You and Sunrise

Harsh. Cruel, bleak, godforsaken. That’s what this damned land is.

I take in a deep breath and regret it. The dark, icy air fills my lungs and I wonder if the tissue inside has crystallized. My mouth snaps shut as a gust of bone chilling air rips over me, maybe through me.

It’s winter now, winter in my little town of Höfn, and I hate it. The cold is always everywhere and it hurts – hurts to walk, hurts to breathe, hurts to exist… Bones in my hip grind as if to prove my mental point and a puff of air leaves my lips, creating a cloud of vapor that’s quickly swept away by the wind.

My steps are quick and uneven in an effort to avoid the pains from the problem joint and I look up from the ground to concentrate on my destination – a yellow-illuminated blue building ahead, wrapped snugly in snow drifts and I cringe. Snow.

The ice is crystal and slick under my feet as I make my way toward the structure. If it were summer I’d ride my bike here and tie the guitar case I’m carrying to the back, but now it’s just too slippery.

I shiver as I near the structure, Víkin. It’s this little restaurant with good food that we’ve taken to hanging around on nights and weekends since some of us reached twenty, the drinking age here. Viktor and Arnar like us anyway, so we figure it’s alright.

Finally, I reach the door. I grip the handle and wince as the cold metal comes in contact with my skin, curse myself for not bringing gloves.

As soon as I’m inside, however, everything seems a little more beautiful. It’s warm in the room and the lights glint off of wooden surfaces, making them reflect colors they don’t want to and I have to smile just a little before slipping off my shoes and kicking them into the pile already present beside the door. Sounds of talking and laughter reach my ears and I chuckle when I distinctly hear Sigrún snort.

“Lára! Hello, beautiful girl, how are you tonight?” Viktor, the bar tender, asks me in our native language and I mirror his grin – he’s a middle-aged man with a contagious smile and years of laugh lines – it’s impossible not to smile back.

“Fine, thanks,” I say sincerely, “I just hate the winter. It’s always so dark…”

He nods understandingly. “I know how you feel. Just keep trudging on, pretty girl, and spring will be that much more beautiful.”

I smile and open my mouth to say something but he cuts me off with a wave.

“Go spend time with your friends. They’re at the usual table.” He gestures toward the main source of boisterous laughter in the restaurant and I smile.

“Oh, I know, I can hear them. I’ll talk to you later, Viktor.”

“Can I get you anything, elskan?” he asks before I leave and I nod.

“Just a couple shots of brennivín.” I say and he whistles.

“In the mood for a little Svarti Dauði, are we?” he asks and I roll my eyes as I turn and walk toward my friends. I smile as I hear Viktor’s sort of booming laughter behind me.

“Lára! The music is here!” Heiðar shouts as I near the table and Sigrún waves as she pants, still recovering from her recent laughing fit (probably Heiðar-induced).

“How are you doing?” Bjarki asks and I’m a bit surprised to see him here. Usually, he’s set on resting up for next day’s work.

“Alright. It’s too cold,” I say, sitting down and shrugging out of my coat, then hooking it on the back of my chair.

Bjarki’s eyebrows knit in concern. His eyes are trained on my ungloved, now red hands. Before he has a chance to say anything, Heiðar pipes up.

“Play us something Lára!” he says and I take a deep breath.

“For God’s sake, let her warm up!” Ásta snaps and glares briefly at him before turning her attention back to her drink.

I study her for a moment and note the small frown on her lips. She’s half looking out for me, and half simply wanting Heiðar’s attention. I just smile a little; the rest of us have been waiting for them to get together for awhile now.

“And here’s some liquor for the lovely lady!” Viktor says loudly as he swoops down to our table holding two shot glasses full of strong, spicy liquid.

I smile a thanks and take the glasses from him, downing one right off the bat and setting the other on the table.

Viktor whistles lowly and takes the empty glass from me. “Careful.”

“Never,” I respond easily and he only chuckles. Bjarki frowns at me and I look away from his blue eyes and dark carrot hair, out a window across the room and into the night.

“Expecting someone special?” Sigrún asks, speaking for the first time since I’ve arrived. It’s no wonder, the way Heiðar goes on.

