Strange Shores de-9 Page 13

‘Is that such an unreasonable question? You were seeing her on the sly. She was married to your friend.’

  ‘Now, look here — ’

  ‘Why don’t you explain it to me, Ezra?’

  ‘So you want to hear how we deceived Jakob?’ asked Ezra, outraged. ‘You want to hear how we deceived that poor sod? All right, then. Come with me. I’ll tell you how we deceived Jakob. Then you can bugger off and leave me in peace!’

  30

  Ezra did not relinquish his grip on the shotgun but laid it across his knees as he sat down facing Erlendur in the kitchen. Keeping his finger on the trigger, he stroked the barrel as he recounted his tale in a low voice. He had difficulty putting it into words, partly because he hadn’t spoken of it for decades and was reluctant to do so now, partly because he had never really got over the events, though they had happened a lifetime ago. It was all so vivid — every detail, every conversation and incident, as if it had only just taken place. His account was punctuated by long silences that Erlendur was careful not to interrupt. Slowly, painfully, the story took shape. Ezra would not be rushed and Erlendur was content to let him dictate the pace.

  The old man confirmed most of what Hrund had learned from her mother about how the affair had begun. The letter had been the tipping point, though Matthildur’s marriage had already been showing cracks.

  ‘Jakob was a mate of mine,’ said Ezra. ‘I don’t remember if I told you before or how much you know. I met him in Djúpivogur shortly after I moved out here to the fjords. He helped me out during my first season. I was the new boy in a strange place and got on well with him. As far as I knew, other people liked him too. He didn’t really stick out from the crowd, though he. . he was popular with the ladies. I don’t know how else to put it. He had a way with women.’

  ‘Perhaps that explains his bad reputation.’

  ‘He didn’t care if they were married. I saw him get into a fight once because of that.’

  ‘Was it any different from your affair with Matthildur?’

  ‘I wasn’t like him,’ said Ezra sharply. ‘There’s no comparison.’

  ‘Do you remember Matthildur’s sister Ingunn from your time in Djúpivogur?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ replied Ezra. ‘Matthildur asked me that too. She showed me a picture of her. I told her Jakob had been a hit with the ladies, but I didn’t know who. I moved to Eskifjördur long before he did. By the time he arrived he was already involved with Matthildur. We joined the same fishing boat and that’s how I met her, after they were married. I used to drop by to fetch Jakob early in the morning, so Matthildur and I got to know each other.’

  ‘Several people have tried to describe Jakob to me but I can’t make him out at all,’ said Erlendur. ‘Someone told me he suffered from claustrophobia. Does that ring any bells?’

  ‘Well, all I know is Matthildur told me he couldn’t sleep with the bedroom door shut. He always kept it open and had to sleep on the side nearest to it.’

  ‘It must have come as a terrible shock when Matthildur heard about him and Ingunn,’ said Erlendur.

  Ezra had grown visibly calmer, though he was still hugging the gun tightly. His defiance had largely evaporated, as if he were reconciled to there being no getting rid of Erlendur.

  ‘Poor girl,’ he sighed.

  ‘One can feel for her dilemma.’

  ‘Feel for her?’ said Ezra quietly, as if to himself. ‘How could you begin to understand? You don’t have a clue what you’re on about.’

  Erlendur said nothing.

  ‘Not a clue,’ repeated Ezra.

  More than two months had passed since Matthildur’s disappearance and the search had failed to turn up any trace of her. Ezra had been crushed with grief since the second Jakob informed him that she was out in the storm. But he was isolated in his anguish; his secret beyond sharing. He had considered talking to the vicar but he had never been religious and the local priest was a stranger. So he sat at home, weeping silently. The grief came in waves, interspersed with feelings of fear and anger, helplessness and a bewildering sensation of being adrift. But worst of all were the bouts of recrimination, for there was no one he could blame but himself. He should have taken better care of her, should have been there to save her from her fate. What role had he played in her death? He had lured her away from her husband. Was that why she had gone out in the storm? He was tortured by guilt, though he tried to assuage his remorse by persuading himself that he could not have saved her; she would have made the journey regardless. Perhaps she had been destined to die like that. But no! Her journey must have been linked to their affair, to their forbidden love, to all that furtiveness and deceit. Why, oh, why hadn’t they come clean straight away and simply moved in together? Why?

