III: Svefn-g-englar “The Sleepwalkers”

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Ég Er Kominn Aftur
Inn I Þig

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1.All of this happened a long time ago. They do not like to speak about it. They walk around pretending that it never occurred. Those who know about it kept quiet, they slam doors in the faces of curious inquiries, and refuse to acknowledge that they were possible of such a deed. They had tried to make up for it by handing out gifts through the concept of ‘charity’, but it was already too late. Their reminder was the mansion that faced the river. They must have passed the high iron gates many times. They tried to pretend it didn’t exist - that they did not walk by it on their way to work, to church, to the theatre. Each of them dealt with the guilt their own ways, but it was their refusal to speak about the event that marked them all as guilty.

2.You received the box in the mail when your father passed away. It is a simple parcel in brown paper, the heavy kind, like the ones the butcher a few doors down wrapped meat in. There is a card attached, with the name of the lawyer who took care of your grandfather’s business, carried out what was written in his will. There is a name for this job but you do not remember it. It is not important. What is important is the sentence written in his handwriting. ‘Found this: Your mother’s personal items, thought you might like them. –Wesley Donahue.’ You close the door of your apartment, and settle down in front of your fireplace with a nice cup of tea.

You have been trying to solve the events surrounding your mother’s death for twenty years.

3.There is a photograph. There is the face of your father, impersonal. There is a set to his jaw, and an insolent look about him. He has his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his black jeans, and he leaned back on his heels. Your mother stands beside him, smiling prettily. She has dark hair and it reached down past her shoulders in waves. There is a serene air about her that contrasted with the impatient your father exudes. Your father looks like he was about to fly off the ink of the photograph, ready to escape.

He is twenty years old and homeless.

Here is a stairwell that looked like it was about to collapse at any moment. The wood is stained with the beatings of many feet upon the steps. You know that above is an open room, boarded up because it was deemed unsafe. Your parents live in this room ever since your grandfather on your dad’s side died, and his wife soon followed. Your mother has always been an orphan, and ran away from her orphanage with her older brother when she was twelve. When her older brother Tom died at around the same time your grandparents died, your own parents clung to each other because they were all they had.

Here is your mother laughing, your father’s lips at her cheek. How could they look happy? They have a beaten up old stove fished out of the dump. They have clothes from the Salvation Army, and there is something sad in the way your father is wearing ragged grey gloves with the fingers cut off. You decide not to think about them in terms of ‘father, mother’, you decide that it hurts too much to think about them that way. You pretend they are strangers. Kjartan and Gabriella. ‘Come on,’ Her laughing eyes said, ‘The snow is falling and it is beautiful.’

Kjartan Ragnarsson, Gabriella Truman, and their friends, are in front of the fire escape. They look content, bundled up in winter clothes. Their outfits are shabby, well worn, but it is a good year. The building is being fixed up, pieced together day by day. Their inhabitation of the place is almost phantom like. Nobody knows they are there. They call themselves the ghost children. Although Kjartan laughs and says that they are no longer children anymore. Kjartan is kneeling, petting a shaggy dog, and scratching it behind the ears.

Here is Max – A black Labrador, who is devoted to the hand that feeds him scraps every morning, whatever they could spare. Gabriella has a soft heart for animals. You could see her reaching in her pocket for some piece of food, and she could come up with nothing. Her hands are empty. She solves the problem by patting the dog on the head also.

Behind her – Quentin Rodrigeuz, stands with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette between his lips. A thin trail of smoke dances in front of his face, making his features hazy. He has black hair and deep brown eyes. He is not good looking, but there is a quirk to his half smile that is attractive. There are heavy bags under his eyes; he looks like he is tired. He befriended Kjartan on a street corner when he asked him for drugs. Some crack maybe, or some weed would be fine for a replacement. Kjartan only laughed in his face, and asked him ‘Do I look like a dealer to you?’ And Quentin puzzled over the appearance of the boy, a few years younger than him. Not fresh on the streets, but not worn out yet. They became good friends later on. Quentin stuck a needle in his arm for the first time at age twenty-three, and has never looked back since.

