Chapter 20
22 March 2008
Oqqapia sighed in resignation as she surveyed the
kitchen. There were no clean glasses or dishes. The stack in the
washing-up bowl had become so tall that it was no longer possible
to wash what one needed to use at any particular time without
running the risk of all the crockery crashing to the floor. She
couldn’t afford to replace the dishes, so she had recently resorted
to wiping off the glasses and dishes as they were needed, using a
ragged old dishcloth that was hardly any cleaner than they were. It
wasn’t even as if she could wash up even if she did pull herself
together. The village had no running water, which meant that she
had to fill the house’s tank before she could do anything about it.
Long ago the authorities had drilled for water in the village, but
they hadn’t thought to lay pipes to the houses. If the villagers
wanted access to water, they had to fetch it, drawing it from a
pump in a little pumphouse into various-sized tanks. In their
household it was Naruana’s job, but he’d been unusually lazy lately
and in that kind of mood he was useless. Oqqapia was completely
different, perhaps because she couldn’t allow herself not to care.
Her job wasn’t much to speak of, but it was still important. Every
three days she took on the task of emptying all the village houses’
indoor latrines into the sea. She made many trips with the
foul-smelling buckets down to the beach, and although her burden
was lighter on the way back she wasn’t able to carry more than two
buckets at a time. When she started this job three years ago she
made numerous attempts to carry four buckets at once but quickly
discovered that this was unworkable as too much splashed up out of
them along the way. Therefore, she had no choice but to make more
trips with fewer buckets, and if she missed a shift she soon heard
about it. The same people that had a go at her the few times it
happened never complimented her when everything went according to
schedule. She wished there were other work to be had, but the
villagers knew that no one was waiting anxiously to take over from
her and were thus careful not to keep her informed about other jobs
that occasionally came up.
Oqqapia wasn’t about to add carrying water to the
tank to her latrine duties. Naruana would have to do his own job.
If she went and fetched the water for him he would take it for
granted, and before she knew it it would be her job and he would be
left with no responsibilities. So she had to settle for staring
queasily at a juice carton before drinking from its spout. A sour
smell rose from the frayed cardboard every time she raised it to
her lips. The contents were still all right but the instant before
the liquid entered her mouth was difficult. If there were just one
clean glass.
Naruana appeared in the doorway. His black hair was
dirty and hadn’t been cut for ages, and although his bare shoulders
were still well-muscled they didn’t come close to looking like they
had when she saw him undress for the first time. It was painfully
clear that life had been tough on them both, and it wasn’t finished
with them yet. She had removed the mirror from over the bathroom
sink a long time ago. It was bad enough to wake up feeling as if
death had settled into her guts, without having to look at herself
to boot. But that was a temporary respite. She could see herself,
and how things had turned out for her, reflected in Naruana.
‘Give me a sip.’ Naruana held out his hand and took
the half-empty carton. He raised it to his lips and drained it,
then put it down on the kitchen table, adding it to the pile of
empty beer cans. ‘Are we all out?’ He didn’t need to explain what
he meant; they were too similar.
Oqqapia nodded. ‘You drank the last can last
night.’ She’d searched the house high and low for a beer, without
success. In fact she couldn’t recall which of them had drunk the
last one, but she supposed it had been him. That’s how it always
was and how it always would be. He took priority, even though she
contributed more to the household. For instance, they’d bought the
beer with the money she’d received from the foreign woman. If they
hadn’t used it, yesterday evening would have been pretty miserable;
of course it had been dull anyway, beer or no beer, but that was
another story. Alcohol numbed her feelings and made life bearable.
When everything came good there would finally be no reason to
drink. But when would that be and what would it take for it to
happen? Two years ago she, like other villagers, had thought that
better days were ahead with the arrival of the mine they’d heard
was going to be dug in the vicinity. Finally she, and the others,
would have more than an occasional half a day’s work, and life
would regain its purpose. Wake up, work and sleep. That was better
than wake up, drink and sleep. She still remembered the
disappointment all the villagers had felt when it turned out that
the mine would be in a place they had been taught to avoid and with
which it was forbidden to tamper. The numbness that consumed
everyone and everything in the wake of this discovery was awful,
actually worse than life had been before the future appeared to
hold some promise.