I look back to the group of friends around me. Am I expecting someone? As far as I know, everyone who was planning on being at our table this evening is here, plus Bjarki. There’s Heiðar, the talkative one, and Ásta the pretty, snippy one with pixie-cut black hair. Sigrún is quieter and a little plainer like I am – she’s got brown hair and eyes like I have sandy hair and hazel. Then there’s Bjarki, who’s a few years older than us and works for my grandfather at tending the horses. But am I expecting someone?

As I think about it, I feel something course through me – a wish or longing that surfaces from time to time, and I sigh, half wondering when I’ll satisfy the strange emptiness that appears precisely when I’m not looking for it.

“I… I don’t know. Not really,” I say, looking down to the table and running my finger around the smooth edge of the shot glass in front of me. Light reflects off of it and passes through it, making the container shine yellow and white and orange.

Like warmth, I think. I raise the glass to my lips and down the liquor, enjoying the familiar spicy taste.

After that, Heiðar and Ásta get into a conversation about school and Sigrún joins in as well. Bjarki just listens and adds something here and there as I turn my chair in order to open the guitar case at my socked feet.

I smile when I see the guitar – the dull color of the body wood, the faded black of the fingerboard, the worn spot below the strings where a pickguard should probably sit. It’s not a pretty instrument, but it’s more of a friend, and you don’t just discard a friend if they’re not pretty enough.

I set the guitar in my lap and strum a few times, not bothering to press the strings down or anything – I just listen to the sound the guitar makes and smile. It’s a soft, warm ringing and I can feel it through the instrument where my left hand holds the neck and where the body of the guitar presses up to my own. The sound waves travel through the air and make everything in their path so dreamy – my friends’ laughter is part of a song now and it’s simply better that way.

I stop strumming briefly and twist one of the knobs at the top of the guitar, tuning it just a little, then I begin playing chords, painting colors over the room. Maybe it’s the just the alcohol taking effect – my extremities are beginning to feel a bit less cold – but I can just swear the shadows are tinted a shade of green and the lights are starting to flicker red.

Soon, someone pulls up a chair beside mine and I scoot outward to make more room at the table. Arnar heaves a sigh and gives me a halfhearted smile – it’s been a long day, and he’s probably sick of smelling all the fish he serves here. It’s one of the perks of the restaurant, he says. You can get some of the traditional food here – sheep’s heads; freshly caught fish and lobster; and hákarl, a fermented shark meat – but nothing really strange like that ‘sushi’ stuff.

In no time, Viktor is sitting next to Arnar, leaning back in his chair and just relaxing as my playing slows, floats.

“What do you think, Lára?” Sigrún suddenly asks and I’m snapped out of wherever I am in my head. I pause in my guitar playing.

“I’m not really listening,” I say truthfully. “What are you talking about?”

“Icesave. Still,” Heiðar says and I can hear the annoyance in his voice. I understand, though – I’m a little sick of discussing Iceland’s economy too. I chuckle, resume plucking guitar strings.

“We’ll recover sooner or later. Life goes on,” I say simply and I see Bjarki smile out of the corner of my eye.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Heiðar says, then makes a desperate attempt to change the subject. “Now, what do you say we go snowmobiling this weekend? Make a day of it and go up to Vatnajökull?”

“Come on, why do we want to go see a glacier in the winter? The whole town is practically one already… Besides, with our luck, we’ll just fall into a crack and be swallowed whole. What’s wrong with just hanging around the pool again?” Ásta says and I laugh under my breath, unheard over my friends’ racket and the guitar. I can’t say I disagree.

“We always hang around the pool,” he shoots back.

“The pool sounds just fine to me.” Sigrún this time.

“No! It’s boring and a terrible use of such limited daylight, especially for being on the weekend. We might as well go to church.”

“Hey, why not?” Bjarki speaks up, earning several glares and a snort from Heiðar.

I hear the door to the restaurant open and then close again, then I feel the wave of cold air that’s blown our way and shiver. Arnar looks at Viktor, who has fallen asleep in his chair, and sighs.

“Looks like I’ll be getting this one,” he says to no one in particular and rises from his chair. He pats my shoulder as he passes and I smile.

