I’m lost for words.
“It would make her feel so much better,” he adds with an expression that combines embarrassment and entreaty in about equal proportions.
“Well, Ásbjörn, that would hardly count as news. You know that as well as I do.”
He looks down. “I know. Of course. But I was hoping you could find an angle. Human interest. Something like that. For the inside pages.”
I think about it. Dog Goes Missing isn’t much of a headline. Then I have an idea.
“Maybe we could place Pal in a wider context. The move to a new home, getting lost. We could see Pal as a newcomer here, just like us. Or the outsiders in Reydargerdi…”
Ásbjörn flings up his hands in delight and smiles from ear to sticking-out ear. Quite unprecedented, and more than a little disquieting.
“Brilliant! Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant!”
Never before have I heard this overgrown Boy Scout use such language. He’s clearly beside himself.
“Einar!” he exclaims. “That’s pure genius! Thank you, with all my heart.”
I think I spot a tear in his eye.
And when I’ve created a little canine drama, with an interview with a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and sent it south to the head office accompanied by a photo of the Missing Mutt, I find myself at a loss. What on earth am I doing here? What have I got myself into? Has the world become a madhouse? And am I the maddest, baddest of them all?
I have the impression that news editor Trausti Löve would have answered yes to the last of my questions. “Excuse me, but do you think we’ve launched an Akureyri branch, at vast expense, just so that we can advertise for lost dogs?” he snapped.
But I’d got all my ducks in a row. I’d called Hannes and explained the situation.
“I feel we should do this as a favor to Ásbjörn, my dear sir,” he said. “But it will be up to you to ensure the paper is not flooded with more stories of lost dogs, or cats, in Akureyri. We can’t allow this to become a precedent. We have more important uses for our column space. Such as the article from Reydargerdi you and Jóa contributed to today’s paper. Excellent work.”
I thanked him, on both counts. Then I went on: “I have my doubts about this Akureyri business, Hannes. I’m not at all sure it’s going to work. I don’t like…”
“Nonsense!” replied Hannes. “Things are progressing in the right direction. We’re already seeing increased sales in the north and east of the country—subscriptions are up, and also retail sales and advertising. It’s all going as planned. You must give it time, sir, time.”
In my case, giving it time is largely a matter of hanging in here until my daughter comes to visit me.
What are those naked people up to?
I gaze up at the painted ceiling of the whitewashed Café Amor on Town Hall Square. But I soon get a stiff neck, so instead I look at the view from the window, at the Afternoon News offices across the square, and the National Bank next door, like a miniature version of their Reykjavík headquarters. And the square itself seems like a miniaturized version of Ingólfstorg square in Reykjavík.
Then I swing my head back again to contemplate the naked people on the ceiling.
The café takes its name from the god of love. Are the naked people Doing It? Nope. They’re dropping glasses and cups… I make no more progress in my critique of the ceiling art. Jóa sweeps in and joins me at the table.
“What are you having?”
“Cappuccino. You want one?”
“Not now. I’m going to take a look around town and take some pics for our files. Can I have the car?”
“No problem,” I reply, handing her the keys and pointing out my heap of rust, parked outside a shop on the left of the square.
It is four o’clock this Monday afternoon. The weather has warmed up, overcast and windless. I should think the locals may be worried about the lack of snow on the ski slopes. They’ve been advertising for weeks that ski conditions would be excellent on the Akureyri pistes over Easter.
“But I really think we should be allowed to go home early, after all the rushing around we did over the weekend.”
“I agree,” says Jóa. “When shall I pick you up?”
“Oh, about five thirty. Ásbjörn’s on his way over here. Asked me to meet him. Don’t know why. He’s awfully upset about the mutt.”
“Poor guy. His wife’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”
I shrug and light a cigarette.
Jóa stands up. “Have you stopped drinking completely, Einar?”
I make a face. “I don’t know. How do you ever know whether anything’s stopped completely?”