Beside him stood Yvonne Kristinsdöttir, Quentin’s girlfriend, she is wearing a black hat and is clinging possessively to his arm. She met Quentin after befriending Gabriella. She is a leech, and used people whenever she could. She wears black eyeliner and mascara, but there is a smear on her left cheek. She is wearing a tight yellow polyester top with black buttons, and a red skirt. She has black fishnet on, with a large rip down one leg. Gabriella looks younger than her, face fresh and scrubbed, wearing a heavy red sweater that went down to her knees and hid her entire body.

Kjartan stands up and takes her hand. It is normal. It is a common occurrence. Nobody is any wiser to the fact that they are not a couple. They have not slept together in an attempt to erase the pain of the streets for a few seconds of passion. They have not experienced any drugs, yet. They are pure, clean, complete. They are pieces of the same puzzle, the same whole. Quentin knows that it will not last, but says nothing. He really likes Kjartan, and likes Gabriella to an extent. He feels almost happy when they are around, because they are innocent. They are what he would like to call the softcore street kids, who lived on cheap beer and weed. They have nowhere to go, but refuse offers of higher! Better!! Extreme!! Happiness. They do not need scars on their arms to remind them of who they are.

4.Sometimes Yvonne digs under her skin to locate the truth.

Sometimes she wonders what would have happened if she had not accepted the silver glint of the point of the needle against her forearm.

Sometimes she is angry at Gabriella, her best friend in the entire world. Sometimes she is afraid that Gaby will run away and leave her alone, that is why she gets angry at her friend. She is always sorry afterwards.

Sometimes she wishes that Gaby would shoot up with her, that at least she will have someone to accompany her in this world. Gaby always refuses and shakes her head – no. But she does not say anything. She only has to offer and only has to have Gaby reject her and then she goes on – on -

She hides behind her blonde hair and fills her veins up with bubbles. Sparkling, like champagne. She is on a roller coaster; she is lifted up above the sky.

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Það Er Svo Gott Að Vera Hér
En Stoppa Stutt Við

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5. Kjartan was introduced to ecstasy at a rave. He received an invite from Quentin, who just got a new job as a bassist for some band called Winterfell. Quentin was trying to turn straight. Yvonne almost OD’ed a few months ago, and he went crazy. He really loves Yvonne, as strange as the concept is. But what does that really mean? Anybody can buy love for twenty-five dollars a tablet.

Some punk kid offers him a handful of pills. Kjartan turns away. The strobe lights were pulsing in his eyes, when he closes them he could still see them flash against his lids. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. He feels his limbs jerk to some action like dancing. Gabriella turns in front of him and he felt her hair touch his face. He puts his hands on her hips and they dance.

They dance and he is throwing up in the washroom. The vodka had gone down badly. His stomach feels empty, and his head is woozy. Quentin’s face appeared in front of him. Kjartan lies there. He does not care the floor is dirty. He does not care. He looked up, and Quentin hovered over him like the face of some god. His friend had found a new attraction.

‘This is E, man,’ He said quite seriously, shoving a few little tablets in his hand. ‘Love in a pill. For free this time. Just a few a pop.’ They were the new thing lately. Ecstasy. They promised Ecstasy. So he thought, what the hell. He was sitting here in a shitty bathroom in some club that he would not return to in the first place, and he threw his head back. The pill went down his throat just like that.

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Eg Flýt Um I Neðarsjávar Hýði
A Hóteli Beintengdur Við Rafmagnstöfluna Og Nærist

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6. This would be a good time to introduce Crystel. She is an important element in Kjartan’s life, and eventually, in Gabriella’s. She shows up later in the story, but her insight is essential to understand why they did the things they did.

