Night of the Blizzard - Icelandic and English

Hreggnótt

Night of the Blizzard

Hreggnótt Night of the Blizzard

An Icelandic story

Yes, indeed, a terribly Icelandic story.

Allt verður svo undarlegt í skafrenningi. Hólar og mishæðir lyftast, hefjast upp í myrkrið, síga svo aftur ofan á jörð, og undir jörðina.

Lágarenningurinn á veginum þýtur yfir ruðningana fyrir utan veginn og breytir öllu í óraunveruleika.

Svo sortnar alveg.

Stikurnar sjást ekki. Guðleifur stöðvar bílinn.

Mildi að ekki hefur fennt inn á mótorinn.

Everything looks so strange when there is that thin layer of drifting snow on the ground. Hillocks and bumps seem to float upwards, up into the darkness, only to float down again to the earth, and then down under the earth.

The drift on the road rushes onto the heaps of snow that have been shovelled off the road, and makes the scenery as if it were unreal.

Then the blizzard and drift turn everything into darkness. We cannot even see the markers on the sides of the road.

Guðleifur stops his car.

Luckily, the drifting snow has not made its way under the hood onto the engine of the car.

Hann er búinn að fara framhjá mörgum bílum sem eru stopp úti í kanti. Í sumum þeirra er eflaust fólk sem bíður þess að veðrið gangi niður, heiðin verði rudd, svo það geti ekið áfram, hvort sem það nú er á leið í bæinn eða austur.

Guðleifur sér glitta í stiku úti í sortanum. Er þetta stika á hægri kanti eða vinstra kanti; hvoru megin við þessa stiku liggur vegurinn?

Röng ákvörðun táknar útafakstur.

Guðleifur has passed many cars that have been parked on the side of the road. Inside some of these cars there might be people waiting here for the weather, i.e. the blizzard, to calm down. Then the road will be cleared, the snow pushed off. First then there is a possibility to drive on. Some are on their way westwards to town, others on their way eastwards to the countryside.

Guðleifur spots a reflection-strip of a road-marker out there in the blackness. Is that one on a left or right side of the road? Is the road on the left or on the right side of that marker? A wrong move means heading off the road.

Í skafrenningi er jörðin óraunveruleg, vegurinn ekki til.

Það syrtir aftur. Bílljósin skella á náhvítri hríðinni sem gleypir bjarma þeirra með húð og hári.

Guðleif grunar að hann fari að nálgast löngu brekkuna fyrir ofan Litla kaffi. Draugahlíð, heitir hún víst.

Þar vill hann ekki aka niður í svona veðri; snarbratt ofan báðum megin vegarins.

In this kind of drifting snow on the ground, the ground becomes obscure, the road as if not existing at all.

Again, total darkness. The headlights of the car only hit the pale blizzard in front of the car. The snow seems to totally devour the lightbeams.

Guðleifur assumes that he is now close to the steep slope where “The Little Coffee Shop” is located. This slope has always been known by the name “Ghost-hill slide”. He is definitely not, in weather like this, going to drive off the road there, as there are steep landslides on both sides of the road.

Að hann skyldi ekki leggja fyrr af stað í bæinn. Þá hefði hann sloppið við veðrið. Nú hamast útvarpið við að vara menn við að leggja á Heiðina vegna skafrennings, blindbyls og hálku. Þrengslin líka lokuð. Of seint.

Hér er hann kominn í Svínahraun, búinn að berjast yfir Heiðina í þessu veðri.

Nei, Hann ætlar sko ekki að fara útaf í brekkunni fyrir ofan Litla kaffi.

He should have departed earlier. Drive to town before that blizzard hit. Then he would not be here caught in these conditions. Now, the radio repeatedly warns against driving over the heath, the mountain road. Warns against that drift and blizzard, and on top of that slippery frozen roads. Other roads, alterntives like Þrengslin, have also been closed due to the blizzard. For Guðleifur, too late to have a choice, anyway.

He is now on the road at the lava part Svínahraun, having made it through the high part of the mountain road. No. He is definitely not going to have an accident in the slope at Ghost-hillslide.

Þá er nú skynsamlegra að sofa hér í nótt eins og illa gerður hlutur.

Það er tillitslaust af mér að segja „illa gerður hlutur" þegar Guðleifur á í hlut. Guðleifur er einkar ósjarmerandi í útliti eða svona grámyglulegur allur og óásjálegur. En hann er góður í sér hann Guðleifur, hefur verið kennari alla sína æfi, góður við börnin, þolinmóður, skilningsríkur, samvizkusamur.

Samt geta strákapollarnir verið að stríða honum. En hann tekur þessu öllu vel. Sumum litlu telpunum þykir svo vænt um hann, og kalla hann aldrei Myglusveppinn.

Guðleifur hefur aldrei verið við kvenmann kenndur og verður vart héðan af.

A better choice would be to stay here, stop the car, and get some sleep in the car. Not so heroic at all.

I perhaps should not use the term “not heroic”, when speaking about Guðleifur, because he is a rather pathetic man, not so good looking at all, and not a charming person at all. But he is a very kind man. Guðleifur has been a teacher all his life. He is kind towards the kids, patient, understands the children, and he is dutiful.

