The Orchestra - Sinfónia Lifsins - 43. The Rocky Road to Fatherhood

“Arnar, I need to talk to you.”

Gummi came up to me as soon as I walked off the stage at the end of my first day conducting a rehearsal. He seemed anxious. I nodded in agreement and he took me to his office. It was a rather long walk, but he did not say another word to me during that time.

“What is this about? Are you going to say the rehearsal went horribly wrong and you want to take over from here on in?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” Gummi sounded angry and impatient, but he managed a quick smile when he spoke again. “The rehearsal was brilliant; I think everyone will be happy to have you again tomorrow.” His serious face returned. “We need to talk about Siggi.”

Siggi. Of course. My son had had a panic attack in that same rehearsal. Siggi did not want to tell me the details, but it seemed Gummi was the one who caused it. Whatever the case, it looked like I was going to know once and for all. “Is it about what happened between the two of you today?”

“Yes. It was my fault, though I don’t know exactly what I did.”

“You got angry. Siggi had flashbacks about his father getting angry with him. This was triggering for him, and that’s why he acted the way he did.” I had known Siggi long enough to identify his triggers by the way he reacted to them. It had been no easy task, and it was undoubtedly a painful experience for him and for me.

“I see. I must apologise to him, then. It was not my intention to get angry with him as such.”

“What were you angry about?”

“It might come as a shock to you, but Siggi told me Kresten tried to rape him during the dress rehearsal for the Christmas Concert. I had no idea. I would never have thought…” Gummi sounded obviously distraught and shocked, but there was still an edge of anger in his tone.

“Siggi didn’t tell me either. I only got to know about it through Dmitri.”

“So you and Dmitri already knew? How many more people know?” Gummi’s eyes narrowed and his voice got louder and more aggressive. I knew him well enough to realise this was because he was taking his cluelessness on this matter as a personal failure to watch over the well-being of his orchestra. It was understandable that he would feel even worse if he thought he was the last one to know about such a serious matter. If he got this angry in front of Siggi too, it was very possible that Siggi misinterpreted that anger as being directed at him personally. Although it obviously did not make Siggi’s panic attack any less justifiable or serious, it assured me that Gummi really did not mean to hurt Siggi.

“As far as I know, only Dmitri and Gunni know about it, because they witnessed the whole thing. Siggi asked them not to tell anybody else, but Dmitri thought I should know anyway.”

“Dmitri and Gunni saw everything?” Gummi’s anger crumbled under his sense of failure and desperation. I felt sorry for him. “Do you know exactly what happened?”

“I have some idea, but it’s better if we hear it from those who were actually there.”

“I can’t believe this. Kresten… he has been playing with us for so long… Do you think this is the first time he did something like this?” Gummi buried his face in his hands. I shared his worries too.

“I don’t know. It’s definitely the first time it happened to Siggi, but I can’t say anything for the rest of the orchestra. No one has ever told me anything like that, and if they had I would’ve gone straight to you.”

“The rest of the orchestra trusts you. They would’ve told you if Kresten tried something of the sort.” Gummi was trying to reassure himself with his words more than me. Although I could understand why he reached that kind of conclusion, and even though I wanted to reassure Gummi too, I could not really do it. Gummi was my friend, and as such I considered it my duty to him to be as truthful as possible, even if the truth was not the most welcoming.

“My own son didn’t want me to know. If Siggi wanted to keep something like this a secret, it’s very possible that others would do the same.”

“Why would they do that?” Gummi went from burying his face in his hands to grabbing his hair in agony. I felt sorry for him. I understood his feelings very well. As our boss, Gummi was in a way responsible for all of us. It would be demoralising and worrying if something like this had happened more than once. “Do you think they don’t trust me? That I’m not a good enough boss?”

“I think the best way to know is to ask them. I suggest you call a meeting with the five of us to find out exactly what happened and discuss what to do from now on.”

“I already know what to do. I’m putting Kresten in jail!” Gummi snarled and punched the table. “I’ll make sure he never sings with us or with anyone else ever again!”

“I understand your feelings, Gummi. And believe me, I’m all for Kresten rotting in prison forever, but you need to calm down and find out what happened first.” I put my hand on top of Gummi’s to make a point. His face softened, but he was still tense. ”Maybe Siggi didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to deal with any more bad stuff. This happened soon after his suicide attempt. It’s very possible that he just had enough, and if this is really the case, it’s also possible that Siggi might still feel that and not want to do anything about it.”