In speaking to Crystel, the first thing one noticed was the shade of her eyes. They were strange, glittering gems settled in her face, a sort of dark grey that was difficult to distinguish from black. In comparison, her skin was pale, a dusty white that made her seem like she was wearing stage make up. Other than the red of her lips, there was no other colour upon her face. Her red was a shade of lipstick that was shocking, solid - one that should have clashed with, but instead suited the paleness of her skin. At first glance, she appeared to be a sculpture, carved from ice, a knife-edge taken to her cheekbones. Her facial features were almost androgynous, but her hair was a spill of black streaked with white highlights upon slender shoulders, and floated about her voluptuous body that did nothing but confirm her sex.

She was fifty-one years old and looked thirty-two.

Her voice was what gave her away. The cigarette held at her mouth was the source of her aging. The sound that came from her throat was hoarse, a raspy, serrated sound, like sandpaper rubbed uncomfortably against the ear. What was difficult about hearing that sound was the breaking through of what it used to be, when she was the singer for Winterfell and had an almost cult like following. There was a tortured purity to that voice, when the contamination of the nicotine backed away for a moment, and it was the low, husky intonation of a singer.

The interview was held in the parlor of her condo. The condo was a few metal edges reaching to the sky, and glass holding it all in place. We sat in plain view of everyone who passed on the street, on her black leather couches that matched the minimalist décor.

The one floor lamp was shaped like a torch, the flames done in plastic, and would often flicker to give the imitation of fire. She listened to Italian opera over the speaker system, and said it helps her recall what she needs to.

As the singer’s voice rang over the conversation, about lost love and women, fragile and dying, she speaks to you about another version of the love story.

Transcript: Crystel – 1

‘He came to me on one of the club nights. Kjartan Ragneskjold and the rest of them. He was the best looking of the bunch, smoldering eyes, almost emaciated, hollow cheeked – but then all street kids were. I was the singer for Winterfell back then, we drew in the most crowds. We made a few hundred a night, easy, sometimes going into the thousands. I love being a singer, it was one of the best times of my life. The excitement, the energy of the crowds, and the people you meet, the people. He was just one of the tagger-ons in the group, but I noticed him. They notice him sooner or later. He walked with a curious gait, an almost cocky air about him. He had the right to be cocky too. He could play the guitar like anything – make you weep, really, make you dance. He wasn’t interesting in any of the bands though, not interested in anything but making girls cry. He seemed to find a sort of sadistic pleasure in breaking hearts. And he broke them left and right, acquired quite a reputation. Kee-yar-tan, they would say, (LAUGHTER) in their high voices, tiny skirts and heels. The boys thought him too much of a ladies man, but they were afraid of him too. I swear that one or two of them were even in love with him. But then who wouldn’t be?’ (A pause here as she lights another cigarette. She reaches for half a glass of some liquid sitting on her coffee table. She offers you a drink, but you decline.)

‘He was quite strange, that boy. He had no close friends, no girlfriend, not even one regular acquaintance. Everybody was his friend, and his nemesis. Some days he was the life of the party, walking around like he owned the world, with that swagger you can’t resist. The next day he would look at you with murder outlined when you said something wrong. But then he was one of those club kids, E-kids. They all have to start somewhere. He came to the shows and would buy the pills from Q (Q was the bass player for Winterfell. She keeps on a picture of the band in poster form, picture blown up on her wall in the front hallway. You can feel the weight of their gazes intent on the camera, the image captured for the past twenty years. You recognize him as Quentin. The boy in the other picture in front of the warehouse.) – one of his regular customers you could say. He was strange while hopped up, instead of seeing peace and love and whatever those kids saw, he got scared. He tripped in a way nobody ever did. He would rant about some kind of magic mirror, something in his eye – and he would call the most beautiful woman in the room a hag and make out with the ugliest girl in the place. (LAUGHTER) We all thought he was a great big joke back then. Beautiful boy though. Beautiful boy.’

