The Perfect Landscape Part 3

4.

A WALK IN THE ALPS REYKJAVIK, CURRENT DAY.

Hanna intends to fulfill her promise to Steinn and call Denmark today; he is not keen on this sort of phone call. She isn't entirely sure which approach to take with the auction house in Copenhagen where Elisabet Valsdottir bought The Birches, artist currently unknown, but she intends to get what she needs. Steinn is tenacious, she thinks to herself, but I don't give up so easily either.

They both want to know who put The Birches up for auction, who profited nearly eight million Icelandic kronur from its sale. Hanna will need to be cunning but courteous; she must sheath her foil. Auction houses are invariably on their guard. There is always someone who is trying to get forged paintings onto the market. She doesn't want to be too pushy and have the person on the other end get defensive as a result.

Steinn is still waiting for the X-rays. He knows someone who works in the radiology department at the hospital, but he has not found time to X-ray the painting yet. In the meantime, they will have to look for clues elsewhere by tracing the painting's history, looking for inconsistencies, something that doesn't ring true.

Finally Hanna takes the plunge and dials the number. She starts off trying to make do with her high school Danish in the hopes that any Dane would be pleased to hear an Icelander trying to speak Danish. The auction house's phone number is on the home page; she has the website open in front of her on the screen as she dials.

"Vabeha?"

The voice on the other end is impatient, and Hanna decides straightaway not to attempt any further Danish and switches over to English. That works better, and the voice softens very slightly.

"The painting was attributed to the Icelandic painter Gudrun Johannsdottir," she repeats in English, but the man at the auction house is not really listening. Hanna tries her best to p.r.o.nounce the name in some sort of international way that could be understood anywhere. "Gudrun Johannsdottir." She p.r.o.nounces the j as dj as she would in English. "Djo-hanns-dot-tir," she repeats, trying to remain as friendly and polite as she can. She feels that a member of staff at the auction house should recognize the name. Gudrun was very much a key player among Icelandic painters and exhibited a lot abroad. Mostly in Paris but also in Scandinavia. Evidently before this man's time, because he now asks her to spell the name. In her head Hanna quickly tries to find words to match the letters in Gudrun's name while spelling it correctly. "G as in George. U as in..." She falls silent for a moment. U as in what, an English or a Danish word? "U as in under," she says hesitantly, but the message seems to transmit across the sea. "D as in David." She continues to spell Gudrun's name out in full. "And dottir like the Danish word datter," she says finally, but the man on the other end doesn't understand what she means and so she has to spell dottir, daughter, as well.

"And when was the painting purchased?" The man on the other end is clearly jotting down her inquiry about the painting's ownership history. He is probably just someone who answers the phone; at least that's how he comes across. Judging by the range of items on offer on their website, it is a big auction house that operates on a considerable scalea"it is hardly likely the staff are all specialist art historians. The auction house has much more than paintings on offer, and Hanna looks through the selection of goods for sale while she is talking. The collectors' pages remind her of the Duke of Berry's treasures. She is attracted by a Russian damask doll, embroidered with a crown and a monogram. It costs around one hundred thousand Icelandic kronur. Someone has bid nearly fifty thousand. While she is answering the man's questions, Hanna tries to imagine what sort of person buys these things.

"I think it was purchased just before New Year's, but I don't have an exact date," she says. She can hear the keyboard tapping. He is searching. Hanna clicks on a picture of a decorative Chinese tree with flowers and leaves made of valuable stones. The tree is set to go for around forty thousand Icelandic kronur. However, a monk's figurine carved from wood from the seventeenth century is valued at well over a hundred thousand. Would she give Frederico something like that for Christmas if they were rich? She smiles to herself until she remembers. Depending on whether they have another Christmas together.

"I need to look into this more," says the voice on the phone. "If you give me your number I'll call you later in the week."

Hanging up, Hanna senses nothing will come of it. She has to admit that Steinn is right; information of this sort is not handed out on a plate. But now she must get her brain in gear for the next project. She has invited four artists to take part in her landscape exhibition in the spring and has asked them to meet here in the Annexe. She is curious to see how they get along.