“But he has to! If Kresten is a predator, he needs to be stopped before he hurts anyone else!” Gummi swatted my hand away. I took a deep breath and grabbed his hand again.

“I know this.” I shared Gummi’s anger. I wanted Kresten to get the punishment he deserved. I wanted him far away from Siggi and from everyone else in the ISO. But my years living with Siggi had taught me to keep that anger at bay and make a more level-headed judgement of the situation. “I want to stop Kresten too, but forcing Siggi to revisit his traumatic memories might not be the best answer right now. I will talk to Siggi, see how he feels about this whole thing, and bring him here to talk next week after his concert. But you have to promise you won’t make him do anything he’s not ready for.”

Gummi stared at me for a long time before he said anything. I could see he wanted to argue, but at the same time he knew it would not help anyone. “Fine, let’s not talk of this matter until after Siggi’s concert. We don’t want to distract him now, and risk it affecting his performance. But next Monday I want to talk to him and all those involved to decide what to do next. I promise I won’t force Siggi to do anything, but I will at least make sure Kresten never plays for us again.”

“Fair enough. Thank you, Gummi.” I smiled slightly, hoping to lighten the mood a little. “And please remember to not get angry in front of Siggi, even if you’re not angry at him. He can’t tell the difference, and it might trigger some of his worst memories.”

“I understand. I’ll try to be more careful.” Gummi looked apologetic enough. I knew he would never try to hurt Siggi on purpose, but it was still good to see he was not taking my reprimand too personally.

Gummi and I shook hands and parted ways. This matter was settled for now, but it was only a brief interlude.

(...)

Siggi came down for breakfast surprisingly early considering this was the morning after his big concert. I greeted him with a smile. “Good morning, Siggi! Did you sleep well?”

“I did.”

It was impossible for me to not keep smiling as my son approached the table. He held his head high, his shoulders were relaxed, and his whole body moved with a rather graceful swing as he walked. It could not have been more different than the first time Siggi had joined us for a meal.

When Siggi came down for breakfast on his first morning with us, he acted more like an animal that was preyed on, keeping his gaze down and only furtively glancing up to check if Ágústa and I were already there. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, not daring to approach the kitchen area. It was a harrowing sight. Siggi was so small and thin he could’ve passed for a ten-year-old, even though he had just turned fifteen.

“Are you hungry now? You didn’t eat anything last night, did you?” Ágústa asked him. Siggi’s answer was to look sideways and shuffle his feet. “It’s ok. I can make something for you now. What would you like to eat? We have gluten-free bread…”

“I already said there’s nothing I like to eat.” Siggi snarled. He had been just as aggressive the night before, answering with rudeness at our attempts at bonding with him. We had decided not to press him yet. The boy had just been discharged from the hospital. His left shoulder had been dislocated and thus his arm had been put in an uncomfortable-looking sling. Other than that, a patch of hair had been shaved off the back of his head, revealing a thick line of five stitches. We had been told Siggi’s father was responsible for those horrible injuries, and that Siggi had been put in foster care because of his father’s appalling history of abuse. Ágústa had correctly assumed that under those circumstances Siggi would be overly defensive and distrustful of us. She had warned me to be patient and to give Siggi space until he felt safe around us.

“Ok, then. Is there anything you don’t mind eating right now to make the hunger go away?” Ágústa tried to keep their conversation going. Siggi looked like he needed to be strapped to a table and force-fed until he looked the right weight for his age. Ágústa was good at being patient. She had worked with vulnerable children before. It was the frustration over her limited power at work that prompted her to retire earlier and start making a real difference in children’s lives by becoming a foster parent. I, on the other hand, was just a humble musician with a wish to do good for others.

“Who said I’m hungry?” Siggi still refused to look at us.

“Well, you came down from your room, and you haven’t eaten anything since you left the hospital yesterday. It’s only logical that your body wants food by now.”

I only observed as Ágústa tried to persuade Siggi to join us at the table. I trusted her to say the right things more than I trusted my own mouth.

“My body is fucked up. It doesn’t like food. I don’t need to eat.” Just then Siggi’s stomach growled loudly. “I hate you.” Siggi’s anger was not directed at us, but at his own body. I felt really sorry for him.

“I looked at the list of your allergies that the social worker gave us. Based on that, I got some salad leaves and an unseasoned steak that you can have for now. Over time, you can teach me what kinds of seasonings are safe for you and we can give you a more varied diet.” Ágústa smiled, but Siggi still did not look at her. “I’ll put those out for you now. As I said before, we also have gluten-free bread and lactose pills if you want to have butter and cheese.” Ágústa grabbed the food from the fridge as she spoke and placed it on the table. I got up to get Siggi’s plate and cutlery.

Siggi stayed by the staircase for a while longer. When he finally approached the table, he did so slowly and carefully, always waiting for our reaction. Ágústa signalled that I should pretend he was not there, and then Siggi finally sat with us.

“Feel free to eat as much as you want. There’s more in the fridge too, so don’t be afraid to ask for seconds.”

Siggi grabbed a slice of bread, a small steak, and one cheese slice. He swallowed the lactose pill and glanced at us before taking his first bite of food. He was extremely thin, the closest embodiment of ‘flesh and bones’ I had ever seen. He looked so frail I was worried that the next strong wind would blow him away. Siggi ate quickly and left the table hurriedly without saying a word.

“I’m glad. You do seem quite cheerful today.”

“Do I?” Back in the present, Siggi smiled slightly as he joined us at the table.

“Yes.”

“I guess I’ll believe you, then.” Siggi grinned playfully.

We had already prepared his breakfast as a treat to him. Ágústa exaggerated the size of his portions, as per usual hoping that Siggi would eat just a little bit more. Even if he was no longer just ‘flesh and bones’, he was still dangerously close to being underweight. Even years of going to the nutritionist and feeding him the most balanced diet possible under his circumstances were not enough to cause a significant change in him. What the better nutrition did was to kick-start his late puberty, but that meant he went through a surprising growth spurt just as he was beginning to reach a normal weight. We were all surprised when Siggi started to grow taller by the day, until he reached a staggering 1,96m (6’5’’). Siggi blamed this excessive growth on his father’s genes (the man was apparently over 2,10m (7’) tall, so Siggi still would have looked small in comparison to him). Unfortunately, growing so tall meant that all the weight Siggi had gained ended up being distributed over the larger area of his body, making him look just as thin as before, or even worse.

“Good, good.” A wave of pride took over me. Siggi had come so far in four years it was hard to believe I was looking at the same person. He was a lot stronger than he gave himself credit for. “I think yesterday was your best performance. I was very moved by it.”

“Me too. You two made me cry all the way to the encore. It was absolutely beautiful.” Ágústa pretended to wipe off tears from her eyes.

“Thank you.” Siggi lowered his head, avoiding eye contact. He still did not know how to deal with praise. It was endearing in a way, at least if I did not think about why this was so.

“The newspaper is saying pretty good things about the concert too.” I adjusted the newspaper in my hand to read out the concert’s reviews. “Sigurður Jónsson showed a kind of emotional virtuosity that brought tears to the eyes of many. Haydn never sounded so enticing.” I folded the paper with one hand as best as I could. “As if there was still any doubts about your performance.”

“I wouldn’t have cared if they said the opposite. Those were the same people who wanted my ‘emotional virtuosity’ out of the ISO for good less than a week ago.” Siggi was obviously not impressed, but I did not expect him to be. All the newspapers in the world could proclaim him the best cellist to ever have lived, and his reaction would be the same.

“Still, it’s good to have our work recognised.” I shrugged. Siggi would not change his mind about the newspapers just because I told him to. It was not worth trying. But there were certain things that needed to be said, and things Siggi needed to hear even if he did not know how to deal with them. “And anyway, I’m really proud of you for everything you did yesterday, and for everything you did in the past four years. It was an honour to conduct your concert.”

The first few months after Siggi’s arrival were the most difficult. Ágústa warned me that Siggi could try to test us, see how much he could push us before we turned out to be like his father. It broke my heart when she explained that Siggi probably expected us to be like that horrible man because that was the only kind of parental figure he ever knew.

Because of my work schedule, initially I only saw Siggi briefly in the morning before he went to school and in the evening during dinner. When he was at home, he spent most of his time in his room. This left only the weekends for me to try get closer to him.

“How long have you been playing the cello?” I asked him one Sunday morning during breakfast. Siggi was no longer afraid to approach the table, but he always ate as quickly as he could and acted as if we were not there at all.

