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addressed the envelope. A woman?, he said in surprise,
umm, oh, then that would be María, from Vetrarströnd. He
took the envelope, gave it a quick look and was taken aback
when he saw the letters, their ardour, as if they were all
running into each other. They’re fighting, he added; the
letters, he explained when Andrea asked “what”? So she’s
that ardent, is she?, said Andrea, smiling at the boy, who
heard hardly anything over the pounding of his heart.
María would never write like that; she’s ardent, of course,
fires burn inside her, she cries sometimes about something
she’s lacking, without knowing what, just feels as if she’s
lacking something, and then Jón holds her, his embrace is
warm and strong, yet doesn’t encompass the horizon. No,
María would likely be more meticulous, she delivers only
the best and would have made the letters smaller, to save
space; she knows no other way. He looked at the envelope.
Yes, he said, she’s ardent. How does her heart beat? So
ardently that herbivores in Africa look up, so ardently that
the birds of the air are knocked off course. We can go over
English a bit, said the boy to Andrea, who smiled widely,
warming the boy with her smile, warming him so much
that he was able to sit at the table, go over singular and
plural in English without going mad with impatience, he sat
calmly, now and then leaning closer to Andrea, she has
such a warm scent, blended with a faint musty smell from
her basement room, and twice she stroked his cheek with
her weary fingers, these two people far out on life’s sea of
uncertainty, surrounded by heavy currents. He breathed in
Andrea and the letter quivered as it touched his flesh.