A young woman searches for home on a remote island.
Making her literary debut, Jacobsen, a third-generation Faroese-Dane, fashions a spare, lyrical novel, translated by Waight, tracing the fortunes and migrations of a Faroese family: some who spent their lives on the islands, others—like the narrator’s grandparents—who immigrated to Denmark. “Who were we?” asks the narrator. “The Faroese, those who stayed, and us, the blood guests, biological seeds sown by migrants?” On visits to the islands with her parents, the narrator teases out the family’s tangled history and her own ancestry. “In old photographs,” she observes, “eyes are always bright. Hands are meticulously placed,” but real life is messy: marred by failed dreams, mysterious disappearances, and secret longings. Jacobsen’s finely wrought cast of characters includes the narrator’s grandfather Fritz, whose dream of becoming an electrical engineer was thwarted for lack of money; her grandmother Marita, a spirited woman who followed Fritz to Denmark bearing a secret; her imperious—and wealthy—great-aunt Ingrún; and her grandfather’s brother, Ragnar, the island’s sole communist. War swirls in the background as Germans occupy Denmark and the British and then Danes occupy the Faroes. Even during the Cold War, the islands’ strategic location made it a site of intrigue: Informants swarmed, including the CIA. Home, exile, and belonging are overarching themes as the narrator considers the effects of migration over three generations: “Assimilation,” she reflects, “is a methodical loss of memory.” The first generation of immigrants, she realizes, feels inexorably compelled to seek a larger world; the next generation “maybe straddles the gap, until something cracks, and becomes doubly bad, non-lingual, doubly alone. Or it grinds twice as hard, expands the business, buys the carport, gets the medical degree.” The third generation, though, to which the narrator and Jacobsen belong, “carries the crossing within it like a loss.”
A sensitive meditation on belonging.