by Nick Petrie
The house lights dimmed and the hanging ropes lit in a chaos of color. More people crowded in, talking and laughing. They were all better-looking than Peter, too. They probably didn’t have so many scars. He guessed they weren’t fighting static like white phosphorus in their heads, either.
Peter had never been a young adult, not really. He’d worked construction for his father and uncle all through high school. After that, he was a scholarship student at Northwestern, working his ass off during summers to make food and rent money for the year. Then he’d signed up for the Marines after the towers came down, and spent the next eight years in the fight.
No wonder he was having trouble figuring out what to do with himself now that it was over.
He drained his beer. The bartender brought him another, just as bitter and foamy. Peter looked at him with raised eyebrows. The bartender shook his head. “No Bjarni.” Peter could barely hear him over the sound system.
The music got louder still. Peter could feel the thump of the bass against his skin. The house lights faded to black and lasers flickered on, narrow beams strobing across the ceiling. Peter put his back to the polished wood of the bar and watched as the growing crowd began to edge onto the dance floor. He saw luminescent chemical glow sticks ignite one by one as people cracked the seals and shook them, blurring bright in their hands. The DJ called out and the music changed, speeding up.
Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, everyone began to dance.
* * *
—
Somewhere near the bottom of his second beer, Peter realized he was feeling better. The static was still there, but its pressure had receded without his noticing. The music was growing on him. His head was lighter than it should have been from a few pints of beer, although not in a bad way. He felt clear as a windowpane. He probably should get something to eat.
The club had gotten warm. Peter shed his coat and found an empty stool at a corner table. The other people at the table smiled at him, and Peter smiled back. Icelanders came in all shapes and sizes, but they were all beautiful. They wore luminous bracelets and necklaces in a dozen colors, made with the same bright chemicals as the glow sticks. He pointed at his coat, then the stool, and they nodded. He draped his coat over the seat like a hunter at a Wisconsin tavern. Blinking at the lights, he felt the beer in his bloodstream.
He was still too warm, so he peeled off his fleece and laid it over his coat. His bare arms tingled where it met the air. He couldn’t take his eyes off the lasers flashing overhead. The music pulsed in his bones like a good infection. A young woman at the table locked eyes with him. She wore an electric green necklace doubled up as a headband. She stood and took his hand and led him onto the dance floor.
She was blond and pale and slender as a reed. In her early twenties, she was way too young for Peter, but she pulled him into the crowd like an electromagnet. He couldn’t let go of her hand if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to. She wore a crop top of some shiny metallic fabric that showed the taut muscles of her belly when she raised her arms. Her skirt was short and loose and filled like a bell when she spun on her toes. Her dark pupils filled her eyes. Peter had never been much of a dancer, but without conscious decision, he found himself on his toes, moving to the rhythm.
The press of people should have set the static raging and driven him out of there, but it didn’t. The static rose, yes, but instead of feeding the urge toward fight or flight, it extended the boundaries of his senses. He felt connected to the crowd like he never had before. The static merged with the music and lifted him. His feet and hips and shoulders flowed like liquid. The dance floor was a temple to a God he’d never before imagined.
He was part of a group now, all swirling together in the pulse of the music. The women swung their hair, arms in the air, and the men spun on the toes of their smooth-soled shoes. Everyone wore the colorful glowing bracelets or necklaces or held swirling glow sticks, which trailed light behind them like tracers in the night. Peter felt warm and strong and graceful, his shirt damp with sweat from the movement and exaltation of the fast, driving rhythm.
He took off his T-shirt and threw it high over the raised arms of the multitude of dancers. He was just a single small molecule, but also part of the larger organism, the universe of love. His feet were slower than he wanted, so he took off his boots while he danced. The magnetic young woman, laughing, took them from his hands before he could throw them into the air. She went away and he slipped around the glittering floor in his hiking socks, his entire body floating high and humming with joy. He was connected to everyone, and they to him, by the grace and power and beauty of the music.
