Editorial Content for Dead Weight

I’ve always wanted to go to Reykjavik. Everyone else in the family has been there (unfair). My daughter brought me back a vivid red-flowered Marimekko pouch; my husband, a handsome black stone and silver necklace. I imagine the mystical steam of the Blue Lagoon’s thermal baths at night, the glory of the northern lights --- all the touristy clichés that are duly pictured on Instagram. Although I hate being cold, there’s something clean and strong and organized about the culture that attracts me.

That’s probably why I like Scandi Noir, the category of mystery novels set in far northern climes. Icelandic author Hildur Knútsdóttir’s first book to be translated into English was THE NIGHT GUEST (the audiobook was shortlisted for a World Fantasy Award), and now comes her second, DEAD WEIGHT. It is Scandi very noir, packed into 148 spare, chilling pages. It is admirably self-edited and gracefully translated, and if you’re not prone to nightmares, you could rip through it in an evening. But, coward that I am, I read it a few chapters at a time (all are short, and one is a single sentence), always while it was still light outside.

The fascination of any horror story, whether movie or book, is that it’s a safe way to plunge into our most primitive fears. Why else would serial-killer miniseries or novels be so successful? What draws us primarily, I think, is the mind of the murderer, and this slim, subtle thriller is no exception.

"It is Scandi very noir, packed into 148 spare, chilling pages. It is admirably self-edited and gracefully translated, and if you’re not prone to nightmares, you could rip through it in an evening."

Unnur is a single woman of 33 having an affair with a married pilot, Jói. She lives alone in an apartment notable for its spotless white decor; is moderately successful at work but aspires to a promotion; has a set of routines she follows religiously (daily jogging and healthful smoothies, perfectly packed suitcases, house cleaning every Saturday). She also has a weakness for true crime podcasts and indulges in odd, lurid fantasies to help her sleep.

Then one day, a black cat appears in her apartment. Unnur finds out through a missing-pet posting that she has a name, Io, and an owner: the beautiful and waiflike Ásta. Ásta’s obnoxious boyfriend, Ragnar, doesn’t get along with Io, so she asks if Unnur can keep the cat for a few days. Although Io has already wrecked Unnur’s pristine white bedspread, she agrees. A few days turns into weeks and months. Ásta visits regularly, bringing food and supplies; Io gives birth to a kitten; the two women become friends.

Unnur needs a friend more than ever when she discovers that Jói has been lying to her about his marriage’s sexual side being over (his wife is pregnant, she announces on Instagram). Ironically, the very next day Unnur receives the promotion she craved, though the patronizing way it is offered makes her squirm.

DEAD WEIGHT isn’t explicitly political, but it’s hard not to read it as a feminist parable, in four parts: (1) Unnur lost her father at the formative age of 13 (by death or mere abandonment; it’s not clear). (2) She is trapped in the classic frustration and powerlessness of an affair with a married man. (3) She witnesses Ásta being beaten up by Ragnar. (4) She is promoted at a lower salary than her predecessor (when her boss offers his hand, she imagines chopping it off). All these men letting women down. Do they deserve to go unscathed?

Ultimately, Unnur and Ásta defend themselves, in a way that is not, let us say, for the squeamish. Because this is an Icelandic tale, the deed involves the distinctive sulphur springs the country is famous for; there’s a spooky nighttime scene near some scalding hot pools that would play well in a film. In fact, although Knútsdóttir’s prose is plain rather than fancy --- no elaborate descriptions, no lengthy backstories, a tone that’s matter-of-fact even when recounting something quite horrific --- the book is, in its way, cinematic: the black cats, the white rooms, the blood…

Ah, yes, the blood. There’s a great deal of rage behind Unnur’s detached, secretive façade. Certain moments seem like rehearsals for murder. She bites her thumb nail to the quick. “I watch the blood pool at the edge, becoming a shiny, deep red drop that sticks out like a precious stone.” She is prone to strange, off-kilter mental images while performing everyday cooking tasks: “I push my knife through the carrots slowly. I enjoy the sounds they make, like fingers breaking under my blade.” “… I rub marinade into my raw steak, the blood juices soaking my fingers.” Yech! Perhaps Knútsdóttir is telling us that Icelandic culture is like that, too --- an apparently smooth, orderly surface with the potential for mayhem roiling underneath.

But in the course of the novel, Unnur begins to change. The tender side of her emerges with her growing love for Io and her kitten (whom she names Gestur, or guest), and her protective affection for Ásta. It’s lovely to see how her airless, rule-bound existence gradually becomes softened by emotional attachment. Admittedly, it is disturbing that this transformation happens partly through an act of cathartic violence. Yet there is much to admire about Unnur’s refusal to remain a permanent victim. She manages to extricate herself from the “dead weight” of the past, the pain of abandonment by her father and Jói, and start over with a new configuration that looks a lot like --- dare I say it --- a happy family.