September 13, 1930. My father’s body was conveyed to Reykjavik today. I am consumed with deep and impotent fury. If only we had had the railroad, this would never have happened. This road down Kambar Hill is very dangerous…
November 21, 1930. Our little daughter was born this morning. We are so happy. Now there is joy once more in this house, which has been so silent since my father died. Such is the way of life, one person leaves and another arrives…
November 29, 1930. This evening I sat by my daughter’s crib. She is a tiny little human being, and yet she looks so intelligent. When she looks us in the eye, it seems as if she is aware of something we don’t know of. Young Jacob is besotted with his sister.
The snow had been trodden down on the paved area in front of the yellow apartment block, and it was not easy to shovel. Pétur didn’t seem too concerned with the job, though, as he leaned on his shovel gossiping with his friend and neighbor, Albert. Or rather, Pétur pontificated while Albert listened with interest, grinning from ear to ear, and emitting an occasional nasal laugh.
Albert was a short fellow in his seventies; he lived in the house next door and spent the better part of each day on the lookout at his kitchen window. As soon as he spotted someone familiar outside, he’d nip out for a chat. Today, he was wearing a green sheepskin coat and a fur-lined baseball cap with earmuffs, whereas a sweater seemed to be adequate for Pétur, whose snow-shoveling duties, as relaxed as they were, kept him warm.
Now and again Pétur would shift a few shovels of snow, but then he would think of a new story that he wanted to tell Albert, and the shoveling would cease again. If a resident of the house passed, the pair would give a cheery greeting and follow the person inquisitively with their eyes, while Pétur speculated as to their particular comings and goings, based on previous observation, often concluding with some juicy rumor about their subject of the moment.
When Hrefna came through the gate carrying plastic bags in both hands, Pétur instantly put down his shovel and opened the front door for her.
“Good afternoon,” he said cheerfully, “any news of the murder case?”
“Good afternoon,” Hrefna replied. “No, not as far as I know.”
Pétur watched her as she went up the stairs, then turned back to his shovel. “She’s coming home from work. She’s not married,” he said to Albert.
“Ehe he,” Albert laughed.
“She works for the detective division, but they don’t tell her anything much.”
“He he.”
“They’re investigating this murder of Jacob Kieler in Birkihlíd.”
“Ehe he he.”
“Once, many years ago, I did a job for him with my jackhammer.”
“He he?”
“There was a fireplace in the laundry room that had been bricked up, and he had me open it up. The guy was trying to restore the laundry room to its original state and wanted the fireplace to follow suit.”
“He he.”
“But could I get him to pay? I charged him a fortune, of course, because I thought that they must have a bit of money in that palace of theirs, but I didn’t get a bit of it. In the end, I had to reduce the amount by half, and then he finally paid up. He threatened me with the tax authorities when I suggested I do it for cash.”
“He he.”
“But that’s not the whole story. There was some funny business going on in that house.”
“He he?”
Pétur kept Albert in suspense while he shoveled a bit more snow.
Diary XII
March 5, 1931. I have been looking for an opportunity to speak with ministers and members of parliament to press for some action on the railroad business. It seems to me that they are being evasive. Last year it was the preparations for the Althing Festival, whereas now they plead political conflicts and the financial crisis…
May 5, 1931. These are difficult times. Father’s shop has not done well this winter, and I don’t seem to have any other option but to close it. I have not found a buyer, and letting other people manage it clearly doesn’t work. I do not feel I can deal with this. I must try and get more projects for the engineering firm. We should be poorly off financially were it not for Elizabeth’s funds…
May 8, 1931. I am experiencing an odd anxiety. I try, nevertheless, not to show it, but I sense that Elizabeth is watching me. Is it possible that my work of ten years on the railroad business will come to nothing?
As she climbed the stairs carrying the plastic bags filled with the diaries, Hrefna could hear the scrape of Pétur’s shovel on the hardpack below. Those two were certainly irritating, she thought to herself; she found it very annoying, and a bit uncomfortable, to be watched every time she came and went.