Shoulder Season Read online

  A clerk came up and nodded at them as she patted the pile of sweaters. The gesture seemed unconscious, as if she did it all the time, though Ben didn’t think he could blame her, as the sweaters looked very soft.

  “Solvin,” she said. Then she continued in Icelandic, looking at Ben from time to time, as if she assumed he spoke the language as well as Solvin did. It felt like she was including him in the conversation with Solvin, because her hand gestures were directed at both of them.

  “I’m doing well, thank you for asking,” said Solvin in English. “This is my new friend, Ben. He’s come all the way from Colorado to buy one of your beautiful sweaters.”

  “Oh,” said the clerk, also in English with that faint choppy accent Solvin had. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, Ben, I just thought— Well, anyway, here are the sweaters. This rack has the better sweaters, all made from Lopi yarn made from the fall shearing. They are factory produced, but the quality is very good. These over here are made by hand from the same Lopi yarn. You can see they are a bit thicker and are more individual in the pattern.”

  “Do you have any of my mother’s sweaters, Hilma?” asked Solvin. “I don’t see any out here.”

  “All the adult sweaters are sold out,” said Hilma. “We got a shipment from her two weeks ago, and poof!” Hilma made an expansive gesture with her hands to show the explosive effect of the sweaters being sold. “They always go fast, you know that, Solvin.”

  “Do you have a child’s sweater you could show him?” asked Solvin. “I want him to see the quality.”

  Quite briskly Hilma set about finding the child’s sweater in question, though it was obvious Ben would not be buying it. She was taking the time just because she was being, well, nice. When she pulled out the sweater, she spread it in the palms of her hands for Ben to touch, and he found himself petting the wool in soft, slow strokes. Any child who wore such a small sweater would be sure to grow out of it quite quickly, but maybe Icelanders felt even a child deserved to have a beautiful sweater. The yarn was as soft as a whisper, and the tones of gray and brown and black and white were gentle rather than serious.

  “Your mother made this?” asked Ben.

  Solvin was looking at the sweater, though he lifted his head to look at Ben.

  “Yes,” said Solvin. “She used to make them for me, one each year as I grew taller. Those are now in an art museum in Stockholm, I think.”

  “With the jam stain,” said Hilma. She pointed at the place on Solvin’s chest where the stain would have been and laughed with her mouth open.

  Solvin didn’t seem to mind, and he patted her hand gently away as he blushed.

  “I never can resist a good jam,” said Solvin. “Do you have anything suitable for Ben to purchase? He needs a good sweater made of fall-shorn Lopi wool, so what can you show him?”

  They spent a good hour in the shop with Hilma tending to their every question, tirelessly laying out sweaters with different patterns and color combinations.

  “I don’t need any with lots of colors, if that’s not what is traditional,” said Ben.

  “A little touch of color is quite traditional,” said Hilma. “Mostly that would be from berries or rocks or what have you, so don’t worry about that. Here. What about this one?”

  Hilma drew out a pale sweater with a gray-and-brown pattern around the neck and shoulders that looked like clouds and diamonds woven together. When he took it in his hands, he almost shivered, though he didn’t quite know why.

  “This is handmade, and the pattern is very old,” said Hilma. “It’s traditional to use the same pattern for centuries, so that sweater you’re holding right now could have been made five hundred years ago or even a thousand.”

  Ben felt a surge of wanting the sweater, though as it was a handmade sweater, it was bound to cost more than he had the budget for. It would be a piece of Iceland to take with him when he went home and a reminder there were nice people in the world and shops that sold warm sweaters and guys like Solvin who seemed to want only to be with him.

  “How much is it?” Ben asked, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  “You should try it on first,” said Solvin, though the expression in his eyes told Ben Solvin liked it that Ben was practically swooning over the sweater. It was nice to be able to swoon a bit and not be ridiculed for it.

  “It looks like it should fit,” said Hilma. “Here, give me your coat and try it. You can layer with these sweaters, so they should be roomy.”

