Restoration by Olaf Olafsson

Author:Olaf Olafsson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2012-02-07T08:00:00+00:00

SHE HAD ALWAYS ASSUMED THAT SHE WOULD change with age and that the aspects of her character that troubled her would disappear. Since childhood she had waited for this to happen, picturing herself older and free from her weaknesses. Then she would look like the daughter of the couple who lived in the house next door to her grandparents; she wore a blue coat, had fair, wavy shoulder-length hair, and smiled, full of self-confidence, when she said farewell to the village, waving to friends and family before climbing onto the Reykjavík bus. That’s what she herself would be like when she was older—full of self-confidence, free from fear.

She didn’t stop to consider that the world might change. In her imagination it stood still—the mountains remained where they had always been, the sky above them, the sea below. And the waves that sucked to and fro, came and went and came back again.

When she herself moved to Reykjavík, she acquired a blue coat. Although she persuaded herself that it was a coincidence, she sometimes thought about the girl next door to her grandparents. She didn’t know what had become of her, never saw her again, yet she pictured her turning around in front of the bus to smile and wave good-bye to the people at home. No hesitation, no doubts, all roads open to her.

Did he see that girl when he looked at her? Did he see the village and the mountain above it, the waves that had caressed her father’s cheek on his voyage into the depths, then whispered messages from him to her as she stood on the beach? He encouraged her. When she mentioned to him that she didn’t think much of the still life, he told her she was wrong.

“Paint more,” he said, “anything you like. Keep at it.”

She had the leisure for this now because he was spending more time on restoration work himself since business had started to fall off. He offered her the chance to work part-time, in the afternoons.

“Mornings are the most productive time,” he said, “use them for your own painting.”

He had never paid her much, no more than was customary for an apprentice, and now that her hours had been reduced, her wages dropped correspondingly. But she was thrifty, so it didn’t matter. She gathered from Signorina Pirandello that he was in a tight spot financially and, unwilling to be a burden to him, felt only relief when her wages were cut.

His words gave her the courage to paint. That was the most important thing. For that, she would have done anything for him.

She painted every day. When spring came, she rose at dawn to make the most of her time. And as the weather grew gradually warmer, she started opening the windows in the living room. The breeze stirred the curtains, bringing in wafts of birdsong.

She felt she was making progress and Marshall agreed, offering her steady encouragement. He was gentler than he had been for a long time, and she couldn’t help concluding that financial success had confused him.

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