Creating works of art is addictive, something well known to artists who have not had the opportunity to produce any art for some time. They see their creative urge, find some other outlet, in the kitchen, the garden, in DIY around the house, having another baby, or in being generally surly. This urge is like a disability, Hanna thinks to herself as she stands welcoming the artists in the Annexe's exhibition room. They all have it, no matter what their age or what form it takes. They all simply want to see their art come into being. To feel an idea taking shape, see it develop and then emerge into the world. There is fulfillment in seeing your ideas coming to fruition. Luxury. Maybe this is why artists repeatedly reconcile themselves to working unpaid, working on their art in their spare time and all for this: to see their art come alive.

The painter, Haraldur, keeps some distance from the others, his expression at once proud and embittered. He stands erect, still in his overcoat and woolen hat, shuffling his feet as if he doesn't know what to do with himself. Jon Egilsson is relaxed, his soft features have success written all over them, and he has the good-natured appearance of a man who lives a comfortable life. His overcoat is casually draped over his arm, and something about his manner says that he has lived abroad for many years.

They were born the same year but belong to different generations of artists. Both were fascinated by schools of art around the middle of the previous century, and both attracted attention early on. Haraldur for his huge abstract paintings, which are on show in banks, public buildings, and companies around the country. Jon for his sculptures, performances, and conceptual art. He has never painted a picture. He has lived in Belgium for almost his entire career. Haraldur stuck with abstract art right up to the seventies and then began to lean toward landscape painting. Now he paints lyrical landscapes almost exclusively. As an artist he portrays tenderness and gentleness, those sides of Icelandic nature that are often overshadowed by the magnificent and awe-inspiringly beautiful, and yet are so important to us. Beneath his gruff exterior lies a genuine artist, a pa.s.sionate painter who has fallen foul of the present day, and that's a shame, Hanna thinks to herself. But she is fed up with his continual mistrust. The hardest part will be getting Haraldur to work with the others; Jon will not be a problem.

Leifur Finnson is from the youngest generation of artists, consumed with burning ambition, pa.s.sion, and joy at creating his art. He only recently graduated from the Icelandic Academy of Arts and so is rather excited to be asked to take part in an exhibition at the munic.i.p.al gallery. Anselma is a young German artist whose career she has followed over recent years, and Hanna is pleased to be able to give her this opportunity here. Anselma is calm, experienced, and does not have the expectations that Leifur has. She has seen compet.i.tion on the international stage and produces her own brand of art and takes the consequences with equanimity.

Agusta told Hanna about Leifur's background and his battle to become an artist; it sounded like a tale from the old days, of an unworldly romantic who walks alone, without a care for wealth or security. "He's the son of a master carpenter and a primary school teacher, and his parents are very ordinary middle-cla.s.s people," said Agusta. "But they were totally against him going to the Arts Academy. His father wanted him to take over the family business because Leifur is a talented carpenter. And that's proved very useful to him and to many others at the Academy. His parents don't see any future in studying art. So in order to instill a bit of discipline, even though he's no longer a child, they decided that if he studied at the Academy he would have to fend for himself entirely. So he left home the minute he got a place there. Everyone was against him apart from his girlfriend, who has stood by him like a rock," said Agusta. "Even his friends didn't understand hima"rather than go out partying he wanted to stay at home and create his sculptures."

Hanna looks at Leifur's hands fiddling with a pencil, dirt under his nails, strong supple hands, with a carved silver ring on his wedding finger.

"Lilja told me," said Agusta. "She was his lecturer. There was a risk of him giving up in the first semester because he didn't fit in with the group. He hadn't ever gone to an exhibition, you see, didn't know any artists, and had a different taste in music. He dressed differently. He didn't believe in himself and didn't think he would make it, but Lilja managed to get him to change his mind. Nevertheless, it wasn't until the final semester that he blossomed, when he created that installation from wood, the one that I was telling you about."

Hanna was thrilled by Leifur's artworks the minute she saw pictures of them. She doesn't have a clue what he intends to do in this exhibit, but in her eyes all his works are modern-day landscapes that blend with the city and create a background for its life. He makes sculptures that flow through the exhibition s.p.a.ce. Using discarded building materials, roofing felt, rusty corrugated iron, wooden offcuts, gla.s.s, anything that happens to be available when a house is demolished, or discarded materials from a newly built house, he creates a richly nuanced composition of colors and textures.