  Jakob was the only person who could conceivably provide him with answers, but he couldn’t for the life of him summon up the courage to approach him. He didn’t trust himself. Perhaps he was afraid to hear the truth.

  It was March, the days were growing longer and spring was in the air when their paths finally crossed. Until now, Ezra had avoided all contact with Jakob. He still mourned Matthildur desperately and thought about her every day, about the few, all too brief hours they had shared. They had just begun to discuss their future, the possibility of moving away, because it would be inconceivable to remain living near Jakob.

  ‘We could move to Reykjavík,’ she suggested one evening when she had stolen round to see him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Though they say it’s almost impossible to find rooms. Everyone’s flocking there to work for the army. Have you told him you’re going to leave him?’

  ‘I. .’

  ‘Do you want me to be there?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘There’s never a right time,’ he said. ‘It would be best to give it to him straight, as soon as possible. I’d do it for you if you’d let me.’

  ‘It would sound better coming from me.’

  ‘Hasn’t he started to suspect?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘What are you frightened of? That he’ll get violent?’

  ‘Not with me,’ said Matthildur. ‘It’s you I’m afraid for.’

  ‘He can’t hurt me,’ said Ezra. ‘There’s nothing he can do to me. I’m not scared of him, Matthildur.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t like it one bit. He’s never done me any harm and I look on him as a friend. We used to work together. So. . I’m not finding this easy. But I don’t believe we have anything to be afraid of by telling him. We have to talk to him — make him understand what’s happened. It’s not as if it’s unusual. People are always falling in love with the wrong person.’

  ‘I know,’ Matthildur said again.

  They lay side by side under his blanket, quietly savouring the warmth from each other’s body. A diffident tap at his door had sounded towards midnight. He hadn’t been expecting her and was delighted by her surprise visit. They had kissed; he had broken off to stroke her face wonderingly, then they kissed again, with growing intensity, until he half carried her to the bedroom. They did not even undress properly but made love with all the hunger and passion that she roused in him. She had to muffle the cries that rose to her lips, born of a rapture that she had never experienced with her husband.

  ‘Jakob mustn’t find out before we talk to him,’ said Ezra as he lay beside her. ‘He mustn’t hear it from anyone else. We have to be honest with him before the news gets out.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him,’ said Matthildur. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Let me come too. He’s supposed to be my friend.’

  ‘No, it’s best if I do it alone. I’m sure it would be. I’ll talk to him and tell him I’m going to move in with you. Explain that I can’t stay with him after what’s happened, after the news of him and Ingunn ruined everything. And because I’ve fallen in love.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I still want to come with you.’

  ‘Stop worrying so m
uch about Jakob. Concentrate on us instead. On the two of us.’

  Then she was gone.

  Then came the sunny day in March, two months later, when he bumped into Jakob. Ezra was passing the cemetery when he heard a voice hail him over the wall. Looking in, he saw Jakob working there in his shirtsleeves. He was preparing for a funeral that was to be held at the church the following day. A local man had died in his prime after a short illness and a good turnout was expected. Ezra went in through the gate.

  ‘Where are you off to then?’ Jakob asked, taking a break from his labours. He did odd jobs for the church, mostly maintenance and gravedigging.

  Ezra explained and added awkwardly that he was in a hurry. He felt uncomfortable in Jakob’s presence, tortured by the possibility that Matthildur had confessed their affair or he had discovered it by other means. They had been extremely careful but one could never be sure.

  ‘I never see you any more,’ said Jakob.

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Working hard, eh?’ said Jakob. ‘The meek will inherit the earth all right. And that’s us, Ezra. Workers like you and me.’

