TE22 Potpourri

Lilja Sigurðardóttir

Cold as Hell

hear old-fashioned state radio burbling in the kitchen, and therewas a smell in theair that she couldn’t pindown butwhich was somehow familiar – some peculiarly Icelandic smell. ‘So how are we related?’ she asked when Daníel had shown her to a chair. She didn’t doubt that her mother had at some time explained the connection, but her interest in her genealogy was limited. He looked at her with a glitter of amusement in his eyes. ‘We aren’t related,’ he said. ‘Oh. Mum referred to you as my uncle, so I assumed you must have been related to my dad.’ The pink flush she could feel flooding her cheeks took her by surprise. For someone who had made a habit of staying in control in the most bizarre situations, there was something about those light-gray eyes that flustered her. ‘I used to be married to your aunt, but we divorced more than ten years ago. So it would be more accurate to say that we had links, although a long time ago.’ ‘Ah. Understood.’ Áróra smiled. ‘Do you have any children?’ she asked, trying to keep the conversation light, chatting as people normally did, but immediately realised that the question seemed to be over-inquisitive. What business of hers was it if this unrelated uncle had children or not? But he responded as 62

if there was nothing more natural than answering a complete stranger’s questions about his family circumstances. ‘No, we didn’t have children,’ he said. ‘But I have two from a subsequent relationship. They live with their mother in Denmark.’ Áróra nodded and smiled courteously. Thiswaswhat she found uncomfortable. What could be a perfectly normal conversation inIcelandmightbeseenasnoseyinBritain,and itwasfrequently difficult to be sure where the thin lines dividing the two lay. ‘No,’ she said, not knowing what she could add. She had asked first, so it was to be expected that he would ask about her own circumstances in return, but she felt that he was mentally undressing her, looking her up and down, naked and defenceless. It was difficult to fathom what was happening behind those pale-grey eyes. ‘Coffee?’ he asked, and turned to go into the kitchen. She remembered the peculiar Icelandic ‘ten drops’ expression, shorthand for half a cup of coffee, so she used it. ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Married? Children?’ She shook her head, flustered again.

‘Maybe ten drops,’ she said.

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