7 / 238
7
who should be writing him a letter, his mother sent him
eleven letters, he has all of them, the twelfth never came. It
might be from Reverend Kjartan, he said nonchalantly, and
absurdly, of course; why should Reverend Kjartan send him
a letter, why should such an educated, intelligent man, the
owner of large numbers of books, show such an interest in
his existence? Might be from Reverend Kjartan, he said,
having just come into the café after an English lesson with
Hulda, two English lessons behind him, singular, plural, the
definite and indefinite articles, a table, tables, an apple,
apples. Have you tasted an apple?, asked the boy as he
wrote down the word for this spherical, exotic fruit, as far
from our everyday existence as Jupiter. No, said Hulda
curtly, telling a lie. Teitur sometimes gets apples from
foreign sailors who’ve come here often and might be called
acquaintances of his, but it’s easier to say no; it’s safer, no is
a fort protecting her. No, she says, and you can’t get any
closer. No, said Hulda, glancing at the boy through the
battlements, and he said, unable to refrain from doing so, is
there a plural form of love in every language? A love, she
said, loves. With a “v”? Yes, “v,” but you shouldn’t write it
down, it’s not in the curriculum. Love isn’t in the
curriculum? No, just apples, she replied, glancing down to
hide her smile.
Reverend Kjartan?, asked Andrea. He’s in Vík, remember,
Jens and I stayed there our second night, his wife’s name is
Anna, and she’s nearly blind. Yes, no, the letter’s hardly
from him, it’s from a woman, or at least a woman has