"He barely speaks to his parents even now," said Agusta, and Hanna lets out a sigh at the thought, wishing that she had the money to pay Leifur a decent sum for his work, rather than just cover the cost of the raw materials. And how is he going to sell such large installations that you cannot store or build over again? Fortunately, he is still too young to worry about whether his work will sell; he is unrealistic and optimistic and this allows him to think big. Maybe he's one of those who won't give up, she thinks. One of those who keeps going until he's able to live from his art.

Hanna'd had to coax Haraldur to take part. It was not until they had been talking for some time about various Icelandic and foreign painters that he reluctantly agreed to join in. He would have agreed immediately to an exhibition in the main gallery, but the Annexe is another matter altogether. The Annexe is an avant-garde exhibition s.p.a.ce that does not give paintings precedence over other media. Haraldur harbors a deep mistrust for such movements. He has very little confidence in Hanna, but the fact that his paintings have not been seen on the gallery's walls for decades overcame his artistic reservations about the validity of this exhibition.

This is like religion, Hanna thinks to herself. Doesn't narrow-mindedness contradict the very spirit of art? Haraldur doesn't believe that any of the younger generation have a genuine interest in his art. Let alone these youngsters, she thinks, looking at Leifur and Anselma. Haraldur would be surprised if he knew how open these two actually were to his art. He projects his own narrow-mindedness onto others.

The two older men take a sideways glance at the young ones, Jon out of curiosity, Haraldur with a distinct look of disdain. Collaboration is not in his nature, not because he is stubborn or myopica"working with others, which is common among contemporary artists, is simply alien to him.

"Well now," Hanna begins. "Welcome."

Mentally she slips into fencing mode, into the starting position. She feels the heaviness in her feet, the balance in her core, her body full of energy in readiness; the others are looking at her, waiting.

"Nice to see you all," she says calmly, ready to go into defense or attack mode. "We're here today to have a chat. Sort of, informally, to get to know one another. Well, maybe you've not met, so let me introduce you," she says, and from the introductions it turns out that they know one another, apart from Anselma and Haraldur. Jon taught Leifur at the Academy of Arts, and Leifur did some carpentry for the gallery that occasionally exhibits Haraldur's work. Jon is the friendliest of them all. He has the most experience, not only in art, but also in the interpersonal relations that this entails.

"How is the gallery going to go about this?" asks Leifur. "You see, I was thinking of a booklet and pictures and so on. And the exhibition s.p.a.ce? I think you were talking about some artwork in public s.p.a.ces, weren't you?"

Hanna has already visited them individually and explained that they are free to do as they please, either in the Annexe or in a public s.p.a.ce, which they could discuss with the local authorities.

"I know for sure that we'll have Haraldur's paintings in this room here," says Hanna, hoping Haraldur will say something. But Haraldur merely stands there silently, his arms folded across his chesta"he has no intention of speaking to these youngsters or to Hanna. "In other respects we don't know what the exhibit will be like," she adds. "I think it will be exciting to have new pieces, but that isn't by any means a stipulation. Not at all," she adds, looking toward Haraldur. "What I have in mind is to display a variety of ideas about landscape in contemporary arts, on a small scale, a variety where every voice can be heard. Obviously, landscape is a very broad concept."

Leifur nods his head. His eyes are a beautiful green-brown with golden flecks. His dark unruly hair tumbles over his forehead.

"You can link the concept of landscape with almost anything at all," says Hanna. "You interpret it as you wish, naturally. Landscape is the underlying theme of the exhibition and I'll write about it in the program, but you are free to do what you want. You don't need to take the concept literally," she says more to herself than to the others.

Not necessarily, she thinks, and yet in her mind's eye she pictures a mountain. The light falling on it. The colors. The proportions of the mountain, the sky, and the sea. Somewhere these elements come together perfectly. Maybe in one of Ruisdael's paintings. If Vermeer had painted a landscape with mountains, it would have been the consummate landscape painting. Cezanne got close to it. The tenderness of Haraldur's paintings. The mountains back home in Leirhofn. The Birches springs to mind, and yet again she wonders who did this beautiful painting, if it wasn't Gudrun.