‘You shouldn’t have talked to that woman.’ Naruana
could say that now, but he hadn’t complained when she came home
with money. He had run immediately to Kajoq, who ran the village
shop – if it could be called a shop. One never knew whether a
product would be available since goods were supplied only twice a
year, in spring and autumn. Fresh foods weren’t available except
for a few weeks a year, but Kajoq never failed in one respect:
there was always plenty of beer and liquor. She couldn’t recall him
ever running short there. ‘You shouldn’t have talked to her.’
Naruana was repeating himself, like the old men who sat on the pier
and went on about the same things day in and day out.
‘I didn’t tell her anything. Just suggested that
she talk to your dad.’ Oqqapia knew this would cause him pain.
Every piece of news concerning his father seemed to hurt him, no
matter how insignificant. Despite this, she saw no reason not to
mention him. She’d learned from one of the teachers who had lived
in the village for a time when she was a child always to tell the
truth, but also that unspoken words were sometimes just as
misleading as outright lies. But what should one include in the
telling, and what was better left out? Still, she did what she
could to live by this maxim, despite the fact that many other
virtues she had once held in high esteem had long since
departed.
‘Why on earth did you say that? Why don’t you just
invite her round here as well?’ Naruana turned away from the open
refrigerator towards her. He was even angrier than before, but for
other reasons now than just the lack of Coke or juice to be found
there.
Now Oqqapia was in trouble, and her cheeks reddened
slightly. Should she take this opportunity and tell him that she
had actually promised the woman that she could use their phone to
call, or should she not? She hadn’t technically invited her to
visit, so she could deny that accusation in good conscience. She
decided not to mention it even though she knew this was perhaps not
entirely honest. Maybe the woman wouldn’t come, and if she did
appear Naruana might not even be at home. It was just as likely
that he would be down at the pier or visiting someone who might
have beer to spare. ‘Come on. You were happy enough about it
yesterday.’
‘I’m never happy. You should know that.’ He slammed
the refrigerator door, causing the jars of jam and other food in
it, most of it gone off, to clatter. That was another thing that
had been neglected, besides the washing up: clearing out the
refrigerator. ‘I just want to be left alone by that lot and you’re
stirring things up by talking to them. If no one says anything
they’ll just leave and everything will carry on as usual.’
Neither said anything further. Everything carrying
on as usual meant two things: futile drunkenness for them, and
contempt from those villagers who hadn’t gone down the same road as
they had. These people were in the majority, more likely to be out
and about and therefore more likely to pass one by on the street.
The others – the ones who were in the same boat as the two of them
– seldom left their own houses and slept late waiting for the
hangover to pass so they could get up and start the vicious circle
once again.
‘I also told the woman about Usinna.’ Oqqapia
didn’t know why she was mentioning this. If Naruana was sensitive
about his father, the topic of his sister was even more explosive.
He never brought it up unless he was so drunk that he was no longer
in control of what he was saying, and then he would usually doze
off soon after. Since Oqqapia generally did the same when she
drank, she could rarely remember what had come out of his mouth.
Yet she did recall some bits and pieces, so strange that she was
sure she had misunderstood or misheard him. Some sort of gibberish
about marks and ancestors that he couldn’t let down, an awful story
about Usinna’s fate that there was no way of confirming. Whether
she misremembered or not, it was certainly true that the day after
saying those strange things about Usinna Naruana had started
talking about children, whether they should maybe just have one
kid. He never mentioned this topic otherwise – they weren’t a
couple in any formal sense and neither of them was in any condition
to raise children. At first she’d been flattered when he brought it
up, but when she started to suspect that it was less than sincere
she pressed him and discovered that his desire for a child wasn’t
connected with her at all. He simply needed offspring and she was
the one who happened to be at hand. His sister’s soul required that
the family line be maintained and he alone was left to save it.
Oqqapia had suffered a lot over the years but this hurt the most.