“It’s none of your business.” He snarled without lifting his head from the plate.

“Ok, I’m sorry. I was just curious. Ágústa told me you play very well. Maybe we could play together some day?” I offered, though I had little hope he would accept it.

Siggi became completely still, like he was not even breathing. He stayed like this for a while, and when he spoke again his tone had lost much of its harshness, though it came out as barely a whisper. “I’m not that good.”

“Why don’t you play for me some time so I can see for myself? I’m really impressed that you chose to save your cello above all the other things you had in your old house. This tells me you’re probably a lot better than you think.” I tried to encourage him a little, but I had no idea how deeply his lack of self-esteem ran.

“I’m NOT!” Siggi shouted in an immediate reflex. Once he realised what he had done, however, he returned to his subdued position and spoke in whispers once again. “I’m horrible. I’m a failure.”

I did not know what to say to that. How could Siggi believe something like this so strongly when the mere fact that he was sitting with us for breakfast proved the exact opposite?

Siggi ended up leaving the breakfast table without finishing his food. For the next two weeks he refused to speak to me. Instead, he gave me a defiant glare every time I tried to interact with him.

As time went by, Siggi became increasingly aggressive. He shouted at us and berated insults if we did as much as ask him about his day. I knew objectively that he was just trying to test us and push our boundaries. I knew I should have been the bigger man and not fallen for this obvious trap, but four months after he came to us, near the end of October, I lost my patience.

I learned the first of Siggi’s triggers the hard way.

It started with Siggi shouting at me. “Fuck you! I didn’t ask for help! I didn’t ask you to be nice!” All I had done was offer him another piece of lamb. It had not been the first time he swore at me that day, or that he overacted to a simple question. Abused by his father or not, I thought Siggi had crossed a line.

“Ok, then! I’ll stop being nice! That’s what you want, isn’t it?” I raised my voice at him. Ágústa tried to tell me to stop, but I ignored her. “I’m tired of your petty games! We’ve been nothing but decent people to you! I want to help you get better, but there’s nothing I can do if you don’t even want to help yourself! What is it that you actually want, Siggi? What do you want me to do? I’m tired of guessing! I’m tired of being yelled at for doing absolutely nothing!”

Confronting Siggi directly was the worst thing I could have done, but I only realised it once I saw the horror and the fear in his face. He had frozen in place, all colour drained from him. His eyes were locked on me. He thought he knew what I was going to do next, yet he made no move to get away.

“Arnar is not going to hurt you.” Ágústa tried to reassure Siggi, but he did not listen. That was when I realised he really expected me to punish him with more than words. “We are not going to hurt you.”

“I’m sorry.” I took a deep breath. My anger dissipated as soon as I saw Siggi’s reaction. I felt guilty instead, and a little ashamed. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Siggi. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to leave the table and go to my room so you don’t have to be afraid of me anymore.” I did just as I said, and later Ágústa told me Siggi ran to his room as soon as I was out of sight. I feared this meant he would ask to be moved out as soon as possible, but fortunately this did not happen. It would be a couple of years before I learned that Siggi decided we were worth a second chance because he did not know how to react to me apologising and leaving without laying a hand on him.

The next weekend I found Siggi spying on me playing violin in the music room. He was trying to hide on the balcony that connected this room to our bedrooms, but I saw him through the reflection of the glass door. At first I happily pretended I had not seen him. It was dark and cold outside, so I assumed he was just curious about my playing and would leave soon. I was practising tricky orchestral excerpts, none of which sounded like good ear-warmers. I thought he would get bored soon.

Yet, Siggi stood outside in the cold November night listening to me for over an hour. At that point I decided I could no longer pretend, if only because Siggi needed to get warm. “Do you like what you hear? You can come in if you want.” There was no answer for a long time, but I could see that Siggi was still there, so I tried again. “Siggi, I’m talking to you. I know you’re there. Do you want to come in, sit down and get warm?”

“I…” Siggi shuffled his feet, but did not say anything else. After a while, Siggi approached the glass door and opened it, but did not come inside. As per usual for him, he completely avoided eye contact, staring at his own feet while keeping his arms crossed in front of his chest. “I kind of want to…” He bit his lip, but seemed reluctant to continue.