“Hey, look who’s here!” I soon hear, and everyone at our table – save for Heiðar, who is still going on about wanting to break the mold – quiets to ‘look who’s here.’ My guitar playing stops.

He’s tall and lean, even while wrapped in winter clothes and a heavy coat, and he’s wearing an earflap hat backwards. I can’t help but laugh a little under my breath.

“Jónsi, Jónsi, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen you in these parts!” Arnar booms and Viktor groans and sighs before opening his eyes.

Something seems to dawn on him and he turns to look in the direction of the two men.

“Ahh, Jónsi!” he booms and stands to go greet the man, Jónsi.

“He looks really familiar,” Sigrún murmurs and Bjarki nods.

Heiðar – who by now has quieted, having noticed that no one was really listening to what he was saying – turns and looks at the man, then speaks once again.

“I think he’s from that band Sigur Rós,” he says, then looks pointedly at Ásta. “Remember that newspaper article I showed you a few weeks ago? He was the guy in the picture.”

“I think I saw that too!” Sigrún says, nodding. “’The biggest thing since Björk,’ right?”

Heiðar nods back. “Yeah, they’re actually really good. Lára, I think you’d like the style. His voice is crazy.”

I look at Jónsi once more before turning back to my guitar, resuming playing. I don’t really listen to much music, I just play it, so I don’t really have anything to add to the conversation. Everyone seems fine with this; they already know that I much prefer playing music to talking.

Before long, I’m lost again in the way the music accompanies my surroundings, the way it sounds paired with the reflection of the overhead lights on the wood floors. Everything about Víkin is cozy – the warm wooden floors, heated by water piped from underground, the candles that are burned in winter, the relaxed atmosphere created by people who simply know each other – and that’s why I love it here. It’s inviting. Not so at the Hotel Höfn restaurant.

But despite the warm floors, I still shiver.

I sigh and put the guitar back into its case, then stand and tiptoe in the general direction of the bar, where Viktor, Arnar, and Jónsi are happily talking to one another. I can feel my friends’ eyes on my back, watching me and wondering what I’m going to do or say. In reality, I’m still cold and I just want another drink.

Viktor notices me before I get to the bar.

“One more, Lára? Just make yourself comfortable,” he says and turns away from the two other men. They’ve ceased their conversation and I feel a twinge of nervousness.

“Jónsi, this is Lára Sævarsdóttir, one of our loveliest music people. Sævar and I grew up together,” Arnar says and I smile politely.

“Hello,” I say quietly and offer my hand to shake. He takes it carefully and smiles a little – warm smile, freezing cold hands.

“And Lára, this is Jón Þor Birgisson. I knew his mum from when I lived in Reykjavík awhile back. Speaking of that, how’s it now since the collapse?”

Jónsi shrugs, something like indifferent. “Well, I don’t know. They put smiley faces on the traffic lights. It’s nice.”

I can’t help but chuckle a little and Arnar hums. “Well alright! I guess that settles that!”

“Here you go, Lára. Anything for you Jónsi?” Viktor says, setting the shot glass that I’ve brought from the table before me.

He licks his lips awkwardly as he thinks and I take the moment of nothing to just study him. He’s obviously a few years older than I am, and he’s pretty thin, but also rugged in an odd, delicate sort of way. It’s an interesting combination, but it’s fitting. His eyes are lighter than mine – I can’t quite tell what color yet – accompanied by funny, bushy eyebrows and long lashes. His lips are chapped and his cheeks flushed along high cheekbones from cold; giving him a healthy, but elfish appearance.

“Eh… Fjallagrasa,” he says and Viktor grins.

“A man after my own heart. And it’s healthy too!” Viktor says and Jónsi shakes his head, still with a grin.

“That’s the idea, I suppose. It makes a person feel like shit after too many though,” he remarks and Arnar laughs. I raise my own glass to my lips and take a gulp.

“Arnar, I think Dag and Sindri want something over there,” Viktor says and Arnar nods.

“Alright, thanks.” And then he heads off to a table across the room where two men are seated, leaving Jónsi and I with Viktor, who doesn’t seem to have anything to say anymore.