"It's been said that in every age societies look within and reveal how they view the world through the landscape paintings of their artists," says Hanna. "I think that from our own countryside we should be able to come up with something about ourselves, our worldview, and our society, and express that through images of the Icelandic landscape. What I'm saying is just an attempt to see things in a larger context. Like Petrarch." Hanna looks at Jon and Haraldur. Haraldur is nodding, while Jon looks blank.

"Francesco Petrarch was born in Italy in the fourteenth century, but as the fates would have it he grew up and studied in France. He became famous for his writings and traveled widely in Europe. Among other things he collected old ma.n.u.scripts and he is seen as one of the initiators of the Renaissance in Italy. Petrarch is also remembered in history for his remarkable accounts of landscapes and has been called Petrarca Alpinista, the first mountaineer. It was not common in his day to go hiking for pleasure, but he climbed Mont Ventoux in southern France with the sole aim of admiring the view. When he had reached the summit, he looked all around in awe and wonder, and the story goes that he opened one of Saint Augustine's sacred writings from the fourth century, which he was particularly fond of. And it so happened that he opened it at the page that says man should look within rather than wonder at the glory of nature. And naturally Petrarch was filled with remorse," Hanna explains. "As if he'd made a major mistake. I wanted to tell you this tale because Petrarch finds himself in such an exciting position in this story. Should he look out or in, forward or to the past? He is at a turning point. Which way are we going to look?"

Hanna stops talking. Outside the window the bluish hues of the morning give way to white daylight. The sidewalk is dark gray where the underground hot water pipes have thawed the snow; the square is white. It's snowing heavily, large wet flakes. Hanna sees that she is losing Haraldur to the snowfall.

"I don't quite get these landscape ideas of yours," says Leifur, suddenly irritated by the account of a long-dead Italian poet to whom he cannot relate. "I'm no landscape painter. Nor am I keen on exhibitions where the curator has the main say."

"You have a completely free hand in this," Hanna repeats, sensing how her story has backfired, as if the thought she was trying to get across has turned against her and instead of being liberating has come over as reactionary. "What I really want to hear from you as soon as possible are your ideas. Maybe you don't have any ideas right now, but we can speak again later."

Leifur moves off a few paces, trying to keep himself in check. Hanna decides to give him time to calm down and says nothing. Walking toward the window, he takes his hands out of his pockets; his fists are no longer clenched. He turns his back to them as he talks.

"Yeah, well, of course I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't think that far ahead. Still, I'd be up for doing something that kind of evolves. I've got loads of junk in a friend's garage he wants to get rid of."

Hanna nods. She doesn't know whether Leifur has staged this little scene to get attention, and she isn't bothered either way, just mumbles something encouraging and avoids meeting Haraldur's eye. Haraldur walked off toward the gallery the minute Leifur mentioned the junk in the garage, but now he turns around and looks accusingly at Hanna. That's where he wants to be, Hanna thinks to herself. Inside the gallery. Not here in this experimental s.p.a.ce.

"An exhibition like this is an interactive process," she says, immediately seeing from Haraldur's expression that her choice of words goes right against the grain. In his opinion terms like "interactive process" have nothing in common with art. She could kick herself.

"We'll find a way that's acceptable to all," she says at last, looking straight at Haraldur, who looks back at her angrily. In the end, he cannot keep silent.

"Junk in the garage!" He looks at Jon and Hanna as if these words say it all, turns on his heel, and storms out. Agusta looks at Hanna.

"Should I go after him?" she asks with a worried look, but Hanna shakes her head.

"He'll come around," she says and smiles at Leifur. "He'll see the light yet."

Leifur does not smile back. They are not on the same side. But Hanna sees the oppositions the exhibition will revolve around, and that pleases her. This incident confirms where these two are coming from, and that is no surprise to Hanna. It will be difficult to bridge the gap between these artists, but she is convinced that it will work, from the point of view of their artwork at least, although it is unlikely that it will spark a friendship between Leifur and Haraldur.

Closing the computer that has been sitting open on the floor all the while, Anselma finally begins speaking in a nasal voice. From her experience with Dutch and German artists Hanna knows that the time has come to discuss the practicalities.

"How is it with the town council?" asks Anselma in her slightly broken Icelandic. "Isn't there yet another new committee for culture?"

