The Wedding (1997)

“Wake up!”
She turned over and mumbled.
“Wake up! I’ve had enough of this.”
She yawned: “All right, I’m waking up.”
“Are you going to drink your coffee before it gets cold?”
“Yes.”
“Wake up, then!”
She opened her eyes, smiled. Then closed them again.
The Man shook his head irritably and put the cup on the plastic chair that served as a bedside table. “Right, I’m out of here,” he said.
The Girl-woman hurriedly opened her eyes and sat up. “Where are you going?” she asked quickly.
“To work. Where else?”
The Man looked her over, frowning. Her eyes were bleary from sleep and she yawned lazily under the duvet. The dark, tousled hair fell in waves down to her shoulders. In the unsparing light of the lamp she seemed even whiter than usual and there was a glimpse of black hair under her arms as she reached out for the coffee cup.
The Girl-woman looked back mockingly, holding the cup in both hands and blowing on the hot drink. The familiar body, soft duvet and aroma of coffee flirted with his senses. He wanted to strip off his overalls and crawl under the covers with her. Hold her in his arms and drink a little coffee himself. So he relaxed his tense expression and smiled at her.
“Do you have to go to work?”
The smile vanished at the speed of light and the Man grimaced as he answered: “What do you mean: Do I have to go to work? Of course I have to go to work.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“To pay off that damned crazy Czech whim of yours.”
“I paid for my own crazy whim.”
“I still had to take out a loan to change money…”
“To change your money.”
“Makes no difference, there’s no way we could afford to go rushing into it.”
“You had fun anyway!”
“Of course I had fun… oh, I can’t be bothered to argue with you. I’m off to work.”
He buttoned the cold-weather overalls up to his neck and put on his hood. The Girl-woman looked at him and was filled with a sudden despair. He was so unbending. Why couldn’t he understand that she knew she was to blame? That she knew it was her fault they didn’t even have the money for milk and cigarettes. Why did he have to remind her?
Of course she had asked for it by saying so stupidly: Why?
And yet, they didn’t have any money before they went on the Czech holiday either. They had been just as cigarette-starved the day she heard about those cheap tickets. But she managed to fix it, anyway. Three days later they were in Prague.
His answer was absolutely right. OF COURSE it was fun… It was fun drinking champagne and cognac for seven days in a row. Wandering among fairytale buildings, and eating caviar and chocolate cake in a real castle. With their back pockets full of cash and their ears full of Mozart and Vivaldi. Or reading Kundera in a former cooperative, bearing traces of bygone communism; that had been fun too.
Best of all, though, was looking – and listening – to the buskers. Like the old woman with the thick war paint who sang old favorites with creaky intensity while her blind assistant walked round with his hat, tearfully grateful for a handful of loose change.
The Girl-woman had put a lot of money in his hat. So much that the Man lost his temper and called her dumb and stupid. Instantly that peculiar sense of despair had flooded over her, leaving her at a loss. Did nothing work? Had the tormenting feeling followed her all the way to the Czech Republic?
This feeling that told her with icy bluntness that she was losing her grip on reality; that she wasn’t like other people; that she couldn’t tell right from wrong; that she was out of touch with the real world.
She felt dizzy as she stood among the thousands of tourists, looking at the angry Man. She felt sick too as the people pushed past her. Then she smelled the stench of urine. The stench that exists in all big cities, but at that moment it was magnified tenfold. It filled her senses, almost suffocating her.
Neither champagne nor music worked against sudden anguish – so she fled. Fled into the sea of people until the Man caught and hugged her.
“Reality is too much for me,” she had said and burst into wild tears.
“Stop acting like you’re insane,” he had answered, crushing her against him.

“Don’t go to work, please!” begged the Girl-woman.
“Don’t be so childish!” said the Man, putting on his gloves.
“I’m allowed to be childish, I’m twenty years younger than you.”
“That’s not the point. The point is that you live in some Walt Disney world.”
She didn’t contradict him. Because maybe he was right. He who had been at sea for fifteen years. He who had kids and a marriage behind him. He who had been caught in the avalanche that winter when twenty people were killed.
He had shoveled for hours. He had shoveled the black snow in a blind storm, conscious all the while of the little children and his friends under the heavy snow.
She had come out west shortly afterwards. In the midst of the darkness and long nights. And met him and he told her what reality was really like. At the same time as laughing good-naturedly at her southern “Walt Disney world.”
Sometimes it occurred to the Girl-woman that her reality was as valid as his. Even though it wasn’t as dark, heavy and unjust. But would it be fair to disappear back into the “Walt Disney world” and leave the Man behind? Was her world important enough for that?
She didn’t consider what would be fair to herself. Yet she knew that if she left, guilt would track her down.
So the Girl-woman defied it all. That morning, as she sat in bed looking mockingly at the Man, she said: “I know! If we get married you’ll be given time off work and so will I.”
“You’re insane.”
“No, I’m not. If we get married we can probably get paid in advance and then we’ll be able to afford to eat out. Everyone wants to bend over backwards for newly-weds.”
He snorted: “You don’t get married so you can eat out.”
“Why not?”
Three hours later the Girl-woman was standing in front of the mirror in a long black dress. There was a stain on the dress and the Man got down on his knees with a cloth to wipe it away. She looked down at his dark head and asked: “Do I look smart enough?”
“You look quite smart enough for me.”
She saw that his hair was thinning and going gray. He was twenty years older than her.
“Have you sorted the witnesses?” asked the Man.
“Yes,” answered the Girl-woman.
“Then you can tell them I’m not going through with it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have any good pants.”
They dragged everything out of the closet and eventually found a pair of velvet pants. She ran round with them to the woman next door who helped her iron the creases the right way.

