Touch Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Touch

  About the Author

  Also by Olaf Olafsson

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  I am going to do my best to leave everything in order when I lock up for the last time. I’m already making good progress, as there is nothing really holding me back. After the staff went home last night, I sat in the office and wrote myself a to-do list which I revised this morning when I got up. I didn’t sleep well, was woken by a sudden storm battering the house. Gusts of wind whipped the branches of the ash tree against my bedroom window, creating a strangely rhythmical din I actually found quite comforting. As I lay awake, I used the time to run through the list in my head but stopped short of scrambling out of bed to add to it. That said, I don’t believe I had forgotten anything when I returned to it after breakfast.

  It feels strange to think that only three weeks ago there were eighty wedding guests here. The groom was Icelandic and the bride Danish, which was reflected in the menu: stjerneskud as a starter, rack of lamb for the main. I have catered many wedding parties in my time and can safely say there’s nothing I haven’t seen. Sometimes I think I glimpse the cracks even before the poor couple have taken their vows; sometimes I feel an overwhelming urge to warn them. Not so with the Icelandic lad and the Danish girl. I have seldom seen two people so in love.

  I am going to let this be the last memory of my restaurant. The happy celebrations, and that relaxed, natural affection evident in the young couple’s smiles and mannerisms, their thoughtfulness and modesty, the words that didn’t need to be said, the deep love they felt for each other which lighted up the room when they walked in. I have been thinking about them this morning. I hope they have avoided the virus and that they are well, wherever they may be. They only need each other.

  We stayed open as long as possible, probably longer than we should have. People had largely stopped coming in even before the ban on social gatherings came into effect. We had the odd evening booking, mostly tourists, and when they dried up too, we did our best to keep going by offering deliveries and takeaways—fine food at a fine price, as we advertised on our website. That worked quite well for a few days, but then interest waned, or people became more afraid of getting infected and stopped calling or ordering online. I had managed to buy a consignment of disposable boxes and containers for the food that left the restaurant and am now paying for my optimism, as we have used only a fraction of them. I have just added a reminder to my list to give the rest to the owners of two restaurants in the neighborhood still trying to keep things going. They can do with all the help they can get. For my part, I won’t be needing them, as I do not intend to reopen.

  There is an echo when I walk across the floor. I pause in the dining area, look around the way I did when I first came here just over twenty years ago. The anticipation I felt then has been replaced by a sense of gratitude. I felt at home the instant I walked through the doors and decided there and then to lease the space. It needed very little work in the way of repairs and refurbishment, as the steakhouse that was here previously never really took off, and closed down after a short time. Admittedly, I bought a better stove, painted the walls in warmer tones, hung some nice pictures, and installed new lighting. But that was it, and we opened only a month after I had signed a six-year lease with Frissi. We have renewed it three times to date, and all I can say about Frissi is that he has been a reasonable and good landlord. In the wake of the financial collapse, he lowered the rent without me even asking. He called me up one Monday morning and said in his hoarse voice: “There’s no need for you to go bankrupt. Just pay me half until things improve. In exchange, Bogga and I can eat with you for free when she can’t be bothered to cook.” Frissi is also on my to-do list, since I intend to settle up with him as with everybody else, preferably by paying him the fourteen months left on the lease.

  This is no ordinary echo—any more than the silence brooding over the city. Even standing still, I have the impression I can hear it. But then I pull myself together and clear my throat more forcefully than necessary because I prefer to hear a new echo rather than the one resounding only in my head.

  Last night Baldur stood up in the middle of dinner and announced his desire to say a few words. I would have liked it better if he hadn’t, but I guess he felt he needed to. Back when I hired him, nearly fourteen years ago, he was a young man of twenty or so, but now he is married with two children. He started as a sous-chef but quickly showed talent and has been running the kitchen for almost ten years. He had handwritten the menu and presented me with it after he finished his speech. “The last supper,” he declared, although he hadn’t written that on the sheet of paper, “the last supper, Kristófer.” There were eight of us at the round table over by the window, the entire staff except for Gunnar and Fjóla, who are in quarantine. Baldur was probably the only sober one among us. I had opened a few bottles of wine I had stored away, some for as long as twenty or thirty years, for we all needed some cheering up. Baldur isn’t in the habit of expressing his feelings the way he did that evening, but emotions are running high these days. I did my best to lighten things up, recounting some amusing stories from the past, and I think everybody managed to forget the present, for a while at least.

  Today I am going to pay wages and settle bills. Tomorrow I will tidy up. Later in the week I plan to give the place a final scrub. I have already worked out that I can afford to pay the staff until at least the end of September, possibly longer. But today, after I take a closer look at the accounts and the various outstanding bills, I will have a better sense of where I stand. I would like to pay Baldur and Steinunn until the end of the year; they have worked here the longest and genuinely deserve it.