“You want to…? You can ask me anything.” I tried my best to reassure him. It was the first time in four months he was willingly communicating with me. I had to help him along as much as I could. I smiled slightly, though inside I felt like Christmas had come early. Siggi and I were finally making some progress, it seemed.

“Why didn’t you beat me?” Siggi was so quiet I almost did not hear him. I could see how much it hurt him just voicing this kind of thought, and I felt my own heart bleed from the horribleness that his question implied. Even though I had a sense of what Siggi’s father was like, even though I had been told about the hell that Siggi lived through, I was not prepared for such a question. I was not prepared to see Siggi appear confused and perplexed as he asked it either, like he really could not understand why I had not followed the path he expected me to. It finally put the last fifteen years of his life into perspective for me, and I felt an urge to hug him and tell him everything was going to be ok and he was going to be safe.

“Because it’s wrong to hit children,” I answered instead. Siggi was weary of me as it was, it would not go well with him if I tried to get any closer to him right now. “I’m never going to hit you. Parents and foster parents should be there to protect their children, not hurt them.”

“Even if they’re pathetic failures like me?”

If Siggi’s first question made my heart bleed, this one ripped it to shreds.

“You’re not a pathetic failure.” I took one step towards him, hoping this would not spook him. Thankfully, Siggi did not move. I tried to keep my tone neutral, even though I wanted to shout until the truth seeped into his brain. “You survived a world of horribleness that no one should have to endure. You fought back. You got hurt, but you kept going and you fought back and now you’re here with me to start your life over again. You’re a lot stronger than you realise.”

“I don’t believe you.” Siggi bit his lip again. He seemed to be making an effort not to cry. “Everything about me screams failure. My body hates me. It wants to kill me at every opportunity it gets. I’m a burden to everyone who’s ever had to take care of me. I only bring problems to people and cause trouble in their lives.”

“Don’t say that!” Too late I realised my voice came out louder than I intended. Siggi was immediately paralysed by fear. I took one step towards him and his body started to shake so badly he fell on the floor. He ended up dragging himself not out to the balcony, but to the corner of the music room. He closed himself in a ball and started to cry silently. As strange as I thought it was that he ignored a chance to run away from me, I was glad that it meant I could have another shot at making amends. “I’m sorry for shouting, Siggi. I’m not angry at you.” I heard Siggi’s sobs getting louder. “I’m not going to hurt you and I’m not angry. I’ll play some more until you feel it’s safe to come out.”

I picked up my violin again, but instead of practising the excerpts, I played a violin transposition of Back’s Cello Sonata. I hoped Siggi would recognise the music and feel more like he was in ‘friendly’ territory. I played mostly with my eyes closed so Siggi would not feel like I was watching him, but once in a while I peeked to check how he was doing. To my delight, it did not take him long to uncurl from his protective ball and watch me cautiously. He seemed to slowly relax into the music, to such an extent that by the time I finished, he was gently rocking in perfect synch to the music.

“That was beautiful.” Siggi did not seem to realise what he said until it was too late. He looked scared for a second, but then looked away and tried to put on an angry face. For me, his words felt like some kind of spell had been broken.

“Thank you, Siggi. I’m glad you liked it. Do you know how to play this piece?”

“Not as well as you.” Siggi grumbled.

I saw an opportunity and I took it. “How about we practice together?” I hoped this time, after hearing me play, he would feel more inclined to accept my offer.

“I’m not ready to play with someone as good as you. You’re a professional, I’m just a…”At least Siggi was no longer aggressive. Still, I was not about to give up just yet.

“You’re someone who cares enough about music to run away from home with just a cello on his back. I think that’s more than enough proof for me that you’re ready.”

“I don’t know. I’m really not that good.” Siggi was getting uncomfortable with my insistence. I decided to try my luck just one more time before I gave up on it.

“That’s ok. I just want us to have fun, I don’t care if you can barely play a note in tune. Let’s just try to have a good time, we don’t need to be professionals for that.”

Siggi appeared to consider my offer for some time before dashing through the glass doors into the balcony. I was not sure if he was finally taking his chance to run away for good or if he had just taken a shortcut back to his room to retrieve his cello. To say I was happy to see him return a couple of minutes later with his instrument would be a huge understatement.

“I’m really not that good, but–” Siggi started to say, but I did not let him finish.