I simply cannot understand why the naughty little boys are teasing him all the time. But he seems to just tolerate them. Some of the little girls like him very much. They never nick-name him as ”Mouldy”. Guðleifur has never had any girlfriends. I do not assume that he will.

Guðleifur drepur á bílnum, nær sér í teppi. Það er ekki hægt að kveikja. Peran biluð. Ekki hundi út sigandi hér.

Á skömmum tíma skeflir kringum bílinn. Það tekur í hann í hryðjunum. Smáhrollur kemur í Guðleif. Hann ætlar bara að reyna að sofna. Það er ekkert annað að gera úr því sem komið er. Undarlegt að stara út í hríðina: Jörðin lyftist, leysist upp, sígur aftur á sinn stað. Guðleifi finnst bíllinn hreyfast, svífa, og hríðin vera kyrr.

Guðleifur turns off the engine of his car, reaches out for a blanket in the rear seat to wrap up. The bulb is broken so that no light can be turned on inside the car. The weather ever worsening. In no time at all, the snow-draught has piled up heaps of snow around his car where is it parked now. The swift strokes of wind shake the car harshly every now and then. Guðleifur is a bit cold, almost shivering. Best to try to get some sleep.

There seems to be no choice. Once in this situation; no other options.

It is a kind of mesmerizing to stare out into the blizzard: The earth seems to rise up, dissolve into thin arie, slide down again to where it came from. Even as if the car is floating up, soaring, while the fierce snow-drift stands still.

Hann sér veru úti í sortanum, sem ýmist birtist eða hverfur. O, hann er alveg ruglaður; eins og milli svefns og vöku.

Undarlegt svona veður.

Út um snjóugar bílrúðurnar séð er aðeins myrkur allt um kring. Þó er þetta hvítt síhvikult myrkur. Höfuð Guðleifs sígur, hann kippist við þegar það dettur ofan á bringu. Augnalokin eru úr blýi. Hann reynir að finna góða stellingu og höfuðið sígur á ný.

Allt í einu kemur inn kaldur gustur sem læsir sig um Guðleif.

He spots a being in the dense darkness out there. That being sometimes seen, then not to be seen.

Oh, he sees that he is somehow bewildered. He is neither asleep nor is he awake. This kind of weather is so bizarre. Looking out through the window of the car, covered with snow now, only dark can be seen all around. Yet this dark is as some evermoving whiteness.

Guðleifur’s head gets heavy due to sleepiness, drops down, and that causes a jerk in his body. His eyelids are heavy as if of heavy metal. He tries to get comfortable, and his head gets heavy again.

All of a sudden some chilling draught of air fills the car and gets an uncomfortable grip on Guðleifur.

-Hér er illvært, segir köld rödd við hlið hans. Konurödd.

Guðleifur hrekkur upp - bregður illyrmislega. Veran úr sortanum, öll snjóug, sezt í framsætið við hlið hans. Köld loppa hríðarinnar eltir hana inn, áður en bílhurðin skellur aftur. Það fylgir kaldur gustur þeim sem koma öslandi úr hríð. -Gott kvöld, segir Guðleifur, þegar hann áttar sig.

Smáhrollur skríður upp bakið, hríslast út í handleggina og upp í höfuð. Svona kringumstæður gera það að verkum að bláókunnugt fólk heilsast eins og aldagamlir vinir.

-No way to get any peace here, an icy voice, right at his side, says. The voice of a woman. Guðleifur wakes up, startled. The being whom he saw in the darkness outside, all covered with snow, now takes a seat in the front seat right by his side. A chilly grip of snowstorm follows that being. The chill is blown inside the car. Then the door slams back closed. Well, some chilly draught normally follows anyone who enters, after having fought against the snow-storm.

-Good evening, Guðleifur says, when he has become is true himself again. Now shivers creep up his spine. Can be felt in his arms too, and then they creap up towards his head. Circumstances like these make people who never have met before behave and greet one another like old friends.

-Gott?, segir hún, nokkuð kaldhæðnislega.

Hár hennar er blautt, klesst við ennið, svart. Kápan snjóug, dökkur litur hennar sést varla í myrkrinu. Það er eitt andartak eins og enginn sitji þarna.

Guðleifur sér ekki í augu hennar. Þó er eins og þau brenni, tindri, eða skjóti gneistum. Vangasvipurinn er fallegur, nefið hvasst. Hún er grönn, ung miðað við Guðleif sjálfan.

-Þetta er nú meira veðrið, segir Guðleifur. -Hvernig í ósköpunum datt þér í hug að fara úr bílnum þínum í þessum aftökum? Þú hefðir getað orðið úti.

-Good? the woman says, rather sarcastically. Her hair is wet, as if glued to her forehead. It is black. Her coat covered with snow, not showing its dark colour. Actually it cannot be seen in this darkness. For a brief moment nobody seems to be sitting there at all. Guðleifur cannot see into her eyes, yet they are as if on fire, twinkling, or rather as if sparklings of that fire. Her face, or rather the profile is beautiful. Her nose is straight. She is thin, and she is young, at least compared to Guðleifur.

-What horrible weather we have, Guðleifur says. -How on earth did you dare to leave the car in that gale we have now? You could have risked dying out there.