  I make myself coffee, turn on the computer, and go over my to-do list. Before making a start, I take a look at the latest news online, most of which is about the progress of the epidemic both here and abroad, but then I decide to quickly check my Facebook page. I find a couple of jokes that actually make me laugh and a few messages I reply to, although none urgent, mostly people responding to our announcement that we are closing, affectionate notes of appreciation. Just as I am about to close the page and turn my attention to the things on my list, I notice a friend request. I receive a lot of friend requests from people I don’t know or who perhaps don’t even exist, but as always, I open it anyway. And then the name leaps out at me, the decades seem to melt away, and I am standing again in gentle rain outside the locked door, the morning I discovered that they had disappeared.

  I am of two minds about whether I should bring my teacup with me. It really doesn’t make much sense to be taking up space if I am not checking any bags, which I don’t think I should be doing. Besides, I doubt I will have much opportunity to be making my own tea. But I am set in my ways and the cup has become like an extension of my hand, since I use it for coffee as well as tea, though strictly speaking, this is rather against the rules. It’s a Japanese earthenware yunomi teacup, nothing special, just an everyday-use cup without a handle, most likely from a town called Mashiko, known for its pottery. On it is a tiny picture of a bird perched on a branch, or maybe it’s a squirrel. I have never been able to decide which.

  I accepted the friend request as soon as I felt the strength return to my hands. Afterward I sat staring at the computer screen for the better part of an hour, motionless, waiting for a reply before realizing it could be a long wait and that in the meantime I ought to be getting on with my tasks. But I had great difficulty concentrating and struggled to work out the salaries and pay the bills; I got in trouble with my online banking, which is unusual for me. Finally I gave up and, instead of banging my head against the wall, used some of the breathing exercises I have recently learned to try to calm myself down.

  I asked myself whether the fact that I was holding the teacup when I received her friend request wasn’t a clear sign. A sign of something of significance, I mean, something outside what we are capable of putting a finger on, a signal from a guiding force, to put it plainly. But when I came to my senses, I told myself there was nothing remarkable about me sitting at my computer with the cup in my hand; that happened all the time, I should just take a deep breath.

  Even so, I was on tenterhooks and decided I should get some fresh air. I called the two restaurant owners, who gratefully accepted the offer of the containers, as they can expect a shortage if their delivery business takes off. I carried the boxed containers out to the car, only half listening to the twelve o’clock news as I drove—that is, until they mentioned flight schedules. “An Icelandair flight to London departed from Keflavík Airport this morning,” the announcer declared. “All thirty-one of the airline’s other scheduled flights have been canceled.” Afterward they went back to talking about infection levels, the numbers of people in intensive care, the shortage of test swabs.

  One of the restaurants is on Hverfisgata. The owner, Viktor, came outside to collect the boxes. He is about the same age as Baldur and is also a talented chef. We maintained a two-meter distance. A week ago, we would have commented on this. Now it just seems normal. He said he had heard I was planning to close permanently. I told him it was true. “I’m quitting while I’m ahead,” I said, and wished him success.

  I will be seventy-five this year. I consider this no age at all, as I am in good health except for a bit of arthritis in my right knee and the occasional arrhythmia which I hardly notice and which my GP tells me is nothing to worry about. It doesn’t stop me from hiking in the mountai
ns or doing push-ups on the living room floor at home. I don’t consider myself in a high-risk category, but nonetheless I try to behave sensibly, since this virus does not seem to be kind to people my age. It’s probably just as well, if worse came to worst, that nobody is dependent on me.

  Perhaps I should add: for the time being. I am in good health for the time being. And leave it at that, for there is no point in worrying about unconfirmed speculations made by the specialist who I am not at all convinced knows what he is talking about.

  The other restaurant is on Laugavegur, just down from the sandwich shop I ran before I opened Torg. I left the boxes by the side door, as the owner wasn’t expecting to arrive at work until the afternoon. Before climbing back into the car, I looked up and down the street. It was completely deserted.

  When I got back, I sat down at the computer, but there was nothing new. I had checked Facebook on my phone while I was out, but somehow I trust the computer more. It was eleven o’clock in Japan. Nighttime. I told myself I probably wouldn’t hear anything until the next day.

  I finished paying the salaries and most of the bills, then called the suppliers who had yet to invoice me to ask if they would do so as soon as possible. They all offered me a grace period, assuring me there was no hurry and that I had their backing if I needed. I thanked them for their generosity and support but told them I had made the decision to call it a day. Final decision.

  I didn’t feel like going home and instead heated up some leftovers for my dinner. I had grown accustomed to the echo, and although I wasn’t consciously evoking memories, they inevitably came back to me—mostly happy ones, I must say, for I think everybody, customers and staff alike, generally had a good experience here at Torg.

  It was after eight o’clock when I started to think about turning off the lights and heading home. I had done everything I set out to do, just needed to give Frissi a call because I didn’t want to transfer money into his account without letting him know first.

  I wasn’t expecting anything when I checked my Facebook page. I’d been about to switch off the computer and just opened Facebook for the hell of it. But then I saw her reply staring at me. She had written it twenty minutes earlier.

  “My name is Miko Nakamura, née Takahashi. Are you the Kristófer Hannesson who lived in London in 1969?”