After a few seconds of silence, Jónsi clears his throat and speaks. “So uh, how’s the… weather?” Then he winces like he knows what he’s said is incredibly unoriginal.

Viktor scoffs as he sets a glass of golden liquid in front of Jónsi. Their eyes meet briefly and Jónsi rolls his eyes, raises his glass to take a big gulp.

I’m torn between laughing and crying about the weather reference. “Well… normal. Cold. Dark.” I pause. “How is it in Reykjavík?”

Jónsi sighs and sets his glass back on the counter. “Just as cold and just as dark, probably,” he says and I can see him wilting.

The silence between us is awkward and I wrack my brain for something to say.

“So you’re –“

“You’ve been–“

We speak at the exact same time and then both pause. His eyes glimmer and I notice two things at once. One, his right eye is lagging, not pointing directly at me where he’s looking, and two, both eyes are a warm shade of green.

“You first,” I say, now smiling a little.

He grins. “You’ve lived here all your life?”

I nod. “Yeah, pretty much, I guess,” and then I stop because I don’t know what else to say.

“It’s nice. I got here earlier and had a little time to explore. I like your boat,” he says and for a moment, I’m not quite sure what he’s talking about.

“Oh! Oh, the Akurey?”

“Yeah, the one run aground a little while down the road from here,” he says, then takes another sip of his drink.

“Yeah, it’s one of the many weird relics here… Have you seen the old orange snowmobile in front of the tourist center?” Something dawns on me here. “Well, no, it might be covered in snow –“

“No, I saw it! I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I saw it and I laughed,” he says, grinning now into his drink.

I can’t help but smile as I pick up my own drink and finish it, then place the glass back on the counter and push it away a little. Then I reach down and fish around in my pocket for the several notes and coins I had grabbed off of my desk as I left. I find them and count out precisely 2400 krónur. Three shots of brennivín is an order I’m familiar with, and by now I know what the exact cost is.

“So you’re in a band?” I blurt out and I have no idea why I’m now confident enough to mention it. Maybe it’s our previous icebreaking conversation. Maybe it’s the alcohol taking some sort of light effect.

He nods. “Yap. I sing and play the guitar and things.”

I’m silent for a moment, thinking.

“And you made it out of here?” You’re popular outside of Iceland?

“I guess so. Some other people like us,” he says, a little smile on his face.

I’m silent for a moment more.

“What did… I mean… how did you get to where you are? Do you have to be extraordinary?” I ask, my voice a little quieter now.

Jónsi turns fully to me now, looks at me through misaligned eyes. “No, you just have to love music. And it was an accident, really; we just wanted to play, you know? We got lucky or something.”

I chew on my lip and stare at the shot glass and the purple and yellowish notes clamped underneath it. Now the glass is reflecting the colors of the money as well as the room and Jónsi’s shirt. One of the overhead lights in the corner of the room flickers, then goes out, and I hear Arnar curse, followed by a burst of laughter from Heiðar and Sigrún. I don’t have to look in order to know that Arnar is probably glaring at them.

“Why do you ask?” Jónsi says and my eyes snap back to his. He’s got his elbow up on the counter now, with his head tilted and resting in his hand.

I shrug. “I don’t know,” I say, and then I look back down to the countertop.

“I’m just curious, I guess. I still don’t know what I want to be – I just know that I always want to make music.” I pause. “It’s hard to be found, isn’t it?”

He runs his tongue over his lips. “It depends. You really just have to be in the right place at the right time, you know?”

I frown. “Oh.”

Just shy of five months. That’s how long I’ve got before I finish secondary school. After that, I’m supposed to have everything figured out – a source of income, a place to live, a plan of some sort… But what do I have? Nothing, so far, other than a nearly obtained foreign languages certification. I sigh.

“That’s your guitar over there, right?” Jónsi asks, bringing me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I say simply, and he grins.

“Well you sounded alright when I came in… Why don’t we go on over and you can play a little?” he says and I hesitate for a moment, but then nod.

I scoot carefully off the barstool and he follows as I walk toward the table I was sitting at before, the one that my friends are still sitting at as they talk and laugh.