“It doesn’t matter. I really just want to play with you. I won’t laugh at you or stop playing because you’re not good enough. I promise.” I offered my hand for him to shake. Siggi looked from my face to my hand a few times before tentatively taking it. I almost could not believe in the amount of progress we had made in just a couple of hours.

We tuned our instruments and I was surprised at how quickly Siggi sorted his cello. He had a good ear. It was a promising sign.

“What should we do?” he asked me rather shyly. At least he no longer seemed afraid of me.

“I don’t know. Should we play Bach’s sonata together to start with?”

“Ok.” Siggi turned his attention solely to his cello, waiting for my signal to start. By the looks of it, he had memorised the sonata. This was even more impressive than his tuning skills, and another indication that he was being way too modest about his own skills.

I counted us in and we started playing. I did not know exactly what kind of sound I expected from Siggi, but what I heard blew me away completely. He was still far from technical perfection (if such a thing even existed), his playing was not yet polished, and there was definitely room for lots of improvements, but Siggi had something else which I considered even more important. Siggi expressed through the cello a depth of feeling and sensibility that was hard to conceive looking only at his constant anger and evasiveness. Siggi put his heart into the music in a way that many professionals did not know how to do. This made his playing beautiful despite the minor mistakes.

I had to stop playing after a while because I could hardly concentrate on what I was supposed to play. I was overtaken by a sense of pride and joy. It was hard to believe that a boy who so far seemed only capable of showing anger or fear could have such a tender and sensitive side, or that he could play so beautifully despite all his problems. It gave me hope that Siggi had it in him to get better. The more I thought about it, the more I felt my eyes filling up with water, until I was forced to put my violin down.

Siggi noticed when I stopped playing and he put his bow down too. “Was it that bad?” Siggi did not look at me as he spoke, but I could see he seemed sad and disappointed. I could not let him believe such a lie.

“No, no, quite the opposite!” I gave him my most sincere smile, even as the first couple of tears fell. Siggi finally looked at me, and he seemed surprised by what he saw. “You’re really good, and you played beautifully. Thank you for sharing this moment with me.”

“You really mean it?”

It was hard to tell how much I had been influenced by the heat of the moment, but I felt as if Siggi was battling against his instinct to always put himself down. He seemed to be slowly daring to hope something good was happening to him, but at the same time he tried to hold on to his belief that he was perpetually doomed to fail. I did my best to encourage this little spark of hope.

“Yes, I do. And whoever tells you different is a horrible liar.”

Four years later, Siggi’s reaction to my praise had changed very little.

“I…” Siggi quickly closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Thanks.”

I hugged him with my good arm, and Siggi let his body rest against mine. “It’s ok. It’s ok. Let it out. It’s good for you.” I felt his body shake under my embrace, and I caressed his hair to help him calm down.

“Never go away again.”

Siggi’s words caught me where it hurt the most. I had not been there for him when he needed me there. I had failed him in a way. I was still working with my counsellor to learn to accept that it had not been my fault and that there was nothing I could have done then, but it was not easy. I had spent a lot of time in the hospital after my accident, and physiotherapy took much of my time afterwards. At first we hoped my hand would recover, but as physiotherapy dragged on without any significant improvement, it became clear that this was not to be.

I was still going through my own personal hell. My left hand had become completely useless. I would never be able to play the violin again. It was the end of my career and the end of an entire lifetime dedicated to music and to the ISO. I grieved my loss more than I let others realise because I still felt the weight of being the ISO’s leader even after being forced into permanent retirement. It took me months of constant therapy to begin to accept this change in my life, and to realise I could look into other ways of keeping my connection to music and to my previous job. Unfortunately, while my healing process was going on, I did not have the energy or the mental capacity to deal with anything else, and that meant I had to stop communicating with Siggi just as he began his descent into darkness.

My healing process was not over yet, but I was a lot stronger, particularly after proving that I could indeed keep my ties with the ISO. I was ready to help Siggi again, to drag him out of his dark world once more. “I won’t. I’m back, and I’m staying. I promise.” I would be there for him as the father he needed me to be. “I’ll do all I can to help you get better. We managed it once, we can do it again.”

“I believe you. I trust you.”

