The Day is Dark Read online

  ‘Well, not exactly. I met Igimaq, the hunter the woman told us about. He came here to tell us to leave.’

  ‘What?’ Matthew seemed furious. ‘What were you doing out there?’

  ‘I was coming over to warn you. The floodlights went on and we saw a man outside. He was walking in this direction and I thought maybe you were asleep.’ Suddenly she realized what a bad idea this had been. Maybe Oddný Hildur had made precisely the same mistake when she disappeared. The floodlight system hadn’t been operational at the time, but she could very well have seen the man despite that and followed him out into the cold. ‘Anyway, nothing happened. He was very cryptic and it was impossible to get anything useful out of him. We need one of the locals to speak to him for us.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind, just rushing out there like that? Especially when you’d just seen a stranger outside?’ He was nearly shouting.

  ‘I’m very sorry, and I know it was ridiculous,’ she said as apologetically as possible, ‘but I still managed to talk to him. That was worth something, since we’re not going to get to visit him by snowmobile.’ Thóra hung up her coverall. ‘He pretty much confirmed that Bjarki and Dóri are dead, as well as Oddný Hildur.’

  ‘What do you mean by “pretty much confirmed”?’ asked Finnbogi.

  ‘He said that our friends would not return. I can’t interpret that in any other way.’

  ‘Was he involved in their deaths?’ Matthew was clearly still annoyed about Thóra’s impulsive trip outside. And no doubt his anger was fuelled by the fact that he and Finnbogi had sat by the window and peered through a crack in the curtain when the floodlight came on, but had seen nothing. It hadn’t crossed their minds to go outside to see what was up. Doubtless it irritated him that, for once, she had proven to be more resourceful than him.

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ They moved into the lounge, where she told them everything she could recall of her conversation with Igimaq. Neither man understood his statement about marks. They guessed that he had meant some sort of signs or symbols. Natural phenomena that in a primitive understanding could be considered omens of hidden danger. After drinking the remainder of the Opal schnapps Thóra returned to the office building, now accompanied by Matthew. When they entered the meeting room Bella was not pacing the floor fretfully, as Thóra had hoped, but snoring under her duvet.

  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 m
atter 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 bee
n 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.