“So all I had to do after that was hold up one of the fish heads and she ran!” Heiðar laughs and I assume he’s talking about one of his many pranks on the tourists that pass through in order to see Vatnajökull.

“Guys?” I say quietly and immediately, Bjarki’s eyes are on me, followed by everyone else’s. “This is Jónsi.”

I turn to Jónsi, who is fidgeting with the earflaps on his hat again. “Jónsi, these are Sigrún, Heiðar, Ásta, and Bjarki.”

“Nice to meet all of you,” he says, giving a little wave.

My four friends give greetings and smiles, but soon return to their previous conversation regarding tourists.

“At least she went away,” Ásta remarks. “Tourists never leave me alone.”

Jónsi and I sit at the table next to theirs, close enough that I can still reach into my guitar case and pull the instrument out easily. I settle it on my lap and Jónsi watches me, now looking much more relaxed as I drag my thumb across the strings. I strum softly at first and the rhythm is off simply because of nervousness, but soon the chords come easier and I relax as well.

I don’t know their names, the chords. I just move my hands over the neck, pressing the strings, and they come – three nameless chords followed by a final lagging one that sets the whole thing off. It sounds like summer.

Then, there’s a voice with the sound of strings. It’s lilting and so high it could be a girl’s soprano, but there’s a strange, non-classical feel about its timbre. I look up from my guitar to see Jónsi, eyes closed, singing, and I nearly pause in my playing out of shock.

But I love his voice immediately. It’s strange, but smooth in a strong falsetto and I smile as I listen and play the same chords once again – just go with it.

I listen as I play, losing the need to concentrate on the chords I’m strumming. I’m not sure what he’s saying; it’s not in Icelandic, English, Danish, German, or any other language I’ve encountered in school, and I might go as far as to say that the words he’s singing don’t mean anything at all. They sound like nothing, but everything, and I’m suddenly caught up in jú sælo, tjú…

Peace – maybe that’s what it is. The something that I’m feeling as I close my eyes and just fall into the music we’re making. It’s warm like spring sunrise and either the alcohol I’ve been drinking is really taking its effect, or something is really right here. Before I know it, even more music is welling up from inside of me – more than what I can do on my guitar – and I’m opening my mouth to sing a harmony nearly as lilting as his melody.

It’s more than peace, I realize as I sing meaningless syllables around his, it’s life – life in harsh winter – and it’s an escape that’s eluded me since the excitement of Christmas temporarily broke through the darkness. It’s comfortableunexpected and exhilarating in its newness, exciting and driving, but disappointing because it’s already slowing down.

My eyes flutter back open, glance over the lights and glints and sparkles of the room, and land on Jónsi in front of me. His singing grows slower, and I follow, still weaving in my harmony around his melody until he nods. Then, my hands on the guitar seem to stop on their own and our voices ring out perfectly together, fade into the silence that’s fallen over the restaurant.

After that, I stare at Jónsi and one of his eyes stare at me – the other is lagging off to his right – and I note with a shock that even Heiðar is being quiet.

It must have sounded alright, then.

“Nice,” Jónsi says into the deafening silence. He moves to adjust the saltshakers on the table next to us, seemingly intent on forming them into a straight line.

Then, the room slowly returns to how it was before, Sigrún filling the silence first with a whispered something about her father’s job, then Heiðar laughing a quiet reply of, “Why worry about it now?”

“So I guess you’re in school then, right?” Jónsi asks me and my attention drifts back to him, his funny eyes and awkward crookedtooth smile.

After that, conversation comes easily between us. We talk a lot about school (like what the languages program covers), some about elves (what mischief they’ve been up to lately) and maybe just a little about what Reykjavík is like compared to here (I’ve never been there), and before we know it, time has slipped away from us – it’s nearly midnight.

“Oh shit,” Jónsi mutters. He’s just seen the clock and now he’s glaring at it like it’s the bane of his existence. “I should probably get back to the hotel. Tired driving makes me nervous and I’m heading back home tomorrow.”

“Why were you here? I mean… you just got here today, right?” I ask him and he gives a nod.