Eventually he was barefoot, naked but for his white featherweight long underwear slung low on his hips. Under the strobing LEDs and flickering lasers and luminescent jewelry, in the center of a circle of glittering young women, he danced like a wild man.
Oblivious to their hungry eyes, their fingertips trailing across his electric alabaster skin, he was a whirling kinetic sculpture of bliss, his corded arms and shoulders taut and gleaming with sweat like some beautiful ecstatic primitive finally released from his darkened cave into the bright world for the first time.
6
When the tuxedo-shirted bartender pushed his way into the circle of dancers, Peter didn’t want to stop. It took him a while to come back to himself.
The young bartender was stronger than he looked. He took Peter’s arm and pulled him close to shout into Peter’s ear. “Bjarni.”
“Oh,” said Peter, remembering. “Where?”
“Outside. Having a cigarette.”
“Okay.” Feet still moving to the music, Peter held out a hand to the others, to his organism. “I’ll be right back. Save me a place.” He could barely hear his own voice.
The bartender towed him, dancing, through the crowd. “Where are your clothes?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere. I don’t want to wear them. Do I need them?”
“This is Iceland. December. You need clothes.”
“I don’t want to lose Bjarni.”
The bartender leaned into Peter and stared into one eye. “You drank both beers.”
“I was thirsty.” Peter smiled. “I feel pretty good.”
“I see that.” The bartender shook his head at Peter in his sagging long underwear bottoms. “Come. Where are your clothes?”
Peter pointed to the distant corner where he’d met the young woman, at the chair with his coat and boots, but his shirt and pants and socks weren’t there. Peter had thrown them into the crowd. The bartender said something in Icelandic, shaking his head. He pushed Peter’s bare feet into his leather boots and pulled the coat around Peter’s bare shoulders. He didn’t tie the boots or zip the jacket, but Peter didn’t mind. He was still too hot. His skin felt like an electric pink glow stick.
The bartender gestured toward a rear exit. “Go. Bjarni is there.” Peter set off, still dancing, his loose boots sloppy on his feet.
They climbed endless stairs into a narrow dead-end alley. The night air was cool and refreshing. The wind had stopped for the moment, but the snow still fell in fat, heavy flakes. Perfect white mounds piled high on the lids of trash cans and the windowsills of the stone buildings that shrank the sky around them.
One of the barbacks leaned against the stone. He was short and wide in a rough wool sweater and jeans. Smoke trickled upward from a cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger. His hands were the size of soup bowls, and his face was thick with unmown beard. Peter said, “You don’t look like Bjarni.”
The barback said something to the bartender in Icelandic and pushed himself off the wall.
Peter turned to the bartender. “What did he say?”
“That’s Dónaldur.” The bartender finally smiled. “He said we will take you to the bakery.”
The short barback flicked away his cigarette. “It means we are goi
ng to kick your ass.”
Still feeling the love from the dance floor, Peter didn’t quite understand. It must have showed on his face.
The young bartender rolled his thick shoulders. “I am Bjarni, you stupid American.” Then he stepped close and swung a low, heavy fist toward Peter’s stomach.
* * *
—
Peter danced sideways without conscious thought, the music still humming in his head. The punch didn’t touch him. He wasn’t understanding. “You’re Bjarni? Why didn’t you tell me that from the start?”
Bjarni came at Peter again with a long, looping roundhouse to the chin. Still feeling the music, Peter did an elegant shuffle and watched the knuckles pass. He had all the time in the world to hit back, but he didn’t want to hurt anyone. We’re all just human beings, aren’t we?
“Why are you upset?” Peter asked. “I just want to talk. I’m looking for your cousin Erik. I’m trying to help.”
Dónaldur moved in from the side and tried to hit Peter in the kidney. Peter deflected with a forearm and pushed the shorter man stumbling back with a hand to the chest, having suppressed his own long-trained reflex to step into the opening and put the man away quickly with an elbow to the temple or a punch to the throat. He was still feeling good, part of the great human tribe. A lover, not a fighter.