“But why did you stop?”
“Well, Hannes made it clear to me that the paper’s tolerance quota had run out.”
“Surely that wasn’t the first time?”
“No, not at all. But somehow I couldn’t go on like that. I’d had enough of myself. I didn’t feel I could spend the rest of my life with Jim Beam as my only companion. You know, Jim once said to me: I’m good company along the way, but I’m not good at being in charge. I wanted to show Ole Jim that I’m in charge, not him. I suppose that was it…”
“But why didn’t you go into rehab, like everyone else?”
“Oh, I can’t do what everyone else does. I loathe uniforms. Can you imagine me in regulation pajamas, robe, and slippers?”
She grins. “Maybe not.”
“It’s OK. I’m doing fine.”
Lying through my teeth.
“Good,” says Jóa with a farewell salute.
As I order another cappuccino I see Ásbjörn bustling across the square toward me. Is he feeling like I did last summer, when Gunnsa went missing on our vacation? I wonder.
He orders a beer and takes a seat next to me, sweaty and shaky.
“I just want to thank you again, Einar, for being so helpful to Karólína and me.”
“I’m glad to help, Ásbjörn. I just hope it leads to something.”
He sits in silence and drinks deeply of his beer before changing his mind and returning most of it to the glass.
I wait for him to speak.
He takes another drink, a big one, swallowing this time. “I, um…,” he mumbles, then clears his throat. “I…Something odd is happening, Einar. I know we haven’t been close friends—far from it. I know you find me…how can I put this…”
“Not necessarily the best company?”
“Yes, that’ll do. And the feeling is mutual. But I want to ask your views on something…” He hesitates. “Something odd is happening. I’m getting mysterious phone calls. At work and at home. Sometimes at night.”
“Ah,” I remark. I lean toward him across the table, my curiosity aroused. “What’s so mysterious about these calls?”
“The person always hangs up when I answer. Karólína has answered twice, and those were hang-ups too. It’s driving her crazy.”
“Do you have caller ID?”
“Yes, but it just says unknown number.”
“Isn’t it possible that you’re using a phone number that someone else had before? That the caller’s trying to reach another person?”
Ásbjörn takes another sip of his beer.
“And it could be more than one person trying to reach them?”
“Yes, I’ve considered that. Thousands of times. But it doesn’t make sense. Then I wouldn’t be getting calls at work too. Those phone numbers are new.”
I have a thought. “That’s true. Have you spoken to your policeman buddy?”
He shakes his head.
“Have you any idea who it could be? Can you think of anyone?”
As I finish speaking, the café door is flung open, and the good ship Karólína steams over to our table. I don’t like the expression on her face, but Ásbjörn has his back to her and doesn’t notice the trouble heading our way.
“What is the meaning of this!” she shrieks.
Taken aback, Ásbjörn awkwardly struggles
to his feet.
“Little Pal’s missing, and you sit here at the bar enjoying a beer! I just don’t know…”
“But Karó dear, it’s only a half-pint of beer…”
I haven’t heard his nickname for his wife before.
“…and I haven’t even drunk half…”
“You half-wit! You’re coming with me right now, Ásbjörn Grímsson, to help me search. I’m speechless…”
And with that, Ásbjörn Grímsson is led away in custody.
I’ve just gotten back to my desk, and I’m about to pick up the phone to call the hospital when the goddamned cell phone starts yapping at me.
“Listen, great doggy detective,” cackles Trausti Löve, “are you forgetting Question of the Day? It was supposed to be in an hour ago.”
Son of a bitch.
“Ohhh,” I groan. “Yes, I’d forgotten that ridiculous bullshit. I’ve been toiling away all weekend and all day. Can’t you let me off…?”
“Nope. You can’t get out of it. It was discussed and decided. Once a week, on Tuesdays to be precise, the Question of the Day comes from Akureyri. Or wherever you happen to be at the time. It’s all part of the deal, buddy.”
