Free Season of the Witch by Árni Thórarinsson

tomorrow?”
    “Ahem,” Gunnsa clears her throat. “I’m packing. But not necessarily for a flight to Akureyri. Ahem. Ahem.”
    I am so taken aback that I almost drop the phone. “What is it? Is something wrong? Are you ill? Are you going into the hospital?”
    “No, no, no. Raggi’s mom has invited us both to Copenhagen for Easter. There was some megadeal this morning, and our flight’s this afternoon.”
    My heart drops at least five feet.
    “Hello? Hello? Dad?”
    “Yeah, I’m still here,” I sigh. “I’m here, somewhere.”
    “Sorry, Dad,” says Gunnsa, in her gentlest tone. “But I’ve never been to Copenhagen. I reeeeeally want to go. You’ve been, haven’t you?”
    “What? Yes, but not until I was eighteen.”
    “It was different back then. There weren’t any megadeals.”
    I pick myself up off the floor of my closet.
    “No, that’s true. There were no megadeals then.”
    “Mom says it’s OK with her. Please, Dad, say it’s OK with you.”
    “But you’ve never been to Akureyri either.” I’m flailing around for an argument.
    “No, but I can come another time. Akureyri’s in Iceland.”
    “There are loads of Danish houses here.”
    Gunnsa is taken by surprise. “Danish houses?”
    “Yep, old Danish houses.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Or houses in Danish style. They’re really pretty.”
    She laughs. “Houses in Danish style in Akureyri. You’re so funny, Dad!”
    I’m about to tell her that Akureyri has its own
Rádhústorg
, or Town Hall Square, just like Copenhagen’s
Rådhuspladsen
, and
the only pedestrian shopping street in Iceland, like
Strøget
. But then I realize that this is yet another lost cause. “Well, Gunnsa, sweetheart, it’s all right so far as I’m concerned, but I have to say, I’ve really been looking forward to your visit.”
    “I’ll come soon. Promise.”
    “OK. So it’s just you and Raggi and Rúna going to Copenhagen?”
    Gunnsa hesitates before answering: “Well, the three of us, and some guy Rúna’s been seeing.”
    Now it’s my turn to hesitate before saying, “Have a good trip, honey, and have fun. But take care in Nyhavn.”
    The worst that could happen has happened. I sit frozen in my closet with the conversation with my daughter like an albatross around my neck, crushed with self-pity and disappointment. Then I start trying to talk myself around: Of course it isn’t the worst that could happen. Gunnsa’s not dead. She’s alive andkicking, happy and cheerful, on her way to Copenhagen for Easter with her boyfriend. When I was fifteen, wouldn’t I have preferred to go to Copenhagen with my girlfriend rather than visit my old man in Akureyri? Admittedly, when I was fifteen I didn’t have a girlfriend. And my dad wasn’t in Akureyri. And back then Easter was a Christian festival, not a time of megadeals. But the answer to my question was nonetheless as clear as the view of the wall next door.
    No, the second-worst thing that could happen has happened.
    And then there’s this thing about Raggi’s mom, Rúna, and some guy. Why is that gnawing away at my cerebral cortex? It’s all selfishness. Selfishness and importunity.
    Einar, you’re selfish and importunate
, I say to the stranger reflected in the computer screen.
    He makes no reply.
    You’re a free man
, I go on.
Enjoy your freedom. Here in Akureyri. Over Easter.
    And the man on the screen replies:
Yeah. Enjoy the suffering.
    Ouch.
    Who knows, maybe I’ll be offered some megadeal of my own over Easter, here in Akureyri? I try to convince myself I’m doing all right and reach for the phone.
    “Good morning.
Hóll
.” A male voice this time.
    “Good morning. May I speak to Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir?”
    “Just a moment.”
    I wait two minutes.
    “No, I’m afraid Gunnhildur is having her bath. Can I take a message?”
    I say no and thank him. No doubt the old lady has completely forgotten that she called some journalist called Einar—and even why she made the call.