“You know what happened to Erik.” Bjarni’s face was twisted with anger. “You people are responsible.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Peter said. “I just want to help Erik do what’s right. What’s best for his son, Óskar.”
Bjarni came at him in a rush, trying to bowl him over with his size.
These guys weren’t very good at this. Peter stepped aside like a bullfighter, then swept away Bjarni’s outstretched arm and spun the man into the stone wall of the building. But somehow Bjarni had caught hold of Peter’s open jacket and yanked him off balance in his sloppy boots. While Peter adjusted, Dónaldur stepped inside and hit Peter with a short right to the ribs. Bjarni came off the wall in a hurry.
Peter tried to slip to the side, but had somehow stepped on his own untied bootlace so his foot couldn’t move. He’d already committed his weight and felt his center of gravity shifting irrevocably toward the snowy street.
He tried to turn the fall into a roll, hoping to keep his rhythm, but the jumble of trash cans got in the way, and he couldn’t find his feet in his too-loose boots. The music in his head went silent.
Then Bjarni kicked him in the stomach hard enough to knock him off his knees. Dónaldur stepped in and caught him in the hip. Stuck among the trash cans, Peter covered up as they took turns, grunting with each deliberate blow of their heavy-soled rubber boots. Not how a pro would have done it, Peter thought abstractly, but the two had more than enough enthusiasm to compensate.
A red blossom of pain in his thigh. “Go home.”
A kick to the chest, caught on his arms. “For you there is nothing here.”
A boot to the back. “Next time we throw you in a crevasse.”
A steel toe to the meat of his ass. “You will be lost for a thousand years.”
When they stood away, breathing hard, Peter wasn’t having fun anymore. He’d lost his coat and his boots. He lay hurting, shirtless, and curled into himself on the snowy pavement, his thin long underwear soaked with melt.
The radiant human joy was gone. A bottomless growl grew somewhere deep inside him. Black sorrow and rage flooded in, darker than he’d ever known. The static exploded.
As a short pair of legs wound up for a field goal, Peter rolled and caught the kicking boot with both hands, then twisted Dónaldur off his feet to a hard landing by a recycling bin. He put a bony knee into the fallen man’s thick chest and launched himself off the cobblestones, barefoot and nearly naked, steaming in the snow. He looked at Bjarni with blood in his eye. He roared like some raw creature newly uncaged.
Bjarni blinked, startled. He bent, scooped up a stone doorstop and came at Peter with it. Cold and aching, Peter was slower than he should have been, but he still stepped inside the blow. He caught the man’s thick right wrist with one hand and locked his elbow with the other. They stood close, struggling. Bjarni’s sword and shield tattoos dark against his pale skin. He smelled of stale cologne and alcohol and wet starched cotton.
When Peter broke the man’s arm, it made a snap that he felt in his teeth.
Bjarni made a sound like a trapped rabbit.
Peter heard the dull scrape of thick bottle glass rising off rough pavement. Dónaldur among the recycling.
Peter released Bjarni and was half-turned toward the sound when he felt a bright starburst at the back of his head. His knees evaporated and he fell face-first into the snow.
Now a frenzy of wild boots from both sides. The Icelanders were hurt and angry and Peter’s brains were scrambled. He used his arms to protect his neck and skull. There was no way this ended well. It didn’t take much to kick a downed man to death. He had to get off the ground. He got his knees under him but a steel toe to the ribs knocked him sideways.
His reception was fading. He was getting cold.
The kicking stopped. They leaned in. Dónaldur’s forehead wrinkled in concern. He favored one leg. Maybe Peter had twisted his knee. “Uh, Bjarni?”
Peter could only see from one eye. The other was swelling shut.
Bjarni didn’t look happy. His arm hung at a strange angle. Peter had done some damage, at least. “This is Iceland. Outsiders do not mess with Icelanders. Do you hear me? Forget Erik. Forget Óskar. Go home. Do not come back.”