Ég þori ekki að hafa bílinn í gangi né miðstöðina á, heldur hann áfram. -Gæti pústað inn. Viltu ekki teppi?

-Mér er ekki kalt, svarar hún.

-Ég stöðvaði bara bílinn hér, segir Guðleifur.

-Ég hefði betur gert það, svarar hún og hlær. -Ég var búin að losa bílbeltið til að sjá betur útkeyrði svo útaf.

-Þú ert víst ekki ein um það.

-Nei, segir hún.

Skrítið hve svona falleg kona hefur kuldalegan hlátur.

Það verður örlítil þögn. Það er nú von að það verði örlítil þögn.

And Guðleifur continues: -I do not have the engine running, nor do I have the heater on, as some dangerous fumes might fill the car. Can I get you a blanket?

-I am not cold, she replies.

-I simply decided to stop the car here, Guðleifur says.

-I had better done that, she replies, and she laughs. -I unfastened the seatbelt, in order to get a better view out of the window – and then the car went off the road.

-You are most likely not the only one.

-No, she answers. Guðleifur takes note of how terribly cold her voice sounds, as beautiful as she is. Now some silence. That is quite normal in a situation like this one.

Guðleifur er ekki vanur að tala svona við ókunnuga konu. Þótt hann tali við börnin í skólanum, er sjaldan að hann tali við fullorðna - enn sjaldnar við kvenfólk.

Þá man Guðleifur eftir súkkulaðinu. Hann hefur alltaf með sér súkkulaði á ferðalögum. Jafnvel þegar hann skreppur austur að heimsækja móður sína. Hann býður konunni í framsætinu súkkulaði, þessari ókunnu konu sem hann sér varla í myrkrinu.

Hann hegðar sér einhvern veginn ósjálfrátt, eins og hann hafi orðið fyrir göldrum.

No wonder they do not say anything for some time. Guðleifur is actually not so used to having a conversation with a stranger. Above all not with a woman he does not know at all. Given that he talks a lot to the kids in school, he not so often talks to grown-ups. The less with ladies.

Then Guðleifur remembers that he has some chocolate. He always takes with him some chocolate when journeying. Even when he takes a short trip to visit his mother. He offers the lady in his car some chocolate, this lady that he actually does not know, and whom he can hardly see in the dark.

He, somehow, behaves in a spontaneous way, like as if he were taken over by some magic or witchcraft.

It must be due to these peculiar circumstances, this nonsensical blizzard causing absurdity, nonlocality, and timelessness. Everything feels so unreal.

Her hand, white as snow, accepts a piece of chocolate. Ice-cold hand.

-You are not wearing any mittens, my little girl! Guðleifur says.

-I am not cold.

-You are freezing. Have this blanket. Better?

This is just some witchcraft weather, Guðleifur continues.

-Yes, the dark one replies.Witches´ weather. Witchcraft weather.

-Why on earth did you get out of your car, girl?

-I jus wanted to run – run – run –turned myself into a grey horse, ran over the grey mosses, became a stallion of the most horny type, took to the tölt pace, I was free.

The wet green grass showed my trail as I ran in meaningless circles.

(Oopsi ! I realized that I was chewing some chewing gum. I quickly spat it out into the blizzard.)

I recalled the conception of Sleipnir: Loki pregnant, the thurs annoyed.

I could not help but laughing. That troubled and messed up my pace, so I ran along using my 4 legs randomly. Then I spotted your car here, in a pile of snow.

How can Guðleifur respond to this? The expression on his face is not to be seen due to the utter darkness. Luckily, actually, as he has no control over his own thoughts now, this night of that horrible weather. A grey horse in green grass?

So, naturally, silence again.

Her inner face smiles, but the outer expression, the face itself, is serene; she has always control over that.

-Oh, she says, my watch has stopped. Exactly at midnight. We should always buy shockproof watches.

Midnight, 12 o´clock, full moon. Should have known better.

-Is there a full moon? Guðleifur asks.

-Já. Það er fullt tungl. Margur draugurinn á Heiðinni í nótt. Trúirðu á nornir? spyr hún.Veiztu að hún Abba-labba-lá var svört á brún og brá? Hún notaði skemmtilega tækni: Dansaði, ærslaðist, hló, beit og sló og saug blóð. Guðleifur brosir. Bros hans er góðlegt. Maður hefur að vísu á tilfinningunni að hann geti verið aðeins andfúll, en það hefur aldrei neinn gert sér far um að finna út úr því. En bros hans er góðlegt. Svona skrýtið umræðuefni kemur honum ekkert á óvart. Hann bara brosir. Hann er vanur að hlusta á börn með frjótt ímyndunarafl. Bara dálítið erfitt að svara sumum spurningum.

-Yes. Full moon now. Many a ghost here on the mountainhighway to night. She continues: -Do you believe in witches? Abba-labba-lá, you know, was rather dark, her skin, her face, her hair. She used some special technique: she danced, she laughed, bit and kicked, and sucked blood. Guðleifur smiles. His smile is sweet. We might have the notion of him having bad breath, but nobody has ever tried to find out. But his smile is always sweet. Having some conversations like this one is not anything new to him. He only smiles. He is used to listen to children who have a vivid imagination. It is just so, that some questions are more difficult to answer than others.