“Sometimes a person just has to get up and go, you know? Winter is too long to stay in a little apartment.” He says as he gets up from his chair and I nod. I know exactly what he means – even as I agree I can feel a sort of wanderwish welling up inside of me.

“Look, this might sound weird, but is there a number I can contact you by? Do you have a mobile phone?” he asks and I ponder his question. I don’t think it sounds weird.

“Yeah, I do,” I say and he pulls out his phone. I wait until he looks at me expectantly to start giving numbers. “Alright, it’s 869-9346.”

“Okay,” he says, dragging a finger over the screen of his phone. “Agh. I’ve had this for six months now and I still don’t know how to… Oh! Oh, alright, there we go.”

We are silent for a moment as he fiddles with his phone and I sigh – I should probably be headed home too. There’s still school tomorrow and I find myself glaring at the corner of the table as I think about it.

Just then, my mobile phone gives a little ding from where it’s hiding in my guitar case and I bend to take it out of the compartment under where the guitar’s neck rests. It’s a text message and I open it to find only the name Jónsi.

“Cool,” I say simply and he laughs lightly.

“It was nice to meet you, Lára,” he says, smiling and I smile back.

“You too,” I say and after that, he walks in the direction of the bar, probably looking for Viktor and Arnar.

I get up from the chair I’m sitting in and take the two steps needed to get back to my friends’ table. They’re all still there, with the exception of Sigrún, who probably had the responsibility to head home and rest up for classes the following day.

It’s sort of funny, sitting down after being at a different – close, but still different – table. Heiðar is still talking everyone’s ears off, just not quite as fast or as loud. By now, Ásta is probably getting fed up with him, judging by the glare she is shooting his way. As usual, he is completely oblivious. Bjarki’s eyes are trained on me as soon as I sit down and he offers a placid smile when I look at him.

“So I take it you two got along?” Bjarki asks and at this Heiðar trails off, leaving whatever he was saying unfinished.

“I guess so,” I say. “I mean… he was a nice guy.”

“You guys sounded great together,” Heiðar says and I can’t help but smile just a little.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you sing,” Bjarki murmurs and I’m suddenly aware of the fact that he’s a lot closer to me than he was when I sat down. I’m not sure whether or not he realizes it, but his whole being is bent slightly my way, his elbow on the table and his hand in his rusty hair. My eyes flicker to Heiðar, but he seems oblivious as usual.

“Well, I’m more confident with the guitar,” I murmur, suddenly nervous.

“I should probably go, actually. It’s late and there are classes tomorrow. There’s an exam in Danish that I really should have studied for.” I quickly whip up an excuse – a true one – and scoot my chair away from the table (away from Bjarki) to close my guitar case and latch it.

“See you, Lára!” Heiðar says loudly and with his contagious smile.

“See you tomorrow,” Ásta says. There’s no smile from her, but I smile anyway.

“Bye.” There’s just that one word from Bjarki and I note that he looks maybe a little confused or flustered or something that really just makes me nervous.

I quickly stand up from my chair and slip my coat back on, speaking as I zip it. “I’ll probably see you guys tomorrow.”

They all murmur extra farewells as I turn to leave. Soon after that, Heiðar is on to talking about something different and I smile, simply thankful for him. Ásta – judging by the sharp response I hear her give – not so much.

As I’m walking toward the pile of shoes at the door, I notice several notes and coins left on the bar counter – probably Jónsi’s payment for his drink. Viktor is asleep in a chair on the other side of the restaurant, and I assume Arnar is somewhere in the back room, otherwise he would have put the money in his cash register already.

I crouch to put on my shoes, and then I slip out the door, feeling almost relieved when the cool air rushes over me.

Out here it’s spacious and the air is fresh; there’s room to breathe. Ice and snow crunch under my feet and I realize that the wind has died down a little since I got to Víkin. The cloud cover has also disappeared, leaving clear, bright stars in its wake. I can’t help but smile just a little at the sight.

As I walk off into the night, I don’t know that four days later, I’ll get a call from Jónsi, asking me to come to Reykjavík and try out to be in his band. I also don’t know that five days later, I’ll be heading to the country’s capital city to pursue a dream I didn’t know would ever be possible.