There’s good cover here, said Geirþrúður, and he gave her a
long look before saying that he could love this country.
Everything was turning green, and it was still and quiet
between the tussocks, between the blades of grass, between
the mountains that gathered sunshine and shone. On such
days it’s as if the birdsong can heal the wounds within us.
They lay in the grass for a long time, found a hollow, those
who find good hollows during an Icelandic summer can’t
complain, bliss awaits them, that is, if the birds let them be.
The blades of grass move almost imperceptibly, like rows of
venerable statesmen, and the birdsong healed wounds. I
could easily love this country, said the captain, before
adding, I could easily love you. People say the most
incredible things before achieving satisfaction for their
desires, or during, all that’s been whispered, breathless
phrases, immensely deep promises that prove to be shallow
and worth little when all is said and done, the orgasm done
and gone, the penis no longer erect and quivering with
ardour and the lust for life, but instead slack, a dangling rag
of skin between the legs. But the moment had passed when
he said he could love her. They’d lain down and nearly
ripped off their clothing, which was in their way, it was
unbridled passion, it was vehemence, the sky witnessed it,
the blades of grass felt it, the mountains heard it and it
startled nearby birds; they were like wild animals, they were
beautiful, but now it was over. They smoked, sipped from a
flask, gazed at blades of grass, the sky, the mountain, birds,
and the captain said that he could love her.