  Ben took off and handed her his coat, and, feeling a bit foolish in only his T-shirt, he pulled on the sweater. It was heavenly soft and so warm that he began to sweat.

  “It’s warm,” said Ben as he ran his fingers along the round collar. When he looked down, he saw blue diamonds and white clouds and the little hairs from the sheep that stood up a little way from the surface of the sweater.

  “It’ll keep you from freezing in a cold Icelandic winter,” said Hilma. “Which is what they were designed to do, of course.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw that Solvin was looking at him, and his attention was rapt and focused. It could be that he was admiring the sweater that would never be as good as one his mother had knitted with her own hands, but he was looking at Ben, so it could be that he liked Ben in the sweater. And maybe was thinking of him out of it, though Ben couldn’t be sure.

  Ben took off the sweater, trying as hard as he could not to fall in love with it. He didn’t own many nice things, but this would definitely be one of them.

  “How much is it?” asked Ben again as he handed the sweater to Hilma.

  “Twenty-four thousand, nine hundred krona,” said Hilma.

  Right away Solvin shifted his cane to his other hand and took the sweater from her.

  “I get a discount, don’t I, Hilma?” asked Solvin. “On account of my mother’s sweaters being sold here, right?”

  “Yes,” said Hilma. She drew her fingers across her cheek in a manner that suggested she’d discovered a wonderful idea. “Thirty percent, as I recall.”

  “Which would take the sweater down to seventeen thousand, four hundred and thirty krona,” said Solvin. “Which is around one hundred and seventy-five American dollars, if I calculated that correctly.”

  “You did,” said Hilma.

  With his head a little dizzy from the rapid discussion about money, Ben knew that even under two hundred bucks, the sweater was above his price range. He didn’t have the heart to tell them, but he had to before they actually walked over to the cash register, where no doubt the entire exchange would spiral the genial trying on of sweaters into a more embarrassing event.

  “The sweater has dirt on it,” said Hilma suddenly as she reached out to brush Ben’s side. “I’m so sorry about that, but would you be willing to purchase the sweater anyway? There’d be an extra discount, of course.”

  The final price came closer to $100, which was way down from the $250 it started with. Ben was able to pay for the sweater without worrying about it and proudly wore it out of the store. It was such a warm, thick sweater that he unbuttoned his jacket and strode down the street next to Solvin like a real Icelander, impervious to the cold.

  But Solvin was walking a bit slowly, leaning on his cane, so Ben went slower as well.

  “Shall we stop and get a coffee?” asked Ben. “I could probably sit at one of those outside tables now that I have this sweater.”

  Solvin actually stopped and hefted his cane in his hand as if he wanted to be rid of it altogether.

  “I am pigging you,” said Solvin with a shake of his head. “You probably want to stride about briskly as Americans do, and here I am pigging you and making you walk slow like I am.”

  Ben drew back and actually put his hand on Solvin’s arm to pull him into the lee of a stand of postcards and plastic-horned helmets. Solvin didn’t move away, and there they stood, out of the brisk wind with the sun shining on them both, making them warm.

  “Pigging me?” a
sked Ben. “Do you mean hogging?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean,” said Solvin with a little laugh. “You want to see everything and go everywhere, and here I am slowing you down.”

  “You’re not, actually,” said Ben. “And I don’t want to see everything. I just want to— I’ve never been overseas before, and I just want to see some things, things that are interesting or different, and maybe pretend that I’m a native Icelander.”

  “You would want to be an Icelander?” asked Solvin. He drew his head back on his shoulders and seemed to be looking at Ben with renewed focus, his cheeks pink from the brisk air, his eyes attentive and bright. “Why would anybody want to be a native Icelander if they weren’t already one?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ben, laughing, a little embarrassed at being so open about it. “The winters would be dark and maybe I’d go insane, but right now, it’s rather nice.”

  “It is nice,” said Solvin in a careful, slow way, as if reconsidering his stance on the issue. “Many things about Iceland are nice, if I look at it the way you’re looking at it.” He was talking about Iceland, of course, but when he said it, he was looking at Ben in that same rapt way he’d done when Ben had tried on the sweater. There was a smile in his eyes, as though it pleased him to think of both of those things in the same light.

