The Greenhouse (18 page)

She’s holding my daughter in her arms when she steps off the train, and there aren’t many people on the platform so they stand out in the crowd and attract plenty of attention. Flóra Sól is in a pink floral dress, stockings, pink shoes, and a knitted sweater. She’s grown; she’s no longer an infant. She’s wearing a yellow hat that is knotted under her chin, and two golden locks protrude from the rim over her forehead. I stare at the child, the fruit of a fleeting moment of carnal pleasure, whom I haven’t seen for two months, and she stares back at me with big, watery blue eyes, curious and slightly hesitant. Anna is wearing a blue jacket with her hair tied in a tail, and is visibly tired after the journey. I also get the feeling that she might be cold, even though it’s hot out and I’m wearing a shirt myself.

The first thought that crosses my mind when I see her getting off the train is that I should have made an effort to get to know her better. Three years ago I wouldn’t have noticed a girl like her on the street; it would be different today, though, because I’m not the same man anymore. They’re both eyeing me up, the mother and daughter: I’m in a freshly ironed shirt and have a new haircut, that’s the best I could do.

I greet Anna with a kiss on the cheek and smile at my daughter. She smiles back with a wet smile, rosy cheeks, and dimples on her pale porcelain face; there is a great brightness around the child. My daughter stretches out her hand toward me. Her mother looks at her in surprise and then at me, as if the child had somehow stunned her by immediately taking to her stranger of a father. She, nevertheless, hands me my daughter. She’s as light as a feather, about the weight of a big puppy, and all soft. She leaps into my arms. I stroke her cheek.

—She’s not afraid of strangers, her mother explains. She trusts people.

I should probably be asking myself how two virtual strangers could have conceived such a divine child in such a primitive and inappropriate setting as a greenhouse. I almost feel a pang of guilt. So many people play everything by the book, have exemplary courtships, gradually save up the things they’ll need, found a relationship, become mature enough to handle disagreements and meet all their payment obligations, and yet still don’t manage to create the child they have dreamed of.

It’s a fifteen-minute drive from the train station to the village. The lemon-yellow car that has been sitting there motionless for about two months reached its destination without a hitch.

—It’s incredibly beautiful here, the mother of my child says, as we approach the village. Although it’s more remote than I imagined, she adds.

I explain to her that from this point onward, it’s all uphill and that we have to walk.

—The apartment I’m renting is behind the church, I say, pointing up the hill toward the top of the village and my newly founded home. The monastery stretches out before us, but I decide this isn’t the right moment to discuss the rose garden.

Anna has a fold-up stroller which we open and place the luggage in; then I grab a bottle of wine for the sauce from the box I got from the proprietor of the restaurant and stick an additional two into the rack under the stroller. I’d forgotten the wine, and I can give Father Thomas a bottle now. I hold my daughter in my arms as we walk up the hill, and she looks around with curiosity. On the way I steal some glimpses of the girl walking beside me; she has a pretty profile.

—Have you heard anything from Thorlákur? I ask. Why on earth am I asking about him?

—No, I haven’t heard from him since we did a runner on him at your birthday party a year and a half ago, she says with a laugh.

I’m relieved she laughed at my stupid question. She has aquamarine eyes, so I can add that detail to the personal description I needed. She also has a pretty smile; it isn’t difficult to like her, and since I had to accidentally have a child I’m at least glad it was with her. It’s only been thirty minutes since the girls stepped off the train, and that’s all the reacquaintance I need to want to tell the mother of my child that I’m willing to be her friend and organize the child’s birthdays with her, and even volunteer to come over just before Easter every year to trim the trees in her garden—I don’t say in her and her husband’s garden. Then I realize that this is neither the place nor the time for openness.

I don’t ask her when she’s taking the train back; instead I tell her I’ve cooked dinner, which is my way of telling her that she’s invited to stay for dinner. I’ve already fried the veal and boiled the potatoes and only have to make the sauce now.

—This is quite an achievement, I say, I’m not exactly used to cooking. She smiles again, warmly.

The mother of my child looks somewhat taken aback when she enters the apartment.