“Hey, guys.” Peter’s voice was raspy. They leaned in farther. “Your beer sucks.”
Bjarni went to kick him again, but Dónaldur put a hand on his good arm and said something in Icelandic.
Then they were gone. He heard the metallic slam of the club door. Feathery flakes of snow floated down from the city-lit sky. An empty vodka bottle lay by his head. He imagined a dent in his skull the shape of its base. “Goddamn Vikings.”
Barely able to hear himself over the pounding of his head.
Made worse because of what was lost. That profound feeling of connection in the club. Alive and dancing in the presence of God.
The wind came up and raked across his bare chest. His long underwear bottoms were soaked through. His coat. Where was his coat? And his boots. Shit. It was embarrassing enough to get a beatdown by a farm boy in a tuxedo shirt. Even worse to die from it. He grunted and made it to his hands and knees, but no farther. Oh, he hurt. And he’d been having such a wonderful time.
Footsteps came softly in the snow-muffled night.
“Mary and Joseph.” A voice rose and fell. He felt a hand warm on his bare shoulder. “Can yeh stand, laddie?” Then a quick laugh. “I see you’re a bit worse for the drink. Some days a man needs to blow the cobwebs out. But I’ve got you now.”
A musical accent. Irish. The hand found his underarm and pulled him up with surprising strength. “Be proper criminal behavior to leave a man in this weather with no clothes, innit?”
Much as it hurt to be on his knees, it hurt worse to be upright. Peter forced himself to stand erect, taking census of the damage. Too early to know if there was anything permanent.
A pale, black-haired face peered at him. “Good Christ, that’s quite the punch-up you’ve had. Got a name?”
Did he? “Peter.” He hawked and spit blood.
“It speaks. I was gettin’ worried. I’m Seamus Heaney, like the poet.” Pronounced Shay-mus. Dark eyes under thick black eyebrows, the shadow of a black beard beneath pale skin. “Did you see who jumped yeh, lad? Shall we call a copper and make a complaint?”
Peter shook his head, then stopped. It hurt too much.
“Ah, we’re peas in a pod, we are. I’m not so fond of the coppers myself. How about a doctor? Surely they have a hospital in this lovely city.”
“No doctor,” Peter said. “Sleep.”
“You Americans, cowboys every one. Where’s your hotel, lad?”
“No hotel. Car.”
“You must be joking. It’s gone midnight. And well below freezing.” He peered at Peter’s grim face. “Perhaps not. Well, let’s get your clothes on before you catch your death.” The Irishman helped Peter into his snowy coat, then peered around at the icy cobbles and toppled trash cans. “Is there nothing else you were wearin’, lad?”
“Clothes in the club.” Peter struggled to get his bare, wet feet into his cold leather boots. It was harder than it should have been. He felt like he was running on three cylinders. Beat to shit, yes, but how had he gotten this drunk on just two beers? Unless there was something else in those bitter, foamy beers. Fucking Bjarni.
He scooped a fat handful of snow from a windowsill and put it to his swollen eye, then limped slowly down the alley. He’d been colder.
The Irishman called after him. “Lad?”
* * *
—
The nightclub stairwell was around the corner. People stood smoking and laughing on the pavement, shining and sleek in their club clothes, oblivious to the weather. One by one, they caught sight of him. Conversation stopped. They stared with wide eyes.
Peter looked down at himself, half-naked like some mountain troll crawling from his midnight cave. Swaying on his feet, one eye swelling shut, his shaggy, sweat-soaked hair beginning to freeze in the cold. The bottomless pit of his war memories yawned open before him. The white static climbed his spine.
Whatever they’d dosed him with, it had turned sour. He didn’t feel like dancing anymore. He felt like beating a bartender to death.
He bent to tie his boots and almost fell. The Irishman caught him.
“Come on, lad. Where’s your car?”
Peter shook his head. The shining people whispered to each other.