  31

  Ezra did not register the question. His thoughts were far away, reliving that fateful graveyard meeting with Jakob and all the repercussions that followed. The encounter could probably never have been avoided, though coincidence had decided the time and place. Until that day it had loomed menacingly, as inevitable as death itself.

  Ezra had broken off in mid-sentence. The cat prowled into the kitchen and stared suspiciously at Erlendur before deciding it was safe to climb into its basket.

  Erlendur put his question for the third time and was finally rewarded with a reaction. Ezra looked up from his reverie. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What happened next?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘He invited me round to his house.’

  ‘Did you go?’

  Ezra did not answer.

  ‘Did you go?’ asked Erlendur again.

  ‘There was an ugly note in his voice when he said it,’ Ezra continued at last. ‘But then Jakob was an ugly customer. A despicable man.’

  Jakob took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to Ezra who refused.

  ‘Still don’t smoke?’ Jakob asked.

  ‘Never got the hang of it,’ replied Ezra, trying to smile.

  ‘I buy them from the British. Pall Mall. Bloody good fags. Stjáni’s kicked the bucket — I expect you’ve heard.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard. The funeral’s tomorrow, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got to be done here by then. We’re lucky with the weather.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Ezra, squinting up at the sun. ‘Well, I’d best make tracks.’ He turned with the intention of continuing on his way.

  ‘Luckier than my darling Matthildur was,’ remarked Jakob.

  Ezra froze. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It was good to see you,’ said Jakob, with a note of dismissal, but Ezra did not budge.

  ‘What was that you said about Matthildur?’

  It was not his words that gave Ezra pause. They were commonplace, of no special significance. Jakob had every right to express such a sentiment. But it was his tone that made Ezra prick up his ears. It was not difficult to interpret, perhaps because he was alert to every nuance regarding Matthildur, especially where Jakob was concerned. There was no question: Jakob did not even attempt to disguise it. His tone was accusatory.

  ‘There’s so much I want to get off my chest about Matthildur,’ continued Jakob, with the same note in his voice. ‘I’d like to have talked to you before but I get the feeling you’ve been avoiding me.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ protested Ezra hastily — perhaps too hastily. He wondered if Jakob would pick up on his agitation, his accelerated heartbeat.

  ‘Well, that’s how it seems. All those times you were off sick. Then you suddenly quit the boat and go and get a job on shore. As if I’d offended you. As if we weren’t mates any more.’

  ‘You haven’t offended me,’ Ezra assured him. ‘Of course we’re still mates.’

  Was Jakob deliberately turning the tables on him? It was Ezra who had done Jakob wrong: he and Matthildur had gone behind Jakob’s back, betrayed his friendship and his trust. Perhaps keeping his distance had been a mistake. It was true he had been steering clear of Jakob. He had never once got in touch with his friend and had offered him no support after Matthildur went missing. He had quite simply vanished from Jakob’s life, just as she had. On reflection, such behaviour was bound to have aroused suspicion.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief to hear,’ said Jakob.

  ‘What did you want to say about Matthildur?’ asked Ezra.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘You said you had a lot to get off your chest.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jakob. ‘I was thinking of holding a memorial service or — well, you can’t really call it a funeral, she has to be officially pronounced dead first. And that can take ages. They have to make absolutely sure in circumstances like these, you see? But she’ll never be found. Not after this long.’

  ‘It’s not out of the question,’ objected Ezra. ‘When the thaw comes.’

  ‘And there’s another matter I haven’t told anyone about. I don’t know how much I should say. It’s. . a bit awkward. I don’t really know how to put it or who to talk to. There are so few people I can trust and. .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s about Matthildur,’ said Jakob. ‘She’d been rather distant before she vanished.’

  ‘Distant?’

  ‘Yes, partly because of personal stuff. You know, the kind of problems that crop up in any marriage. Maybe you’ll understand one day, if you ever get a woman of your own, Ezra.’

  Again, Ezra detected that tone. And the choice of words: ‘a woman of your own’.

  ‘And partly for other reasons,’ Jakob continued. His words were followed by a significant pause.

  ‘What do you mean, other reasons?’ asked Ezra at last, when it seemed Jakob did not intend to continue.

  ‘I don’t have any proof — nothing concrete, that is. But then I don’t suppose men in my position ever do until the evidence is shoved under their nose. Right under their nose — you get me?’

  ‘Men in your position?’

  ‘Cuckolds, Ezra. I’m talking about cuckolds. Do you know what that means? To be a cuckold?’

  Ezra was speechless.

  Jakob flicked away his cigarette. ‘It’s when someone sleeps with your wife behind your back. Other people might be aware, but you, no, you’re completely clueless. Then one day your wife decides to up and leave, just like that, like it’s none of her husband’s bloody business.’

  Ezra was trying to hide his turmoil but had no idea if he was successful. He wanted to run away but was not sure his legs would carry him; his knees had turned to jelly. He was completely unprepared for this conversation and could not think how on earth to react.

  ‘Are you saying that Matthildur. .?’ Ezra could not finish the sentence.

  ‘I have my suspicions, that’s all. They prey on my mind, day in, day out, but I’ll probably never find out the truth. Not after what’s happened. Not now.’

  Jakob ground the cigarette butt under his heel.

  ‘No, she certainly won’t be found now,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Ezra who again read blame in the other man’s gaze, his words, his entire manner.

  ‘Come round and see me,’ Jakob said. ‘There’s something you should probably know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Drop by,’ said Jakob. ‘I have to finish up here. Then we’ll have a chat. I’m usually alone at home in the evenings.’

  Ezra rocked in his chair, becoming distressed again. The memory was still so sharply etched. He could recall every word Jakob had said.

  ‘I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to go and see him but of course I couldn’t admit that, so I slunk off with my tail between my legs.’


  Erlendur merely watched the old man. He noticed how choked with emotion he was, how gruelling it was for him to relive this. It may have been ancient history but it had shaped his life, perhaps more than he realised. It took a stranger, a detached onlooker, to recognise the paralysing impact of those long-ago events.

  ‘Didn’t you find the conversation a bit odd?’ asked Erlendur eventually.

  ‘I did at first,’ said Ezra. ‘I was confused. But it dawned on me later that he must know — must know about me and Matthildur. He dropped all those hints because he knew everything there was to know. Because she’d told him!’

  ‘Did you go and see him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ezra, speaking almost to himself. ‘In the end. I went to see him. And found out the whole truth.’

  32

  The doubt, fear and dread that had tortured Ezra ever since Matthildur’s disappearance assailed him with renewed vigour in the days following his bizarre conversation with Jakob. Sooner or later he would have to go and have it out with him. A dirty secret lay unacknowledged between them, and he must confront it however much he shrank from the thought. Uncertainty about how much Jakob knew had tormented him ever since Matthildur went missing back in January. There was no way of finding out what she might have said to Jakob except by asking him straight out. Perhaps he knew nothing; perhaps everything. Ezra’s deepest fear was of learning that their affair had been to blame for Matthildur’s rushing off. That it had caused a quarrel. During the months after she vanished the thought haunted him.

  Three times he set out to see Jakob, only to turn back. The man’s behaviour in the cemetery had disturbed and alarmed him. Ezra paced ceaselessly around his house, brooding endlessly on the question of why Jakob’s words should have been uttered in that tone, why he had gone on about cuckolded husbands and insisted on explaining what the word meant, as if mocking him.

  One evening he resolved to bite the bullet. He walked down the hill, just as he used to every morning when he collected Jakob for work; when, in spite of his shyness and inexperience, he had lost himself to Matthildur. He had been delighted and astonished by her response. She had made his timid fumbling so effortless that it had seemed as if their love was natural and predestined. Not a day had passed since when he had not been visited by her smile, by the movement of her hand, the look in her eyes, her walk, the sound of her laughter. He missed her desperately and wept over her fate — over both their fates — through the long, lonely evenings.