The Fires: A Novel by Sigríður Hagalín Björnsdóttir

Author:Sigríður Hagalín Björnsdóttir [Björnsdóttir, Sigríður Hagalín]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amazon Crossing
Published: 2023-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

KÓPAVOGUR

Tómas Adler’s studio is in an old industrial building in Kópavogur, tucked in amongst junk sellers and auto body shops; it takes me a long time to find the right cul-de-sac, the right door. They’re all unmarked, no doorbells, so I bang on the door a few times, no one answers. I hesitate for a moment, then take the handle, it’s unlocked, stick my head through the gap and call: Halló?

The vestibule is crammed with winter coats and loud music, there’s a motorcycle helmet hanging on a hook. I knock on the inner door, it opens like a shot, and Tómas Adler looks at me in utter astonishment before a smile stretches across his face:

How wonderful! I wasn’t expecting you! Welcome, come in!

He’s got a wolfish look about him, face unshaven and hair tousled, he’s wearing a holey T-shirt for some metal band, didn’t see my email but seems genuinely glad to see me. I extend my hand at the same time he moves to kiss me on the cheek, we bump into one another, laugh, and greet each other with a handshake, a kiss on both cheeks, I blush furiously and look away. He runs a hand through his hair and invites me into the cacophony:

These cliffs have been awake

for a thousand years

Look into the stone,

and you’ll see their tears

Bubbi Morthens’s voice echoes through the room. I remember this song from way back, another life, but I don’t say so, focus on putting one foot in front of the other, edge along behind him and into the apartment in back. His movements are quick and agile, they remind me of a dancer’s, his shoulders are strong, he has paint smudges on the back of one hand.

It’s a raw space, unfinished with a painted concrete floor, there’s a worktable in the middle covered with photographs. Everything against one wall is in disarray—a clothing rack, cardboard boxes, tool bags, metal shelves laden with paper and junk, an unmade futon tucked in a corner. Projectors and tripods stand about the room like bewildered guests at a cocktail party, the walls are papered with photographs, drawings, and maps. The light streams in through the windows along one side. I catch my breath; Reykjavík appears from a new and unfamiliar vantage, I can see the green south slopes of Fossvogur and Öskjuhlíð, church spires, construction cranes and the glinting sea.

Fantastic view, I say, trying to push aside my agitation.

Yes, not many people appreciate the beauty of Kópavogur, he says with a smirk. I won’t apologize for the mess, I like being able to look at what I’m working on, that’s how I get all my ideas. It gets a bit chaotic sometimes. But I know where everything is, unbelievable as that may seem.

You have nothing to apologize for, I say. I’m bothering you at work.

He turns and smiles at me: You’re not bothering me in the least. You could never bother me. I’m happy to see you. Shall we take a look at it?

He walks toward a stack of big placards leaning against one wall and pulls out a photo.

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