The Reykjavik Greenhouse – Part 1: Tomatoes in the Dark

"Welcome to the tropics," said Gunnar.

"It is minus eight outside," said Anders.

"That is why it is the tropics."

The greenhouse was a long glass hall at the edge of a lava field, heated by hot water from the ground and lit by purple grow lamps. Outside, the winter dark pressed against the panes at three in the afternoon. Inside, rows of tomato vines climbed to the roof, heavy with red fruit, and the air was warm and green and smelled of leaves.

Anders, thirty-four, a Danish botanist who had run out of reasons to stay in Copenhagen, dropped his bags and took off his coat. Gunnar, thirty-eight, tall, quiet, with pale lashes and a woolly hat, handed him a pair of scissors.

"Prune the left side. Leave the shoots on the right."

They worked in companionable silence for days. Gunnar spoke seven words an hour and made excellent coffee. Anders talked too much, then learned to hum instead. The vines grew. The dark deepened. On the shortest day of the year, they sat on upturned crates eating warm tomatoes like apples, juice running down their wrists.

"I almost did not hire you," said Gunnar.

"Why did you?"

"You wrote in your letter that you wanted to grow something that was not afraid of the dark."

"Did I?" Anders blushed. "That sounds dramatic."

"I liked it." Gunnar looked at the tomato in his hand. "I like many things about you. I am not good at saying so."

"You just did."

Gunnar glanced up, and the purple light caught his pale eyes. "Can I kiss you? I am also not good at asking."

"You're doing wonderfully," said Anders. "Yes."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Northern Lights.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Northern Lights.