And Then You Die

by Michael Dibdin

  Inspector SigurDarðòttir handed over the passport in the name of Pier Giorgio Butani to Zen. Then she flashed Zen a brief smile, like a shaft of sunlight glancing off an ice field, and left.

  ‘Well, that’s all very well,’ Zen said testily to Snæbjörn Guðmundsson. ‘I can leave, but how? The only ticket I’ve got is on Alitalia. Do they fly to Iceland?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what am I supposed to do, have them divert another plane to pick me up?’

  ‘I imagine that they will have made arrangements with another airline to fly you to America. We can check with the airport. But the first step is to inform the embassy in Copenhagen. I’ll do that on the land line in my study.’

  He returned a few minutes later.

  ‘Well, that’s done. They’re going to contact Rome. We’re to await instructions.’

  A silence fell.

  ‘Where did you learn Italian?’ asked Zen.

  ‘When I was a student in Florence, many years ago.’

  ‘Studying what?’

  ‘Art.’

  ‘Oh yes, you said you were an artist.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Zen glanced around the stridently bare walls.

  ‘So you sell all your work?’

  ‘None of it.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘No. It’s no good, you see.’

  Zen smiled politely.

  ‘I’m sure you’re just being modest.’

  ‘Not at all. I may not be much of an artist, but I’m an excellent judge of art. I sometimes wish I weren’t. It might make it possible to believe that my stuff had some value. But it doesn’t. I know that.’

  ‘But you keep working?’

  ‘Oh yes. What else would I do?’

  ‘So where are your paintings?’

  Snæbjörn Guðmundsson stood up.

  ‘Would you like to see them?’

  Zen’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted was a guided tour round some amateur dauber’s studio. Fortunately the telephone rang next door.

  ‘It’s Rome,’ said the consul, reappearing in the doorway a moment later. ‘For you.’

  Guðmundsson’s study, by contrast with the living area, was a jumble, of papers and files. Zen seated himself at the desk and picked up the phone.

  ‘Pronto.’

  ‘Buona sera, dottore. This is not a secure line, so it’s important that we do not identify ourselves or be too specific about the matters under discussion.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘We have spoken before, most recently on your connecting flight from Pisa to Milan.’

  ‘Ah yes.’

  ‘I understand that you have had a tiresome time recently, but that everything is now sorted out.’

  ‘That’s right. What’s not clear is how I’m to continue my journey.’

  ‘The answer is that you aren’t.’

  ‘I’m not?’

  ‘No. There have been developments. In fact we have reason to suppose that they may have pre-dated your departure, but our American counterparts have only just seen fit to inform us.’

  ‘I hope there’s no lack of trust implied.’

  ‘If so, it would be totally unjustified. There have been no breaches of security this end, I can assure you.’

  ‘That’s good to know. So if one of these attempts on my life finally succeeds, I can the secure in the knowledge that the leak was of non-Italian origin.’

  ‘Please don’t be facetious. It’s also most inappropriate to mention such matters on this connection. In any case, there will be no more such episodes.’

  ‘That’s certain, is it?’

  ‘Absolutely certain. As I said, there have been developments, as a result of which the event at which you were to participate in the United States has now been postponed and may well be cancelled altogether.’

  Zen hardly dared to believe what he had heard.

  ‘In short, one of the two principal protagonists has decided to co-operate with our side,’ the Foreign Ministry man went on. ‘As a result, your participation has been rendered superfluous. There is therefore no need for you to attend, and no risk that any further attempts will be made to prevent you from doing so.’

  Zen laughed lightly.

  ‘It was Nello, right?’ he said.

  ‘Please!’

  ‘All right, but it was, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes. How did you know?’

  ‘He talked to me in the car, while they were driving me to meet you know who. He explained how they lit the landing strip for the aircraft. The other man told him to shut up. I could tell he was a talker then. Any competent cop or magistrate could have got him to open up eventually. He was one of those people who just can’t bear to be silent.’

  ‘Well, that’s what happened. And you’ll be pleased to know that there’s some evidence that the incident at Versilia may have been a contributing factor. In their view, it seems, that was their last hope of preventing your appearance at the event in America, and when it failed the outcome was preordained. So one of the protagonists, the one you mentioned, apparently decided to make a deal. His cooperation in return for a new identity and a new life over there.’

  ‘Any chance of that for me?’

  ‘Better still, you can have your old one back. You’re to return immediately for a complete briefing at your normal place of employment. Our embassy in Copenhagen will send full details to the consul shortly. I wish you a pleasant journey and a safe return home.’

  When Zen reappeared in the living room, Snæbjörn Guðmundsson looked at him curiously.

  ‘The embassy in Denmark is going to contact you about my travel arrangements,’ Zen told him.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Basically, I’m going back to Italy.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Immediately.’

  The consul nodded his understanding of the rules of this game. He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Well, that’ll probably be the two-thirty to Copenhagen.’

  Zen looked surprised.

  ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘Half past ten. Plenty of time.’

  ‘It can’t be only half past ten! It must be noon at least.’

