The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [170]
“I have some Scottish cousins who feel like that about me,” I said. “So how can we find her?”
“We will go and look in the telephone book. But first I must sit for a few more minutes.”
Since the previous evening I had revised my idea of Hallie’s age several times. At first sight I had taken her for sixty or even seventy. Then, over supper, her kindness and energy had made her seem younger. But as we walked into the city she had placed her feet with the care of an older person. Now, seeing her sink back in the chair, I offered to find someone else to help me at the post office.
“No, no, now it is my quest too, and the post is on our way home.”
Soon she gathered herself and led the way back down the hill, past the bronze warrior, to the post office. While she searched the telephone directory, I watched the Icelanders come and go. If I had an aunt, and if my aunt had children, then one of these oblivious people might be my cousin. Hallie found no listing for her in the directory, but she told me not to worry. Many people in Iceland did not have a phone. Someone would know someone in Stykkisholmur who had known my family.
As we walked back through another large square, she drew my attention to a building with a carved falcon perched on either end of the ridge-pole. Long ago, she said, it had been the King of Denmark’s falconry. I told her the story from the saga of Helga’s father’s dream and the various bird suitors killing each other.
“I did not know that,” she said, “but it sounds most Icelandic.”
Back at her house, Hallie announced that, now that we had the name of the village, she was going to consult her neighbours again.
While she went to call on them, I ate some bread and cheese and paced my small room. I felt like running through the streets, calling my aunt’s name until someone answered. Then I recalled Hallie’s comment. “Please,” I said uselessly, “let her be alive.” Thoughts of my new aunt led to my old aunt, whom I had scarcely considered since my visit. Was she still sitting in her armchair, I wondered, or had she moved on to her final resting place? I tried to send my question into the universe, a long, slender wire snaking its way towards Yew House, but nothing came back.
At last I heard the front door open. I hurried to meet Hallie. Standing in the dim hall, smiling, she announced that one of her neighbours knew someone on the peninsula who knew my aunt Kristjana.
“She’s alive,” I said, clapping my hands.
“She was last week.”
Messages had been relayed; replies were awaited.
That evening Hallie drew a family tree for my father’s side of the family, with many question marks. Had my grandparents had siblings? Probably. Did my aunt have children? We would find out soon. I stared in wonder at my own name at the end of this tracery of branching lines. In one way or another I was connected to these people.
Hallie put a dash beside my name. “This is where your husband’s name will go. Below will be your children, if you are so blessed.”
“I’ll never get married,” I said.
“Forgive me,” said Hallie. “Old women are presumptuous. We like to see trees grow.”
The next morning I laid the table and put on water for coffee. Then I sat down to study the Icelandic-English dictionary I had discovered in Hallie’s bookshelves the night before. I copied out the numbers from one to ten and the words for yes, no, thank you, good morning, sorry, and bathroom. I could not find a word for please. When Hallie at last appeared, I greeted her. “Gooan daginn.”
She laughed and corrected my pronunciation. “You made the table. Takk fyrir. Thank you. I am sorry to be late. This is the trouble with being old. Today my legs wanted to stay in bed. But soon”—she must have seen my anxious expression—“I will go and ask if there is news.”
Over breakfast I entertained her with my efforts to pronounce various words. I was practising left and right—vinstir, haegri—when, in the hallway, the phone gave an odd monosyllabic ring. Hallie went to answer. I heard the rise and fall of her voice and twice my own name. After nearly