—This is an incredible apartment, she says, like something out of an old fairy tale. She walks into the bedroom and runs her fingers against the fire lily wallpaper. And flowers everywhere, she says, when she sees the kitchen and I open the balcony door for her. I sense from her voice that she might be touched. As soon as mother and child step into my dwelling, my first attempt to create a home, it’s as if everything grows brighter, as if the place is filled with light.

—Are you sure it’s OK? she asks, gazing around her. It’s impossible to tell what feelings she might be harboring.

I’m still holding the child in my arms; the lower half of her body is starting to slide. I imagine she might need a change of diaper pretty soon.

—Well, I found a cot, I say, loosening my daughter’s hat. She’s got some blonde hair now, mainly over the forehead where the curls are. I quickly glance in the mirror to look at us together, my daughter and me; she’s full of miniature features and it’s difficult to pinpoint any obvious resemblance. I stroke her head.

—She’s got the exact same ears as you, says the budding geneticist, observing me.

She’s right, my ears are shaped in the same mold, same folds, same kind of earlobes. I swiftly compare her to her mother with aquamarine eyes, but I don’t spot any striking resemblance either, apart from the shape of the mouth, which is similar, two varieties of cherry mouths. But apart from the ears and cherry-shaped mouth, the person our daughter seems to resemble the most is herself, as if she were of some other origin. I sense Mom in her, though, is some undefined way, even though I can’t quite put my finger on it, except her dimples maybe, although I wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction of pointing it out to him. And also there was always sunshine wherever Mom was, no matter what the weather was like outside. She was full of light somehow; in the photographs it always looked like she was lit up by a spotlight, and in group shots she was the only one with radiant cheeks. You’d almost think the pictures were overexposed. There was light in Mom’s hair, like in this child’s hair, like glitter sprinkled over it, and there was a luminosity in the smile. I fully admit that I’m sensitive about Mom; I was sensitive about her when she was alive and still am now. I was born pale with a few straws of red hair, and my twin brother with dark hair, dark skin, and brown eyes.

All of a sudden I feel a longing to show Anna a picture of Mom, but I know that this is hardly the right moment to be claiming a greater share in my child’s genes, not now when she’s about to say good-bye to the child and is no doubt feeling vulnerable.

—She’s unusually easygoing and good, her mother says, always happy and in a good mood, wakes up with a smile and sleeps all night.

We walk out of the kitchen into the bedroom.

—Don’t let her out of your sight for a second, she continues, she crawls around everywhere and is very curious, she might climb into a cupboard or crawl under the bed, or she might fiddle with sockets. Even though she’s a precocious kid and more mature than other children of her age, she’s still totally guileless.

—I’ve drawn up a list, she says, of the things you need to watch out for. She pulls out a folded sheet of paper. What she can eat and not.

—Are there things she can’t eat?

—The food, of course, has to be very well mashed; she’s got six teeth and there are two extra ones on the way.

Then she opens a changing bag, shows me what’s in it, and lets me practice changing the baby. I place the child on the double bed.

—You don’t have to take off her cardigan when you’re changing her, says the mother, demonstrating.

I lift up the floral dress and pull off her stockings. Then I unfasten two poppers on some kind of bodysuit underwear. There’s just the diaper left. My daughter smiles from ear to ear; then she splutters, and finally the sounds seem to change into syllables:
da da da da
.

—She’s not saying
daddy
, she’s practicing her consonants, Anna says abruptly, and I almost sense a crack in her voice. She’s probably tired; the child, on the other hand, looks rested and happy.

I remove the diaper. No question about it, she’s a girl.

—You don’t have to powder or put cream on her every time, Anna explains. She stands beside me, watching me with an apprehensive air. I lift up the bodysuit slightly to see the bulge of her tummy, her navel gently protruding from the summit of the dome of her belly like a bell. She has a tiny birthmark on her groin in the exact same spot as me. So that’s two traits she’s inherited from her father’s side: the earlobes and birthmark, three if we throw Mom’s dimples into the equation. I can’t stop myself from bending over and blowing lightly on her tummy. The child giggles. Then I stoop down slightly farther and kiss her stomach. The child smells good. I’m not sure how the woman who is watching me is taking this; she has an indecipherable look on her face, as if she were on the verge of tears.