-Krefjandi starf !!!, segir konan í framsætinu og glottir. -Þetta eru víst tízkuorð: krefjandi starf. Guðleifur reynir að nema svip hennar í myrkrinu. Hvað skyldi hún heita þessi dökka kona?

-Ég heiti Guðleifur H. S. Friðþjófsson, segir Guðleifur. -Það er líklega óviðkunnanlegt að kynna sig ekki.

-Hulda Dís heiti ég. Eru það ekki bara störf kvenna sem falla undir þessi fínu orð, krefjandi starf? segir hún, og þó ekki í spurnartón.

-A demanding profession, indeed, the woman in the passenger seat says, and this comment is followed by a grin.

-I assume, she continues, -that this phrase “a demanding profession” is a phrase in fashion these days.

Guðleifur tries to read the expression on her face, but it is very dark here.

What would be the name of this dark lady?

-My name is Guðleifur H. S. Friðþjófsson, Guðleifur says. -It is polite, is it not, to introduce oneself.

-Hulda Dís is my name, she replies. -I have the feeling that only women’s professions are termed as “demanding”, she says as affirming, not asking at all.

Guðleifur sér að það er gamaldags að kynna sig með fullu nafni. Ungt fólk notar bara fornöfn.

-Eh, þú ert ef til vill rauðsokka? spyr hann hikandi. Svona hefur hann aldrei talað fyrr við neina konu. Ískaldur hlátur hennar orkar einkennilega á Guðleif. Þú meinar hvort ég sé kvenrembugylta, æði á kellingafundi og æsi mig? Vakni til vel eða illa launaðra skítastarfa næsta morgun, nenni ekki að axla ábyrgð, eða príli upp valdastiga elítunnar?

Guðleifur sees that it is a kind of old-fashioned to introduce oneself by a full name. Young people only use first name. Reluctantly he asks: -You are perhaps a female protagonist? He has never before spoken like this to any woman. Her icy laughter hits Guðleifur in a peculiar way. She answers, sarcastically laughing: -You mean whether I am a female chauvinist, going to meetings held by shouting women in order to promote themselves? Whether I every morning wake up to some lousy work, underpaid and bored? Whether I am too lazy to take any real responsibility, or whether I am climbing up the ladder of pecking order and power of the elite?

You mean whether I play women´s chess, women´s bridge, compete in women´s team in horse-riding, when all talents and ability to equality of sexes fail?

Then if I have the granted permission to blather about subjects of which I have no comprehension, not having enough knowledge of the topic to have an opinion at all?

Some women do not want to belong to mankind, as wo-men, and demand the term “people” for mankind, or perhaps change that word to people-kind!! They de-sex the words for staff, and change it into staff-persons. Even can that de-sexing stupidity be found in Icelandic universities.

This “not being a man” is English thinking, not Icelandic at all, as Icelandic “man” means mankind, or either sex of man.

In Icelandic the term “maður og kona (man and woman)” is not actually correct. Men and women are men, i.e. mankind, as far as Icelandic is concerned.

Is ruining of that beautiful ancient language Icelandic, any good a way for gaining sexequality?

When banning the Icelandic word “man” to include wo-man, then MPs become parliament people, seaman becomes seawoman, seamen would become sea-people, or sea-persons, etc!

This obvious inferiority complex of women did not go into this extreme in the olden days.

As I see it, women disdain was imported from Rome to the North some hundreds of years ago. Half of mankind (i.e. males) put disdain on another half of mankind (females).

Women used to be heard and revered in ancient times in Iceland, as someone said: “Women´s voices now to be heard anew” (when some of them started publishing a newspaper).

So, as I see it, this “anew” indicates that they used to be important, refusing to be obedient, refused to shut up.

And she continues: -Well, well, always some topics in fashion to quarrel about.

Women are so funnily and amusingly stupid. All they think about is career, profession, promotion. I only pity them for their adoration of that.

She continues: -Guðleifur, my IQ measurement is 140, or it even higher as to top the highest. I had it checked. But studies and degrees are not my hobbies. I have better things to do.

Her voice is chilly, her teasing laughter like the snowstorm, some sarcastic humour toning her voice. All this gives Guðleifur a shiver down the spine. He is as if numb from this “coldness” of hers. (--Or however we can express this ice-cold quiver down the spine.--)

-My profession does not chase fashion, she continues. -As old as mankind. The only thing that has changed is that nowadays we use the TV. People are so relaxed and open-minded when sitting at the TV. Quite a useful and handy technique this TV-induction.

-Would you like to have some more chocolate? Guðleifur asks.

-You are very pale, my girl. Are you cold?

-Most likely I have lost some blood, she replies, and continue: -Do you know something: I never dare to have my blood tested.

-That is nothing to be afraid of, Guðleifur affirms. -The nurse just scratches a little rip on the ear….

(--- hann er farinn að tala við hana eins og hún sé skólabarn--- . Hann hættir í miðri setningu). Hún hlær: -Það er ekki það. Við höfum svart blóð. En ég skal segja þér: Einu sinni missti ég máttinn. Þá varð blóðið rautt. Það var í fyrra. Ég var í partíi. Þar var strákur sem heitir Skúli. Hann hefur þessi stóru, dóminerandi augu. Hann er látbragðsleikari. Ég varð ástfangin í fyrsta sinn. Bara óvart, alveg upp úr þurru. Hörkupartí. Ég drekk aldrei, við þurfum þess ekki. Það eru bara vanþroska sálir sem þurfa þess.

