Prelude

by Ólafur Gunnarsson

for Andrei Tarkovsky

It is 1938. My sister Elisabeth is five years old. My own birth is ten years in the future. My sister is playing when her mother calls her and asks her to run an errand. What she is to buy is written on a piece of paper. While the shop assistant is gathering together what is written on the paper she sees a piece of chocolate costing 25 aurar behind the glass in the attendant’s desk. But she doesn’t risk buying without asking permission. She takes the paper bag home and gives it to her mother and asks permission to go buy the chocolate. But her mother refuses. She goes out to play some more but she cannot forget the chocolate, it looked so delicious. She goes for a second time but her mother refuses again.

     She is playing with a shovel and a bucket. The longing for the chocolate becomes an obsession, she goes again and again and begs for 25 aurar, but her mother becomes gradually more obstinate in accordance with her persistence. There is little or no money and Elisabeth must understand. She is big enough to understand such a thing. She is all of 5 years old.

     She is sitting on the sidewalk and shoveling sand into the bucket. It begins to rain. Although the street is not asphalted and the sidewalk has no paving, a sturdy row of stones separates the sidewalk from the street. She builds a dam by the curb. Water is pouring down the street and no matter how much sand she brings to her dam it always seeps through, the water always wins the battle. She longs for the chocolate more than ever.

     Suddenly she sees a man walking down the street. He is holding some chocolate in a white wrapper. He lifts her io his arms and puts his cheek to hers. She leans her cheek toward him. Her cheek is cold from the rain and her hair is wet. The man is me. Her brother. I am dreaming but she doesn’t know that. I am not aware of that either because I am sleeping, a man now well into his seventies, but she has been dead a long time.