  A little flattered, and maybe a little flustered, Ben scanned the street, thinking only too late that since all of the signs were in Icelandic, he’d not be able to tell a coffee shop from a furniture store. But actually he spotted one; the sign had a large brown cup with brown-and-gold steam rising up from it.

  “That’s a coffee shop, right?” asked Ben, pointing. “We should go to the end of the block.”

  “We can walk across,” said Solvin. “Yes, it’s jaywalking, but here it is legal as long as we make it obvious what we are going to do. Just watch out for bicycles.”

  Tighter they walked across the wide, flat street to the coffee shop, and Ben was amazed that not one but two cars, each going in the opposite direction, slowed down for them.

  When they arrived, a group of three tourists, all pointing and laughing and talking in a language Ben didn’t recognize, vacated a table. The table was just inside the door, and while there was a bit of a breeze when the door opened, the sun was shining through the large front window. It would be good to sit down.

  “You sit,” said Ben. “I’ll go up.”

  “No, they serve here,” said Solvin. “This isn’t the coffee shop I wanted to take you to, but it’s one of the fancier ones where they serve. So you can sit with me now.”

  Solvin gestured to the wooden chair next to him, so Ben sat down and sighed, glad to have stopped moving for a bit, glad to be warm. Glad to be with Solvin. Icelandic chatter rose around him, though the talk was low and subdued. Not cowed, but more because the feeling was one didn’t have to raise one’s voice to be heard, to have one’s opinion considered. Ben had no idea why he thought this, as he couldn’t understand a single word, but he did.

  A waitress came up. She was wearing jeans and an Icelandic sweater Ben now had new eyes for. How old was the pattern, and was it handmade?

  “Two coffees, please,” said Solvin to the young lady. “And something sweet, like cake.”

  “We have butter cake,” said the waitress. “And pancakes with Nutella, would you like that?”

  “Yes, please,” said Solvin. When the waitress went away, he turned to Ben. “The church is about a seven-minute walk, and while my ankle is holding up, it needed a break, so thank you for suggesting it.”

  Like an arrow, a memory came of Alan and Ben standing together in front of a well-known coffee chain on the Pearl Street Mall, arguing about whether or not to go in. Alan wanted to go in and get two large whatevers and then continue walking. Ben had understood the intent was to let everybody see where they’d gotten their coffee from, though Ben’s suggestion was that the two of them could sit down and talk about the argument they’d had the day before. The discussion turned into a standoff, with Alan getting coffee to carry and Ben getting nothing. He spotted another coffee shop, owned by locals and much less pretentious, but Alan didn’t want to stop, and Ben was only able to give the door a longing glance as they went past.

  Why he didn’t stand up for himself and go in anyway was beyond him. That was only days before the argument about the Munich Residenz museum, days before Alan punched him. Days before they broke up for good. Ben shook himself and straightened up and made himself focus on where he was now: in an Icelandic coffee shop with an Icelandic god. He was with Solvin. Being with Solvin was more enjoyable even when they weren’t doing anything but sitting and having coffee together, and Ben had no idea, no idea at all, why he kept thinking about Alan.

  “I’m sorry,” said Solvin. “Maybe you don’t like Nutella. Should I call her back?”

  It was obvious Ben had been sitting there glowering at his own memories and that Solvin thought there was something wrong that he should do something about. With Alan, Ben typically took the low road and said there was nothing wrong because bringing it out in the open usually brought on an exchange, at the end of which Ben felt even worse, especially after swallowing his own irritation. But in Iceland, in a country that was clean and open and quiet, maybe it was time for a change. Maybe it was time for honesty.

  “I was thinking about Alan and this one time where we’d had an argument about a coffee shop,” said Ben, feeling brave, especially since Solvin was listening in that way he had, quiet and still, really listening. “And how different this was from that. I’ve never tasted Nutella, but it’s fine, it’s fine.”

  “Different?” asked Solvin. “Different how—or maybe I shouldn’t pry.”

