It’s summer in the global south (which is winter in the global north), and for the month of February Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world.

Jakub Stachowiak is a poet and bookseller. Originally from Poland, he has lived in Iceland since 2016. He graduated from the University of Iceland in 2021 with a bachelor’s degree in Icelandic as a second language, and completed a master’s degree in Creative Writing in 2024.
His first poetry collection, Næturborgir (Nocturnal Cities), was published in 2021. This was followed by Úti bíður skáldleg veröld (Outside Awaits a Poetic World) and Flæði 3 (Flow 3) in 2022. In 2023, he published a collection of short prose titled Stjörnufallseyjur (Islands of a Falling Star).

The wind wakes me from my dreams, a familiar but uninvited guest. I hear it knocking on the bedroom windows and close my eyes again. Warm, memoryless darkness envelops me.

The howling increases as if in protest. An ancient proverb says that the lonely among us hear the wind better; that it is a loud reminder of our sad state, a prompt to take action. Another proverb, however, has the wind as a testament to love. 

Life being contradictory by its very nature, both are in all likelihood true.

I open my eyes slowly, reminding myself that it's impossible to sleep off the sorrow. Is it impossible?

I shuffle to my feet in my pants and shiver slightly as the soles of my feet touch the draughty floor. I draw back the curtains and close my eyes again against the pale light. The sun is just rising; it must be nearly ten o'clock.

The bedroom is rather empty; king-sized bed, desk covered in books and papers, vivid green walls bare, a few chairs from the charity shop. I gather my clothes, get dressed, and pause in the doorway.

I look over my shoulder. Where I walked, the floor was slippery. I yawn. I miss you so much. I walk backwards into the room and turn up the heating.

I go into the bathroom; cream-coloured tiles, a sink, a mirror.

I look into it before I turn on the tap. Ugh, must book a dentist's appointment. Strange how quickly teeth turn yellow when you're mourning a lost love. They're tobacco-yellow no matter how well I brush them. I let the cold water run into the sink.

I get the toothbrush and squeeze out the toothpaste. I smile faintly.

Before,

there were two brushes in the cup, yours made of bamboo, “more environmentally friendly,” you said, smiling. Your teeth were always dazzling white. The light in your smile banished any winter darkness. 

I spit out the water and look into the mirror. Rub the sleep from my green eyes, hearing you say in a bright voice: ‘This is sleep sand! If you collect the grains and put them in a jar, you can blow it in the face of anyone who annoys you. They'll fall asleep in no time!’

I hear your laughter echoing around the flat, laughter that could make the dead giggle in their graves. Sometimes the chuckling would drift to us from Hólavallagarður cemetry as we lay entwined in the king-size bed.

I go into the light-blue living room. There's a large dining table here;

before,

we used to sit at it, eating a steaming hot supper.

Now I sit at it alone and cry. The wind outside joins in. The light in the living room is heavenly as ever, just like your name. I remember when you first told me what it was; somehow all at once the world brightened and the angels laughed in heaven. Some people just shine brighter than others.

You said “Angelos” and your hazel eyes glittered in perfect agreement.

I shook my head thoughtfully, replying, 'You're so short I'm going to call you... I'm going to call you... Squirrel!' I leave the off-white living room - “Little Greece” you called it - and shuffle into the kitchen, the light trailing after me like a stray dog. I put the coffee pot on the hob and switch on the cooker, stroking the scar on my left hand.

Before,

when we met, my body was scar-free. I'm reminded of the night we drove out to Gróttu, watched the moon ripple on the sea, and you promised me that no scars of longing would grow on my body. I nodded, a defenceless teenager in spirit. How little I knew.

I didn't know that, unlike us Icelanders, your core was burning hot, and I burned myself on it. Again. And again. And again.

I stroke the scar one more time as the smell of coffee fills the kitchen, pouring this dark elixir into my cup.

I sit at the kitchen table, sipping the milky drink. A silence pervades, amplifying the screaming of the north wind; no sound, not even the ticking of the clock.

The hands froze at 11:54 when I received that fateful phone call from you last February. No clockmaker can fix the clock, no matter what he tries. Yet the sun continues to travel between pink clouds as if nothing has happened.

Before 

I received that fateful phone call, time was everything. We lived life as if every day were both the first and last. But one ordinary afternoon you called and said, 'I've moved back to Greece. Don't come looking for me, it'll be better for us both.'

You said, “I've just moved back home,” and the celestial bodies all fell from their moorings, the wind began to blow, the sea to roar, and the whole earth refused to green. Yet spring returned. The seasons rarely go on strike, but there is no comfort in that thought.

I finish the coffee, put the cup in the sink and open the humming fridge. Eggs, oranges and cartons of milk. I consider making pancakes and squeezing fresh juice, but abandon the idea. I'm hungry only for touch.

I can't shut it down, not even for a moment.

I step into the hallway, look in the full-length mirror. I've certainly lost a lot of weight since you left me; my clothes hang on me as though on a badly-made doll.

I lace up my walking boots, throw on my orange jacket, and am about to open the door when I spot it in a pile of clothes under the sofa. It's an ordinary grey, almost ridiculously plain. Your scarf.

Pulling it from the pile, I turn it in my fingers, your scent still surprisingly strong after all these months. On the underside, there's a white, embroidered rose that I hadn't seen 

before.

I brush a lonely tear from my cheek, open the door and step out into the new day.

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The Icelandic original can be downloaded here: