Walking Into the Night by Olaf Olafsson

that list.”
    “Dear,” said Miss Davies, “let’s not get excited about some old knives and forks.”
    The Chief pushed his bowl away.
    “I’ve lost my appetite. You go and get that silver back, Christian. Every single piece of it. You’d better bring it back from that auction.”
    The rain streamed down the windowpanes. When the wind blew, the goldfish darted to and fro outside the glass. Between the gusts they rested. He closed his eyes again and watched them swim to him beneath the invisible waves.
    How was he going to get the silver back?

23
    It was a bright Saturday in December. Snow had begun falling in the morning and continued for much of the day, but now it was cloudless and the stars had begun to kindle. As I walked up the street towards our house, the moon rose over Mount Esja, pure white as if after a long wash.
    It was five years since we had moved from Eyrarbakki into our new house in Reykjavik, five and a half to be exact, and I paused to take a look at it before going inside. The date 1911 stood over the front door and I reminded myself that it was I who built this house, with my money. Not yours, and not your father’s, but that’s another story.
    I broke an icicle off the railing as I opened the front door. There was a fire in the living room, I’d smelled woodsmoke out in the street. One of the twins was crying upstairs; I could see Katrin’s legs when I came in, she was on her way upstairs to them. There was smoked lamb waiting in the kitchen, and I realized how hungry I was as I took off my hat and hung it on a peg in the closet. I scraped the snow off my shoes, new shoes that I had bought on my last trip to New York. I had been away for four months this time.
    I had begun my visits to the States after the war broke out and communications with Europe became increasingly difficult. There were all sorts of problems with acquiring goods to import and no assurance of receiving payment for exports. I felt good in New York, better than in Europe. New Yorkers judged you on your merits, not on your family background.
    The twin stopped crying. I could still hear Katrin crooning to him. I couldn’t hear you, but sensed your presence. The fire crackled and I went towards the light from the living room. It was yellow and warm, and I stopped when I heard Katrin singing to the child upstairs. I stood there for a long time.
    I was wearing a dark suit because I had just come from work. I had recently moved my office; it was now down by the harbor and it took me only a few minutes to walk home, so I would let myself dawdle on the way, taking in the docks and the shipyard, smelling the seaweed and the boats as they came home from the ocean.
    The suit suddenly felt too heavy and I was about to go upstairs and change when I heard you speak my name from the living room.
    I walked towards the light, flicking some lint off one of my trouser legs.
    You were standing by the window in the living room, looking out into the backyard. I walked over to you, laid my arm over your shoulder, and kissed you on the cheek. You gestured with your head towards the window and I saw that you were watching Einar and Maria sledding on the slope furthest from the house. It wasn’t a very large bank, but their short legs still had to work hard as they clambered up it with the sled in tow.
    You enjoyed watching how solicitous Einar was towards his sister. He had just had his eighth birthday, she was five. He pulled her up the bank with one hand, dragging the sled with the other, held it steady while she got on, then gave her a shove, gently so she wouldn’t be scared. He ran down the slope after her and led her back up the same way.
    We stood without moving by the window, the yellow light warm behind us, the moon white over the garden. Hand in hand. Suddenly they seemed to sense that they were being watched. They stopped on the way up the bank and looked over their shoulders towards the house, waving when they saw us. Then they came