Season of the Witch

by Thorarinsson, Arni

  “So the police have no concerns about a dangerous and uncontrollable situation arising when two groups come into conflict? The locals and the incomers?”

  Höskuldur hesitates. “Of course we’re concerned about violence and drunkenness. We always have been. Nothing’s changed.”

  “And hasn’t the problem gotten worse since so many people moved into the area to work on the construction projects?”

  “You listen to me, young man,” says the chief, leaning across his desk toward me. “Of course there are more problems when the population of a little place like this suddenly increases. There are more people, more jobs, and that means more tasks for us. That’s what we prefer to call them, not ‘problems.’ And we deal with our tasks as they come up. And I hope we are going to be left alone to deal with them. It’s never a good idea to add fuel to the flames.”

  “Oh? Is something on fire here then?”

  Höskuldur’s friendly expression has been steadily wearing thin since the start of the interview. Now he is the picture of distrust. “Please, I would ask you, as a responsible reporter, not to take my remarks out of context. I admit that these are sensitive times here. But in such delicate situations, it’s necessary to act responsibly. And that applies to the media too.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I reply. “But isn’t it sometimes a fine line between acting responsibly and presenting a false, or at least edited, version of the truth? Isn’t that a matter of responsibility too?”

  He stands up behind his desk and extends a meaty hand to shake mine. “I hope I can trust you to do the former without doing the latter,” he says, his friendliness restored. “I hope you will live up to that trust.”

  The reception area of the hotel, on the opposite side of the street, is as neat and tidy as before. But the bare and unadorned interior has given way to a riot of flowers and potted plants in every corner. Behind the desk is the long-faced, sunken-cheeked man I remember from my previous visit, who owned and ran the place with his Thai wife. Still long-faced and sunken-cheeked, he is now better dressed and groomed.

  I introduce Jóa and myself, mentioning that I stayed at the hotel last winter.

  “Yes, I think I remember you,” says the man, whose name is Óskar. “From the Afternoon News, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” I say, looking around and glancing into the crowded restaurant. “Things have changed a bit since last year. There was hardly anyone here then. Including me.”

  “Yes, it’s extraordinary.”

  “So you and your wife are still running the hotel? Finally cashing in?”

  “Unfortunately not. We leased the business from the municipality, as you may remember. We’d been running it for three years. But the village authorities revoked the agreement and sold the hotel to Ásgrímur Pétursson—lock, stock, and barrel. We just work here now.”

  “What a bummer! When business finally picked up!”

  “There’s no point thinking about that. We get our wages. And we don’t have to worry anymore.”

  “But you wouldn’t have to anyway, would you, now that things are looking up?”

  Apparently stoical, he replies: “So be it.” Then adds: “Fortunately we’re Buddhists.”

  Jóa says she’s going out to take some pictures of village life. I explain to the innkeeper why we have come to the village and tell him about our conversation with the chief of police.

  “Höskuldur isn’t Ásgrímur Pétursson’s brother for nothing,” he remarks with a smile.

  Now I realize why I thought there was something familiar about Chief Höskuldur.

  “He’s all right, apart from that. And I think it’s better to play these things down rather than making a fuss. They can get out of control.”

  “What really happened?”

  “You can’t quote me on this. Not a word. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “No, not a word. I’m just looking for information.”

  He ushers me into his office behind the reception desk. We sit side by side in two armchairs in front of his desk.

  “When you get a melting pot of people of various origins,” he says, “Poles, Portuguese, Chinese, Dutch, Latvians, Estonians, and the rest—it can make a curious cocktail. People bring with them all their different cultures, beliefs, social backgrounds, education, and experience. Not to mention languages. And they generally don’t know much about Icelandic culture and natural conditions, or the weather. Everybody must be aware of that, or at least they should be. But the problems start to arise when you add the Icelanders into the mix. My wife and I knew all about that long before people started flooding into the village. My wife’s from Thailand, as you may recall.”