“And what on earth am I supposed to ask them?”
“Not my problem. What’s your favorite place to party? for instance. That should be easy enough for you. Get to it.”
I call Jóa’s cell phone.
“Hello,” she says. There’s something odd about her voice.
“Hi. Look, apparently we’ve got to go out on the street and do Question of the Day. I’d forgotten all about it. Can you come right away?” I turn around.
“OK.” Jóa is standing in the doorway with her phone to her ear.
Fortunately for us, the passers-by in Town Hall Square are in a good mood.
All looking forward to participating in the sufferings of Christ over Easter, no doubt. Within ten minutes we have our answers to the urgent question What’s your favorite place to party?
The Sjallinn disco. Café Akureyri. The Vélsmidjan bar. Glaumbær.
Glaumbær? In Reykjavík? But it burned down thirty years ago. That’s right. No other place has ever been as good. I don’t suppose I have to specify the age of the person who gave that answer.
Now all I need is one more victim.
Three young girls walk into the square from Hafnarstræti, apparently in high spirits. They are convulsed with laughter when I stop them and ask if they would mind answering the Question of the Day.
“Who’s going to answer?”
They keep on giggling. I wonder if they’ve been smoking funny cigarettes.
All three are wearing low-riding jeans, exposing bare midriffs.
“Sólrún, you answer it,” says one of them.
“Yeah, Sólrún,” adds the other. “Answer what you said before.”
Sólrún is a pretty girl, a little bit chubby. Under her jacket she is wearing a sweater so low-cut that I very nearly forget what the Question is.
“All right,” says Sólrún, raising a clenched fist as if taking part in a political demonstration. “I’ll answer.”
“And your last name?”
“Bjarkadóttir.”
“What do you do, Sólrún?”
“I’m a student at the high school.”
Jóa takes a photo and goes off to send her pics in.
“What’s your favorite place to party?”
“Kjartan Arnarson’s dick.”
All three girls burst out laughing.
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask without a smile.
“Same answer!” gasps Sólrún. They fall about in gales of laughter.
“And your favorite drink?” But they have moved on, spluttering with giggles.
The news editor is in a ferocious temper. No doubt he’s late for his next gourmet dinner. “Einar, it isn’t rocket science. Even you ought to be able to cope with it. There are five answers to the Question of the Day. Not four, not three, not two, not one. Five. F-I-V-E. I’ve got five photos here and only four answers. Where’s the fifth?”
“It’s not fit to print,” I reply.
“Oh? Why not?”
“Believe me. It isn’t.”
“You mean the answer given by high school student Sólrún Bjarkadóttir?”
“Yes, that’s the one I mean.”
“So what did she say?”
“She said her favorite place to party was Kjartan Arnarson’s dick.”
A choking gasp from the news editor. “Who’s Kjartan Arnarson?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”
“Come on, Einar. It’s just some high school joke. It’s fun. A young, plain-speaking voice in the paper. Of course we’ll print it.”
I feel sweat beading on my brow.
“Are you crazy? It’s out of the question.”
“It’s not for you to say. It’s my decision, buddy.”
“But…but…whoever he is, that poor guy…and I think the girl was high.”
“So? That’s her problem. Not ours. Really, the things I have to deal with…,” grumbles Trausti Löve as he hangs up.
The woman who fell into the glacial river is dead. She never regained consciousness. Her name was Ásdís Björk Gudmundsdóttir. Fifty-five years old, she is survived by her husband and a grown son.
Jóa has been in bed for ages by midnight when I abandon my attempts to drop off. I get up, check on Polly—who is fast asleep with her head under her wing—and go into the living room to consult the telephone directory.
Kjartan Arnarson is listed in Akureyri. Profession: high school teacher.
Holy fucking shit.