—Do you have any experience with children? Anna asks. She looks at me as if she is starting to regret this whole affair.

—No, actually.

It’s true, I don’t feel I can mention the fact that I still hold my disabled twin brother’s hand.

—But I feel OK about it, I add.

When I’ve finished changing my daughter, she holds out her hands and smiles at me. I smile back. Keeping her arms outstretched, she tenses her tummy. She’s stopped smiling and has, in fact, started to whimper, although no tears are visible. Finally she turns over on her stomach and sits up by herself.

—She wants to be picked up, says my interpreter, the child’s mother, as if she is somehow relieved. I bend over and lift the child off the bed.

Next she teaches me how to use the stroller. There are two positions, one so that she can sit up and look at people and her surroundings. In fact, Flóra Sól is very interested in people and her surroundings, says her mother. Then there’s the other position: Like this, she says, pressing a button and pushing the bottom of the buggy up—then you have a carriage that Flóra Sól can sleep in. I nod; it seems pretty straightforward. I’m not sure I’ve got it all right, though, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out, I can always practice the settings when the child is asleep.

—She has three pacifiers, says the mother. She hangs the pink changing bag on my shoulder to show me how to carry it around. Then she also needs to explain to me how it works. It’s like a soft tool bag, with countless side pockets and compartments in which you can store spare diapers and stockings, and keep creams, extra pacifiers, and wipes, says Anna, except that you can also open it up on all sides and flatten it out so that it turns into a changing table. The child’s mother has learned all these tricks and more in less than nine months. The future genetics expert’s skills leave me in awe. How can a young woman, a biology student, change into a mother in such a short time?

—This will be for four weeks at the most, she says, but with an expression that seems to say there’s no way she’ll be able to handle it. All going well, three and a half.

—Don’t worry, I say.

—Are you sure it’ll be OK? she asks, although I’ve already twice confirmed, against my better judgment, that everything will be just fine. I lift her daughter up to show her how easy it’ll be and how good I feel about being alone with the child for four weeks, and she giggles and laughs. Then she places her little palm on my face and pats my cheek; she’s aware of her responsibility.

—She’s very tender, always wants to pat people, her mother explains.

—Da-da, says my daughter and then lays her head on my shoulder, right under my cheek.

—I’ll have loads of things to do with my thesis, then I’ve got to sort out accommodation and get the application forms for colleges. You can always call me, of course, she says, handing me a note with two telephone numbers on it. If I’m not there just leave a message. She’s got that verging-on-tears look again.

Then I remember the meal that I’ve spent half the day preparing.

—I’ve cooked a meal, I say again, and I don’t ask her what time her train is leaving.

—Thanks, she says, relieved.

It was a fair while ago, actually, so I need to heat up the meat and potatoes again and make some red wine sauce. I didn’t think of asking the butcher about any side dishes, so I just boiled the potatoes, carrots, and cabbage together in one pot. I shift the vase with roses and lay three plates on the table, two side by side and one opposite. The girls are watching me. Anna takes out a cup with a lid and a spout for the child and places it beside one of the two plates that are beside each other.

—Flóra Sól can eat meat so long as it’s minced into tiny pieces, she says.

My child’s mother eats two helpings of food and praises it to the heavens. She’s obviously hungry.

—This is really good, she says.

We drink whatever wine didn’t go into the sauce. Dad made a dessert for me when I was leaving, but I haven’t made any now.

—I’m taking the train tomorrow morning; is it OK if I stay tonight? Anna asks, averting her gaze. I can sleep on the sofa, she quickly adds, having checked the setup in the apartment.

I surrender my bed to the girls and pull out the sofa bed for myself. Anna puts the child to bed and dresses her in a night bodysuit with pictures of puppies on it. She rubs some cream into her daughter’s cheeks, brushes her eight teeth, and combs the curls on her forehead back to one side with a wet, soft brush. Then she brings her over and gets her to kiss me good night. Flóra Sól sticks the pacifier in her mouth herself, and I see her resting her head on her mother’s shoulder as they disappear into the bedroom.