The harsh reality that he couldn’t care less about her. His sister
was topmost in his mind, despite the fact that she had died long
ago.
‘What did you tell her?’ Naruana remained standing
by the closed refrigerator, his back to her. The long, slender
muscles of his sinewy shoulders clenched and his breathing
slowed.
‘Nothing. I told her that Usinna had died there.
Nothing else.’ She wished she hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps she’d
wanted to hurt him for choosing his sister over her. It was an
incredibly stupid decision on her part, and hardly likely to change
anything. His sister would never have done or said anything so
hurtful; she was too perfect for that. For a moment Oqqapia
considered pointing out to him that his sister had been too perfect
for life in the village and would have been the last person to
stick to old traditions if she were alive. If their fates had been
reversed, she would never have had children just to guarantee the
return of his soul. Usinna had been a few years older than Oqqapia,
but she still remembered her quite well. It was impossible to
forget her. Her grace and spirit were apparent to everyone. She had
gone abroad to study when Oqqapia was a teenager and returned
several years later, even more elegant than before, but now the
light that seemed to shine from her had an added cosmopolitan aura.
Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that Naruana wanted to ensure her
reincarnation.
‘Don’t you dare even speak her name, you fucking
whore.’ He turned around and punched the refrigerator door with all
his might. A large dent appeared on the scratched surface.
Oqqapia said nothing. She hadn’t been raised by a
violent, drunkard mother without learning a few lessons. In moments
like these it was wiser not to stand up for oneself. But he had
called her a whore. And this was her home, however unglamorous it
was. She wasn’t such a whore that he couldn’t live under her roof
or drink the beer that she’d procured by giving out some
insignificant information. On that basis, he was the whore, not
her. She had never sunk to the depths like him; she had simply been
born at the bottom of society and stayed there. As a little girl
she would never have dreamed that Naruana, the son of the great
Igimaq, would later live under the same roof as her, the daughter
of the village slut and a good-for-nothing father who had passed
out drunk outside one winter and frozen to death. She did not
remember him, but her mother and various others who enjoyed
reproaching her for her heritage reminded her constantly of his
wretchedness. The only thing that Oqqapia could thank him for was
having been man enough to build the house in which she now lived.
Like a large proportion of the houses in the village, the material
for the house had been donated by the Danes, who provided it to
those Greenlanders who wished to build themselves homes. If people
did so, and lived in the house for several years, they then gained
ownership of it; so Oqqapia had inherited something from her
parents besides a bad taste in her mouth. The only people who had
shown her any kindness were the teachers who came rather
irregularly throughout her childhood to see to the education of the
village children. She remembered them all fondly. The departure of
each one had caused her the same feeling of disappointment as the
broken promise of a good job with the mining company. They had
never called her a whore or other bad names. They told her that she
was just as good as anyone else, and some had even said that God
and his Son loved her no less than the others, however wretched her
parents.
She suddenly felt the same as she had in her youth,
when in all innocence she had believed it when people said that she
was no less worthy than others. It was true, after all, and this
furious jackass in front of her was living proof of that. His
family had good people in it on both sides, yet he had ended up the
same as her. His mother was in the same position, and although his
father didn’t drink his reputation had diminished in the eyes of
the villagers. No, he was the one who had fallen furthest, not her.
For her, the only way was up. Her heart swelled with indignant
anger at everyone and everything, not least herself. Her life was
in her own hands and she could still save herself from destruction.
She still had all her own teeth, so she wasn’t as unfortunate as
her mother had been at her age, and her body, despite everything,
was still strong and fit. Maybe the God her teachers had spoken of
had held a protective hand over her after all, made sure that she
had the opportunity to change if only she could find the desire to
do so. She stood up.
‘You’re one to talk. I never did anything to your
sister.’ She decided to look for the book that the man from the
alcoholism charity had left behind. Although she’d never been much
of a reader, it couldn’t have been thrown away, any more than any
of the other rubbish that had come into the house. She looked at
him and saw a waste of space, just like her mother had been. ‘Pity
the same can’t be said about you.’ She spat out the words that she
knew would cut him to the bone. ‘When you’re half asleep and
rambling on about it, you’re always whining that it was you who
treated Usinna worst of all in the end.’