A jolly little family is waiting for me in the newspaper offices when I arrive there around midday after a sleepless night. As I step across the threshold, I’m greeted with applause and cheerful barking. In the reception area Ásbjörn stands with Karólína, cradling Pal in her arms. All are wreathed in smiles. In the corner, Jóa is smirking.
“It worked!” exclaims Ásbjörn. “A girl brought Pal in just now. Her mother noticed the article in the paper this morning.”
“Where did they find him?” I ask, patting the excited little creature.
“He’d gotten lost down on the docks, and the girl spotted some boys about to throw him in the sea. She just managed to rescue him.” Ásbjörn concludes his account with a melodramatic shudder.
With her free hand, Karólína dries her eyes. “How can such boys have been raised? How could anyone treat such a sweet little doggie that way?”
I seem to remember her subjecting her husband to not-dissimilar treatment only yesterday.
“Sometimes humans are the only beasts that deserve the name,” remarks Ásbjörn as emphatically as before, before continuing more cheerfully: “Anyway. All’s well that ends well.”
Karólína kisses the dog right on the snout. “Mommy and Daddy have got their Pal back.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” I say, entering my closet. I don’t expect things to be quite so rosy there.
And I’m right. On top of the piles of papers on my desk are three message slips. The first is from a man named Kjartan Arnarson, asking me to call. The second from Hannes, telling me to call. And the third from some woman. I shut my door, open the window with the view of the neighboring wall, and light up. Then I summon up courage and call Kjartan Arnarson.
A youthful male voice answers, “Kjartan.”
“This is Einar, from the Afternoon News. I had a message to call you. I think I know why.”
Silence. He takes a deep breath. “You think you know why, do you? You think you know what you’ve done to me?”
“I think I know what harm the comments have done you. And I can hardly express how much I deplore it.”
“Goddamned hypocrite. Fucking duplicity.” He does not raise his voice, in spite of the intemperate language. “Why on earth did you print that nonsense?”
“I know I can hardly expect you to belie
ve me, but the comments were published against my wishes.”
“No, you can’t expect me to believe that. I just thank God that I’m not married and haven’t any children. Can you imagine the damage such an affair would do to a man’s marriage and family?”
“Yes, I can.”
I’ve been debating whether my loyalty to the Afternoon News extends as far as Trausti Löve. I’ve reached the conclusion that it doesn’t. Trausti betrayed me. I owe him nothing.
“I told the news editor in Reykjavík what the girl said and made it clear that it wasn’t fit to print. But he decided to publish it anyway.”
Kjartan laughs sarcastically. “You’re all the same, passing the buck. Oh, yes, you’re men of honor.”
“So you’ve already spoken to Trausti Löve?”
“Yes. He told me all the Akureyri content comes from you.”
“That is so. But I don’t decide what is printed and what isn’t.”
He says nothing.
“Will you give me an hour? I must speak to the editor of the paper. The buck stops with him. Can I call you back?” I say.
“Tell him I’m lucky not to lose my job. And tell him Sólrún Bjarkadóttir was suspended for a month. I interceded with the principal on her behalf, and he agreed to withdraw the suspension. She received a reprimand instead, for now.”
“So the principal believed you?”
“Sólrún admitted at once that it had been a joke that went too far. She’s a wreck. She’s just a young girl, trying to be cool. That anyone could do such a thing to a kid…”
We say our good-byes, coolly on his side. Now for Hannes.
“Hannes, do you understand now why I was unhappy about Trausti being appointed news editor?” I ask, temper fraying.
“Calm down, sir, calm down. I saw that awful blunder this morning, and I wanted to hear your side before going any further.”
I explain what happened.
“Is this our new news-gathering policy?” I angrily expostulate. “Am I supposed to put up with this unprincipled clown, who’s been thrown off TV? He’s allowed to run amok, playing stupid tricks, and with no idea of the bigger picture. He can only do harm to the paper and its staff. And—most important of all—destroy the lives of innocent people. Just to put himself in the limelight and sell a few more papers.”
Season of the Witch Page 5
