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"So, you are coming?"
Alexander smiles at her happy image on his laptop screen. "Anything for you, pchelka. For you I will even go to the frozen Arctic wastes of your beloved 'home town.'"
"Oh, I'm so happy! I can't wait to see you! You can meet little Erik."
"How many outfits should I bring? Will eight suitcases be enough?"
"No! Alexander, be serious."
"I completely serious," he says, with an exaggerated stern look. "I must look my best. I have reputation to uphold!"
"No one here will care, Alexander. Just bring yourself, everyone will love you."
"Just myself? I will at least need a pair of pants or they won't let me on the plane. And perhaps a sweater?"
"Yes, yes, you will definitely need a winter coat. Thermal underwear. Wool socks..."
~~~
"She said to bring rubber boots," Alexander laments to Mita. He has three suitcases open on his bed, all mostly empty. He'd been trying to pack for days -- he'd called Mita at last in desperation. "Rubber boots! I have rubber pants, not boots."
"How you must suffer." He can hear her laughing at him.
"Why did I say yes? I am too famous for this."
"Because Sigrid is beautiful and kind and she loves you. And because you are beautiful and kind and you love her."
"Next year I'm coming to Crete. Is it warm in the winter in Crete?"
"Warmer than Husavik. Or St. Petersburg."
"We'll lie in the sun and get tans in December. I won't have to pack a sweater."
"Not quite that warm. Maybe a jacket." She laughs at the disgusted noise Alexander makes. "No, no, you like jackets! You have thousands of jackets. You have more jackets than any human could wear in a lifetime."
"Not my lifetime!" Alexander considers the suitcases again. "Perhaps the gold lame would be warm enough...?"
~~~
He flies to Iceland from Helsinki, the latest stop on his European concert tour.
He uses the tour jet to get to the island, but at Keflavik he has to change to a (shudder) commercial flight -- the new plane is the same size, but now he shares it with 23 other people, almost all foreign tourists. Lots of Americans, some Brits and Dutch. No Russians. The Americans don't recognize him; the Dutch couple does and he takes a selfie with them.
Husavik. He steps down from the plane into the biting cold, a dark and starry night above him in the late afternoon.
Sigrit and Lars are by their car, waving and calling his name. Alexander pretends for a moment to not see them in the crowd of nearly five people.
He gets a kiss from Sigrit, insists on two more, and gets a rib-crushing hug from Lars. Happily Lars is now able to like Alexander -- he has won Sigrit so he can be generous to the loser, never mind that Alexander was never in the competition.
Alexander is shuffled into the backseat, next to a car seat strapping in a pile of wool that appears to contain the Baby Erik. The baby eyes him suspiciously. Alexander sticks out his tongue.
"Buckle up, buckle up!" Lars carols as he starts the car.
Alexander looks out the window. "Where are the whales? I was promised whales."
"Whales later! You must be tired. Home first." Sigrit twists around in her seat. "How was the flight? How was the tour? How are you? Tell me everything!"
~~~~~
They talk all the way home to their tiny thatch-roofed house. They talk for hours more in the tiny living room. Alexander takes a nap in the tiny guest room with its layers and layers of wool blankets.
Then they take him on a tour of Husavik.
It's...strange. Beautiful. Dark, too cloudy for the aurora, but with twinkling lights of candles or Christmas decorations showing sparks of color. Snow lies heavy on the ground.
Very quiet. There's not much to the town besides the harbor and the homes, so Lars and Sigrit quickly lead him to the Captain's Galley, the bar they told him so much about.
It resembles nothing so much as an Irish pub, full of locals talking amongst themselves, drinking and eating (and more drinking), no televisions or radios blaring music or sports games. A few folks look up as they walk in but Alexander draws no attention.
Now that is very strange.
Alexander drinks ale and eats enough lamb stew to choke an elk, and then it's time for music.
He is content to sit and drink and watch but of course they won't let him. He demurs but Sigrit waves wildly, gesturing for Alexander to come up on the stage, grinning that bright irrepressible grin that he adores.
"I can never say no to you, pchelka," he grumbles at her before turning to the crowd.
"Hello Husavik!" he says into the microphone, ignoring the brief shriek of feedback. He gives the bar his best handsome and talented smile.