7. He sings to himself. He sings along to the song that the other boy is playing loudly in the speakers. Everything is frightening around him, frightening and dark and strange and unrecognizable. Faces are warped, they stretch out before him like monsters. He sings to himself, and hums the tune. He runs the Icelandic over his tongue. Familiar, like the conversations that his mother used to have with him, back when he could understand the words.

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En Biðin Gerir Mig Leiðan - Brot Hættan Sparka Frá Mér

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8. They were dancing. He felt the sweat trickle down his back, along his spine. It made him uncomfortable. He had become irritable lately, snapping at Gabriella when he didn’t want to. It was like somebody else controlled his mind. Weed never made him like this. Ecstasy just made him want more. More to erase the crash that almost had a sound, a finality to it when the pill stopped working.

‘God! Something is in my eye.’

‘What?’

‘Something went in my eye, I can’t get it out.’

‘There is nothing in your eye.’

‘Get it out!’

‘Stay still! Let me see!’

Footsteps. The room was suddenly quiet. The song had stopped.

‘You’re trippin’, Kjar. It’ll go away soon.’

‘Fuck.’

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En Biðin Gerir Mig Leiðan - Brot Hættan Sparka Frá Mér

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She was the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen. She beckoned and he followed.

She was taste and sound and rhythm and skin. He forgot about Gabriella when she put her hand on his shoulder. He could not think, could not breathe. He buried his face in her hair. They had their own kind of dancing.

Ecstasy, he thought.

9. Sometimes Gabriella wondered if he misses her. Sometimes she rolls into a ball in the corner and was unable to stop crying. He got up and left. Packed his bags without a goodbye. She woke up and he was gone. There was their mattress on the floor, his cigarette butts still lying there in the ashtray. Quentin doesn’t return her messages that she sends. Yvonne looks at her with scared eyes and says ‘Q’s not in right now. You wanna wait?’ Then a pause. ‘You can’t come in. He says you can’t.’

He called himself Q now, and Kjartan was with him she thinks but Gabriella was not allowed there. Then Q and Yvonne moved out of their flat and Gabriella was left there in the warehouse. There was a big empty space on the top floor. There was a big empty space in her heart. She shuffled around doing the small jobs that made her wake up each day. The faucet needed to be fixed, the ceiling was leaking. Every time she saw that missing pane of glass that Kjartan promised to fix before he left, she would cry a little. Just a little. Enough for her to go on.

At least Yvonne had said goodbye before she left.

A few weeks later a note had drifted down on her doorstep. They were living in the large, black mansion by the river now. The one with the gate. The only one in the neighborhood. Q was still playing with Winterfell, and they were making money. They were living with the singer now. They were doing good now. They were all these things without her now.

Gabriella still has Max. He keeps her warm at night, like a portable heater, although she could feel his ribs through his pelt, and they both shiver. When she slides her hands under her shirt to warm herself, she touches every individual rib bone. She hopes he is happy, wherever he is.

She was on her last box of instant noodles.

The kettle was whistling.

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Og Kall A - Verð Að Fara – Hjálp

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10. Max whined at the foot of her bed. He tugged at the blankets. Gabriella rolled over and grumbled into her pillow. Her mouth was open during her sleep; she felt the dryness at the root of her mouth. Her socks had two holes, and her toes poked through. She wiggled them. Max made a pitiful noise. She looked towards him, and saw that he had gotten hold of Kjartan’s shirt. It was an old shirt of his, and did not fit him anymore. It used to be black, but had turned grey through various washings. He seemed to be telling her something.

Whimper. Whimper.

Gabriella got dressed. It was almost morning, but not quite, and it was freezing cold in the room. She laced her boots slowly and carefully. She liked these boots. They were close enough to new when she salvaged them from a garbage can.

Whimper. Whimper.

Max suddenly bounded up, padded towards the door, then looked towards her. Asking her to follow. So she did. He took her through the unknown alleyways of the neighborhood. The dog was fast, and she had to stumble to follow, through the swirling white snow that had come down all of a sudden. Her foot tripped over garbage, cans and bags and wrappers. Max peered at her around a dumpster.