In the past year or so the civic authorities have repeatedly changed and so has the personnel on the various munic.i.p.al bodies as a result. Hanna hears the familiar tone of resignation in Anselma's voice, the weariness of someone who constantly sees problems instead of possibilities, but she doesn't let it get to her. Anselma doesn't know it yet, but thanks to her job in Amsterdam, Hanna is a past master at sitting on committees and fighting her corner. Anselma will soon come to realize this. Mentally moving into the resting position, Hanna smiles at her; she will take this parry lightly. There's an almost tangible release of tension from the room following Haraldur's exit, and she becomes even more determined to have him involved, come what may.

5.

IN THE FOREGROUND.

E-mails have been flying back and forth between Hanna and her friends since she arrived in the country. Yet they still have not found an evening that suits them all, so they've settled on meeting for lunch today instead. Even then, only three of them, Hanna, Gudny, and Laufey, are able to make it to the vegetarian restaurant downtown.

That morning Hanna goes to the national library in search of information on Christian Holst's art collection, the butcher who owned The Birches for so many years. She does not find anything about Holst but discovers a number of things about Elisabeth Hansen, the Danish art collector whose paintings were the jewel in Holst's collection.

Reading the description of Elisabeth Hansen, with her red hair and lively manner, Hanna is reminded of a letter by Gudrun Johannsdottir that she found in the gallery's archives. It was written in 1939 to a good friend of Gudrun's who was living in Italy at the time. In the letter Gudrun describes the evening she and her friend Sigfus Gunnarsson visited Elisabeth Hansen. Elisabeth used to hold an open house one evening a week with free food. These events were frequented by Danish abstract painters, some of whom later became part of the CoBrA movement. Sigfus was among them, and Elisabeth made him very welcome but cold-shouldered Gudrun all evening.

Gudrun mentions in the letter that Sigfus had sold a painting to Elisabeth that same evening. Where might this picture be and what sort of painting was it? Hanna thinks to herself, huddled over the books. If Sigfus had sold Elisabeth a painting then it probably went to the butcher, as he bought up virtually her whole collection.

After a bit of searching Hanna finally turns up something about the butcher in a book about Danish abstract painters. It emerges that at the end of his life, Christian Holst gave nearly all his CoBrA paintings to an art gallery on Jutland. Maybe Sigfus's painting ended up there as well, muses Hanna, jotting down the gallery's name. It would be interesting to find a painting by Sigfus Gunnarsson, unknown in Iceland until now, somewhere on the Jutland countryside in Denmark.

Hanna keeps on looking but does not find anything further about the butcher, and as she walks downtown to her lunch date, she is still no nearer the truth about The Birches. Mr. Jensen at the auction house hasn't gotten back in touch, which is no more than she expected.

She feels she is just not getting anywhere. The joint exhibition venture has also come to a halt. Haraldur is not answering his phone, neither Leifur nor Anselma can give her a clear idea of what they are going to display, and Jon has gone back home to Antwerp. The article Hanna intended to write for the booklet is not coming together either; it is as if everything is frozen over, just like nature. After a mild and rainy January, winter has set in with snow and frost. Not beautiful, still winter days as in Holland; here there's been low pressure, gales, whirling snowstorms, and drifting snow all around.

Hanna is late getting to the restaurant, but she is still the first one there. She smiles to herself, glad to be back home, where it is quite natural to be a bit unpunctual. The restaurant only serves healthy vegetarian dishes, and she reads the menu with mistrust. Having lived with Frederico for years, her taste in food has become rather Italian, and she is not keen on superhealthy food. In the end she orders vegetable lasagna just as Gudny arrives at the table, and she orders the same without asking what it is. She is out of breath and explains she is late because the road across the moor was in a bad state.

"I took my own car. I'm more at ease in a Jeep out in the country," she says. "Then I parked the car outside the parliament building and got caught up in a snowstorm walking across here!" She brushes the snow from her blonde highlights; any hairstyle she may have had has now been blown away.

"But it was fun over at the prison," she says, laughing. "An amazing woman has taken over there." Gudny is referring to the new prison chief who has revamped operations. "She's really giving these men an opportunity," she says. "We were also talking about the young ones; a case came up the other day about a youngster who wanted to go to prison rather than to a young offenders' inst.i.tution out in the countryside."

