“Doesn’t Agnar have a job?”
“Depends what you call a job.”
I get the impression that she’s not going to say any more.
“I promise I won’t quote you. But is he dealing drugs here?”
“I can’t answer that.” Elín steps back from the bar and starts washing glasses in the sink.
“They say silence can mean consent,” I say.
“Yes,” she answers, with her back to me. “Sometimes it can.”
When I join Jóa at the table, her beer has gone flat and my coffee is cold. I have second thoughts about Agnar: If he’s dealing drugs, why would he need to get his old man to pay his bar bill?
“Pessimism has given way to optimism. We have come out of the doldrums into a time of high hopes for the future. And not hope alone. We now know for certain—we have reliable, indisputable evidence—that in this region, which means so much to us all, a new era of progress and prosperity has begun, in this community that has the resources to offer its inhabitants all the facilities and benefits that have hitherto been confined to the capital area and tended to attract our people away to the city. We see bright prospects for our children, our grandchildren, for parents and grandparents. For ourselves. For the future.”
The members of parliament from the Conservative Party and the Center Party deliver identical speeches, more or less, then swagger back to their seats to an ovation from the packed convention room at Hotel Reydargerdi. At the table on the stage are representatives of all the political parties, plus the chair of the town council, Jóhann Hansen, and Mayor Anna Thóroddsdóttir, who is chairing the meeting. I met her on my first outing to Reydargerdi, last year. She seems to have put on weight since then. Her hefty frame is draped in a loose-cut black dress. In the front row is her uncle, Ásgrímur Pétursson, solemn in a gray three-piece suit. He is still as lean as ever, so far as I can tell. His hair is even thinner than when I saw him last. The members of parliament for the Social Democratic Union, the Radical Party, and the Other Party then get a chance to give their speech, which is:
“We can to some degree share the contentment of the parties in government, regarding the development in this region, which is boosting confidence and boldness in the local economy and the entrepreneurial spirit of this community; inaction has given way to action. But we ask you, people of Reydargerdi and the surrounding area, is this phenomenon real? Have employment opportunities improved in Iceland, in fact? Has the migration from the regions to the capital area been halted or even reversed? Hundreds of millions of krónur have been borrowed here. Have they benefited the local community or are they certain to do so? The answer is no, no, and no. In addition to which, we will have to face up to the unforeseeable consequences of a completely wrong-headed development policy, relying on heavy industry that will pollute the environment and hydroelectric plants that will wreak the worst damage to nature in the history of our nation. Government policy for this region is characterized by lack of imagination, narrow-mindedness, and short-termism, and the same is true of so many other parts of the country that have suffered the effects of the population drain.”
And so on. And so on.
The opposition spokesmen garner little support and seem rather dejected as they return to their seats.
The chair of the meeting, Anna, declares that the floor is now open.
An awkward silence ensues.
The politicians on the stage seem to breathe more easily.
I’m about to whisper to Jóa, who’s sitting next to me snapping pictures, that I could have written this article with one hand tied behind my back sitting in my office when I hear a voice from the back of the hall. I look around and see an elderly woman stand up, arm raised. She says she’s a local housewife. “I’ve lived here in Reydargerdi all my life,” she quavers nervously. “I’ve brought up four children, and I have eleven grandchildren. Of those fifteen, only three are still living here. I can accept that. It’s the way things are. But I find it hard to accept that those of us who have stayed on here can’t move around freely in our own community. We can hardly leave our homes at night, especially at weekends, for fear of aggression, intimidation, and threats, even violence, from drunk and drugged ruffians of all sorts—Icelanders and foreigners. We didn’t have this problem before the days of what you choose to call optimism.”
She is breathless as she finishes her speech, as if the nervous effort has exhausted her.
Then she adds: “I’m not addressing myself to the Martians from parliament. I’d like to hear what the town council has to say. Thank you.”
Laughter. Haphazard applause begins, then spreads throughout the room.
The members of the panel shift uneasily in their seats.
Jóhann Hansen doesn’t look happy. He passes a trembling hand over his smoothed-back graying hair and pulls at the neck of his dark red sweater. After a moment’s thought he takes his place at the lectern.
“Thank you for your question. I understand your concerns,” he soberly observes. “These issues are constantly under discussion among those who represent the community here.” He pauses, then continues. “We will continue to scrutinize these issues and seek to achieve a solution that everyone will be happy with.”
This doesn’t raise much applause. Not even Ásgrímur Pétursson is clapping.
“Any more comments or questions?” asks Anna, desperately trying to keep control of the meeting.
“What are the authorities planning to do about all the illegal drugs that are pouring in here?” asks a man’s voice from somewhere in the hall. “Whether they’re to be sold up at the hydroelectric plant or on the factory site or here, in the streets and bars? How long is this going to be allowed to go on?”
Anna Thóroddsdóttir opts to answer this herself. “It would be naive to assume that major development projects like these, which have led to an influx of people from all over the world, won’t give rise to any social problems. The unavoidable price…”
“Now who’s being naive?” asks the same voice. “Weren’t the municipal authorities naive in neglecting to take into account the unavoidable price, as the mayor chooses to call it?”