(---Guðleifur is now talking to her as if she were a school-kid---. He stops talking even if he has not finished the sentence.)

She laughs: -It is not that. Our blood is black. One thing I shall tell you just for fun: Once I lost my powers. Then my blood turned red. That was last year. There was a party. I was there. There was also a boy called Skúli. He has these big, dominating eyes. He is an actor, a mime artist. I fell in love for the first time in my life. Happened just like that. This was a terrific party. I never drink alcohol. We do not need that. Just un-evolved souls need that.

My cat did not as much as look at me, completely ignored me when I returned home. She even hissed at me. She knew, my cunning cat, that I fell in love. She is black. They don´t need to be black nowadays, it is only that I am so old-fashioned and conservative. The cat disregarded me completely until I had forgotten Skúli. She is clever, that little one.

-Once -- that was long ago -, Guðleifur says, reluctantly, -I took part in a so-called “party”. I had joined in a course to learn acting. I have always been fond of theatre. When the course was over, the participants -- they were mostly teenagersdecided to throw a party. A boy asked me: -You are coming, oldy?

-Hvert? spurði ég. -Í partíið. Hvers vegna skyldir þú ekki koma með, gamli minn, þegar allir hinir mæta, ha, kennarinn líka? Ein stúlkan varð dálítið drukkin í þessu boði. Hún kyssti alla sem voru þarna, - nema mig. Hún sagði að ég væri svo ... svo vðö, og svo gretti hún sig. Hún var drukkin blessað barnið. Ég vona að hún hafi þroskazt. Ég óska henni alls hins bezta í lífinu. Guðleifur verður dálítið dapur við þessar hugsanir. Það er sárt að rifja þetta upp. Guðleifur hefur aldrei fyrr talað svona við neinn um sjálfan sig.

-Coming where? I asked.

-Joining us in the party. Why not you, my old fellow, when everyone will show up. The teacher will be coming too. One girl got very intoxicated. She started kissing everyone – except me. She commented on it in a way to say that I was… that I was too yack, and then she frowned her face. She was very drunk, that little girl. I hope that she is more mature now. I wish her all the best in life.

Guðleifur becomes rather sad on recalling this incident. It hurts to recall it. This is the first time Guðleifur has ever spoken like this to anyone about himself.

Hann skilur ekki hvers vegna hann er að segja þessari bláókunnugu konu þetta í bíl í stórhríð uppi á Heiði.

Það hvín í veðrinu, byljirnir skella á bílnum svo hriktir í.

-Lífið er eins og skip, segir dökka konan í framsætinu, -skip, sem öslar hafölduna. Hafið er óútreiknanlegt, fjölbreytilegt, fallegt eins og skapmikil kona. Skip vita ekki hvort kinnungarnir eru votir af sælöðri og pusi eða hvort það er norðaustan hraglandinn sem vætir þá, nema hvað kulborði er ögn votari en sá sem er hlés.

He does not know why he is, here and now, in his car, in this terrible blizzard, lost somewhere on a mountain-road, saying this to a total stranger, this woman he does not know at all. - The wind-gusts make annoying whistling sound. The snowstorm hits the car so hard that it is jostled to and fro.

-Life is like a ship, says the dark woman in the passenger´s seat.Like a ship that wades through the ocean waves. The ocean is unpredictable, full of surprises. The ocean is beautiful like a proud woman. A ship does not know whether her sides got wet by the seasurf, or if it is the cold sleet from the north-eastern wind that wetted them. Only that the wind-side is even wetter than the leeward side.

A ship knows that the quay awaits her at home. There she has soft fenders on her, that get squeezed when she is moored. Now the ship is on her way home.

On New Year’s Eve the ships talk. Their talk reaches deep into the soul. Even deeper than many things that men say. If we listen carefully we can hear them say:

It is precious to have a dream for the future

It is precious to have a dream for the future

It is precious to have a dream for the future……

At sunrise on the first day of the year dads have hangover after the night before, so they sleep. The snow is black from soot that came from fireworks shot the night before. The fireworks were going up there into the air, when the pale moon was shining high up there on the sky.

Everything is shabby on this first morning of the year. The greetings that the blessed sun on this first morning of the year gets, is: dirty glasses on the table, empty bottles, crumbs on the tablecloth from yule-cookies.

Burnt fireworks are there in the snow.

Kids still in their pyjamas, sleepy as they stayed up late last night. The needles on the Christmas tree are falling off; someone should get the vacuum cleaner.

The cat mews in the corridor. Wants to get out. She sniffs into the morning air of the day that is just about waking up. The cat is not invited to the lunch that granny will prepare for the whole family, the newyear ´ s day´s steak. The cat makes a neat hole in the yule-snow, the snow that the first sun´s rays of the new year try to melt down.

The woman, who sits here in this car becomes silent. She is thinking about something.

-Do you have gifts for poetry? Guðleifur asks.