  I nod. I had observed some prejudice against her. “So are the Icelanders responsible for this drunken violence on the weekends?”

  “That’s how it started. But it’s not necessarily the case now. After a while everyone gets to feel insecure and tense and angry. The mixture gets shaken up.”

  “And becomes a Molotov cocktail?”

  “No, not at all. It’s nowhere near that bad. Not yet. And the good things here far outweigh the bad. So far.”

  “Have you had any problems with gangs?”

  He glances around as if to ensure that no one is eavesdropping. “There are a few guys, maybe four or five of them, who seem to get something out of it.” He speaks softly. “They egg each other on, with insults, insinuations, and aggression. Usually it’s about women or some form of racial slur. Or just xenophobia, if there’s no racial angle. It’s as stupid as you can imagine.”

  “Icelanders?”

  “Well, oddly enough…most of them are Icelanders, but one of them is the son of a man who came in from somewhere in the Baltic or the Balkans or wherever. I don’t remember exactly. They’ve formed a gang, for their own entertainment. But these troublemakers, whatever their ethnicity, seem to seek each other out. I’ve actually heard that they’re getting bored with starting fights here in the village, so they go over to Akureyri now and then for a bigger thrill. The night before last, it was one of the Icelanders who suffered the most damage. I hear he’s rather sore around the crotch today.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A young man of about twenty. Agnar Hansen.”

  “Not, perchance, related to Jóhann Hansen, leader of the local council?”

  “His son, as a matter of fact. The boy’s an alcoholic, of course. Or worse.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “They hang out at Reydin. But I shouldn’t think they’ll be welcome there much longer. The owner’s not happy about the reputation his place is getting. Naturally enough. There’s a lot at stake for everyone here. But especially for some individuals.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  “Who?” echoes Óskar in surprise. “The Owner, of course. With a capital O.”

  “Really?” I exclaim. “But Ásgrímur’s hardly likely to kick out the son of his best friend and ally, Mr. Big, the local boss?”

  “There’s only one boss here. And bosses know which side their bread is buttered on. Isn’t that what it’s all about?”

  “Ah, yes. What happened about that planned nature resort that was supposed to be developed on Ásgrímur’s land outside the village?”

  “That came to nothing. Ásgrímur has leased the land to Industria Corporation and their subcontractors for accommodations for their workers. Made a very sweet deal too.”

  Well, I never.

  Reydin looks as if it may have started life as a warehouse. The wood has been polished up. Posts and beams support a lofty roof over the long, narrow room. On either side are wooden tables and chairs in two rows and, at the end of the space, a big, solid wood bar. I wonder briefly whether it’s due to growing multicultural influence that the bar is open on one of the high holy days of the Christian calendar, Palm Sunday. In the old Lutheran Iceland of my youth, no business could open its doors on that day. There are about twenty customers in the bar, sc
attered at six tables, most drinking beers. A few have opted for coffee. The majority are male and Icelandic, but other languages can be heard through the babble. Over the loudspeakers, rock veteran Bubbi Morthens is singing one of his classic songs about a life of toil in the fishing industry.

  Jóa and I have agreed that she will sit in a corner with her camera and keep a low profile. I approach the bar. I don’t feel I’m attracting any particular attention. The bartender is a gorgeous young girl who asks with a smile what I would like.

  “I’ll have a Coke, please.”

  When she’s finished serving me, I say quietly, but without whispering, that I’m looking for Agnar Hansen.

  Without hesitation, she calls out “Agnar!” toward two young men sitting at a table with glasses of beer. “There’s someone here looking for you.”

  I go over to their table. “Hi. I’m Einar, from the Afternoon News. Which of you is Agnar?”

  I see at once that the answer is obvious.

  “Me,” mumbles one of them. He wears his blond hair in a ponytail. He looks as if he was once fit and healthy, but he is clearly declining physically and mentally. His face is dull and flushed, marked with abrasions and bruises. On his right wrist is a filthy bandage, and he has a cut on the back of his left hand. He is wearing a sleeveless blue top and jeans. No tattoos. No swastikas.