They have arrived. It was the mansion.

Through the window she saw him. He tied a strip around his arm. He filled a needle, slowly, deliberately. He plunged it in his arm. She gasped. He looked up, but she fell down against the bags of garbage below the window.

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Eg Spring Ut Og Friðurinn I Loft Upp Baðaður Nýju Ljósi

--

11.The second time you spoke to Crystel, she shone a light on what really happened.

She had on leather pants, and a tight red top. Her hair was put up, imitation prom night. Large silver earrings dangled from her ears. This time, instead of opera, she blasted loud 80s rock from the speakers. The accusing stare of Q glared at you from the wall. You look away to focus on the face of the singer. You notice her nails were painted red.

Transcript: Crystel - 2

‘I made a business deal with her. Plain and simple. (She gestures with her hands.) She came to me. She offered. Kjartan was in debt. Two thousand dollars. You ask me how a homeless kid like her will get that much money. By slaving away at some waitressing job? Hell no, hun. I needed the money and I needed it fast. Times were slow and it took money feeding all of those people. There were other girls under my employment too. They all came to me. (She jabs her cigarette into the air angrily.) I didn’t know Kjartan’s debt was in so high. I could have offered him a loan, but he had to make the deal with Train. The drugs made his head fucked up.

‘Nobody makes a deal with Train without having enough funds. They were doing everything then. My business was simple. I take the customers, I put them with the girls. The parties, I run the parties, they bring in good money. What do you expect me to do? Sing at some shitty café? (She coughs). Anyway. I’m good to my girls. They carry their debts through. They make the money. They get out of there. I’m not like those pimps that beat their girls, get them hooked. I said I run a business. She offered. Really, she did. She offered. How many times did she do it? I lost count. Five? Six? Who knows. They left a long time ago. I haven’t bothered to think of them from now on.’

You resist the urge to run outside. You smile politely and shake her hand. You leave and you know you will never return to that place again.

12. ‘Why do you think they called her the Snow Queen?’ Yvonne’s face was empty.

‘I don’t know, why?’ Gabriella countered.

‘Because she’s sleeping with every guy that catches her eye, that’s why,’ Yvonne gave a short bark of laughter, like she told a joke, ‘They all have to sleep with her to get to this place.’ Her gaze flickers. One side, to the other.

‘Nah,’ She shakes her head then, blonde locks were now in dreads. There was a glittery blue bead that winked at Gabriella every time Yvonne turned her head, ‘Snow? You know? Crack? She gives everybody the coke. It’s always there at her parties.’

‘Does Kjar…’ She doesn’t want to know.

‘I’m scared, Gaby, what they do here.’

‘I know.’

--

There’s a mirror. The coffee table is a reflective surface. Gabriella touched the polished shine. It was like a still pool of water in the living room. The décor was all black. Black velvet curtains, black velvet hanging down the walls. She opens the container. Taps it against the side of the coffee table. One two. A trail of white against the surface. The crystals shine. He puts his nose to the table. She hears him inhale. Exhale.

He reached for her.

She feels as if she was bearing her throat for him to sink his teeth into. She was an object. A body. No head, no hands, no feet, no heart. She lied still. Crystel has promised that there would be no violent men, no drunken men, no one that would harm her. She was able to back out at anytime, just ring the hidden buzzer behind the headboard. Gabriella knew she was lost when she took off her clothes. There was no turning back.

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Eg Græt Og Eg Græt – Aftengdur

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13. He laid on the couch. It was two a.m. and Gabriella had the courage to enter the room. His hand trailed off the side, and his hair was in wild spikes. His mouth was open. His eyes were closed. She heard him breathe noisily, sucking in the air, and letting it out in a violent whoosh. His lungs were being pressed against the contours of the couch.

Crystel had told her that Kjartan almost OD’d that night.

But she had won him. She had paid her debts / his debts. He was free to go.

