Katrín Halldórsdóttir

The Reykjavik Exception is a novel about Árni Björnsson and Sofía Magnúsdóttir—two people in their mid-thirties who are very good at making decisions about everything except themselves. Árni is a volcanologist based in Reykjavik, researching the slow processes of the Hengill geothermal system. Sofía is an environmental lawyer based in Brussels, building a career around the rigorous cross-examination of environmental policy. They met three years ago at a conference in Oslo. They spent two days in conversation that felt, to both of them, like something that doesn't happen often—minds working at the same frequency, arguments that were also a form of intimacy. They said goodbye in a hotel lobby with the promise of an email that neither of them sent. Now, in January, they find themselves at the same remote guesthouse in the Lyngberg valley south of Reykjavik. Seven rooms. One week. The landscape is stripped to its bones—Iceland in January, the darkness, the geothermal heat rising through frozen ground, the particular quality of light that exists only at northern latitudes in winter. Árni has a job offer in Bergen he's been thinking about for three months without deciding. Sofía has a partnership offer in Brussels she's been thinking about for three months without accepting. Both of them came here because the valley is where you go when you need to think without the usual interference. Neither expected to find the other person at the same guesthouse. What follows is not a romance in the ordinary sense. It's something more interesting: two people who are very good at making professional decisions discovering that their personal lives require a different methodology. They talk. They argue. They examine the Brussels folder and the Bergen offer. They look at the geothermal vents and the northern lights. They try to figure out what happened in Oslo and why neither of them sent the email.