  ‘No, half past ten in the evening. The flight’s in the early morning. We’re so remote, you see. It takes three hours to get to Europe, and we’re on British time, so that’s another hour. If you want to get to a business meeting on time, you have to leave after midnight. But don’t worry, I’ll get you there in plenty of time.’

  He looked at Zen and smiled.

  ‘You asked to see my paintings. Come this way.’

  Zen, who had completely forgotten this aspect of their conversation, followed the consul into his kitchen, then out into the back yard of the house, a concreted rectangle containing a large pile of black ash.

  ‘There they are,’ said Guðmundsson. ‘The most recent ones, that is. The others are feeding the flowers in the beds at the front. What do you think?’

  Zen gave a nervous smile.

  ‘Are you some sort of performance artist?’ he asked.

  He had heard of people like that, who did things associated to his mind with circus performers and children’s entertainers.

  ‘Well, maybe I am,’ Guðmundsson replied. ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way. This business has disrupted my normal schedule, of course, but on the whole I work hard, six hours a day at least. And at the time I’m always convinced that I’ve finally managed to produce something worthwhile. But then when it’s finished I look at it and realize that I was wrong. It’s just another botched job, one more piece of ugly nonsense. And God knows there’s enough ugly nonsense in the world already. So I bring it out here and burn it.’

  Zen gave what he hoped would be perceived as a judicious nod.

  ‘It’s like the Hippocratic Oath,’ the consul went on with a face as straight as a priest. ‘All would-be artists should be made to sign it. Rule number one, “Do No Harm”. If I can’t ac
hieve something even vaguely resembling the sort of art I saw every day while I lived in Italy, the very least I can do is not clutter up the planet with any more trendy bric-a-brac. It seems that all I can manage is the clever, and who needs that? We’re all clever these days. We’re all so fucking clever. I’d rather make a nice bonfire and at least feel clean afterwards.’

  He closed the door and led the way back inside.

  ‘I’d better call the embassy in Copenhagen and find out about your flights.’

  Zen went back to the storeroom where he had spent the night, and packed up his bags. When he reappeared next door, Guðmundsson was already there.

  ‘Right. They’ve booked you on the two-thirty to Copenhagen, as I thought, with an onward connection to Rome. You’re to contact someone named Brugnoli on arrival. The tickets will be waiting at the SAS counter at Keflavik. If you’re all set, we might as well go.’

  Zen lugged his bags back to the car and they set off. As soon as they were past the outskirts of the bleak, cheerless town, Zen felt his spirits rise. He still felt half drunk and totally disorientated, and had had no time to work out the implications of what had happened. But all that mattered was that he was leaving. He had never felt such a visceral urgency to get away from any place.

  Suddenly the car drew in to the side of the highway.

  ‘Do you see that rock over there?’ asked the consul, pointing.

  It was a massive outcropping of volcanic basalt, worn and weathered by the elements into myriad fantastic gullies and crevices.

  ‘That’s where they’re supposed to live, in rocks like that one, hidden away in the crannies and crevasses. Allegedly they can be very vindictive if disturbed.’

  Zen glanced at the consul, who restarted the car and drove on.

  ‘The huldufolk, I mean,’ he explained. ‘There’s a rock much like that on the property where my family’s summer house is. My father was a member of parliament for the Alþyðuflokkurinn, a very radical, left-wing party. He was also a close friend of Halldor Laxness, our Nobel Prize-winning writer, and generally prided himself on being a progressive, forward-looking individual. But when we had a new driveway put in to the summer house, he made the builders go all the way round that rock rather than blow it up, even though it added almost half a kilometre to the length of the drive, and of course to the cost. “You surely don’t believe in that superstitious nonsense?” I asked him mockingly. I’ve never forgotten his reply. “Of course not,” he said. “But you can’t be too careful.”’

  They drove on for a while in silence. At last the structures of the airport appeared in the distance. Zen lit a cigarette and turned to Guðmundsson.

  ‘You said that I was only the second case you’re heard of where a foreigner had this …’

  ‘Fylgja. Yes.’

  ‘Who was the other?’

  Guðmundsson laughed.

  ‘It’s a droll story. I told you that Keflavik was originally built as a military base during the Second World War. Well, one of the servicemen stationed there started showing symptoms of the condition, going on about people that no one else could see and so on. A lot of those rocks were torn up and blown apart to lay out the runways and base facilities, and so many of the “hidden people” must have been made homeless. At any rate, the medics who examined the man had never heard of the huldufolk, of course. They decided the guy was crazy and shipped him back to the States. This was just before the Normandy landings.’

  Zen smiled.

  ‘Lucky man!’

  ‘Not really. The ship he was on got torpedoed by a U-boat off Newfoundland and went down with all hands.’

  The parking lot at the airport was almost empty. Snæbjörn Guðmundsson pulled up right in front of the handsomely sterile terminal building.

  ‘Now before we part,’ he said, turning to Zen, ‘I would suggest that you bear in mind what happened to that GI.’

  Zen frowned.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Guðmundsson sighed.

  ‘I absolutely believe everything that you told me about what happened to you last night. I also give you my word that I shall not reveal it to anyone else. I strongly advise you to do the same. What may seem quite plausible here in Iceland will sound like arrant lunacy back in Italy. People will remember that car accident you had, and begin to wonder if the injuries you sustained were purely physical. Do you see what I mean?’