There was his shoulder, a shadow, a barest darkness rising from his sweater. Navy blue. She placed a hand on his back. There was the faintest tremble underneath her palm, a tightening of muscle. She pushed. The fabric yielded, scratched against warm skin. His eyes opened slowly, groggily.

‘Gabriella?’ He choked out. She remembered the way his bare back looked to her. That one night when they were sitting in the half shadow. Their light bulb had burned out and there was only the streetlight to illuminate the room. She had her lips to the groove at the base of his neck. Her hand was curved around his shoulder blade, with an intimacy of possession. He was asleep, and she stared into the distance, her body carried by the rise and fall of his.

She let go of him, and he sat up.

‘Why are you crying?’ He asked, placing one finger to her cheek. She touched her cheek. She was indeed crying. She touched his face, her finger still wet from her tears. He looked at her wonderingly.

‘I don’t know how. I don’t know why, but she told me what happened. She told me-’ He swallowed, ‘That I was stupid for leaving you.’

Gabriella choked on her laughter. It was the last thing she had expected him to say. It was the last thing she had expected Crystel to say.

She let him hold her.

He began crying then, convulsed, shaking. All she could see was the white powder, the mirrored surface. The stranger whose gaze grew focused, unfocused. Love for twenty-five dollars a pop. Fifty. One hundred. Sell your body. Your soul. Your mind. All the same. Pleasure for money.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

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Onýttur Heili Settur A Brjóst

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You don’t know who your real father was.

Your mother became pregnant from one of the incidents. She died when she was giving birth to you.

At the bottom of the box there was a bracelet. A hospital tag with your name on it.

You remember your childhood. You remember your father singing you songs, buying you your first guitar. You remember overhearing him once, saying proudly – I have been clean for over thirty years, because of her. He still keeps in touch with some of the streets kids. Aunt Yvonne liked to hug you, and look at you with sad eyes, and whisper about how you have the same shade of hair as your mother. Q visits every holiday, and they’re married now. They have three kids.

You know that everybody has a sad story, and that everybody knows of some kind of tragedy that happened to someone else. Your father still sleeps curled up, as if holding someone against him. You have a picture of Max, tongue lolling out. He died a year afterwards. Your mother wrote ‘Our Guardian Angel’ on the back of the Polaroid.

You put everything back in the order that you took them out of. You knew that your father had carefully placed every piece of her history into this box, and intended for your eyes to see. It makes more sense to you after all of this. It was finally time to carry on.

The last picture on the top were the one that you first, and the one that impacted you the most. You see him with his lips pressed to her cheek again. Her eyes were half closed. From the date noted on the back, she was three months pregnant with you.

You ask yourself: When have they ever been children?

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Og Mataður Af Svefn-G-Englum

--

The End.

Lyrics are from: Svefn-g-Englar
Sigur Rós

Ég Er Kominn Aftur
Inn I Þig
Það Er Svo Gott Að Vera Hér
En Stoppa Stutt Við
Eg Flýt Um I Neðarsjávar Hýði
A Hóteli Beintengdur Við Rafmagnstöfluna Og Nærist
Tjú Tjú
En Biðin Gerir Mig Leiðan - Brot Hættan Sparka Frá Mér
Og Kall A - Verð Að Fara – Hjálp
Tjú Tjú
Eg Spring Ut Og Friðurinn I Loft Upp
Baðaður Nýju Ljósi
Eg Græt Og Eg Græt – Aftengdur
Onýttur Heili Settur A Brjóst
Og Mataður Af Svefn-G-Englum

I’m Here Again
Inside You
It’s So Good Staying Here
But I Stay A Short While
I Float Around In Underwater Hibernation
In A Hotel Connected To The Electricity Board And Nourishing

But The Wait Makes Me Uneasy – I Kick The Fragility Away
And Shout – I Have To Go - Help

I Explode Out And The Peace Is Gone
Bathed In New Light
I Cry And I Cry - Disconnected
A Ruined Brain Put On Breasts
And Fed By Sleepwalkers