  “No, it’s okay,” said Ben. “It’s different because everything Alan did was to show off in some way. The coffee would be a status symbol and, damn it, never mind.”

  Ben dragged his fingers through his hair, which he knew made it tangle around his face in a way that Alan had started to hate in the latter part of their relationship.

  “People show off in Iceland too,” said Solvin. He reached out and tucked a strand of Ben’s hair behind his ear, as if he’d been doing it all of his life.

  A little shocked by the gesture, but not hating it, it seemed to Ben that Solvin was missing what he was saying, though whether to point it out or not was another issue altogether. But maybe he should try.

  “Sure,” said Ben. “Like with the lady at the sweater store, or your mom. If they’ve made great sweaters, then they should show off. But Alan, he wanted attention just for walking down the street, if you see what I mean. Everything with him was like it was drama on a stage, even when it was just him and me.”

  The conversation had gotten so serious so fast that Ben winced. His nasty, negative memories about his relationship with Alan did not deserve to be hauled out into the bright Icelandic sunshine, especially when Solvin was being so nice about it all, and had touched Ben’s hair like it was something lovely. Only it was too late to take the words back, so Ben made himself stop talking and leaned back as the waitress brought their tray with two coffees, a pitcher of cream, and three different sweet things. One large plate held three pancakes, already dressed and rolled up. The other two plates held small slices of what looked like yellow cake with thick frosting on top.

  Silently they both doctored their coffee, and Solvin arranged the plates so they each got a slice of yellow cake, with the pancakes on the table between them. These Solvin sliced into two portions; he took the knife and pushed one portion toward Ben.

  “There,” said Solvin. “On behalf of Iceland and myself, I welcome you to your first taste of Nutella.”

  “Is it made in Iceland?” asked Ben as he cut a piece with his fork.

  “No, it was invented in Italy after the war, but we love it as though we’d invented it.” Solvin brought a forkful of the pancake to his mouth and ate it with a smile.

  Ben did likewise and found he enjoyed the swe
et taste, especially when it was followed by a mouthful of coffee. Everything tasted good and fresh, and he didn’t know if it was the fact that he was in a foreign country or that he was with Solvin. Probably both.

  Sharing a comfortable silence between them, they drank their coffee and ate their sweet cake while the conversations around them moved in and out of hearing. There was no sense of rush or urgency. Neither of them hurried to finish or suggested they should get up and go do something different, something more exciting. Eventually they were both finished, and as Ben wiped his mouth with his napkin, he looked at Solvin.

  “Would you like to go see the church now?” asked Solvin.

  “How’s your ankle?” asked Ben. “Is it up for the walk?”

  “Yes,” said Solvin, and it might have been Ben’s imagination, but Solvin seemed touched that Ben had asked. “But we might get a taxi after, as I think that’s all my ankle could take.”

  “We never did put your sling back on,” said Ben. He reached out to touch Solvin’s arm, his fingers lingering on the nylon folds. “Are you okay without it?”

  “Are you fussing?” asked Solvin, but he meant it in a friendly way, as he was smiling and there were crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes.

  “Maybe a little,” said Ben, confessing it at the same time as hoping he could retract it if Solvin didn’t like it. Or maybe he should say he thought a little fussing at this point was perfectly reasonable. So he did. “I want to fuss, so I am. I want to make sure you’re not overdoing it.”

  “I probably am, but I’ll carry it for now,” said Solvin. “Let’s walk slowly to the church and then get a taxi afterward.”

  “Can we get one down there?” asked Ben. He really had no idea.

  “We can just call them,” said Solvin. He patted his back pocket to indicate where his phone was, which drew Ben’s eyes to the line of Solvin’s thigh and how his white T-shirt poked out from top of his jeans. Ben made himself look away, but not before Solvin caught him looking. His response was another smile, and then he returned his attention to his coffee and the last of his butter cake. Ben had some more pancake, and they enjoyed sitting at the table with the sunshine pouring in the front windows and the warmth and conviviality of the coffee shop swirling around them.