The first time I heard those words was almost exactly a year after Siggi and I first met. It was Siggi’s sixteenth birthday. In this one year living under the same roof, Ágústa and I learned a lot about his needs and the complexity of caring for someone with so many physical and mental health issues. We learned that even if we were extra careful around Siggi we could still accidentally trigger one or more of Siggi’s allergies. It happened often enough that we became experts in using EpiPens. And we also learned to deal with Siggi’s constant nightmares.

For the first few months, Siggi managed to hide the fact that he woke up almost every night because of the horrible memories of his childhood and the ghosts from his past. Once his father’s trial approached, though, his nightmares became much worse, and he could no longer deal with them on his own. During the trial, there were many days where Siggi had to relive his worst memories. This, in addition to the fear that his father might not be convicted and thus set free to seek revenge against him, quickly brought Siggi over the edge. The night before he was supposed to testify for the first time, Ágústa and I woke up to his screams at three in the morning.

“NO! NO!” We heard Siggi shout through the door. We barged into his room, only to find him curled into a ball in the corner next to his cello. His breath was shallow and he was covered in sweat. His bed covers were sprawled on the floor, like he had to fight them to be set free.

“It’s ok, Siggi. You’re safe. You just had a nightmare.” Ágústa tried to calm him down first, but Siggi took a while to acknowledge our presence.

“I know what it was,” he mumbled with his face still under his knees. We had to strain our ears to hear him.

“This is not the first time you’ve had one.” Ágústa guessed. Siggi did not answer, and we took it as confirmation that she was right. “You had a nightmare about your father.”

“It’s none of your business.” Siggi tried to sound aggressive, but his voice came out shaken and unusually high.

“It’s ok. You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Ágústa tried to reassure him.

I suddenly had an idea that I hoped would be more effective in making him feel better. “Do you want to play your cello until you feel able to sleep again?”

Siggi took some time to consider my proposal, and then slowly uncurled from his protective ball. He did not seem very convinced yet, though. “Can I? It’s late; I’m going to bother people.”

“We don’t have neighbours close enough to hear you. It’ll be fine.” I smiled confidently. Since the incident with Bach’s sonata, Siggi and I played together almost every weekend, though we always kept verbal communication to a minimum. I wanted to believe it meant Siggi was learning to trust me more, but his attitude outside of the music room seemed to indicate this was not the case. He was still reserved, flighty, and sometimes prone to anger outbursts. “Do you want a glass of milk as well?”

“I don’t need anything.” Siggi looked away. “If I play now, you won’t be able to sleep. You have to go to work tomorrow. I shouldn’t get in the way of your life.”

“You’re not getting in the way. I love listening to you playing, so it’ll be a pleasure to listen to you now. Your wellbeing is more important than my work. I won’t be able to sleep if I know you’re having nightmares in the room next to me.” I tried to reassure Siggi as best as I could.

“Are you serious?” he asked, looking at his cello.

“I meant every word I said.” Despite everything, I was learning to like Siggi. I had played with him enough to realise that his anger and rudeness were just defence mechanisms. There was a part of Siggi that was sensitive and capable of caring for others, but he kept it buried deep inside him so he wouldn’t feel vulnerable and get hurt even more. Siggi did not know how to deal with the part of him that felt things other than fear and pain either. He had a lot to learn in order to become a fully functional human being, and I was beginning to look forward to being the one to teach him. This was the reason Ágústa and I had become foster parents, after all.

When we learned that Siggi’s father was finally going to be put on trial for all the years of horrible abuse he subjected Siggi to, Ágústa and I realised Siggi would need a supportive environment more than ever before. We watched him as closely as he would let us, trying to attune for the needs he was hiding from us. His nightmares were exactly that kind of need.

“Then… then I guess I can play… but I don’t want milk.” Siggi got up slowly and took his cello to the music room without facing us even once. He took the route via the balcony doors so he would not have to pass by us on the way to the main door. I followed him once he started to play.

“If you have nightmares again, you can come straight here and play. It’s ok to wake us up and to ask for things,” I told him gently. Siggi carried on playing like he had not noticed my presence. I took it as a sign that I could say a couple more things that had been on my mind. “You must have gone through some hard times. I want to help you as much as I can, and I really mean it. You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m here for you.”

I left Siggi alone after that. Over the next few months, Ágústa and I were awakened by Siggi’s cello every other night. As horrible as it was to realise how frequently the nightmares haunted him, we also took it as a sign of progress that Siggi had believed us when we said he could go out and play if he needed it. This was a small sign of trust that we cherished greatly, despite the circumstances.

