The Atom Station by Halldór Laxness

Behind the largest buildings in the town center there stood a small house which could not be seen from any street, and which no one would imagine existed. A stranger would argue, even swear on oath, that there was no house there. But there was one nevertheless, a ribbed wooden house, just one little story and loft, sagging with age-a relic of the old market-town of Reikevig. Angelica and chervil, tansies and dock, ran riot in the garden, so that one could just make out the tumble-down moldering palings here and there amongst this tall forest of weeds, still green and juicy although autumn was now well advanced. I never thought I would find this house, but in the end I did.

At first there seemed to be no sign of life about it, but on a closer look a pale streak of light could be seen at a window. I looked for the front door, but the house was set at an angle to the other buildings; at last I found the entrance, round at the back opposite the retaining wall of a large building-the street had probably lain that way in days gone by when the house was originally built. I opened the door and entered a dark passageway. At one point a gleam of light showed through a crack between door and jamb, and I knocked. After a brief moment the door was opened, and there stood a slim man of indeterminate age except that every other hair was going grey; and somehow I felt that he knew me the moment he looked at me with those clear expressive eyes, at once mocking and affectionate, from under his bushy eyebrows. I took off my glove and greeted him, and he bade me please enter.