Hér má lesa upphafið af sögunni fyrir áhugasama.

(You can find the complete version here )

 

Did you know?

A Novella

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen and welcome on this flight from London to Keflavík, Iceland.”

I was pulled back into reality by the pilot’s voice on the announcement system. The faint picture of my happy place disappeared into the shadows of my mind and I was again painfully aware of the metal tube that I was sitting inside, flying through the air.

“My name is Guðleifur Ásgrímsson and I will be your pilot today.”

I tried to ignore his continuing speech while wishing I would never have to pronounce his name. My palms started sweating again as he listed cruising speed and altitude. So fast, so high. I closed my eyes hoping I’d find my wonderland there waiting for me. It wasn’t there this time, the dark and the faint musky smell of perfume coming from the person next to me just made me feel more claustrophobic. I opened my eyes again.

“In about ten minutes we will be flying over the Scottish Isles and we might be able to catch a glimpse of them in between the clouds on the right hand side.”

In my mind I thanked God for placing me on the left hand side so that no one would expect me to lift the plastic that was covering my window. Then I felt silly, surely if God existed he had nothing to do with airplane seating. Obviously he had nothing to do with the screening program either. They were showing some comedy lead by Charlie Sheen. I had been given to understand that most airplanes now had small screens on the back of every seat where you could choose what you wanted to do or watch. This one only had those little screens in the ceiling. In spite of my sensitive nerves and the fact that this was an Icelandic airline, I felt slightly annoyed that they weren’t showing British material.

For the third time I closed my eyes.

“Did you know that stressed spelled backwards is desserts?”

I took a deep breath and chose to ignore the person sitting next to me. I had to find that happy place again. It had trees, lots of trees.

“I’m just asking because you look a little nervous.”

This time I looked up into the round face and curious blue eyes of my fellow passenger.

“You don’t like flying?”

I stared at the woman for a second or two and wondered if she was really a woman, she looked a bit as if she used to be a man. Her jaw was very manly I thought, but then again that didn’t really mean anything.

I shook my head in denial. Looking away I reached into my bag that was stowed under the seat in front of me, and pulled out a paperback. I knew I was quite tall for a woman, but my aching feet and lack of space made it all the more tangible. The mild claustrophobia didn’t help. I felt a little calmer with the book in my hands, the once slick cover felt a little raw at the spine and it was torn here and there but there were still some smooth bits in between. It wasn’t very big but my feet could feel the difference, my bag, standing between them took up a little less space now.

“Me, I love flying, I have to really. If I didn’t I couldn’t really do my job. A lot of travelling you see.” She seemed in no way to be discouraged by my disregard.

I continued with my quest for calm and opened the book in the middle and tried to focus on the words.

“Hey, what’s that you’re reading? The cover looks interesting but what language is that? Is that Icelandic? Oh. Perhaps you don’t speak English.”

I kept focusing on the book.

“Wow, that’s embarrassing. I’m sorry.”

Finally I had peace again, or as much peace as you can get on a small plane when you are this tall. Somewhere in the back a child started crying. The words in the book I was holding in front of me had no meaning at all, not to me at least. I started a short Icelandic class once but only showed up for the first two lessons or so. Still, I took that book wherever I went even if I didn’t have a clue as to what it was about.

I scanned the pages slowly, imagining what the words would sound like, picturing the teacher pronouncing them. She was very attractive, I remembered that clearly, not a blonde though, even though she was Icelandic. She said that was a bit of a cliché, Icelanders being all blonde and blue-eyed. Sure there were some, but not all of them, not even close. I knew some of the words, the very simple ones. Some I tried to guess the meaning of but there was not a single sentence I could understand in its entirety.

“It’s funny, I really thought Icelanders were all very good at English, or at least the younger ones. You don’t look a day older than twenty-five. I don’t think I’ve ever met an Icelander that didn’t speak English. I say, you do look quite stiff and uncomfortable, are you alright?”