The whole meeting breaks into applause.
“If you’ll allow me to finish what I was saying,” resumes Anna, obviously disconcerted, “when a community undergoes such a huge transformation, there will inevitably be a price to pay. We may even call it a revolution. Here in Reydargerdi we have experienced, and are experiencing, a revolution in our standard of living…”
“Anna!” shouts a young woman. “Don’t you know that traveling pimps come here regularly, with girls from down south for sale? Are the town authorities in favor of sex trafficking?”
A wave of applause. Mainly from women.
Two men give a wolf whistle. Some males in the audience exchange conspiratorial looks.
“Have the town authorities formulated a policy to respond to organized crime if it seeks to establish itself here in Reydargerdi?” asks an elderly man tranquilly. “I don’t just mean the degradation entailed by bringing in cheap labor, as it’s called—impoverished workers with limited rights, who are nobody’s responsibility. I’m also referring to the marketing of amphetamines from Estonia and heroin from St. Petersburg and cannabis coming in by ferry from Scandinavia. And, like the lady who spoke earlier, I also mean prostitution and pornography and the sex trade in general. I ask again: Have the town authorities formulated a policy to respond to this menace?”
Anna Thóroddsdóttir looks at Jóhann Hansen, who in turn looks at Ásgrímur Pétursson. The expressionless face of the local boss gives them nothing to work with.
“So Jóhann Hansen thinks he’s going to safeguard our children from drugs and violence, does he?” exclaims a woman.
There is no need to articulate the rest: Jóhann Hansen couldn’t even safeguard his own son! And now our children need protection from his son!
A muttering spreads though the hall. Nobody is clapping. You ca
n feel the toe-curling embarrassment. That was a blow below the belt.
Jóhann Hansen looks down at a sheet of paper and makes a note with a shaky hand. Then he removes his misted glasses and wipes them on the sleeve of his sweater.
The member of parliament for the Radical Party breaks the oppressive silence by calling from his seat: “It’s encouraging to hear how many people here have realized what is really happening here and agree with the Radical Party’s views. Right from the start, when the governing parties started paying court to the regions and dangling prospects of industrial development, we have been arguing that international finance will entail international problems…”
Though in full flood with his party political address, he is soon silenced by boos from the audience. And the public meeting in Reydargerdi on Easter Monday gradually deteriorates into a shouting match among the bigwigs from down south.
I switch off my tape recorder and stand up with a nod to Chief of Police Höskuldur Pétursson, who is sitting directly behind me, then make my way through the crowd to the hotel bar. A few teenagers stand in a huddle, smoking. Two middle-aged men are sipping beers. At the corner of the bar is a young man who looks familiar. I can’t identify him until I’ve had a nicotine hit. It’s the guy who was sitting at Agnar Hansen’s table at the Reydin bar. When I approached he stood up and left. He doesn’t seem to notice me. Maybe he doesn’t remember me.
A pale and distressed Jóhann Hansen gives the closing remarks at the meeting:
“I’d like to thank our local members of parliament and you, the people of Reydargerdi and the surrounding area, for attending this meeting and raising so many interesting points. I assure you that these issues will be given serious attention by the town council in the future, just as they have in the past.”
“I declare this meeting closed,” adds Anna Thóroddsdóttir, slipping a tissue down between her heavy breasts.
WHO WILL PROTECT OUR CHILDREN FROM INTERNATIONAL CRIME?
asked Reydargerdi people at a heated public meeting yesterday.
Town authorities under attack.
Optimism about the future of the community
overshadowed by concerns over social problems.
That is my introduction to my article, which is ready to send in by dinnertime.
I take a breath and nibble at deep-fried chicken pieces that I picked up from a global fast-food franchise on my way back to the office.
Next on the agenda: Dead Body. Missing Person.
On the TV and radio news the police are saying nothing.
I call the police station, giving my name. I’m put through to a woman who tells me nothing.
I ring the station again and, without giving my name, ask for Ólafur Gísli Kristjánsson. He’s unavailable.
I consider my options, then go out onto the stairs and climb the worn wooden steps to the third floor. I am met by a strong odor of cauliflower with a dash of garlic and fish. I hear muffled barking and a low mumble of the weather forecast on the radio. It sounds as if a cloudy night is expected, with falling temperatures.
I knock at the door.
Karólína half opens the door. “Ásbjörn Grímsson!” she calls out. “It’s the intrepid Einar for you!”
And with that, she is gone.
I hear Ásbjörn apologizing to Pal because he’s got to leave the room.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at mealtime,” I say as Ásbjörn waddles to the door.
He makes no reply, chewing on a tattered toothpick.
“It looks as if the police aren’t going to give any information about the body this evening,” I tell him. “I can’t get hold of Ólafur Gísli. He’s not taking calls. I was wondering if you could do something?”
He keeps gnawing on the toothpick.
“Well?” I ask. “Can you?”
“Go down to the office. I’ll call in a minute.”
No, no, don’t invite me in, I think as I make my way back down the stairs.
While I wait, I blow clouds of smoke out of the open window to the wall opposite.
