The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [169]
A man was approaching with a small white dog, similar to the one I had seen in Pitlochry. As we drew level, it tugged towards me. The man nodded and said something—Good evening, I imagined, or He’s friendly—and I nodded back, delighted to be taken for an Icelander.
At breakfast over slices of bread and cheese and sweet, dark coffee, Hallie reported that she had called upon four of her neighbours and told them about my search. “It is like a saga,” she said. “Scottish girl seeks lost family. Soon, you will hear, people will come knocking on my door.”
“You’re very kind. I should tell you that I don’t have much money. You shouldn’t give me so much to eat.”
All the little lines in her cheeks bunched together. “Not kind,” she said, shaking her head. “The truth is I am old and bored. This is an adventure, and Icelanders like adventures. That is how we got here in the first place. So today”—she clapped her hands and I heard the click of her rings—“we will go to the registry and see what we can find. At the central post they have books with telephone numbers for everyone in Iceland. We can look there too.”
Ten minutes later Hallie and I were walking down the street. She pointed out the huge church spire I had noticed the day before. They had been building the Hallgrimskirkja since the end of the Second World War. “It is a homage to God and to a volcano,” she said. “Here in Iceland we have many things that shoot up: geysers, volcanoes.”
“And you have puffins.”
“Yes, you ate last night.” She saw my face and laughed. “You think we should not eat birds with their pretty beaks, but there are so many of them, millions, and they taste good.”
In fact the meat had tasted of fish, but I said yes, it was good, and that I was glad I hadn’t known sooner. As we walked, Hallie insisted on pointing out various sites. “I know you are not a tourist,” she said, “but I must show you my city.”
We passed a lake with swans and mallards, then an olive-coloured church: the Dominican cathedral. In the nearby square Hallie pointed out a statue of a man in a frock coat; I did not catch his name. A street lined with shops led us to a large white house—“the strongest house in Iceland,” Hallie said. Once a prison, it was now used by the government. Slowly we climbed a hill towards another statue. This man wore a horned helmet and carried a shield. Ingólfur Arnarson was the first settler, Hallie told me. Like him, we stopped to gaze out over the harbour. My job was to admire the view while she got her breath back.
Two more streets brought us to an official-looking grey building. Inside Hallie waved me to a chair and, taking my notebook, approached the desk. I heard my father’s name, and the woman behind the desk—she had the same broad cheeks as Hallie—turned to look at me. She disappeared and returned, disappeared and returned. Periodically Hallie asked me questions: The month and year of his death? Was I his only child? Did he have siblings? The woman consulted a large black book, then another. She took my notebook and dashed off a couple of lines.
“What’s happening?” I asked Hallie. She told me to wait.
After nearly half an hour she came and sat beside me. “It is possible I will drop dead on the way home,” she said, “so let me tell you what we know. Your father was born in June 1919 in the village of Stykkisholmur on the Snaefellsnes peninsula. His father was a fisherman. He had an older sister, Kristjana. His parents were both dead when he died. See”—she held out my notebook—“I have written down the names here.”
“So I have an aunt,” I said.
“If she still lives,” said Hallie. “Why didn’t she take you in?”
“My uncle promised my mother that if anything happened he would look after me.”
“Perhaps she knew the future,” Hallie said, turning the thinnest of her rings. “Iceland is famous for people who see trolls and elves. You must remember, not all relatives are good relatives. I myself have some cousins who are villainous and a sister who wishes