-No, but it is a kind of funny to go on thinking when you are dead. This was some fucking mistake I made.

-You should not use this kind of language, my good girl, Guðleifur says, as if fatherly, or rather like a good teacher.

-Doesn’t matter, she says. -That devil does not exist, anyway. The evil is in us, in our physical body. We make it. All these hells are simply the making of men who are not pure of any sins themselves.

That kind of men make hell for themselves, and for the people around them.

It is getting cold in the car. The chill is unpleasant.

Time is perhaps not the right term to use here, but you become cold by sitting in a cold car for a long long time.

-Íslendingar

-Icelanders become so amusingly awkward in the cold, says the dark one. -Take on big overcoats, put far-too-small woollen caps on their stupid heads. They look like a heap, as they do not straighten their backs. Their heads are churlishly small and as if dangling from the body. They frown uglily. They pull their shoulders up to the ears, as it is unmanly to wear a woollen scarf, now becoming as if having no necks.

-You have a cat? Guðleifur asks.

He really enjoys having a conversation with the woman. That woman whom he hardly sees. He is not comfortable with the thought of the night coming to an end, then she will be going back to her car and drive to town.

Hann vonar að það hafi fennt inn á mótorinn hjá henni, svo hún þurfi að fá far með honum. Er hann í álögum? Hvers konar hugsanir eru þetta eiginlega?

Ef til vill er það bara þessi endalausa, glórulausa hríð sem skapar þörf fyrir samræður, samskipti. Þegar birtir mun allt breytast aftur.

-Já. Hún er svört. -Hver? -Kisa. Þeir þurfa ekkert endilega að vera svartir lengur, kettirnir.

-Áttu ...., Guðleifur ræskir sig,áttu fjölskyldu?

In a way he wishes that her car does not start, the snowstorm having troubled the engine, so that she would need a lift in his car.

WHAT? Is he under a spell or what!? What kind of a stupid thought this is!

Perhaps it is only this endless and nonsensical blizzard which generates some need for conversing and connecting? When there will be break of day everything will change back to normal.

-Yes. She is black.

-Who?

-The cat. They need not necessarily be black, I mean the cats.

-Do you have….., Guðleifur clears his throat, -do you have a family?

-I am a widow, she replies.Revenge is always sweet. Really sweet. He died in a caraccident. At 12 o´clock midnight, under full moon, in the steep slope where the Little Coffee Shop is located. Just died. As if some sorcery had been used.

Or just a car accident? He was uncaring and selfish. I was just a sexy body to his mind. Men. Oh, these men. Guðleifur swallows his salvia. Her voice is to piercingly chilly. And he obviously chose a bad topic for a conversation.

-My initiative was always “out of place” as he saw it. Only he, and he himself, she continues, -could decide when was “the right time” to do anything.

Hefndin er dísæt, Guðleifur H. S. Friðþjófsson. Dísæt. -Maður á að fyrirgefa allt, svarar Guðleifur. Hann ætlar svosem ekki að fara að predika. Nærvera þessarar konu er svo undarlega þægileg eða undarlega óþægileg að hann má ekki og vill ekki segja neitt sem getur styggt hana. Hann reynir að finna eitthvað til að segja: -Englar hafa ekkert minni. Fyrirgefa allt, var sagt í einhverri skrýtinni mynd, sem ég sá í sjónvarpinu fyrir löngu síðan. Hvað á Guðleifur svosem að segja?

Revenge is so sweet, Guðleifur H. S. Friðþjófsson. Really honeysweet.

-We should always forgive everything, he says.

His intention was definitely not to educate her on proper behaviour. Her presence is somehow so comforting, or perhaps somehow so uncomfortable? He tries to be careful not to say anything that would upset her.

He tries to find something to say: -Long ago I watched a queer TVepisode that claimed angels to have no memory. So angles simply forgive everything.

Guðleifur does not know what to pick as a topic to talk about.

-What about you? Wife and kids? she asks.

- Actually, I have hundreds of children, as I am a teacher. But I am not a father, nor am I married. My favourite student, now a grown-up young man, was talented when it came to mathematics. He went abroad for further education. There he decided to learn arts. He became a painter. He lives in Holland now. He gave me a painting he made. It was a present. I should have hung it up on a wall. I am rather ashamed of not having done so, but – it portrays the most horrid ugliness I ever saw. I simply cannot have it anywhere.

Hann var svo efnilegur í stærðfræði. Fór svo í listnám.

-Mig langar til að sjá hana, segir Hulda Dís. -Má ég koma til þín og sjá hana? Ljótleikinn er svo aðlaðandi stundum. Hjartað í Guðleifi hoppar af kæti.

Skrýtið að þetta skrýtna í brjóstinu er eins, þegar maður verður ofsakátur og þegar maður verður ofsahryggur. Hjartað í Guðleifi hoppaði líka þegar stelpan í partíinu sagði þetta, þú manst.

-Þú ættir að gefa mér heimilisfangið þitt á miða, Guðleifur, og svo kem ég, segir Hulda Dís áköf, -og sé það,

He was such a talented mathematician, but changed over to studying arts.

-I would like to see it, Hulda Dís says. -Can I come to your place to take a look at it. The ugliness can be so charming.

Guðleifur can feel his heart as if jumping with joy.