There's a smattering of polite applause. Alexander keeps smiling.
Sigrit lifts his hand in the air like a prize boxer. "This is our good friend Alexander Lemtov! Here all the way from Russia."
"He was in Eurovision with us!" Lars adds helpfully.
"I sang Lion of Love?" Alexander adds. "If you would like to hear it --"
"I WANT TO HEAR JAJA DING DONG."
Alexander blinks. "I... don't think I know that song."
"THEN GET OFF THE STAGE."
Lars shouts back. "YOU ARE BEING RUDE TO OUR GUEST."
"HE IS RUDE IF HE DOES NOT SING JAJA DING DONG."
"Okay okay geez we will play Jaja Ding Dong!"
The bar cheers. Sigrit shrugs apologetically at Alexander and gives him a tambourine.
Alexander plays that tambourine with all his might. He sings along once he knows the lyrics, somewhere in the third reprise.
~~~~
On the walk back to the little house, Alexander has to ask.
"They like it. It's a traditional Icelandic drinking song," Lars says proudly.
Sigrit rolls her eyes. "Then why is it in English?"
"Not all of it!"
"'Jaja ding dong' is not Icelandic either! I don't know what it is, is it German?"
"What about the man who kept requesting it?" Alexander redirects.
"That's Olaf. Yohansson. He always asks for that song, he will never let us stop! He is a monster, a cookie monster but for Jaja Ding Dong!"
"Be nice, Lars. That song is all he has."
"That's so sad," Alexander says, aghast. "To be so unhappy."
"Yes," Sigrit says, "It is."
~~~
He sees the man, Olaf, again the next day.
He wakes up early -- jet lag -- and wanders town until Lars and Sigrit are up. They've promised to take him whale-watching, but when he gets to the wharf all the whale-watching offices are shut.
He's waiting, puzzled, on the wharf when he sees Olaf. He's standing not far from Alexander, messing with rope next to a boat that seems to be made of equal parts paint and rust.
"What...is this."
"You have never seen a fishing boat before?"
Alexander honestly hasn't. "What do you do with it?"
"We go out, we catch fish. We bring them back. Cut them, freeze them. Sell them. Next day, go back out, catch more fish. Next day, more fish."
"Do you ever see whales?"
Olaf shrugs. "Yes, sometimes. They steal our fish."
"Hello! Alexander!" Sigrit comes running down the wharf. Lars follows with baby Erik strapped to his front. "Oh, has Olaf ruined our surprise?"
"No?"
"There is no whale-watching in winter, but I know how much you wanted to see them, so Olaf is doing us a favor -- he will take us out on his fishing boat!"
Alexander looks at Olaf sidelong. "Will we have to sing?"
"No singing," Olaf snaps. "Bad luck. Singing is for the pub. Are you wearing that?"
Alexander looks down. He's wearing his warmest jacket, a burgundy paisley jacquard smoking jacket lined with velvet, along with a blood-red waistcoat and silk shirt. He has long piratical black wool coat on top and is quite toasty, thank you. "What's wrong with it?"
"You won't be warm enough!" Sigrit admonishes. "Here!"
She holds out a large wad of knitwear. Alexander takes it politely and it unrolls into a vaguely human shape.
"Lopapeysa! Very traditional. Sigrit made that one! Her first. She made this one for me next, she is getting much better!" Lars manages to sound jealous and proud at the same time.
"I made it for you!" Sigrit adds. "To keep. I hope it fits. I made it right after Eurovision but you haven't come to visit until now."
She smiles at him. Alexander sighs and starts taking off his coat.
~~~~
It's very warm, he has to admit. And Sigrit made it just for him, which means he treasures it above all his jackets, even his purple brocade.
The whale-watching trip is wet and cold but they do see some whales. Alexander has mostly been teasing Sigrit -- he likes whales well enough but Sigrit seems to love them. So he watches her more than he watches the water, enjoying her excitement whenever she spots a spout, her sweet smile as Lars points them out to baby Erik.
He also watches Olaf. There is no magic in this for him, Alexander can see. It's just another cold and windy day on the water, worrying about the weather. But when they are pulled up alongside a massive fin whale, twice as long as the boat, Olaf cuts the engines and joins them at the rail. In the silence, they can all hear the great breaths, calm and deep and ancient.