Siggi Solo was to be a witness. As he dressed in his party gear he asked: “You’re getting married just like that?”
“Yeah,” muttered the Man. “They’re so crazy, these women.”
Siggi Solo grinned: “I have to say, yours is crazier than most.”
The Man laughed awkwardly. Still grinning, Siggi Solo added: “Just between the two of us: Don’t do it! She’ll be in a good mood again tomorrow.”
But the Man didn’t listen to Siggi Solo and half an hour later he stood facing the magistrate.
The magistrate was busy looking through some papers, humming and hawing from time to time. The Man shot a glance at Siggi who was yawning and looking out of the window, and then at the Girl-woman who was also looking out of the window.
“You’re not in the State Church?” asked the magistrate.
“No,” answered the Man.
“I see you make contributions to a congregation, not to the university, but I don’t know what this abbreviation stands for.”
“Could be the Heathen Religion, otherwise I don’t remember,” said the Man frowning.
Siggi Solo giggled. Then looked at the magistrate and asked: “Weren’t you at the Bowie concert this spring?”
“Yes, that’s right, I was,” confirmed the magistrate.
“It was damn cool to see the old champ.”
“Yes,” said the magistrate. “Certainly was.”
The Girl-woman shook her head impatiently and scowled at Siggi. He shut up and looked out of the window with a grin.
“Yes, it must be the Heathen Religion,” said the Man.
“OK, that’ll do,” answered the magistrate. Then he looked at them thoughtfully and asked: “Are you quite sure?”
“What do you mean?” asked the Girl-woman.
“Well, people have been known to rush out of here at the last minute.”
“We’re quite sure,” she said.
“Right. Then I’ll ask the witnesses whether they know any reason why these persons may not lawfully marry…”
Old Bjarni who owned the restaurant in the village was also a witness. He had put on his finest clothes because it was not every day that he was asked to perform such an important role. When the magistrate directed the question at Bjarni he smiled solemnly and said: “No, no, I shouldn’t think so.”
The magistrate accepted this answer and directed the same question at Siggi Solo.
“Hey, what? Were you talking to me?” asked Siggi, who had nodded off for a second.
“Yes, I was talking to you. Do you know any reason why these persons may not lawfully marry?”
Siggi made a grumbling noise: “Oh, that.”
“Yes.”
“Tch, yeah. Heaps of reasons. I just can’t be bothered to list them…”

When they came out the Girl-woman and the Man were married. Bjarni handed the Girl-woman a bunch of flowers and she kissed him. They got into the car and drove off to the village. Siggi Solo and the Man shared a beer, giggling, while the Girl-woman sat in front with Bjarni who looked at her from time to time and smiled. So warmly, felt the Girl-woman, that all she really wanted was to forget the whole thing and just go home with Bjarni. Be with him and his wife and their dog. She was happy there.
But of course it wasn’t possible. Not in the circumstances.
There was thick fog on the moor and Bjarni drove slowly. The Girl-woman sniffed at the flowers. She was afraid of driving this way in fog. Yet the fog was magical, it really was, this cold fog, thought the Girl-woman.
Bjarni’s wife welcomed them at the restaurant with a three-course meal, red wine, champagne and cognac. She had put Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on the CD player because she knew the Girl-woman liked it.
They drank toasts in champagne. Laughed. Ate the meat, drank red wine and laughed. Drank coffee and cognac. The Girl-woman asked Bjarni’s wife to press “Play” again and the moment the woman pressed “Play” again a new bottle of champagne arrived on the table and Bjarni smiled.
Then her mother rang. She rang in the middle of the celebrations and exclaimed: “What! You’ve done what… MARRIED THAT MAN?”
“Yes,” answered the Girl-woman.
Her mother was silent for a moment, then said quietly: “Well, congratulations, honey.”
And then the feeling returned. She stood by the phone feeling dizzy. She felt sick and looked out of the window. Looked at the mountains looming all around, at the gray snow, the ruined houses – and they spread out. Became a vast expanse, taking over everything until gradually there were no people, no village, nothing. Only ruins.
“Is everything all right?” she heard her mother ask.
“Yes, I’m just in love,” she heard herself answer.

The Man and the Girl-woman went home when Siggi Solo passed out and fell on the dining table. The plates smashed and food splattered everywhere, so Bjarni and his wife had to clean up.
They walked over the ruins on their way home. The Girl-woman was wearing high heels and carrying the champagne bottle and the bride’s bouquet in her right hand. With the left she supported the Man because he was drunk, blind drunk. He quarreled and he laughed and he kissed her.
All of a sudden the Girl-woman stumbled over a broken child’s high chair. It lay there, broken and warped. The rabbit pattern still visible on the weathered seat.
The Man bent down and pulled her up. She swigged champagne as he righted her. Swallowed as the Man said: “It was his chair, Toti Fist’s boy…”
Then he tore the bottle from her and glugged down the alcohol like milk.

They had no sooner got home than the Man fell asleep. He lay on the sofa, snoring. She looked in his mouth, at his decayed teeth, and thought to herself that he needed to go to the dentist. Then she put the Four Seasons on the CD player and turned up the volume. Fetched a cup and poured in the dregs of the champagne. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. The feeling refused to go. It was there to stay and the Girl-woman felt she was suffocating. So she turned off the music, poured the drink down the sink and fetched her duvet. She squeezed in between the Man and the back of the sofa, laid her head on his chest and smelled the alcoholic reek from his mouth. She closed her eyes and hoped the feeling would dissolve into dreams. But dreams come to an end and the feeling would probably return. Yes, no doubt it would return the next day. Because it came every day. No matter what the Girl-woman did to avoid it. Even though she got married.

Audur Jonsdottir 1997