A HEART UNDER ASH
You know, Auntie, you donât have to lose every game . . . â
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.
âIâm not doing it on purpose. Either Iâm bad, or youâre really good.â
Jonas smiled, unconvinced, and started to shuffle the cards again.
Alba gazed at the teenagerâhis frail chest, his long arms, his tapering fingersâsitting cross-legged on the virgin wool rug: even though he played regularly, he didnât have the dexterity of those who are used to cards; he wasnât fast, wasnât precise, wasnât 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 wouldnât have learned any bad ways.
She burst out laughing. âI wonder if either of us really likes this game.â
Intrigued, Jonas looked up again, making his head of blond hair shake.
âWhat if we discovered one day,â she went on, âthat neither of us could stand old maid, Russian bank, or belote, but that we were pretending, just to keep each other happy?â
He laughed, then sighed. âWell, anything I did just to please you would please me, too.â
His words moved her. How handsome he was, with his well-defined lips, as red as his sweater . . .
âMe too,â Alba murmured, fighting her emotions.
Why werenât men like him? Pure, simple, attentive, generous, easy to love? Why did she get along better with her nephewâwho was also her godsonâthan she did with her son or her husband? She shook her head to dismiss these thoughts and cried, âYouâre a sorcerer!â
âMe?â
âOr a magician.â
âOh, yes? What tricks can I do?â
âSteal hearts,â she said, leaning forward and pinching his nose.
As she did so, she had the fleeting, unpleasant impression that she hadnât found the right tone, doubtless because she was forcing her smile or exaggerating her cheerfulness.
Jonasâs eyes clouded over, and his face changed. Shifting his gaze to the window, he murmured, a bitter crease at the corner of his mouth, âSometimes, Iâd like to do that.â
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. Donât let him think about his misfortunes . . .
She ran to the window. âIâm bored with cards! What would you say to a walk?â
He stared at her in surprise. âIn the snow?â
âYes.â
She was delighted at his surprise. In suggesting going out, she wasnât treating him like his cautious mother, who always kept him in the warm bosom of the house.
âAuntie, weâre going to slip.â
âI hope so!â
âHooray! Iâm your man.â
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. âDo you think weâre at the beginning of spring or the end of winter?â
âMarch 21 is only the middle of winter. The sunâs higher but not the barometer. There are still frosts and snowfalls.â
âIâm crazy about my country!â 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.
âWhat is it?â Alba asked anxiously.
âEyjafjöll has erupted.â
âWhat? The volcano?â
âLast night . . . â
Jonas resumed his conversation with Ragnar, listening to what the latter had to tell him. At that instant, Alba panicked. The âcabinâ! The little house where she and her sister had spent their childhood was near Eyjafjöll. 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 motherâs 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 ĂlafsdĂłttirs.
Jonas hung up and hastened to inform his aunt. âTheyâve declared a state of emergency. There was an eruption at the FimmvörĂ°uhĂĄls pass. Theyâre going to evacuate the inhabitants of the village of FljĂłtshlĂĂ° for fear of floods.â
âFloods?â
âBecause of the heat of the lava, the compacted snow and blocks of ice will turn to water, Auntie.â
She could breathe more easily: the cabin wasnât anywhere near there!
In thinking that, she realized she hadnât spared a secondâs 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.
âDo they have any idea whatâs going to happen next?â she asked.
âThe geologists say it may last a while.â
âIâm going there tomorrow.â
Energetically, she took Jonasâs 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: Jonasâs face was drained of color, his lips were pursed, and he was breathing grey steam into the air.
âAre you all right, Jonas?â
âYouâre too quick for me.â
He canât manage even as much as he used to, she thought, itâs getting worse. Did I do something stupid by suggesting we go out? Katrinâs right to keep him indoors. Letâs go back quickly. Well, no, not quicklyâas 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.
âI shouldnât say this out loud,â Jonas declared, âbut I love natural disasters.â
âAre you crazy?â
âI love the fact that natureâs strong, that it humiliates us, that it reminds us of its power, that it puts us in our place.â
âThen welcome: Iceland is the country where you should have been born.â
âDo you think we choose, Auntie? Do you think our soul flies over the world, looks down, and then decides, âOh, look, Iâm going down there, to that piece of land, to that family, because they suit meâ?â
âSome say so.â
âIâm sure of it. I got togeth...