It is humbling. Alexander feels small, so small -- and young, and foolish.
Beside him, Lars pulls Sigrit into a hug, one arm around her and one on baby Erik's head. Sigrit loops an arm through Alexander's and yanks him into the huddle.
Alexander looks at Olaf, alone at the rail.
Olaf has a small smile on his face, until he notices Alexander watching him. Then he scowls and stomps back to the charthouse.
~~~~
That night, Alexander can't sleep. He napped after the boat trip and his body clock is such a mess from the tour. He goes out walking again, smoking and looking for a good place to watch the aurora, dancing faintly green above him.
There's someone sitting on a bench on the wharf. Olaf.
Alexander hesitates, then goes over to sit at the other end of the bench. Olaf grunts.
"And what is your excuse?" Alexander asks. "I am jet lagged, but you?"
"It's too dark. Without daytime, how does your body know it's nighttime? I sleep when I'm tired. When I'm not," Olaf gestures at the harbor. "I'm here."
"Or in the pub. Shouting for Jaja Ding Dong."
Alexander means it as a joke, but Olaf nods. "It makes me happy."
"Sigrit says it's the only thing that makes you happy."
"I have nothing without that song," Olaf agrees with no apparent emotion.
"No wife? No girlfriend?"
"I'm not a Lion of Love like you." Olaf smirks at Alexander's stunned expression. "I Googled you, we do have Google in Iceland you know."
"I'm not either," Alexander says. "Is all for cameras. I am not lion, I am...."
"A puffin," Olaf says decisively. "Very silly mating dances, very flashy beak and feathers. But one mate for life."
Alexander should probably be offended, but it's too accurate.
"And you? A puffin?"
Olaf drags on his cigarette. "There is a whale, blue whale I think. Born with something strange -- he sings too high for other whales. He swims and sings, but no other whale will hear his song."
Olaf waves his arm at the harbor. "You know how many people live in Husavik? Two thousand. You know how many are not my relatives? You know how many are not married? You know how many are --"
Olaf stops.
Alexander knows that silence. He's spoken that silence. That silence is an old friend.
"Is it allowed, in Husavik?" he asks softly.
Olaf sighs out a huge breath. "It would be fine. We had a prime minister Johanna, who had a wife. We are a modern and liberated people. There are just so very very few of us."
This is a new problem to Alexander. He turns it over in his mind. To be able to succumb to temptation without worry or punishment, but to have no temptation to which to succumb?
"You could go to Reyjkjavik."
"Too busy, too loud, too many people. You can barely see the lights," Olaf gestures up at the light show above them, then he shrugs. "My mother is here. My father is here. My family is here; here is my family."
"My mother still lives in Russia," Alexander says. He hopes Olaf understands. He hopes he understands Olaf. He thinks he does -- he thinks this is loneliness that is familiar, this is a darkness that he knows, the same darkness in St. Petersburg, where the sun is dim and far away...
And Olaf is a handsome man. People -- those few who know -- expect Alexander to favor men like his dancers, lithe and angular and hairless. It's convenient, that way. There is gossip about the dancers but there will never be evidence; the men for whom there might be evidence, no one would believe the gossip. Olaf doesn't look like a dancer. He looks like a Viking, or a lumberjack, he looks warm and soft and strong.
It's been a long time for Alexander, on the tour, and he's always had a weakness for gingers.
Alexander lets his posture relax, legs spreading just a fraction. He lets his voice drop a little lower, closer to a purr -- but just a little. "There are other people in Husavik. Who aren't related to you. Who aren't married. Who are --"
Here his voice betrays him. He can't get out the words. He knows this is safe, as safe as it's possible to be -- who could overhear? Who could this man tell? But his voice, his beautiful instrument that brings him such joy and so many blessings besides, it fails him.
"I know you are," Olaf says, with mercy but no surprise. "I saw you dance."
Alexander should probably be offended. He has a very virile and masculine dance! Women find it very sexy. He shakes it off. Focus on the goal. "Then, perhaps you would like to take walk with me?"
"No, thank you."
Alexander sits up and straighter and huffs. "Why not?"
"You think you are what, my only chance? You are doing me a kindness?" Olaf puts out his cigarette. "I am very handsome, too. There are hundreds of tourists who come through Husavik every year. I have many chances. But they leave."