Kind of funny that the funny feeling in the chest is the same when we become very happy and when we become very sad. His heart also kind of jumped when the girl in the party said that something – you remember.

-You should give me your address, Guðleifur, written on a piece of paper, and then I will pay you a visit, Hulda Dís says, some eagerness to be heard in her voice. -Then I can see the

málverkið: Bleikur allsber maður hangir á hvolfi, gulur eldur og grænn eldur sleikja hár hans. Ljótleikinn er svo aðlaðandi, Guðleifur. Í bakgrunn dansa nornir við stálgrá sjónvörp. Guðleifur verður orðlaus. Neðrikjálkinn sígur, en það sést ekki í myrkrinu. Hann starir á vangasvip konunnar sem starir með áfergju út í hríðina. -Hvernig .... hvernig veiztu? stynur hann upp. Guðleifur paufast við að rífa snyrtilega snifsi úr umslagi, sem lá í aftursætinu.

painting: A pale-pinkish, naked man hangs upside down, a yellow fire and a green fire lick his hair. The ugliness is so attractive, Guðleifur. In the background witches are dancing, their dans-partners steel-gray televisions. Guðleifur is stupefied and speechless. His lower jaw drops down – but that cannot be seen in the dark. He gazes at the woman´s profile, where she in turn gazes eagerly into the blizzard.

-How …. how do you know? he stammers out. Guðleifur finds an envelope that happened to be in the rear seat, and tries to tear off it, carefully, a neat bit of paper to write on.

Hendur hans eru dálítið dofnar. Hann er allur dofinn. Hann skrifar hægt (vandar sig svo þetta verði nú læsilegt) nafn sitt og heimilisfang. Verst að geta ekki kveikt. segir hún. símanúmerið? spyr Guðleifur. Ég kem bara. Ég kem, ég kem

Rödd hennar verður eins og bergmál sem hlær í glórulausri hríðinni og inni í þessum bíl sem er hér hálffenntur í kaf. Það hriktir í í verstu hryðjunum, og tíminn er fokinn út í veður og vind.

His hands as if numb. Rather his whole body is numb. He writes slowly (to make his writing legible) his name and address. Pity that the light cannot be turned on.

-I do not need the telephone number, she says. -I will simply show up without notice. Just come.

-You don´t want my phone number? Guðleifur asks:

-No. I simply show up. I will be there. I will be there.

Her voice becomes like some echo that laughs in that endless snowstorm, and also inside this car that is here stuck in a pile of drift snow.

The wind-gusts harshly shake the car, and it is as if time itself has been blown away never to return.

Guðleifur hrekkur upp, gersamlega ruglaður. Skíma af hrímfölum degi teygir sig upp á austurhimin, að baki dökkra mikilúðlegra skýjabakka, sem grúfa sig yfir kalda gráa birtu morgunsins. Engin hríð lengur. Getur verið að hann hafi dottað? Hulda Dís er farin. Mikill dóni getur hann verið: Fögur, dökkhærð kona í bílnum og hann bara sofnar. Var að furða þótt hún færi. Já en, hann hefur ekkert sofnað!!!. Hvers vegna fór hún svona skyndilega? Þau sem gátu talað svona frjálslega saman. Hann hefur aldrei áður talað svona við neinn, sízt konu. Ætli hún sé nú móðguð?

Guðleifur, startled, as if wakes up. He cannot make any sense of his thoughts. Some faint light of a new pale day makes its way up on the horizon. Yet behind these dark dark clouds of ugly grandeur. These clouds as if wrap themselves around the icy, grey light of morning. Now there is no snowstorm any more.

He might have fallen asleep? Hulda Dís has gone. What an impolite idiot he is: A beautiful, dark-haired lady is in his car, and he falls asleep! No wonder that she just left. Yes, but, he didn´t fall asleep! Why did she leave so suddenly? They could so easily communicate, talk to each other without any difficulties. Guðleifur has never in his entire life been able to talk like this to anyone, above all not to a lady. Perhaps she got offended?

Hún sem ætlaði að koma og sjá málverkið. Hann sem ætlaði að tala meira við hana.

Gult ljós á snjóruðningstæki sést blikka í fjarska. Færist nær. Krapaboðar frussast langt út fyrir veg. Þeir aka hratt á þessum tækjum.

O, að hann skyldi detta svona útaf. Eða detta svona út, réttara sagt, því hann er viss um að hann sofnaði ekki. Þústir koma í ljós á veginum og við veginn þegar birtan gerir snjóinn raunverulegan á ný: Innifenntir bílar.

She said she would come to see the painting. And he was looking forward to talking to her again.

A yellow, blinking light of a snowplough can be seen. Coming this way. Waves of snow are being thrown from the road to the sides. These appliances drive fast.

What a pity that he fell asleep, or rather was not quite conscious for a moment, as he is sure that he did not fall asleep.

When daylight shows up, making the snow real snow again, some big heaps appear on the road, and on the sides of the road. These heaps are cars covered with snow, cars that stopped here, not having been able to move on.

