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Yet now he’s been complimented, which is no small thing
for one who’s been called many difficult names throughout
his life; words have influence, they can sink into you and
leave marks, get a person to believe various things about
himself; to receive such a compliment, and from these
women— the boy is quite close to sobbing. Another five
pages in a week, can you manage it?, asks Geirþrúður,
raising her wine glass to her lips, those lips that were kissed
today, and that kissed; then she was alive, in the deserted
valley, she existed, she burned, the birds were startled and
the mountains took note of her. Yes, says the boy,
convinced, confident, happy, I can manage it, there’s zeal in
his eyes, while outside the storm rages and the world
trembles. It would probably be safer to tie it down so that it
doesn’t blow out into the darkness of space. Andrea lies in
her bed in her basement room and listens to the storm, it’s
not her bed, admittedly, but Geirþrúður’s, as is the entire
house, she lies there and can’t sleep, tosses and turns,
doesn’t know how she should lie, how she should live, the
wind pounds the house, tears up the sea, which is dark and
heavy and restless, even the Lagoon, which is usually still
even when breakers beat outside it, is tumultuous and J.
Andersen’s ship rolls upon it frighteningly, its hold empty.
Lúlli and Oddur had worked tirelessly, along with others, to
empty the ship’s hold of sacks, bags, barrels, and they
succeeded, continual work, many hands, things are often
urgent here between the mountains, life is in a rush, or,
better put, people, not life itself, which simply exists, is just