He screamed like an animal and jumped towards her.
Just before his fist struck her face she recalled her deceased
mother and thought how little she missed her.
Thóra finished washing her face with the lukewarm
water that Matthew had apportioned to her. In the morning he had
gone and filled a large pot with snow, heated it and split the
water between them. In the absence of a shower this was better than
nothing, and after Thóra had dried herself she felt much better.
She dressed in the finest outfit she could find in her suitcase, a
felt tunic top and skirt that she could wear over leggings, which
she hoped would serve as thermal underwear. She was relieved when
she saw that she’d been right about Matthew’s baggage. He had run
out of casual outfits and had started wearing formal shirts beneath
a fleece jacket with suit trousers. They stuck out like a sore
thumb in comparison with the others, but that was just too bad;
they all had other things to think about at the moment besides
Thóra and Matthew’s fashion blunders. It wouldn’t be as noticeable
if she could find a smaller coverall to put on over her outfit.
They were going to go straight to the village in the hope of making
a phone call.
Everyone was sitting in the cafeteria but Bella,
who, like Thóra, was taking plenty of time over her makeshift bath.
Friðrikka was also absent, but that came as no surprise to Thóra,
since she was standing firm and refusing to set foot in the
accommodation block. She was adamant about remaining behind in the
office building when Thóra and Bella came over. No one looked very
enthusiastic about their breakfast, which had become increasingly
sad with each day that passed. It had taken the edge off their
appetites knowing that there was a body in the kitchen freezer, so
close to the dining hall. Thóra took a seat but made do with a cup
of coffee and a dry biscuit. Her preferred option would have been
to starve herself until they left, but that was inadvisable in the
light of how cold it was outside. The doctor had been strictly
supervising their food intake, and since it was thanks to him that
they hadn’t put anything in their mouths that predated their
arrival at the camp, Thóra felt it best to follow his advice. If he
hadn’t been so insistent, they would all have eaten something from
the freezer.
‘When are we leaving?’ Thóra broke her biscuit in
half and dipped it into her cup.
‘As soon as we can.’ Matthew had finished eating
and was itching to get going. ‘Just the two of us. We thought it
best that as many people as possible remain here, to make sure no
one goes into the freezer. They’ll keep watch on each other, so to
speak.’
Thóra smiled to herself. It was more likely that
those who remained behind would make a pact to all look in the
freezer together – apart from Friðrikka, of course. Thóra was sure
that she herself would succumb to the temptation. What was
horrifying could also be extremely fascinating. The other
possibility was that they all go down to the village, but that
wouldn’t work. The more of them that went, the smaller the
likelihood of them being allowed to use the phone. This must not
look like an invasion of the village. She stuck the final piece of
biscuit in her mouth and mumbled: ‘I’m ready.’
At the coat rack she tried to find the smallest
coverall available. Behind one huge one she found another that
fitted her quite well, and she put it on. When she held it up in
front of her to stick her feet into the trouser legs she noticed
what was written on the collar: Oddný H. Thóra hesitated,
but common sense quickly won out. What difference would it make if
she wore Oddný Hildur’s clothes? It could hardly matter. She pulled
herself together and put on the coverall. But before leaving she
had to steel herself. In her mind there was no doubt that Oddný
Hildur was dead and it was strangely uncomfortable to wear a dead
person’s clothing. To her knowledge she’d never done so before. She
could not avoid the thought that perhaps the trouser legs would
take control and lead her against her will to where the owner of
the coverall lay. In her mind’s eye she saw her own frozen body
alone and abandoned out on the ice, staring with glazed eyes up
into the dim morning sky in the hope of seeing a falling star, so
that she could wish to be found and brought home to rest in peace
under Icelandic soil. ‘Is everything all right?’ Matthew stood with
his hand on the doorknob.
‘Yes, I was just a bit distracted.’ What was wrong
with her? As if clothing could bring her messages from the other
side!
It wasn’t until she was on the way out that she
felt the notebook in the coverall’s large side pocket.