Olaf stands, brushes off a few snowflakes that have collected while they talked.
"Whales also mate for life," he says. "Enjoy the lights."
~~~~
He keeps wearing the sweater everywhere they take him: the whale museum, the geothermal baths. He wears it to meet Sigrit's mother, Lars' father, their drummer Stephan, their aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, first-and-second-cousins-once-removed, nieces, nephews, friends, coworkers.
Out of 2,000 people in Husavik, Alexander estimates that he has met 1,985 of them.
They are all lovely people who have only the vaguest idea who he is. One family are fans who tell him how happy they are to meet him -- the high sustains Alexander for several days. They tell him how wonderful Sigrit is, to which he agrees vocally. They tell him how happy they are that Lars has settled down, to which Alexander agrees neutrally. They tell him how nice it is to have such wonderful musicians in their little town, how they play real concerts during tourist season -- all the tourists seem to know Sigrit's song! It's so nice they have a hobby.
Alexander can't say much at all to that.
~~~~
They sing at the bar again. It's Christmas Eve and it feels like the whole town is there. Everyone is exchanging small presents -- books, Sigrit tells Alexander. It's traditional on Christmas Eve.
They give Alex a book on Icelandic folk music. Alex regrets he has left the gifts at home and did not bring any books.
Then it is time again for music.
This time, they let Sigrit sing her song, in between rounds of Jaja Ding Dong. Alexander sits in the audience and listens, holding baby Erik, captured as always by the sweet and unaffected talent of his beautiful Sigrit.
He can see Olaf at one of the other tables. He's not angry for once -- he looks almost as if he has tears in his eyes.
Sigrit finishes, that final glorious note shivering through Alexander's whole body, and the bar erupts in applause. Much to Alexander's relief, it seems genuine. She had told him that the town didn't seem to understand and he had been worried, but the cheers are real. They may not know how special she is (how could they?) but they do love her (how could they not?)
The grace lasts for nearly a minute, long enough for Olaf to finish his beer before shouting, "NOW JAJA DING DONG."
~~~~~
Christmas is at home. They just sit around the fire, enjoying their gifts and each other. Lars loves the ridiculous coat Alexander brought him and wears it indoors; Sigrit lights up like a firework at the crown of silk flowers. He calls his mother, he calls Mita.
They make music again in the evening, just the three of them: Lars on keyboard, Sigrit on bass, Alexander on his much-loved and rarely-played mandolin, all three singing in harmony. It's warm, it's massive, it's -- it feels like seeing the whale.
~~~~~
Boxing Day, Sigrit takes Alexander hiking during the brief hours of daylight. Lars stays home with little Erik and Alexander is so happy to spend time alone with his sweet Sigrit.
"You sang beautifully last night," Alexander tells her, heartfelt. "And the night before."
"Thank you!" Sigrit chirps, like she did when he told her he liked her haircut. A polite response to passing compliment, not the swelling pride of artistic grandeur that she should feel, that she should feel every day before adoring crowds.
"But I could not help but notice -- you did not hit the Speorg note."
Sigrit laughs. "No, no Speorg note. Only that one time."
Alexander is stricken. "Never again?"
"No, but Alexander I never expected it even once. To sing the Speorg note, that is a great honor. And at Eurovision, it was so special -- so many people, so much hope, and Lars was there and he seemed to see me at last -- in that moment all I wanted was to go home. Home to Husavik, home with Lars. So my heart sang the Speorg note."
Alexander takes her hand, entranced by the light in her face. "And now?"
"Now, I am home. My heart has no longing because I have everything I want. My heart is too calm for a Speorg note." She swings their hands gently. "Besides, my throat hurt for like, a WEEK. So bad. I sounded like Oscar the Grouch for a month! The Speorg note is not good for you."
They walk a little further over the black and jagged beauty, until they stand at a spot overlooking the town. The sun is already setting -- the roofs are painted in fire.
"I'm happy, Alexander," Sigrit says softly, twining her fingers with his. "I hope you can believe me."
She lays her head on his shoulder and whispers, "And I hope you can one day be this happy too."
~~~~~
Erik is fussy that evening, so Alexander goes to the Captain's Galley alone.
