Ragnar Jónasson was born in Reykjavik, where he still lives, and is a lawyer. He currently teaches copyright law at Reykjavik University and has previously worked on radio and television, including as a TV news reporter for the Icelandic National Broadcasting Service. His novels include the Dark Iceland series.
‘Can I take your plate?’ I asked, perhaps too quietly.
I thought I’d cooked the salmon almost to perfection, but he didn’t seem to have brought his appetite, which I do think is rather rude. This was a dinner invitation, after all, but in all honesty I think we both knew that it was about more than that. He had a score to settle, of course. The elephant in the room. Neither of us had spoken about it, not yet. Actually, neither of us had ventured into the perilous territory of the past.
‘How long has it been?’ I finally asked, before removing the plate to take it out into the kitchen. Eventually either one of us would have to open that part of the discussion, and it might as well be me.
How long has it been? Such a silly question, as I knew the answer all too well. Sixty years. We had been friends, best friends, from the age of five. At eleven we went our separate ways and now sixty years had passed.
I probably should have invited him over for dinner a long time ago, but there are things that one tends to keep postponing, knowing they will be difficult.
Did he remember the house, I wondered. My grandmother’s old house, a small but cosy cottage perching precariously on the slopes of a mountain on the south-eastern shore of Iceland, shielded – or perhaps threatened – by the terrifying rocks; overlooking the most magnificent ocean views you would ever see. The sea was sometimes so calm and quiet, like my grandmother, but sometimes more treacherous, perhaps a little bit like me.
My grandmother taught me to make pancakes. The dough was always made from scratch, cooked gently on her old pan, just long enough to make them savory, but not too long, of course. Nobody likes a burnt pancake. And then some sugar sprinkled on top before each pancake is carefully rolled up.
My grandmother tried to teach me a lot after she took me on, but this is really one of the few things that stuck. Probably because I’ve always had such a weak spot for good pancakes.
She did do her best, I believe. It wasn’t easy for her. I never knew my father. My mom, well, she drank too much, as they said. Or as they didn’t say, I guess. One didn’t really speak of such things at the time, but she did actually drink herself to death. There is no way of sugarcoating that. I was just a baby when she died, so I was sent to live with my grandmother – to live in the middle of nowhere.
The next house to my grandmother’s was a couple of miles away, and that’s where he grew up. That’s how we became best friends.
‘I made us some pancakes for dessert,’ I said upon returning from the kitchen, holding a plate of some delicious looking specimens. I placed the plate on the table. ‘Do you remember the ones that my grandma used to make? It’s the same recipe, but only a poor imitation, of course.’
I don’t drink alcohol and I never have. To be fair, that is another thing my grandmother taught me – not to drink; although that does not require any great skill, not to do something. ‘You don’t want to end up like your poor mother, dear thing,’ she frequently said. And, no, I didn’t want to end up like her; I didn’t want to end up dead – so I never started drinking.
I did however buy a bottle of some rather expensive white wine for my guest, as this was quite an occasion. Our first meeting in sixty years. He hadn’t started drinking when I last met him, but he was of course only eleven at the time. I had no idea if he had taken it up since then, but to play it safe I went to the nearest town to get a bottle, about thirty miles of driving for one bottle – and then it turned out that he didn’t touch it! Such a waste of time and money.
I didn’t have to go into town for the salmon. That I got from an acquaintance of mine close by, freshly caught. And it did taste wonderful, I have to say. I should really cook more often.
Living alone can make you quite lazy. I usually stock up on microwave food on my regular trips into town: pre-cooked chicken in some ill-defined sauce, frozen pizza, etc. This time, however, I took great care in preparing the meal, but still he did not seem to make an effort to try to enjoy it.
Perhaps I should have taken him out to a restaurant instead. We even have a rather nice one just a short distance from here. That’s something my grandmother would never have imagined! Thanks to the tourists, who visit the area almost year round to see the glacier nearby, this isn’t the middle of nowhere anymore.
Judging by his attitude it was almost as if he knew I had invited him over to ask for a favour. A huge favour, actually …
It occurred to me whether reminiscing about the ‘good old days’ might do the trick. Talk about our summers out by the sea, up in the mountain hills, climbing cliffs so dangerous that venturing up there would only occur to a couple of know-it-all kids like ourselves. But we always made it down safely. Not that anyone cared, in my case. Not really.
One memorable evening, in the mid-summer midnight sun, we had spent walking up the hill behind my grandmother’s small cottage, scaring away the sheep, listening to the birds, seeing all sorts of formations on the formidable cliffs above. At the stroke of midnight, or thereabouts, we were sitting on a big rock looking over our kingdom, our land and sea, talking about the future, in the way ten- or eleven-year-old boys do.
I had a pancake, even though he didn’t. Perhaps not perfect host etiquette, but it was a bit odd that he wouldn’t try my dessert. Finally I brought some coffee. Nothing fancy, not an espresso or latte or whatever they call it nowadays, just old fashioned strong Icelandic coffee. The type my grandmother used to enjoy.
He hadn’t said anything about the … the incident. Neither had I, as a matter of fact. I hadn’t asked the favour yet, either. And soon he would leave, so time was running out for both of us. It isn’t considered polite to stay for long after coffee has been served; although one can of course always ask for a refill. That wasn’t about to happen in his case though, as coffee did not seem to be his, well, his cup of tea.
When our friendship came to an end, it was about a girl. Of course, what else? The most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I was only eleven but I knew I was in love. Again, the way an eleven-year-old boy thinks he knows. But at the time I felt it quite strongly, and I thought the feeling was mutual.
We both knew her well, and when I found out the truth it was betrayal on an epic scale. They had been meeting behind my back.
The salmon for dinner was a fitting choice, I think. We do have very tasty salmon in this part of the country, of course, but that isn’t the reason. No; the two of us had our own salmon fishing story, and that fact may have contributed to his lack of manners during the meal.
Sixty years ago, a bright summer night, we snuck away to do some salmon fishing in a nearby glacial river, without permission from anyone of course.
This was after I found out about the two of them – although he didn’t know that. I’m not sure what my exact plans were, my memory plays tricks on me. Selective memory, one might perhaps say …
Neither of us caught anything that night, as far as I can recall. I do however remember him slipping on a rock and falling into the river.
Or did I perhaps push him slightly?
I forget.
Selective memory, again.
But I have to admit that I remember all too well holding his head under the cold water for a little while. Long enough, you know.
And then I went back home to grandmother to tell her the news. Teary-eyed.
He didn’t touch his coffee, so after I’d had a few sips of mine, I brought the cups back into the kitchen. It was still bright outside, like that night exactly sixty years ago. When I went back into the living room, the chair was empty.
Gone without a word.
And I didn’t get a chance to ask him the favour: ‘Please, please forgive me.’
Author’s note: This story is a work of fiction. The setting is however based on an area in Iceland called Suðursveit, on the south-eastern shore, which in the past was one of the most isolated places in the country, cut off by glacial sands and rivers (and where the story was in fact written).