  There’s something odd about Agnar’s posture in his chair. As if his crotch may be hurting.

  “Sorry to disturb you. May I sit down for a minute?”

  The other kid, who looks a little younger than Agnar, gets up and walks off. Agnar offers me his chair.

  “Are you going to write about this brutal attack on me on Friday?” he asks hoarsely. He has long, protruding front teeth, on which he wears a retainer.

  “That’s right,” I answer, smiling sweetly. “Will you tell me about it?”

  “Absolutely,” he replies, looking at me from bloodshot blue eyes.

  I turn my tape recorder on. He recounts all the aggression, violence, and abuse to which he, in his innocence, was subjected that evening. “Just look at me,” he remarks, scandalized, pointing out his injuries.

  “Yes, I see.”

  “But you’re only seeing part of it.”

  “What started it?” I inquire.

  He drinks deeply from his beer. “I don’t remember, man. But look at me!”

  “Wasn’t it you and your friends that started it?”

  He shakes his head, and slams his fist down on the table so the beer glasses rattle and my Coke spills. “These people—you can’t say anything to them!”

  “What people?”

  “Look, you put a photo of me in the paper looking like this. Then they’ll see what these people are capable of.”

  I give Jóa a wave. I’m not going to get anything useful out of Agnar Hansen. I take my leave, but he doesn’t seem to notice. While Jóa is taking pictures of the unspecified damage inflicted by unspecified thugs, I go back to the bartender, who is polishing glasses with a practiced hand.

  “You’re new around here,” she smiles. I introduce myself yet again and explain what I’m doing in Reydargerdi.

  She says her name is Elín. She’s lived here all her life.

  “I was intending to take off and head for the city, but then the money came pouring in.”

  “So you’re going to stay on in Reydargerdi?”

  “I’m not planning to stay here till I die,” says Elín. “But at least now I won’t be broke when I leave.”

  “Take the money and run?”

  She gives me a sweet smile. “Pretty much. Can I offer you a beer? On the house?”

  I stop dead in my tracks. Not so long ago I’d have jumped at such an offer and wondered if she had anything more in mind. But not now. “No, thank you. Got to keep a clear head on the job.” I gesture toward the shelves laden with alcohol behind her. “You must know all about that?”

  She nods and returns to polishing the glasses.

  “It’s rather hard to get a clear idea of what happened,” I say. “Can you help me at all?”

  Without hesitation, she replies: “Just Agnar, out for a good time. Blind drunk as usual. And he’d probably smoked a few joints too and maybe sniffed something. He and two of his friends were pestering a Portuguese couple, coming on to the woman. The man tried to get them to go away and leave them alone. But they just got more agitated, and then the woman burst into tears. Three Poles from the next table intervened, and that’s when everything got out of hand.”

  “So it’s not a question of racial conflict or xenophobia or anything like that?”

  “Superficially, maybe. But one of Agnar’s gang is a foreigner. I’ve known Agnar since we were kids. He was a nice boy, a good kid. But he had a rough time in his teens. Children of powerful people tend to get bullied. And he was victimized because of his dad and his buck teeth. They used to call him the Hansen Hare. Agnar’s been using since he was fifteen, and he’s getting worse and worse. His only real problem is that he hates himself.”

  So, equipped with all I’ve learned and quotations from Chief of Police Höskuldur Pétursson, I do my best to write a responsible article about the “Turmoil in Reydargerdi.” The innkeeper generously allows me to sit in his office, polishing my piece on the computer screen, moving sentences back and forth, changing emphasis here, adding a proviso there. It’s nearly 8:00 p.m. when I reach my final destination.