  Zen nodded.

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. I thought you meant something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you said I should bear in mind what happened to the American. I thought you meant that my seeming good luck might turn out to be a death sentence in disguise too.’

  Snæbjörn Guðmundsson laughed.

  ‘Of course not! Actually, he was very much the exception. Most people who are skyggn enjoy excellent health and live to an exceptionally old age.’

  They both got out of the car. The consul fetched a trolley for Zen’s bags. Once they were loaded, the two men stood there awkwardly.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said Zen. ‘And good luck with the painting.’

  Snæbjörn Guðmundsson grimaced.

  ‘Just one authentic piece before I die, that’s all I ask. It doesn’t matter how small or insignificant, still less whether anyone else notices or cares. Just one true thing, so that I can feel that my life hasn’t been wholly wasted.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, whoever you may be,’ Snæbjörn Guðmundsson commented with an arch smile. ‘I wish you a safe and pleasant onward journey. And please try and forget about what we’ve been discussing. It’s really just a strictly local folk myth of no wider significance. It may or may not be true here, but it certainly isn’t anywhere else. There are no hidden people where you’re going!’

  ROMA

  The first thing he did, after being flushed out of the side entrance of the Stazione Termini in a party of hearty young foreign backpackers and their parasitical horde of touts, rogue cabbies, beggars and pickpockets, was to get something to eat. Not that he had any excuse for feeling hungry. They’d fed him something called ‘breakfast’ on the flight to Denmark, and something else called ‘a snack’ on the connecting plane to Fiumicino. But this wasn’t a question of physical hunger. His needs were deeper and more complex than that, and luckily he knew just how to satisfy them.

  He crossed the busy street, delighting in several near misses and a very ripe insult from one of the drivers vying for position, then headed towards Piazza della Repubblica. After a few more life-enhancing, near-death traffic experiences, he turned left along Via Viminale, humming a sprightly melody he eventually identified as the national anthem, last heard in truncated electronic form emanating from Snæbjörn Guðmundsson’s cellphone. ‘L’Italia chi-amò, stringiamoci a coorte, siam pronti alla morte …’

  Opposite a curvaceous section of a redbrick rotunda, once the southern corner of a vast complex of public baths erected by some Roman emperor, stood a poky little establishment about the size of a neighbourhood barber’s shop. Inside the window, a roast piglet reclined languidly in a glass case as though taking an afternoon nap. Once through the doorway, there were a few rough wooden tables, chairs and benches. The proprietor, Ernesto, a short man who had come to closely resemble the product he sold, presided from a zinc serving bar at the back. He gave a mock start of astonishment as Zen walked in.

  ‘I thought you were dead!’ he exclaimed in a Roman accent that would have needed one of his own knives to cut.

  Zen nodded.

  ‘There was a rumour to that effect.’

  The two men shook hands, the owner having wiped his off on his filthy apron.

  ‘That shocking business in Sicily!’ exclaimed Ernesto with a massive shrug which effectively erased that island from the atlas. ‘It was all over the TV and papers, but of course De Angelis and the rest of the lads gave me the inside story. It’s sickening, just sickening! What are we sup
posed to do with those people? We’ve tried everything, and nothing works. Let’s face it, they’re just not like us. Never were, never will be. And now they’re talking about building that bridge to the mainland, at the taxpayers’ expense, needless to say. You know what I say? Forget it! Stop the ferries! Patrol the straits with gunboats and shoot the bastards if they try to smuggle themselves into the country. They’re worse than the Albanians.’

  At any other time, Zen might have been inclined to agree, but in his present state he felt like gripping Ernesto by the arms and trying to convince him that they were all – yes, even the Sicilians – fratelli d’Italia. He had enough common sense left, though, to realize that this would not do. Although open to the general public, Ernesto’s establishment also functioned as a private club for a circle of privileged regulars, and like any club it had its rules. One of these was that a certain amount of purely rhetorical racism had to be tolerated in the spirit in which it was offered, as an innocuous way of establishing commonality and bonding, expressing solidarity and exasperation, and excluding outsiders. Like the human body, a community could only tolerate a certain degree of invasive otherness without internal collapse. The Romans had had fifteen hundred years of practice in the necessary strategies of passive aggression, and Zen for one did not feel that it was his business to criticize them. The baths which once covered this whole area of the city might have been pillaged and quarried and razed to the ground, but the people were still here.

  ‘So where have you been all this time?’ Ernesto went on. ‘They told us you’d survived that Mafia bomb, but when you didn’t show up here I began to wonder. Maybe they’re not telling us the truth, I thought. Even De Angelis didn’t seem to know anything definite. Maybe we’re all out of the loop, I thought. Maybe the whole thing is just a huge lie! After all, it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’

  Zen seated himself at one of the narrow tables.

  ‘It certainly wouldn’t.’

  ‘So where were you?’

  ‘At the end of the earth, Ernesto. It’s a long story, and I’ve got an appointment at the office in fifteen minutes. Meanwhile I’m ready for some real food.’