A HEART UNDER ASH
You know, Auntie, you donāt have to lose every game . . . ā
Gathering his aces and jacks, the boy in the cherry-red T-shirt gave his aunt a gentle look. She quivered with an indignation that was half-feigned, half-genuine.
āIām not doing it on purpose. Either Iām bad, or youāre really good.ā
Jonas smiled, unconvinced, and started to shuffle the cards again.
Alba gazed at the teenagerāhis frail chest, his long arms, his tapering fingersāsitting cross-legged on the virgin wool rug: even though he played regularly, he didnāt have the dexterity of those who are used to cards; he wasnāt fast, wasnāt precise, wasnāt fond of those broad gestures that impress the girls; he handled the cards with composure.
She liked that about him. He never fell into the traps set for young people. With nonchalant grace, he avoided the usual effects, the vulgar desire to impress. He remained different. Even if he had been raised by the worst of crooks, he wouldnāt have learned any bad ways.
She burst out laughing. āI wonder if either of us really likes this game.ā
Intrigued, Jonas looked up again, making his head of blond hair shake.
āWhat if we discovered one day,ā she went on, āthat neither of us could stand old maid, Russian bank, or belote, but that we were pretending, just to keep each other happy?ā
He laughed, then sighed. āWell, anything I did just to please you would please me, too.ā
His words moved her. How handsome he was, with his well-defined lips, as red as his sweater . . .
āMe too,ā Alba murmured, fighting her emotions.
Why werenāt men like him? Pure, simple, attentive, generous, easy to love? Why did she get along better with her nephewāwho was also her godsonāthan she did with her son or her husband? She shook her head to dismiss these thoughts and cried, āYouāre a sorcerer!ā
āMe?ā
āOr a magician.ā
āOh, yes? What tricks can I do?ā
āSteal hearts,ā she said, leaning forward and pinching his nose.
As she did so, she had the fleeting, unpleasant impression that she hadnāt found the right tone, doubtless because she was forcing her smile or exaggerating her cheerfulness.
Jonasās eyes clouded over, and his face changed. Shifting his gaze to the window, he murmured, a bitter crease at the corner of his mouth, āSometimes, Iād like to do that.ā
She shuddered. What a fool she had been! She had just realized the incredible stupidity of her words. Steal hearts! The very words to avoid with a boy who . . .
She stood up, her temples throbbing, wanting nothing more than to run away. Quick, create a diversion! Wipe out the gaffe. Donāt let him think about his misfortunes . . .
She ran to the window. āIām bored with cards! What would you say to a walk?ā
He stared at her in surprise. āIn the snow?ā
āYes.ā
She was delighted at his surprise. In suggesting going out, she wasnāt treating him like his cautious mother, who always kept him in the warm bosom of the house.
āAuntie, weāre going to slip.ā
āI hope so!ā
āHooray! Iām your man.ā
As feverish as dogs being taken for a walk, Alba and Jonas looked through the closet in search of the appropriate gear, and, as soon as they had put on parkas, thick gloves, and fur-lined boots, they ran outside.
The cold greeted them, sharp and bracing, living up to their expectations.
Arm in arm, they advanced along the path.
It was a dazzling morning. The sun shone out of a clear blue sky. Around them, the snow had erased rocks, ponds, roads, and meadows; all was whiteness, from the cliffs to the hills, a whiteness in which a few houses were nestled, a whiteness interspersed here and there with copses of dwarf birches, a whiteness crisscrossed with streams like black stripes.
From below, the sea cast its breath up to them, a powerful smell of salt and seaweed, a smell that fed on the vastness.
Jonas quivered. āDo you think weāre at the beginning of spring or the end of winter?ā
āMarch 21 is only the middle of winter. The sunās higher but not the barometer. There are still frosts and snowfalls.ā
āIām crazy about my country!ā Jonas cried.
Alba smiled. What point of comparison did he have, this boy who had never yet left his island? His enthusiasm expressed something else: the fact that he cherished life, that he enjoyed existing, even if, like the local climate, he went though some rough moments.
A cell phone rang. Jonas took a while to answer because of his gloves. It was his friend Ragnar.
Listening to him, he turned pale.
āWhat is it?ā Alba asked anxiously.
āEyjafjƶll has erupted.ā
āWhat? The volcano?ā
āLast night . . . ā
Jonas resumed his conversation with Ragnar, listening to what the latter had to tell him. At that instant, Alba panicked. The ācabinā! The little house where she and her sister had spent their childhood was near Eyjafjƶll. Had it been touched by the seismic shocks? By the jets of lava? By the showers of ash?
As Jonas watched her, she walked around in circles, crunching the hard snow, tormented by anxiety. For two centuries, the volcano had been dormant, and during that long sleep, generations of her family had lived in that wooden cabin with its roof of earth and grass . . . Of course, even in her motherās day, and then for her sister and her, the cabin had been just a holiday home, where they spent thirty days a year, far from the city, but those days were wonderful, filled with a sense of their past, the centuries-long history of the ĆlafsdĆ³ttirs.
Jonas hung up and hastened to inform his aunt. āTheyāve declared a state of emergency. There was an eruption at the FimmvƶrĆ°uhĆ”ls pass. Theyāre going to evacuate the inhabitants of the village of FljĆ³tshlĆĆ° for fear of floods.ā
āFloods?ā
āBecause of the heat of the lava, the compacted snow and blocks of ice will turn to water, Auntie.ā
She could breathe more easily: the cabin wasnāt anywhere near there!
In thinking that, she realized she hadnāt spared a secondās thought for the farmers. Because the house remained empty all through the year, she had stupidly generalized from her own case, neglecting the fact that other Icelanders who lived in the area would have their livelihoods endangered.
āDo they have any idea whatās going to happen next?ā she asked.
āThe geologists say it may last a while.ā
āIām going there tomorrow.ā
Energetically, she took Jonasās arm again, as if they were setting out on a journey.
For a few yards, the boy proceeded at her pace, then she sensed that his breathing had turned to panting and that he was holding her back.
She turned: Jonasās face was drained of color, his lips were pursed, and he was breathing grey steam into the air.
āAre you all right, Jonas?ā
āYouāre too quick for me.ā
He canāt manage even as much as he used to, she thought, itās getting worse. Did I do something stupid by suggesting we go out? Katrinās right to keep him indoors. Letās go back quickly. Well, no, not quicklyāas calmly as possible.
She had the impression that Jonas had heard her, because he calmed down and gripped her elbow. They walked back cautiously, with measured steps.
Once inside, Alba suggested hot chocolate. Over two steaming cups, sitting in the brushed steel kitchen, they resumed their chat.
āI shouldnāt say this out loud,ā Jonas declared, ābut I love natural disasters.ā
āAre you crazy?ā
āI love the fact that natureās strong, that it humiliates us, that it reminds us of its power, that it puts us in our place.ā
āThen welcome: Iceland is the country where you should have been born.ā
āDo you think we choose, Auntie? Do you think our soul flies over the world, looks down, and then decides, āOh, look, Iām going down there, to that piece of land, to that family, because they suit meā?ā
āSome say so.ā
āIām sure of it. I got togeth...