House of Evidence(82)

“Yeah, I have also read the diaries.”

“Well. I’ve been dabbling in writing poetry since starting college, and Diddi has written music to a few of them. He plays the guitar, you see.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I wanted to write a poem that described Grandpa’s destiny. It’s almost ready and I asked Diddi for a song. I had to try and describe Grandpa to him, naturally, and Birkihlíd was the best place to do that. I also wanted to show him the diaries. I knew what time Sveinborg goes shopping on Wednesdays, and we were waiting outside when she went. I had my key from when I was supposed to be living there.”

“So you both went in?”

“Yes, for a little while. We just went through the main rooms, and Diddi sat down at the piano and played a few chords. And then I just felt a bit weird, and we went back outside. That was all.”

“Where can I find Sigurdur and get him to confirm this?”

“I don’t know. He was going somewhere out into the country to play a gig, Ólafsvík, I think. Then he was planning to work in the freezing plant for a few days if there was any work available. I haven’t heard anything from him since the day before yesterday.”

Hrefna decided her story was implausible enough to be true. “Let me hear the poem,” she said.

Elísabet bit her lip. “Okay,” she replied, and then recited it confidently.



“Awake I lie, and wintry visions

within life’s path to me appear;

as bitter winds they blow, to weaken

the boldness of your yesteryear.


“You left in silence; lost forever

in Lethe’s depths your thoughts now lie.

Bold your venture, but too heavy

a burden: did your spirit die?

“There are no tracks that onward gleam,

there are no tracks to carry me

out from dark, into the dream,

there are no tracks that man can see.

“There are no tracks on empty roads,

there are no tracks—and ever more

swift the train runs, speeding goes,

and sweeps o’er all that lies before.



“You nursed a hope, though no man saw

unknown the checks that hindered you.

Striving, dreaming, strong-willed, more,

yet still the aim was never true.”


Elísabet fell silent, awaiting Hrefna’s reaction.

“I believe you,” Hrefna finally said.

Elísabet sighed in relief.

“Tell me about your visits to Birkihlíd when you were a child,” Hrefna asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Just anything you can remember.”

Elísabet thought for a moment and then said, “At Christmas we either came south to Reykjavik or Granny and Uncle Jacob came north to us. That’s how it always was until Granny died. Mom and I also visited Granny every summer for a couple of weeks or so.”

“Tell me about your grandmother,” Hrefna asked.

“Granny was an amazing lady. She always spoke English to us, but she understood Icelandic perfectly. Mom speaks English like a native and she often spoke it to me when I was little, so I could also understand Granny. We got on very well, even though she was very determined and wanted to control everybody.”

“How was life at your grandmother’s?”

“Everything was very fixed. Mealtimes, for instance, were exactly on time because Granny was a stickler for routine. She always went for a walk at the same time, and always walked the same route. Then she had a nap in the early afternoon.”

“What about Jacob Junior?”

“The strange thing is I don’t remember him very well. He worked in the bank and then spent evenings in his study. He had no idea how to deal with children, and I think he avoided me when I came to visit.”

“Would you say he was normal?” Hrefna asked.

“What’s normal? Uncle Jacob was an intelligent and well-educated man. He didn’t have much in common with most people, but he was the victim of extraordinary circumstances, given the violent death of his father.”

“Have you any idea why he was killed?”

“No, I don’t. It actually seems completely absurd to me…and tragic. Not because I mourn him so much, but that anyone could have been driven to kill such a man.”

“What were his relations with the rest of the family like?”

“Very good while Granny was alive. We all knew that he sacrificed himself for her, but after she died his eccentricity became unbearable.”

“Tell me more about your grandmother. Did you feel happy in her company when you were a child?” Hrefna asked.

“Yes, I was always happy with her. Many of my first memories are from Birkihlíd.”

“Tell me about them.”

“They’re just childhood memories,” she replied. “There’s one that I’ve always been very fond of. In Granny’s little bookcase, there were a few English women’s magazines that I looked through over and over again. Granny was sitting on a chair and I lay on the floor, leafing through them. I remember they all featured various cartoon strips, but because there were only single copies of this or that magazine, I had to imagine the stories before and after the installment that I had. I told Granny this, and she helped me improvise the stories. I remember one of the cartoons very well. It was about a boy and a girl who were lost in a dark enchanted forest. Suddenly, in the last picture, there was a white horse with a big horn sticking out of its forehead. In my version, the horse took the boy and the girl on his back and fought all the evil things in the forest with his horn. Then he brought them back home to their granny and grandpa. I sometimes dreamed of the white horse with the horn, and they were good dreams. If I was unhappy, all I needed was to think about the white horse with the horn…the white unicorn.”