  The pale morning light seeps in through the curtains. As I drowse, I think I can hear the sea, the ebb and flow of distant waves. It’s in the morning that I sometimes find it difficult to orient myself, but not today, as I am perfectly aware that I am only imagining the sea’s murmur. And yet the sound is pleasant, the steady breathing, so clear I might almost convince myself there is somebody sleeping next to me.

  I have decided to take the teacup with me, although to be honest, it’s rather impractical. My carry-on bag isn’t big and will easily fit in the overhead compartments of both aircraft, as I found out last night when I booked my flights. There is a bit more space on the plane to Japan than on the one to London, between a centimeter and two all around.

  It was almost two in the morning when I finally went to bed. We exchanged messages for about half an hour, until she said she needed to rest. By then she had told me about having been hospitalized with the virus. In the next sentence she admitted she wouldn’t have tried to find me otherwise. She said it without preamble. Together with a few other things I am still digesting.

  I was on the verge of asking if I could call her, but I didn’t. And I don’t regret it. Knowing her, she would have managed to wriggle out of it.

  Knowing her . . . It’s a strange thing to say. And yet it hardly felt as if almost half a century has passed since we last saw each other, especially not after we had finished asking the usual polite but trivial questions and provided equally inconsequential answers. She was the one who took the initiative and ended the small talk, as she seemed in a hurry to say what was on her mind.

  On the other hand, she was more guarded when I asked how she was feeling.

  “A neighbor does the shopping for me,” she replied, “she leaves the groceries outside my door. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  By then I had learned that she lives alone. She and her husband had been childless. “I lost my wife, Inga, seven years ago,” I replied. “We had no children either.”

  She didn’t ask me to come. Not even indirectly. And I didn’t mention to her I was thinking about it. In fact, it was only later, after we ended our conversation and I was back home contemplating the trees in the garden, that I convinced myself I would never find peace of mind if I didn’t go to her.

  No sooner had I bought my tickets than a feeling of calm invaded me. Soon afterward the wind that had been blowing all evening dropped as well, and it started to snow. It had been a week of stormy weather, but now big fat snowflakes were floating to the ground like on a pretty Christmas card, settling on the drab lawn and naked branches, covering them so completely that they appeared painted white. I cast my eye over my to-do list, crossed out the tasks I had finished, added some new ones, and then went to bed.

  Miko Nakamura . . . née Takahashi. The woman I have never told anybody about. Not my friends or the people I worked with all those years, not my parents or my brother, nobody, not even after I came back from London and they couldn’t understand why I was so unhappy. And of course not Inga. Least of all her.

  I can see from the light that the snow hasn’t melted overnight. The brightness is a sign that the weather has cleared and the sun is beginning to shine. I run over the day’s tasks in my mind, decide how best to go about them, and wonder if I have left anything out.

  Before I open my eyes completely, I practice the exercises I have been training myself to carry out these past few weeks. I start by remembering my ID card number, then my bank account number, my parents’ dates of birth and death, the names of all the Icelandic presidents, some of the newest dishes on our menu, and finally the tasks I added to my to-do list last night before going to bed.

  When I am reasonably satisfied with the result, I get up and draw the curtains. The sun is shining on the snow. In the branches of the old spruce, a thrush is singing its lungs out. I have a sense of anticipation in my chest, a burning anticipation that takes me by surprise and reminds me that not so long ago I was a young man.

  I could have set off tomorrow morning, but then I worry I wouldn’t have time to get everything done, as I am not a fast worker. This is nothing new; I have always needed peace and quiet to do things properly and therefore have learned to avoid rushing. But it also has occurred to me that I may never come back, and this has given me even more to think about. I am not saying this to be dramatic or elicit sympathy, because of course it’s very unlikely that I will be prevented from returning. However, nothing is certain these days and I wouldn’t wish to leave my affairs in disarray.

  Naturally, I mentioned none of this to Mundi when I called him just now. Mundi is my older brother; he lives in a retirement flat in a house for the elderly down by the harbor. I went to see him a week or so ago, but now home visits are no longer permitted.

  I had to raise my voice so he could hear me. “Don’t you have your hearing aids in?”

  “What?”

  “Your hearing aids, Mundi. Why haven’t you put them in?”

  My brother is terribly vain, even when he’s alone.

  “I don’t want to look like an old fart, damn it.”

  “You’re eighty-three, Mundi.”

  I told him I had booked a flight to Japan.

  “About time. You’ve always talked about going there.”

  I corrected him and told him it’s been years since I last mentioned going to Japan.

  “How long are you staying?”

  I said I wasn’t sure. I had booked my return flight in three weeks’ time, but that could change.

  “So one of your people will deliver my meals while you’re away?”

  Mundi has always been a fussy eater and complains to me about the food they provide in the residence, although I don’t see a problem with it, it’s just standard home cooking. But there is no use arguing with him, and ever since he moved in there, I have humored him by sending him meals as often as three or four times a week. I have been dreading having to tell him those deliveries are now a thing of the past.