I put the book down on my lap. She obviously wasn’t going to stop talking even though I didn’t answer. I took a deep breath, slowly, before answering.

“No, I had not realized that stressed is desserts spelled backwards, yes, I am a little nervous about flying. I look uncomfortable because I am: These seats are not the most spacious. And yes, this is Icelandic, but I’m not… and I happen to be twenty-eight years old.”

She just stared at me for a while, as if she was trying to figure me out but not quite succeeding. Maybe she was wondering if my hair was naturally red, or if I had trouble getting clothing in a suitable length. In fact I did sometimes have trouble, the sleeves of the jumper I was wearing were just an inch shorter than my liking. Perhaps she just found me rude. Usually that would have bothered me but I didn’t care, I just wanted the flight to be over. I wanted to be standing with my feet on solid ground, free to move around and scratch hard-to-reach places. She didn’t seem insulted though, she actually just looked rather impressed.

“What’s the book about?”

I noticed there was a different show starting on the screens.

“Where did you learn Icelandic?”

It was another American show. I felt disappointed.

“Have you ever lived there?”

I focused back on her as she was still coming up with more questions.

“It’s a beautiful country don’t you think?”

I thought I should better answer her before she could come up with more.

“Erm… I don’t know. And I haven’t.”

She stayed quiet for a moment while matching my answers to her questions.

“So you’ve not been to Iceland before? What made you decide to go there?”

I could no longer hear the child crying in the back. I found myself wishing I was an infant. Then I could scream as loud as I pleased when I felt like it, and I sure felt like it. No one really minds about your manners when you’re a child.

“No I haven’t”

Silence.

“Business or pleasure?”

One of the flight attendants walked past at that moment and I politely asked her for a pillow without answering the woman’s question. She looked at me, waiting patiently for my reply.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” I finally asked her.

She laughed.

“Oh yes. You’ll have to forgive me. They say I’m borderline autistic. Asperger syndrome or something like that. My mother always said it was all nonsense, that I’m just naturally honest, curious and talkative. I think they both had a point, she and the doctors and teachers. Some people can’t stand it, but I can’t help it. The words simply have to come out. I’m not sure what happens if I don’t let them out, but I’m not interested in finding out either.”

It wasn’t hard to believe that she had a genuine fear of not speaking her mind I thought to myself as she went on.

“I read this book when I was a child about a man who had so many thoughts in his head and it kept growing and growing with each new thought and he never told anyone about them until his head was so big he couldn’t get out of his house. It really scared me. It didn’t look anything like your book though; it wasn’t a little paperback like that. It was this big hardback with colourful pictures and a large font. Where did you get that book? It looks as if it’s been read quite a lot.”

I looked back down at the book in my lap and my left hand that was still holding it. She was right: it looked old, weathered and worn. The edges were no longer sharp or the corners pointy, they were bent and torn and the spine was broken. It didn’t look like it belonged in my hand. The contrast was quite interesting. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before. My hands with the soft skin, the neatly polished, well-kept nails, hands that looked like they had never known hard labour, or labour at all, and this book that looked like it had survived a tornado. The only link between them was that one nail on the pinkie of my right hand, the one I had bitten all the way down to the core but still bore evidence of the recent manicure.

The stewardess returned with my pillow and I thanked her, absent-mindedly. I continued staring at the book in my hand and I knew, even though I couldn’t really see it anymore, that the woman next to me was still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“It… it was left at my flat.” I told her.

I placed the pillow on my shoulder and rested my head up against the cold inner side of the plane, grateful that I had the window-seat, and closed my eyes to indicate that the conversation was over. I could still feel her eyes on me a little longer, the un-answered questions burning in her mind, but I was exhausted. I tilted the seat back and crossed my arms on my chest, hugging the book. Its familiar smell of old paper and coffee calmed me down, the stress of the flight seemed to wash off me and soon I was asleep.