Olaf is sitting at the bar, reading a book. Alexander hesitates again -- he is learning to hesitate in Husavik! -- and sits beside him. Olaf ignores him.
"It isn't pity," Alexander says to his beer, when it arrives.
Olaf turns a page.
"I like to make people happy. It makes me happy, to make other people happy. I thought, it would be so easy, to make Olaf happy. Would not hurt me, would help him. But Olaf is not such simple man -- he wants happy life, not happy night. I was wrong about Olaf. I owe him apology."
Olaf clears his throat and takes a sip of his beer, then goes back to his book.
"Tell Olaf I am sorry, please?" Alexander says to his ale. "And tell him I won't tell his secret: that he thinks I am handsome."
That wins him a little huff of air -- almost a laugh. He'll take it. He stands to go, to find a table and leave Olaf alone, when Olaf clears his throat.
"Tell Alexander," Olaf says to his own beer, "he deserves a happy life too. Not just nights making other people happy."
~~~~
It's Alexander's last day in Husavik. He hikes again with Sigrid, visits his favorite little coffee shop, waves to the people he knows as they walk by. So many people he knows by name! They wave back cheerfully then keep going, off on errands that don't involve him.
Helga walks right past him until Alexander calls her name.
"Oh, Alexander!" She exclaims. "Sitting there with that sweater, you look so Icelandic, I didn't recognize you!"
She waves and departs; Alexander looks at his clothes and thinks.
He's let his stubble grow out a little as well, approaching a real beard. He's got a little woolen hat to match his cream and lavender sweater. He should take a selfie for his manager to post on his Instagram, but he left his phone at home.
When is the last time he thought about his manager? The tour? His clothes, his reputation, his secrets, his money -- his music is always with him, but everything else?
He finishes his coffee and stands up. He has an errand of his own.
~~~~
One last night at the Captain's Galley before his flight in the morning. They sing again. Alexander brings his mandolin.
Olaf shouts for Jaja Ding Dong so they sing it -- Alexander gives it his all, smoldering looks at the audience and hip gyrations to match. Olaf rolls his eyes but still sings along. He gets to sing Lion of Love as well, prowling the room and sitting on laps. Olaf's of course, but not only Olaf's. The crowd laughs uproariously.
On a break, Alexander goes out to smoke. He's not sure if he is surprised when Olaf joins him.
"You are ridiculous," Olaf tells him.
"Thank you, I try," Alexander replies.
Olaf stuffs his hands in his pockets and shuffles a little. "It's not because you aren't my type, I hope you know that."
"Of course, I am everyone's type. Is big problem in my life."
"Sigrit told me about you, you know. What you offered her."
Alexander looks at the ground, flicking his ashes. "Is better she said no. She is happy with Lars. If bird loves her cage, if she still sing, if she feels safe and happy -- is cage so bad? In wild, bird flies free but many dangers. Many hawks. Wild birds, not often happy."
"Wild birds can have homes. Puffins, they fly for thousands of miles alone at sea. But come home to same nest, same colony, every year."
"I haven't seen any puffins yet," Alexander complains, unsure how to react. "I am leaving in the morning without seeing a single puffin."
Olaf shrugs. "They winter at sea. Come back in spring, you will see millions."
There's a pause, then Olaf adds. "If you are coming back."
He won't ask, but Alexander answers anyway. "I will come back. After the tour, maybe."
"Many tourists think they will come back. It's so beautiful, we must come every year! But there are many new places just as beautiful."
"Well, if I don't return, I have just wasted a lot of money," Alexander takes a long drag, enjoying Olaf's anger at his own curiosity. "I bought a house."
"A house!"
"Is very small, more like cottage. But I cannot stay with Lars and Sigrit each time I visit! They are family, they need privacy." Alexander feigns boredom, turning to look at the brilliant green aurora above them, the brightest he's ever seen.
"A house."
"I have houses all over the world, many houses, and I thought, why not in Husavik? After all, I have dear friends here in Husavik, why should I not have my home near their home?"
"Dear friends," he repeats, a little lower. He stays looking at the sky but he reaches out, heart pounding, to offer Olaf his hand. Olaf looks away, turns away, but silently takes it in his own. Alexander squeezes, then lets go, having mercy, having hope. He can feel the Speorg note, somewhere behind his breastbone. "Many dear friends."
~~~~