The phone rings. “Wait a bit,” says Ásbjörn. “He’ll call you in a few minutes.”
“Great,” I reply. “Thank you.”
“Actually, he said he thought you’d been rather argumentative down at the junkyard on Saturday.”
“Argumentative? I was just asking obvious questions. He can hardly expect me to stop being a reporter just because you put in a word for me. Can he?”
“Calm down, Einar. Then he said it would probably be best if you were as argumentative as possible with him in public, and he’ll argue back. That will make it harder for anyone, his lot or the other media, to pinpoint where your information is coming from. If there is any information.”
“He’s absolutely right.”
“But everything has to go through me. Completely confidential.”
“I agree to that.”
I think to myself that this will give the former news editor a little bit of self-respect and influence. I can allow him that. So long as I get the news stories.
“Hey, Ásbjörn,” I add before we end the conversation. “While I remember. Are you still getting those mysterious phone calls?”
“No,” he replies. “Strangely enough, they stopped after I told you about them.”
“Good,” I say. “Then my intervention has worked.”
I picture his perplexed expression. “What intervention?”
“Just let me know if the phone calls start again.”
“What goddamned intervention?”
“I’m sorry, that’s absolutely confidential. Everything has to go through me.”
Then I hang up, with a silly smirk.
____
After waiting half an hour, with the news editor down south hassling me about missing my deadline, I receive information from my confidential source and write the following article:
BODY AT AKUREYRI JUNKYARD
BELIEVED TO BE SKARPHÉDINN VALGARDSSON
The body that was discovered on Saturday morning at Krossanes near Akureyri, at the scrap metal yard, is believed to be Skarphédinn Valgardsson, a 19-year-old student at Akureyri High School. He had been missing since Wednesday evening. On Holy Thursday the high school drama group was to have given its first performance of Loftur the Sorcerer at Hólar, with Skarphédinn in the title role. An extensive search, organized by the Akureyri police, began around midday on Thursday and led to the discovery of the body nearly two days later. According to Afternoon News sources, preliminary indications are that the circumstances of the young man’s death are suspicious. The body is believed to have been moved after death. Other aspects of the matter are, at this point in time…
I delete the last few words and write instead:
Other aspects of the case remained unclear when the Afternoon News went to press.
What happened on Good Friday?
Jóa and I stand shivering in the cold wind sweeping across Town Hall Square, trying to get some of the very few passers-by to answer the Question of the Day from Akureyri a day later than usual. The sky is overcast. The mountains, gray and forbidding. The waters of the fjord, ruffled. The passers-by are in much the same condition. Jóa and I too.
It takes us half an hour to get five answers.
A little boy: Jesus died.
A teenage girl: Nothing in particular. I watched a video.
A middle-aged man: Something in the Bible…no, don’t remember.
An elderly lady: Christ was crucified.
A young boy: I went to a party and then to the Sjallinn disco. Didn’t open till after midnight. What is it with these weird rules about holiday openings?
Yep. What is it?
I don’t know. But what I do know is that events that took place two thousand years ago in Holy Week haven’t helped us understand the suffering in our own lives. Whatever the clergy say. After sending in the answers to the Question of the Day, I do my best to put together some small local news stories. Shopk
eepers in the town center are uneasy about plans for a new mall in the suburbs. Bench vandals caught red-handed. Ten drug arrests on Easter Monday.
My article about the body at the junkyard is all over the front page, and my piece about developments in Reydargerdi is featured on the back page, with the main article inside. Although it’s always satisfying to get a scoop, I’m feeling a bit down. No doubt an effect of the gray weather, combined with the fatigue from my long working hours of late.
Just for something to do, I call Hannes.
“Excellent coverage today, sir,” he says. Perhaps all I wanted was to hear him say that.
“But I’m getting tired of rushing back and forth to Reydargerdi,” I protest. “Trausti seems to be obsessed with the situation there.”
“Whatever the reason, you’re writing good copy. Something is brewing there.”
“True,” I admit. “Something is brewing there. But isn’t Trausti motivated purely by politics?”
“His motivation isn’t your problem. You simply go there and write your articles, which are nonpolitical.”
I want to try testing Hannes a little. Since the merger, when the Afternoon News became a part of the Icelandic Media Corporation, there have been allegations that Hannes, and by extension the newspaper, is a mere puppet of the Social Democratic Union, now in opposition in parliament. I’ve never asked Hannes before, although I’ve wanted to for a long time. I decide to jump in: “Tell me, Hannes, was Trausti Löve your choice as news editor? Did you press for him to be appointed?”
He buys himself time by lighting a cigar.
“An appointment of that nature, when new stockholders become involved in a media enterprise, will always be a compromise of some kind. There were various different views that had to be reconciled.”
He’s obviously not going to answer. “Why don’t you answer my question, Hannes? Did you suggest Trausti?”
“Now, Einar, you know I can’t discuss with you what happens at meetings between the editorial board and the owners.”
“Would it be wrong of me to draw the conclusion that, if it had been your idea, you would tell me?”
“Well…”
Season of the Witch Page 11
