Free Snowblind by Ragnar Jónasson

a week. I can’t think how I came to agree to it.’
    ‘All right. Will you be entertaining them every day?’
    ‘I don’t know about that … She said I shouldn’t go to any trouble. She just wants to relax and take it easy now that she’s finally here.’
    ‘A relative?’
    ‘No, but she knew my father well in Denmark.’ Pálmi regretted his use of words and emphasis. He hadn’t meant to imply anything romantic or inappropriate, although that was how he suspected his words might be interpreted.
    ‘Well? Do you mean …?’
    ‘To tell you the truth, I have no idea. It was all over between him and my mother by the time he moved to Copenhagen. I’m not inclined to ask too many questions, although I suppose I ought tograb the opportunity while I can – find out what the old boy was up to before he contracted TB there.’ He paused for a moment.
    ‘I’ve sometimes thought of asking Hrólfur,’ he went on. ‘You know he was studying in Copenhagen as well at the time? But even though they were good friends back here in Siglufjördur, it seems he didn’t spend a lot of time with my father, not until close to the end, anyway.’
    ‘Grab the chance with both hands – you may not get another. I hope the old lady doesn’t find herself snowed in.’
    ‘I’m certainly hoping that as well!’
    Pálmi briefly placed a hand on Úlfur’s shoulder and left.

    Leifur, the Dramatic Society’s handyman, put the props away quickly, hurrying out to the Co-op and just reaching it as the shop was about to close. He was the only customer. He looked through the chiller cabinets without much interest. A sign for beef mince on special offer caught his eye; it looked more tempting than the sorry range of chicken drumsticks and flabby chicken breasts that surrounded it.
    Leifur was in his mid-thirties and quite enjoyed his role at the Dramatic Society. There were just two days to go before the opening night. The theatre was a perfect way to smother memories and Leifur was particularly relieved that the first night would take place on a date when he would most definitely need a distraction. The fifteenth of January.
    It was a date etched on his memory, just like another date – New Year’s Eve more than twenty years ago.
    He had been eleven years old. A child not much impressed by Christmas, but entranced by the idea of New Year’s Eve – watching the fireworks and now old enough to help his father and elder brother set them off. He’d been looking forward to the day for weeks. His brother Árni, almost seventeen, was in charge that yearand he’d saved up specially to buy more fireworks than usual. And then flu struck – his parents flatly refusing to let Leifur out of the house to take part, condemning him to watch the display through the window instead. It would be nothing like the excitement of seeing them live in the dark of a winter’s night. Too old to shed tears, and filled with self-pity and frustration, he shut himself in his tiny bedroom at the back of the house, peeking out of the window as a few fireworks streaked past, but resolutely refusing to leave his room to look out the front where the festivities were taking place.
    In the days that followed, Leifur’s family mentioned more than once how well Árni had done, but Leifur refused to engage, still trying to convince himself that shutting himself away in his room was the right thing to have done. Of course, Árni saw through the pretence and tried to cheer him up, promising that they would see to the display together the following year. But this had been their final New Year’s Eve together.
    Leifur was a carpenter, according to his listing in the phonebook, although in truth the title was a mixture of wish and reality. He had always been clever with his hands and one way or another had expected to become a carpenter. When he was only ten, he and Árni had decided that they would one day run a big workshop of their own in Siglufjördur. It was an exciting