January

Valentines: Stories
by Olaf Olafsson

Olaf Olafsson's fans will recognize the perfect restraint and precision - and quick wit - with which he characteristically explores these dark epiphanies, when the heart is suddenly laid bare, whether by love or betrayal, disenchantment or regret, or the shock of loss. While their settings range from the East Coast to the West Coast, from Paris to Slovenia and Iceland, these contemporary stories probe the complexity of modern relationships over time. A wife realizes her closest confidante is much more than that. A father tries to make his new lover into the image of his late wife. A lusty photographer confronts his own mortality. A couple's long-anticipated anniversary vacation opens onto the past. A husband, a wife, a child, a boating accident: no harm done . . . and yet?

Each of the twelve stories reveals another element in the agonizing nature of passion, diminished and yet sustained over time. This is a powerful work of fiction from one of our most gifted and subtle international writers at work today.

He had suspected he might have to spend the night in New York. The plane had left an hour late from Iceland and circled for a long time over Kennedy Airport before getting permission to land. The pilot had said there were problems on the ground with ice and strong crosswinds, and for a while it looked as if they would have to land somewhere else. But at last he began the descent, the flight attendants took their seats and those who were afraid said their prayers, promising to lead better lives in future.

Tomas, a seasoned traveler, wasn't worried. He knew there wouldn't be any flights to Chicago till the following day so he decided to go into Manhattan and spend the evening there. He liked the city and often traveled there on business, particularly when he was younger. Once there had been talk of his being transferred there, the time when Ira Taubman and Harry Poindexter decided to retire and the company worried they would lose contact with important clients on the East Coast. But the old men had prepared the ground for Tomas and their other successors and the transition was smooth. This was a relief to everyone but it gave Tomas pause for thought because the old men had always been considered indispensable. He had blurted this out to Taubman when they ran into each other at the sauna some months later, and the old man slapped him on the back with an indulgent smile and said: "No one's indispensable in business, Tomas my boy. Not even you." Having already concluded this himself, Tomas was able to join in his laughter. Taubman had always been his model, easygoing and levelheaded, never pressuring his clients. Tomas had learned from him not to push shares that he wouldn't buy himself or chase short-term profits. Taubman and Poindexter had earned respect. They phoned their clients every day, knew the names of their wives and kids, even what car they drove. Although he never got himself a computer, Taubman always had an answer ready and his desk was impeccably tidy. When the market took a dive he was the one everyone called. He kept his head, neither buying nor selling till the volatility was over. A bachelor like Tomas, he was always meticulously dressed, even after he retired. He had introduced Tomas to his tailor, a painstaking, reasonably priced man who never forgot to praise Tomas for not putting on weight.

Tomas's father had been American, his mother Icelandic. He grew up in Chicago, an only child, but moved to Iceland with his mother after his father died. He was a teenager at the time. They rented an apartment by the harbor and his mother got a job in the claims department of an insurance company. Tomas finished high school in Reykjavik but went back to the States to attend university, first Chicago State, then Northwestern. He hadn't been unhappy in Iceland, but he never put down roots there, missing his old home by Lake Michigan.

In recent years Tomas had made it a rule to go to Iceland for New Year's. He generally arrived on the twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth of December and left on January second. His mother lived in an old people's home but was still joyful and energetic. He would meet friends and relatives, inviting up to a dozen people to dinner at the Grill or Hotel Holt on New Year's Eve. His mother looked forward to this evening all year. She was always in great form and before the night was over she never missed a chance to ask her son when he was going to get married. He usually smiled, took her hand and said: "Who knows, Mom?" because he didn't want to disappoint her.

But this time the question made him stop and think. He had known it was coming yet still found himself lost for words. Recently he had been wondering whether he would always be alone. He was not young anymore and had recently begun to suffer from a sense of discontent that had never plagued him before. He had been jolted just before Christmas when he visited Taubman and the old man told him: "I talked to Maureen the other day. She asked about you. She's now living in New York."

He had only once been in what people call a serious relationship. That was ten years ago when he lived with Maureen. She was several years younger than he and worked in advertising. They had met at Taubman's seventieth birthday and walked together into the garden of the hotel where the party was being held. There they sat on a bench under a tree and talked. It was late but still warm, the lights aglow among the flowers and shrubs and a cheerful din coming from the hotel. She moved closer to him without any apparent design and her laugh was bright and artless. She was wearing a white backless dress and he gazed at her long, slender neck and her shoulders, which were so delicate that he wanted to touch them out of simple curiosity. He called her at work several days later and invited her to dinner. She accepted gratefully and her voice sounded as bright and genuine over the phone as when they had sat in the garden. Two months later she moved in with him. Although it had been his suggestion, he was not prepared. He was set in his ways, never having had to worry about anyone but himself since he had left home. His life was neat and orderly; his days were all the same. He was in the office by half past seven on weekdays and woke early on weekends, read the papers, tidied up, took a walk around his neighborhood or visited galleries before going to the sauna that he and Taubman frequented. On Saturday evenings he dined with friends. He lived a simple life, taking care to have a routine for everything and avoid upsets.

He had always tried to keep his feelings on a tight rein. His psychologist traced this to his father's death. They had been very close and when his father had passed away he had silently blamed his mother for not grieving enough. Tomas mentioned this to his psychologist once he began to trust him. They discussed the past at length and eventually concluded that it had been out of care for Tomas that his mother had never broken down in his presence. He regretted having judged her, even if only in thought.

He had difficulty adapting to the change of routine, and Maureen assumed that he felt she was in his way. She wasn't demanding but sensitive and every now and then felt the need to tell him how much she loved him. He, on the other hand, did not make unprompted declarations; it was not his way.

Copyright © 2007 by Olaf Olafsson.

About the Author

Olaf Olafsson was born in Reykjavik, Iceland, in 1962. He studied physics as a Wien Scholar at Brandeis University. He is the author of two previous novels, The Journey Home and Absolution. His work has been translated into fourteen languages. He lives in New York City with his wife and two sons.