83

‘Thanks for walking with me,’ Úrsúla said from beneath the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. ‘I needed to stretch my legs, get some fresh air.’

‘No problem,’ Gunnar said.

They had chosen to walk along the sea front, despite the biting 190onshore wind, as this seemed to be the only pavement in the district that had been properly cleared and gritted. They had walked almost as far as the Sun Voyager sculpture. Heavy grey cloud reached down to the middle of Esja’s slopes, but there didn’t seem to be a likelihood of more snow. It was too cold for that.

‘How did he come across to you?’ she asked, and Gunnar knew exactly what she meant. ‘I’m curious.’

‘He seemed to be strangely normal,’ Gunnar said, ‘considering he’s a bomber.’

‘Hmm,’ Úrsúla said. ‘More than likely what goes on inside most people just isn’t visible on the surface.’

‘But it’s obvious he’s the kind of guy who’s used to having his own way. The sort who gets a kick out of power. When he said “it’s all or nothing” he smiled a little bit, and he had this look on his face as if he was completely confident he would win. You know what I mean? I don’t know how I can explain it more clearly…’

‘I know what you mean,’ Úrsúla said. ‘I know precisely what you mean.’

They stopped by the Sun Voyager and watched weather-beaten tourists taking pictures of each other in front of the sculpture.

‘A shame there’s nothing in the background for them,’ Gunnar said.

‘That’s true,’ Úrsúla replied. ‘I feel sorry for these poor things who come here in the depths of winter, expecting to see Northern Lights, and instead they get grey clouds and lousy weather the whole time.’

They turned and walked back towards the ministry.

‘Do you think you’ll call off the South Coast Highway renewal?’ Gunnar asked, hoping deep inside that the answer would be no. He wanted her to say there was a new solution, some way to make the initiative possible. He couldn’t imagine the storm that would break over her if she were to dash so many people’s hopes – including his own. He had seen himself bowling along the broad, straight South Coast Highway, with slip roads on and 191off, like a proper motorway, instead of the narrow lanes running each way currently, cut through by country roads, each of which presented a hazard.

Úrsúla said something, but it was drowned out by the rattle of nail tyres on the jeeps hurtling by.

‘What did you say?’

‘I’m thinking it over,’ she said, pressing the button for the lights on the Sæbraut crossing. ‘I’m thinking it over as hard as I can.’

84

‘Everything you’re telling me says post-traumatic stress disorder,’ the psychologist said thoughtfully. He was a young man, so youthful that Úrsúla had almost cancelled the appointment when she saw him. There was something laughable about a youngster hardly old enough to be confirmed giving her advice on life.