Hervör, dear...” he hesitated and turned to face her on the sofa. He took her hands gently in his. Something he had never done before.

“Yes...?” she answered. Was it happening now? Was he about to ask for something more? Grown tired and frustrated with living alone, wanting to spend more than a few hours at a time every few nights?

He had often told her how entertaining and witty he found her. “The perfect woman,” he had even once said, but she had just thumped him lightly on the head and told him to shut up. Was that what he wanted to say? That she was the perfect woman for him?

He obviously had a hard time getting the words out, and took another sip of water.

“Are you pregnant?” Hervör said, vainly trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Huh? Pregnant? Well, no...” he said nervously and squeezed out a laugh before going on.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest with you last night,” he finally said and looked at her. ~ 28 ~

“Okay...” she said, but didn’t quite understand what he was getting at.

“About seeing anyone else...” he finally said and had another sip of water.

“Okay...” she said again, starting to see where this was going. She looked levelly at him. Though he was f lustered and bothered she didn’t break off her gaze, but waited patiently for whatever he was going to add.

“I just want to lay the cards on the table. I’ve... I met a woman the other day. A very nice woman, and we’ve kept somewhat in touch since. She’s a personal trainer. Really a very nice girl, I think,” he stammered, as if he needed to justify to her that he was seeing someone else. Hervör sat still and listened.

“She’s a few years younger than I am, this girl.”

“Woman,” Hervör corrected him.

“Well, yes, woman,” Tryggvi said apologetically. “Of course, I’m no spring chicken anymore, as you know. I suppose I’m beginning to want the same things as everyone else. A woman, stability and all that. Still, I felt that I had to meet you one more time, last night. To be sure. I think I’ve reached a conclusion, now. I guess the only right thing, under the circumstances, is that we stop seeing each other, my dearest Hervör. As nice and pleasant as it’s been and all that. But if I really want to make a go for it with this woman, then maybe... it wouldn’t be right for us to see each other.”

An enormous weight seemed to have been lifted from him. He had a large sip of water before putting a hand on Hervör’s thigh and smiling nervously.

“An astute observation,” Hervör said, crossing her arms. “So this may not be a great idea, then,” she added and nodded at Tryggvi’s hand on her thigh.

“No. No, you’re right,” he said, retracting his hand guiltily.

They sat in silence again. Hervör sighed softly, feeling the empti~ 29 ~

ness swallowing her up. The same feeling as after a 12-inch Pizza Sub at Subway. Toasted.

“You have better things to do, anyway, than wasting your time on an old fart like me.” Tryggvi said when he saw how deep in thought she was. “A beautiful, smart girl like you. You should be with a good, handsome man,” he added.

“I’m sure you’re absolutely right,” she said frostily, staring at the glass of water on the sofa table.

He reached out for the glass and drained it, as if to wrap up his visit, exhaled quietly and patted his thighs twice before standing up.

Hervör got up, too, and put her hands in her pockets. They faced each other for a beat, and then Tryggvi crossed over to her and hugged her tightly. He rested his chin on the top of her head and inhaled the scent of her hair, as if he wanted to take it with him. Inwardly, Hervör observed that this was probably not a good idea, as she hadn’t showered for 24 hours and had also had a rather sweat-drenched day at work. But she let him hug her, and then took her hands out of her pockets and wrapped her arms around him as well. She was losing him. He had needed to see her one more time to be sure he wanted someone else. She decided not to dwell on it. He had made his choice.

She extricated herself from the embrace and smiled at him. Tryggvi held her by the shoulders and looked at her, and then headed for the front door. She slipped past him and opened.

“So that’s that,” Hervör said. She smoothed her hair swiftly behind her ears and hugged herself.

“I guess so,” he said. “Are you mad at me?”

“No. Why would I be? Good luck to you, both of you,” she said quickly and again smoothed her hair behind her ears. “I’ll see you around.”

“Thank you, Hervör. You’re one in a million. I care for you, very much.”

He moved closer to her, as if he wanted to hug her again, to say ~ 30 ~

goodbye. He put his hands on her shoulders, and then moved them up to her cheek, bent down slowly and kissed her lips gently. Then he kissed her on the forehead, whispered goodbye and walked rapidly through the door. She closed it behind him, but stood still for the longest time, watching his distorted outline in this glass as he moved further away. Then he was gone.

“So what the hell was that all about?” she said to herself, running her fingers over her lips.

Hervör snatched the empty glass off the table and put in the sink.

Opened the cupboard under it and started taking out the dirty dishes.

Squeezed into yellow rubber gloves, began scrubbing at the burnt-in stain in the pot with a scouring pad, and didn’t come to her senses until the metal mesh had made deep scratches in the pot, and the stain was long gone. She ripped the gloves off angrily and reached for a passably clean glass. Not the one he had used, though. She opened the cupboard above the stove and fetched a green bottle of gin from the top shelf. She filled the glass about halfway up, then took a carton of orange juice from the fridge, sniffed at it just in case, and then poured a little bit into the gin. Despite being one of those people who can’t for the life of them keep sweets or cookies in the kitchen without jumping on them and gobbling them up in one go, she found an unopened bag of Kúlusúkk licorice behind the gin bottle. Deeming this a perfect evening for Kúlusúkk and unbridled gin-swilling, she settled comfortably into the sofa and stuffed a good fist of candy into her mouth while reaching for her phone to delete Tryggvi’s number. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know it by heart, but she might as well erase it; she wouldn’t be calling it again. Hervör sighed heavily as she chewed the licorice rapidly and washed it down with a good gulp of the horror in the glass.

“Buuuuuh,” she blurted, as the gin scraped her oesophagus.

With each sip, though, it went down smoother, and once she had finished two glasses she had formed the opinion that straight gin was a ~ 31 ~

fine drink. Tasted a bit like Christmas tree. The licorice was finished and she was starting to feel like dancing. She poured another drink and hummed the song she wanted to hear as she searched for it on the CD shelf, shouted in triumph when she finally found the album, and took a moment to admire Kim Carne’s undiluted 80’s coiffure on the album. She closed her eyes and recited the lyrics with great feeling as the opening bars of “Betty Davis Eyes” played in the apartment. She spilled a little bit from the glass when she took the first dance steps, but didn’t really mind.

“Goddamn, I’m wonderful,” she said with great conviction. “One of a kind. And funny, and great in bed,” she went on. The silence following in the song’s wake made her blue. Besides, she was sleepy, so she drained the glass and tottered unhurriedly into her bedroom. She threw herself on the bed, fully-dressed, and was almost asleep when she remembered something.

Hervör eased herself to the edge of the bed, peeped under it, retrieved her teddybear and wiped the dust off of it before hugging it. The teddy was of panda lineage, and had snuggled with her every night since her seventh birthday, excluding the times she had nighttime guests, when it usually spent the night in the dust under her bed, or crammed into her wardrobe.

Hervör looked into teddy’s dark eyes, and lightly petted an ear that was coming slightly undone. The red bow-tie around its neck was becoming a little frayed, and the fabric on its tummy was thin and worn after two decades of use.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed heavily and stroked its head.

He looked back at her, obviously a little hurt, but no doubt he had forgiven her, just like always. She slipped under the sheets and fell asleep.

Translated from the Icelandic by Steini Teague ~ 32 ~