Smiling, covered in snow, and rosy-cheeked, she shakes her head in surprise. Hanna looks at her fondly, at her big smile. Hearing her familiar, lively laughter, Hanna is pleased to see her friend again, and her concerns about The Birches and the disagreement between the artists pale in significance compared to all that Gudny has to deal with in her job as minister of justice. Gudny makes light of it and praises her colleagues. The signs of weariness are not lost on Hanna, but she sees that Gudny is enjoying her work and she's glad for her. Gudny always wanted to go far.

By the time Laufey arrives, they have already begun eating, and, again, Hanna feels how important their friendship is to her. She does not have much contact with her family now that her parents have died; she never was close to her half brothers and sisters. It is her friends who are her link between the past and the present, between her life before she moved abroad and her life now. They have known one another for about twenty years, some of them for longer. The bonds of friendship have not broken even though they seldom meet.

"They've both grown taller than me," Laufey is saying proudly of her two sons. She is sitting in a thick padded anorak with an African band wrapped around her head as always, and she seems untouched by age. They talk about their children; Gudny answers her phone. It's hectic in the restaurant; people are coming and going and they each keep glancing up at the clock. There is more stress here than in Amsterdam, despite the lack of punctuality. Gudny is talking to someone on the phone about a group of youngsters who were arrested downtown in a derelict house recently. Hanna hears what she is saying without eavesdropping, but when Gudny mentions graffiti, Hanna is all ears. When Gudny hangs up, Hanna tells her how some of the city's outdoor artworks have been vandalized.

"I think I know which kids we're talking about, Hanna," replies Gudny with her mouth full. The phone rings again, but she turns it to silent and slips it into her bag. "Now I can eat in peace for a moment," she says with a broad grin.

"Do you really think it's them?" asks Hanna, surprised. "The ones you were talking about, who were arrested?"

Gudny swallows and nods. "Exactly. They're a small gang, maybe four to six kids, one is only thirteen. They've been graffitiing on walls in derelict buildings in town, both inside and out. There's very little we can do about it. The police take them down to the station, either call the child social work team or their parents, take a statement from them, and then their parents fetch them or the police drive them home. I think the thirteen-year-old is on the child protection register, probably has an impossible home situation, the poor thing."

"Isn't it possible to do something for these kids? Give them some walls to spray as they please or something?" Hanna asks, but Gudny shakes her head.

"We've tried all that long ago. It makes no differencea"problem kids just aren't interested. That is, part of this graffiti culture is the excitement of doing something forbidden. Although they do sometimes get punished, for example, one lad was made to clean up the wall of a house he'd spray-painted."

"I see," says Hanna. "Art students from the Academy paint on walls where it's permitted. They know what they're about, and they want to do something stunning."

"Mmm," replies Gudny, looking at the clock. Hanna does not mind.

"I feel sorry for these kids," Hanna says. "I had it so good when I was a child. It would never have occurred to me to go and graffiti a wall."

Laufey laughs. "I don't suppose there was a lot of that in Leirhofn or Kopasker?" Hanna smiles back, recalling the little village in the north of the country where she was born and brought up.

"I was always happy at home in Leirhofn." She stares pensively out of the window, at the drifting snow. "I remember my bedroom window so well. It faced out toward the mountains, and when I sat up in bed I could see right up their slopes. I never wanted to have curtains. The hillsides, the snow, and the crags were like a graphics painting in wintertime. And in the summers I looked right onto the hollows full of berries. And in the evenings..." Falling silent for a moment, Hanna slips back in time and pictures the rural area she was brought up in. "In the evenings the slopes were a reddish-pink. Those mountains were like a friendly giant's embrace."

"Weren't you only a young girl when you moved?" Gudny has finished eating and signals to the waiter. Hanna notices that she gets immediate service. She also notices that people at nearby tables recognize who Gudny is, but no one has bothered them.

"The earthquake was in '76. I was nine then."

"Where were you when it happened?" asks Laufey. Hanna has never talked about that time, and she hesitates. She is not sure she wants to go over that day. She was about to mentally raise her sword in self-defense, look up at the clock, and mention something about time flying, but she changes her mind. Why should she not tell them what happened? It was so long ago. She still glances at the clock, as a precaution, so she can stop when she wants, make the time an excuse to go.