Tunglið, fullt tungl á himni hátt, fölvast, missir máttinn, sem það hefur þegar nóttin er dimmust. Guðleifur veit ekki hvar bíll Huldu Dísar er. Hann spurði ekki. Hann setur í gang. Miðstöðin blæs köldu. Þegar snjóblásarinn er farinn framhjá, mokar hann sig útúr skaflinum, síðan ekur hann af stað. Bíll hefur farið útaf í brekkunni hjá Litla kaffi, sér hann. Draugahlíðinni. Einhverjir eru að bægslast niður snarbratta brekkuna að bílnum, sjálfsagt til að gæta að hvort nokkur sé í bílnum eða hvort eitthvað hafi komið fyrir.

The moon, the full moon in the sky, its glow now fading, loses its power, that full moon power it has when the night is at its darkest. Guðleifur does not know where the car that Hulda Dís was driving is. He didn´t ask her.

He starts his engine. The heater sends in some cold gusts.

When the snowplough has passed him, Guðleifur finds his shovel. He has to shovel some snow from his car by hand. Then he drives on. Guðleifur sees that a car has driven off the road and crashed in the steep slope close to The Little Coffee Shop. That slope named Ghost Slope. Some people are trying to make it through the snow in this steep slope to reach that car there. Most likely to check on if some people are still in the car, and if somehing severe has happened. An accident.

Guðleifur er ekkert syfjaður þegar hann kemur í bæinn. Skrýtið að vera ekkert syfjaður þótt maður hafi vakað svo til alla nóttina.

O, að hann skyldi detta útaf. Eða datt hann ekkert útaf? Útvarpið segir frá óveðrinu í nótt: Nú er búið að opna Heiðina. Banaslys varð í Svínahrauni í óveðrinu í nótt, er bíll fór út af veginum. Kona, sem var ein í bílnum, beið bana. Ekki er unnt að birta nafn hennar að svo stöddu.

Guðleifur hringir í skólann og segist hafa orðið veðurtepptur, sé nýkominn í bæinn; komi ekki í dag. Það er ekki oft sem hann vantar til vinnu. Verður vart misdægurt.

Guðleifur is not sleepy at all when he makes it to town. Queer not to be sleepy at all after having stayed up all night. Pity that he had a nap – or - did he not fall asleep at all?

On the radio we can hear news about the blizzard on the highland road. Now the road has been shovelled and is now open anew. An accident happened there during that horrible weather last night: A car drove off the road in Ghost Slope. A woman, alone in the car, died in the accident. Her name cannot be reported here now.

On coming home, Guðleifur calls his school, reports his not showing up to work today, as he got caught in that blizzard last night. His missing out a day in school does not often happen. He hardly ever gets sick.

Hann getur ekki farið að sofa. Skyldi hún koma í dag? Nei, varla í dag.

Ef til vill ætti hann að hengja málverkið upp einhvers staðar.

Guðleifur fer út í bíl að ná í húfuna sína. Hann hefur líklega gleymt henni í framsætinu. Það hefur líka snjóað í bænum, en ekkert minnir hér á veðrið sem var á Heiðinni í nótt. Hann ætlar svo að taka rækilega til í íbúðinni. Hann á von á gesti þá og þegar. Húfan hefur dottið á gólfið í bílnum. Rétt hjá henni liggur súkkulaðibiti. Súkkulaði? Hefur hún ekki borðað súkkulaðið? Skýtið.

He somehow cannot go to bed. She might come today? No, probably not today. Perhaps he should get that painting and hang it on a wall in some place.

Guðleifur goes outside, to his car, to get his woollen cap from there. He left it in the front seat. In town there is also some snow on the ground, but nothing compared to that blizzard on the mountain road last night. Guðleifur plans to tidy up his flat. He is expecting a guest.

His cap is not in the seat, but has fallen to the floor. There he also finds a piece of chocolate. Chocolate? Did she not eat the piece of chocolate he gave her?

Í bílsætinu liggur bréfsnifsi. Guðleifur tekur það. Á því stendur: Guðleifur Hreinn Sveinn Friðþjófsson Draumalandi 13

Hún ..... hún hefur skilið heimilisfangið hans eftir. Hvers vegna? Ætli hún hafi móðgast þegar hann dottaði? Já, en, hann er viss um að hann sofnaði ekkert. Sagði hann eitthvað sem gæti hafa sært hana? Hvers vegna vildi hún ekki heimilisfangið hans? Hún hefur örugglega ekki getað lesið það í bílnum.

Hann gengur inn til sín, hryggur, með miða, súkkulaði og húfu í höndunum.

In the seat there is the piece of paper on which he wrote: Guðleifur Hreinn Sveinn Friðþjófsson Draumalandi 13

She … she did not take his address. Why not? Did she get offended when he fell asleep? Yes, but, he did not fall asleep. He is sure about that. Did he say something that made her sad, made her change her mind? No way she could have read the address in the car.

Feelng unhappy about it, he goes inside, holding a piece of paper, a piece of chocolate, and his woollen cap.

On entering he gets a glimpse of his TV-set. Of course turned off. He stands there as if paralyzed. He stares at his TV-set.

-…. now we use the television, she said. Remember?

-Hulda Dís, are you …. ?

Or were you …? Was it you who ….?

Do you remember how otherworldly her voice sounded: -I will come, I just come….

His heart jumps. He hears some icy laughter ……

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