Touch

by Olaf Olafsson

Genres: Family Life; Literary Fiction; Mystery; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

A mesmerizing, panoramic story of one man’s search to find a lover who suddenly disappeared decades before

When the pandemic hits, Kristofer is forced to shutter his successful restaurant in Reykjavik, sending him into a spiral of uncertainty, even as his memory seems to be failing. But an uncanny bolt from the blue—a message from Miko Nakamura, a woman whom he’d known in the sixties when they were students in London—both inspires and rattles him, as he is drawn inexorably back into a love story that has marked him for life. Even as the pandemic upends his world, Kristofer finds himself pulled toward an answer to the mystery of Miko’s sudden departure decades before, compelling him to travel to London and Japan as the virus threatens to shut everything down.

A heart-wrenching love story and an absorbing mystery, Touch delves into the secrets of the past to explore the hidden lives that we all possess, the pain and beauty of our past loves and friendships that continue to leave their mark on us. Searching and lyrically rendered by acclaimed author Olaf Olafsson, Touch is a stunning tribute to the weight of history and the complexities of the human heart. 

Release date: August 16, 2022

Publisher: Ecco

Print pages: 304

Sample

 

 

The pale morning light seeps in through the curtains. As I drowse, Ithink I can hear the sea, the ebb and flow of distant waves. It’s in the morning that I sometimes find it difficult to orient myself, but not today, as I am perfectly aware that I am only imagining the sea’s murmur. And yet the sound is pleasant, the steady breathing, so clear I might almost convince myself there is somebody sleeping next to me.

I have decided to take the teacup with me, although to be honest, it’s rather impractical. My carry-on bag isn’t big and will easily fit in the overhead compartments of both aircraft, as I found out last night when I booked my flights. There is a bit more space on the plane to Japan than on the one to London, between a centimeter and two all around.

It was almost two in the morning when I finally went to bed. We exchanged messages for about half an hour, until she said she needed to rest. By then she had told me about having been hospitalized with the virus. In the next sentence she admitted she wouldn’t have tried to find me otherwise. She said it without preamble. Together with a few other things I am still digesting.

I was on the verge of asking if I could call her, but I didn’t. And I don’t regret it. Knowing her, she would have managed to wriggle out of it.

Knowing her . . . It’s a strange thing to say. And yet it hardly felt as if almost half a century has passed since we last saw each other, especially not after we had finished asking the usual polite but trivial questions and provided equally inconsequential answers. She was the one who took the initiative and ended the small talk, as she seemed in a hurry to say what was on her mind.

On the other hand, she was more guarded when I asked how she was feeling.

“A neighbor does the shopping for me,” she replied, “she leaves the groceries outside my door. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

By then I had learned that she lives alone. She and her husband had been childless. “I lost my wife, Inga, seven years ago,” I replied. “We had no children either.”

She didn’t ask me to come. Not even indirectly. And I didn’t mention to her I was thinking about it. In fact, it was only later, after we ended our conversation and I was back home contemplating the trees in the garden, that I convinced myself I would never find peace of mind if I didn’t go to her.

No sooner had I bought my tickets than a feeling of calm invaded me. Soon afterward the wind that had been blowing all evening dropped as well, and it started to snow. It had been a week of stormy weather, but now big fat snowflakes were floating to the ground like on a pretty Christmas card, settling on the drab lawn and naked branches, covering them so completely that they appeared painted white. I cast my eye over my to-do list, crossed out the tasks I had finished, added some new ones, and then went to bed.

Miko Nakamura . . . née Takahashi. The woman I have never told anybody about. Not my friends or the people I worked with all those years, not my parents or my brother, nobody, not even after I came back from London and they couldn’t understand why I was so unhappy. And of course not Inga. Least of all her.

I can see from the light that the snow hasn’t melted overnight. The brightness is a sign that the weather has cleared and the sun is beginning to shine. I run over the day’s tasks in my mind, decide how best to go about them, and wonder if I have left anything out.

Before I open my eyes completely, I practice the exercises I have been training myself to carry out these past few weeks. I start by remembering my ID card number, then my bank account number, my parents’ dates of birth and death, the names of all the Icelandic presidents, some of the newest dishes on our menu, and finally the tasks I added to my to-do list last night before going to bed.

When I am reasonably satisfied with the result, I get up and draw the curtains. The sun is shining on the snow. In the branches of the old spruce, a thrush is singing its lungs out. I have a sense of anticipation in my chest, a burning anticipation that takes me by surprise and reminds me that not so long ago I was a young man.

I could have set off tomorrow morning, but then I worry I wouldn’thave time to get everything done, as I am not a fast worker. This is nothing new; I have always needed peace and quiet to do things properly and therefore have learned to avoid rushing. But it also has occurred to me that I may never come back, and this has given me even more to think about. I am not saying this to be dramatic or elicit sympathy, because of course it’s very unlikely that I will be prevented from returning. However, nothing is certain these days and I wouldn’t wish to leave my affairs in disarray.

Naturally, I mentioned none of this to Mundi when I called him just now. Mundi is my older brother; he lives in a retirement flat in a house for the elderly down by the harbor. ...