"I was in school." She hesitates, the earthquake vivid before her even though it was over thirty years ago. "The walls and the floor were like waves. It was as if a blow thundered down on the building. Books tumbled off their shelves. Somehow we all got out and no one was hurt."

Hanna takes a sip of water. Gudny stops, her phone halfway out of her bag.

"Then they drove us home," Hanna goes on. "You see, the school was in Kopasker and children from the surrounding farms were bused in. There were crevices in the road, deep fissures created by the earthquake." Hanna does not mention the fear that reigned in the school bus, the silence; no one knew what things would be like at home, what awaited them.

"When I came home, I was so luckya"I immediately saw Mom in the doorway. None of our family was injured." Hanna hesitates again; she feels that no words can express what happened that day. She has always thought that it was then that her parents decided to split up. But in fact it was not like that. The family moved to Akureyri; the divorce came later. But she cannot help herself. She has always thought that if the earthquake had not destroyed their house, if they had not had to move, then her life would have been different and better. But she does not say any of this.

"There was rice pudding all over the kitchen floor," she says lightheartedly instead. "Rice pudding, raisins, and broken crockery. And the fridge and cooker that stood up against opposite walls had met in the middle of the room." She smiles at Laufey. Gudny picks up her phone and checks her missed calls.

"Gudny," says Hanna suddenly, without thinking, maybe because she wants to change the subject. "I would like to do something for these kids who are in trouble. Or for that young lada"is it possible to help him in some way? Perhaps the gallery can do something, or the Annexe, possibly some project for youngsters? Make our town beautiful or something along those lines?" Hanna cannot stop thinking about this lad, the youngest member of the group. What sort of a life must he have if he is considered a case for the child protection register? Maybe his family split up like hers did and he doesn't have a mother to give him the love and security that she enjoyed.

"I'll look into it, Hanna," says Gudny, smiling at her. Hanna senses that Gudny finds her overly sentimental, but she doesn't care. She doesn't have to keep a professional distance when faced with the difficult lives of these youngsters. In her head she immediately starts on a letter to the mayor. The gallery needs extra funds this year because the cost of cleaning up the vandalism has run over budget. Working with the youth could be part of that package. She can see herself organizing something with Agusta, even though it would only be a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, one weekend.

Hanna is deep in thought when Gudny gets up to go. She hugs them good-bye while talking on the phone, and is still talking as she pays the bill and disappears. Her driver is waiting.

Laufey appears in no hurry, and Hanna is quick to suggest a slice of chocolate cake for dessert. She needs to talk to her and preferably in private. This is an ideal opportunity, and she has been thinking all morning how to approach the subject of Steinn.

He has been off sick. "Steinn, who is never ill," said Edda over the coffee machine that morning. "I've worked with Steinn for seven years and he's never had a single sick day."

Hanna had immediately suspected what was wrong but said nothing. The previous week she had looked up glaucoma on the Internet and read about the symptoms of slow onset glaucoma. These could well explain Steinn's behavior. A person's peripheral vision deteriorates slowly but surely, creating blind spots, but the central vision remains largely untouched. If nothing is done about it, the condition will progress and cause blindness; people frequently do not notice the deterioration until it is too late. Acute glaucoma, on the other hand, can cause blindness in a very short s.p.a.ce of time, in a matter of hours if nothing is done. Hanna does not know if slow onset glaucoma can change into acute or what is really the matter with Steinn, who is never ill. She doesn't really feel she can call him; she can't think up a good reason that doesn't sound odd. Questioning him about his health seems almost like a vote of no confidence, and it would be inappropriate to keep asking him about it. She has decided to be patient, and besides she knows that Steinn doesn't care for help or sympathy; he is a very proud man. She hopes that someone else, someone close to him, will see to it that he gets the help he needs, but she is not so sure.

The slices of cake arrive at the table immediately. Hanna and Laufey are probably getting the benefit of Gudny's ministerial status, even though she has left. Hanna needs to get straight to the point because neither of them has much time. She tells Laufey what she thinks Steinn is suffering from and asks for her professional opinion as a doctor, what she should do. Laufey gives her a curious look.

"So you're taking quite an interest in this man?"

Hanna does not deny it. She decides to be frank. "I'm not exactly falling for him, but there's something about him, Laufey. I don't quite know. Anyway, there's nothing between us. Besides, he's married."