‘Thank you,’ the woman repeated in heartfelt tones, her sobbing now clearly audible down the line. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to gasp again before Hulda rang off.
When busy or under pressure, Hulda often forgot to eat, but she made sure she had something now. Her supper was the same as last night’s: cheese on toast. Since Jón died, she had given up cooking altogether. At first, she had tried to make the effort, but as the years went by and she got used to living alone, she’d made do with a hot meal in the work canteen at midday and survived mainly on a diet of fast food or sandwiches in the evenings.
She was in the middle of her simple snack, listening to the radio news, when the phone rang. Seeing who it was, she felt an impulse to ignore it, but habit and a sense of duty made her pick up. Characteristically, he launched straight in without even bothering to give his name, but then Alexander had never had any manners: ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he stormed. She pictured him at the other end: features twisted in a scowl, the double chin, the drooping eyelids under heavy brows.
She wasn’t going to let him fluster her. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked in as normal a voice as she could manage.
‘Come off it, Hulda. You know as well as I do. For fuck’s sake. That Russian girl who drowned herself.’
‘Can’t you even remember her name?’
The question apparently caught him off-guard. He was speechless for a moment, which was unlike him. But he soon recovered. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? What I want to –’
‘Her name was Elena,’ Hulda interrupted.
‘I don’t give a shit!’ His voice rose. No doubt his face had flushed dark red. ‘Why are you sticking your nose into this, Hulda? I thought you’d left.’
So the news had spread.
‘You must have been misinformed,’ she said levelly.
‘Oh? From what I heard …’ He thought better of it. ‘Whatever. Why are you muscling in on my case?’
‘Because Magnús asked me to,’ Hulda said. This was stretching the truth, but never mind.
‘You’re deliberately trying to undermine me, that’s what this is. I’ve already dealt with that case.’
‘Not in a way that does you any credit,’ Hulda said coolly.
‘There was nothing dodgy about it,’ Alexander blustered, almost shouting now. ‘The poor cow was about to be deported so she threw herself in the sea. End of story.’
‘On the contrary, her request for asylum was about to be granted, and she knew it.’
There was a sudden silence at the other end. After a moment, Alexander spluttered: ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘The case is far from closed, that’s all there is to it. And you’re interrupting my supper, so if there’s nothing else …’
‘Interrupting your supper? Yeah, right – a lonely sandwich in front of the TV,’ he said nastily. Having delivered this parting shot, he hung up.
That was below the belt. The truth was that she was always alone; the only single woman among a group of men, most of whom were married, if not to their first, then to their second wives, and surrounded by big extended families. It wasn’t the first time she’d been the butt of this kind of remark. It went with the territory, along with the tasteless jokes, the outright bullying. She could be prickly in her dealings with other people, she knew, but then she’d had to develop a thick skin to survive, and in return it seemed this gave the lads a licence to take pot shots at her.
Of course, she should have been able to shrug off Alexander’s spiteful dig but, instead, to prove him wrong, she decided to call Pétur from the walking club. She still thought of him as a friend rather than a boyfriend – their relationship felt too platonic for that. Whenever they were together she found herself wishing she was twenty, thirty years younger; then it wouldn’t have been as hard to make that next move, progress from the polite pecks on the cheek to something more intimate. Then again, there were times on the phone to him when she felt as shy as a girl again; a sign, she thought, that their relationship was on the right track, that maybe she did want more.
As usual, he was quick to answer. Typically brisk and on the ball.
‘I wondered,’ she said diffidently, ‘that is, I wondered if you’d like to pop over for coffee this evening.’ The moment the words had slipped out, she realized they could be misconstrued. Inviting a man round for coffee out of the blue like that … She wanted to add that she wasn’t asking him to spend the night, but she bit her lip and merely hoped he wouldn’t read more into her offer than she’d intended.
‘I’d love to,’ he answered, without a moment’s hesitation. He was always decisive, never one to get bogged down in details or make a mountain out of a molehill; qualities Hulda appreciated. Nevertheless, this was quite a big step for them, as she’d never invited him round to her place before. Was it that she was ashamed of her flat? she wondered. In comparison to their old house on álftanes with its big windows and large garden – yes, maybe. But mainly it was due to the invisible defences she had raised around herself, defences she’d been reluctant to lower for him until now, when, in desperate need of company, she had decided to take the risk.
‘Shall I come round now?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sure, that would be great. If you can.’ She was ridiculously insecure when talking to him; it was so unlike her. Usually, she had every aspect of her life well under control.
‘Of course. Where do you live?’
She reeled off her address, finishing: ‘Fourth floor, my name’s on the bell.’
‘I’ll be straight over,’ he said, and rang off without saying goodbye.
‘About time you invited me round,’ was Pétur’s first comment when she opened the door. At getting on for seventy, he was a few years older than Hulda but wore his age well, looking neither much younger nor much older than he really was, though his grey beard did give him a slightly grandfatherly air. Hulda couldn’t stop herself from wondering, just for an instant, what Jón would have looked like at seventy.
Almost before she knew what was happening, Pétur was in the sitting room, making himself comfortable in her favourite chair. Hulda felt a twinge of irritation: her mother’s armchair was her spot, but of course she didn’t say this aloud. After all, she was pleased to have him there, happy that someone wanted to spend the evening with her. She had got used to the loneliness, as far as this was possible, but there was no real substitute for the company of another human being. She had sometimes tried going out by herself, to restaurants for lunch or dinner, but it had made her feel self-conscious and embarrassed, so now she tended to eat in the office canteen or alone at home.
She asked if he’d like a coffee.
‘Thanks, no milk.’