Siggi always played sad, heart-wrenching melodies that I knew he was improvising on the spot. They always made me want to go to the music room to comfort him, and get him to tell me what those nightmares were about. I wanted to help him share his burden so that he would not have to suffer it alone. But I knew he was not ready for it yet, so I patiently waited until the house fell silent again to pray that he received the strength he needed to get through the night, and that I gained the strength needed to help him when the time came.

On the day that his father’s sentence was going to be announced, Siggi did not sleep at all. He played through the night, pouring his heart out on sorrowful melodies that made Ágústa and me cry. It was finally too much for me. I entered the music room without saying a word and prepared my violin. I played with him, doing my best to accompany his melody and provide a kind of harmonic support that symbolised the kind of support I wanted to give him out of this room too. I hoped this way I would reach out to Siggi much better than through words. This was the only way he could demonstrate his feelings, so I thought I should speak to him in that same language.

To our mutual surprise, this little improvisation session evolved into an interesting musical number with us taking turns leading. My plan worked. I felt like I was really reaching out to Siggi, even though we were not saying a word to each other. And I felt Siggi had found a way to communicate with me too. He found a way of saying the kind of things he did not know how to put into words.

Siggi’s father ended up being sentenced to ten years in prison and was forbidden to approach his son ever again. It was a huge weight lifted from everyone’s shoulders, even if we all knew that Siggi’s problems would not disappear overnight just because of it.

“Thank you, Arnar.”

This was the first time I heard Siggi thank me for anything, and the first time I saw a shadow of a smile playing on his lips.

“You’re welcome. I’m here whenever you need.”

From that day on, things improved considerably, even if it was a slow process. Siggi and I played together more frequently, and I arranged for him to have lessons with Bergdís, the then-Principal Cello at the ISO. Little by little, Siggi let us into his world. By April, I had managed to convince him to cook with us, and to try out new recipes of safe foods. He mostly stopped making gratuitous insults, and remembered to thank us for things every now and then.

But for every step forward in our relationship, we knew he was still far from free of the marks of his past. His father’s imprisonment reduced his nightmares, but it did not stop them completely. Siggi still cowered when we showed anger (even if not related to him), and he was still unable to speak openly about his feelings.

Despite all this, by the time Siggi’s birthday came around, I had already realised my feelings towards him were way beyond just as his caretaker. I had seen Siggi go through so much in this one year that I felt instinctively protective of him in a way a real parent would. Somewhere along our struggle, I had come to regard Siggi as my own son.

On the day of his sixteenth birthday, Siggi called me and aside and showed me a battered notebook that he once used as a diary. “I want you to read it,” he said, passing me the notebook. I did as he asked, and found notes dating from when Siggi was as young as six years old. The notes were sporadic at best, but each of them spoke of the horrible things Siggi’s father did to him. The notes became increasingly sickening as Siggi became older and more able to express what was going on. I started to cry halfway through and did not stop until long after I had reached the end. If I had not known Siggi personally and witnessed his struggle, I would have trouble believing that people such as his father could be this cruel, particularly to his own child.

The last note was written on the day Siggi came to live with us. He wrote that he was going to test us to see if he had been sent to a hell just like the one he had run away from.

“Thank you for showing me these, Siggi. Does that mean I passed your test?” I had been crying so much I had trouble keeping my voice from shaking. When I saw that Siggi had a shy smile on his lips, the tears came with renewed force even before he spoke.

“I didn’t think it would be possible, but I guess you did.” Siggi sounded like he had a hard time believing his own words too.

“I’m glad,” I managed to say under the mixture of joy and relief that grew inside me. My next words came out naturally, like they had been the unquestionable truth from the very beginning. “You have really become like a son to me. I love you, Siggi.”

“I don’t think my father ever said that.” Siggi seemed surprised. He looked like he was about to cry too.

“Then let me be your father from now on.”

Siggi wrote one last entry in his notebook, proudly proclaiming that he had a new father and that ‘this hell turned out to be much better than expected’.

“I believe you. I trust you.” Siggi and I hugged as tightly as we could, and our tears fell freely from then on.

Siggi was my son. Even if it did not seem like it at first, he turned out to be the greatest gift I have ever received. I was proud of him, I loved him, and nothing in the world would ever change that.