  My headline isn’t, after all, Rage at Reydin. It is:

  SENSITIVE TIMES IN REYDARGERDI

  says chief of police

  Seven in custody on the weekend after bar brawl

  I submit my piece online, and Jóa sends her photos in. I’m not looking forward to the four-hour drive in the dark across the highlands back to Akureyri. Then I remember the woman who fell into the river. I phone Akureyri District Hospital. The patient is still unconscious. It appears that she suffered a severe blow to the head, although she was wearing a safety helmet. She is believed to have hit the rocks face-first when she fell into the icy water. They can give no information about the woman’s prognosis, but I learn that the husband regained consciousness soon after the incident and was discharged. He is as well as can be expected and is with his wife.

  So we employ the latest technology to send our account and photos of the trip that ended so tragically. And finally Jóa and I embark on our own journey into the wilderness.

  I am jolted awake as I sit in my closet with my feet on the desk, dozing. Someone’s shaking me and shouting. What’s up? Is this, finally, the End of the World?

  I swing around in my chair. Ásbjörn is standing there, his bloated face deathly pale with distress. I’m still confused.

  Are we under attack by terrorists?

  “Pal’s missing! Einar! Pal’s missing!”

  I rub my eyes. I’m dog-tired. Jóa and I took turns at the wheel on the way home. We didn’t get back to Akureyri until almost two o’clock last night. Jóa’s probably still fast asleep in bed.

  I glance at my watch. It’s nearly 1:00 p.m.

  “Sorry, Ásbjörn. Would you mind saying that again?”

  “Pal is missing.”

  I’ve never seen him so upset. I want to laugh, but I can’t find the energy. So I say:

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  Ásbjörn paces back and forth across the floor, two steps each way. “Karólína took him for his walk this morning as usual and let him off the leash for a run on the hillside below the church. She’s been doing it every day since we came here, and there’s never been any problem. Pal’s well brought up. He knows what’s allowed and what isn’t. He always comes back, and he always obeys when we call him. But this time…”

  He takes out a polka-dot handkerchief and blows his nose.

  “What happened this time?” I inquire.

  “Some woman stopped Karólína to ask for directions. When she was gone, and my wife started looking around for Pal, he wasn’t there. Disappear
ed. Into thin air.”

  Ásbjörn repeats the fact, as if unable to believe it.

  “She called and called and searched and searched…”

  “And Pal had simply vanished? Into thin air?” I remark.

  He shakes his head, over and over again. “You may find this amusing, Einar. But it isn’t, not for Karólína. It isn’t amusing for us.”

  I stand up and pat him on the shoulder. “No. I understand that it’s been a shock for you. But have you contacted the police? Perhaps someone’s found Pal and taken him down to the station?”

  He doesn’t seem to hear me. “We’ve been all over the town center, and we’ve driven all around the suburbs. It’s as if…”

  “As if the earth had swallowed him?”

  He gazes soulfully at me.

  “I say again, Ásbjörn—and please listen to me—what about the police? Have you called the police?”

  “Yes, I have an old friend on the force here, and he’s been asking around. But no one has contacted them. In fact, he’s even exceeded his authority and asked the police officers on the beat to keep their eyes open. But nothing…”

  “Hang on. When did this happen?”

  “Nine o’clock this morning.”

  “But that’s only four hours ago. You must be patient. Of course the dog will turn up.”

  “You don’t understand, Einar. Pal’s no ordinary dog. He’s very sensitive to change. New people. New places…”

  He’s not the only one, I think to myself. I don’t know what to say next.

  I lead Ásbjörn to the break room and pour us both a coffee, black without sugar. We stand there for a while, sipping at our drinks.

  “Where’s Karólína?” I ask.

  “She’s out looking for him. She’s absolutely devastated. I don’t know…she might…I don’t know.” He shakes his head again, as if he hopes to shake something loose.

  “I suppose Pal has a collar with his name and address?”

  “Only for our address in Reykjavík. During the move, we forgot to update it.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I cautiously offer.

  He hesitates, then summons up courage. “Could you do a short interview with Karólína for tomorrow’s paper, with a photo of Pal? Maybe someone will recognize him.”