Árnadóttir Björg - And the Wind Sees All

The babble of children at play mingles with the afternoon sun. The air is heavy with the smell of food, the clattering of a motorboat out at sea is echoed by lawnmowers in the gardens. Shore birds hover silently, waders skitter about, dandelion seeds drift to the ground. The afternoon pulsates and gives her rhythm and momentum and hope as she pedals through the village. The houses are watching her, but thats all right. Old men with garden shears wave and call out Hello, Kata!, and that is good too. Children squeal and bounce on the trampolines that bulge next to every house, and shout Hello, and in the distance women kneel in flowerbeds and raise their soilcaked yellow gloves in greeting. Sidda, sitting in a group with Andrs and Fra and others, also waves to her. And theres the man from the bass section, nicknamed rni Going Places, standing on the steps of the old doctors house with a pipe in his mouth and watching her. But he doesnt wave.

In two minutes she will be at the village hall. The Valeyri Choir is giving a concert tonight, an ambitious programme: they will be singing Icelandic choral songs such as Night and Fair Little Friends and favourites such as Be Ready When Springtime Calls and the Swedish folk song Och jungfrun gr i ringen, but also Locus iste by Bruckner and Sicut locutus est from Bachs Magnificat. Nothing must go wrong, it cant turn into a shambles.

All those endless Monday evening rehearsals where she has patiently sat at the piano going over the different parts again and again repeated and again in Icelandic so broken that you couldnt help but take notice of what she said. At times, with the Bach, it felt as if she was trying to juggle fifteen balls at once, and if one falls they all fall. At other times, its been hard to get the fifteen balls in the air at all. There theyve sat, these eager musicians, Valeyri villagers from the fish factory, the hairdressers, the bank and the sea, from horse riding, unemployment and all the rest each laden with a nickname and a history known to all, each labouring to synchronize their own locu-hu-hu-hu-tu-hus with all the others. But she has managed to get them to sing loudly and firmly, and then ever so softly. She has felt that delicate sound between the palms of her hands. The Valeyri sound.

Now Kata plans to get there a bit early, before Sidda, Fra and Anna arrive to set up the chairs. She wants to have a moment to herself, try out the piano, sit down somewhere, shut her eyes and feel a great, spacious C major chord resonate inside her. Then the others will come, smelling of horses and fish and earth and sun, weary from the days labours. They will put on the gowns that Sidda has made and which will transform them into musicians. Then Kata will ask them to stand in a tight circle in the dark changing room, hold hands and hum Sleep, My Little Darling. Afterwards theyll walk into the hall and arrange themselves on the platform the way theyve practised. Kata will enter last, take a bow, turn to the choir, lift her hands and look into the eyes of each and every one of them. And then the choir will become one being. Shell give the signal and theyll begin to sing as one, create a new place: Locus iste a Deo factus est

Everything is so bright. The evening is still to come and yet the day is gone. Existence pulsates at the edges. Kata is bare-legged and barefoot in her sandals, and she feels a little cool from the afternoon breeze that just passed by not an uncomfortable coolness, rather an invigorating one, in the same way that the houses eyes are not staring but encouraging. Everything is singing in the bright light. The sun sings, the sea, fish, telegraph poles, cows, flies, horses, dogs, the old red bicycle Kalli and Sidda gave her. She feels the day will come when her brown hair will once again have its red lustre. Once again her eyes will sparkle. Once again shell sing inside herself as she plays the clarinet. Once again there will be life in her existence. Once again she will be loved.