“Karl Hjartarson,” I add.
He stops short and looks me in the face. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“Gunnhildur told me,” I reply, as guilelessly as I can manage. “Because you and I had got off on the wrong foot, I got in touch with Karl to ask about hypochondria. But he wouldn’t speak to me without your permission.”
Ásgeir nods. “If you want to talk to him, I’ll give you permission. But only to talk about the illness. Not about our private family affairs.”
“Of course.”
He gets back to his story: “Karl and I both did our best to convince her that, since he could find nothing wrong with her, nothing was wrong. He thought it was some form of postpartum depression. And her obsessive behavior gradually died down. When Gudmundur was growing up, she had many good years when she was focused on motherhood. And she was a wonderful mother.” He falls silent, and for a moment he seems to be holding back tears before adding: “And a marvelous wife.”
“So when did the problem recur?”
“When Gudmundur was in his teens, she was very anxious about him. She had no reason at all to be. He was careful not to upset her or cause her worries. He was a conscientious student and a good boy. That was when she started to obsess about her own health again. We both noticed that she was taking her pulse several times a day. She thought her heart rate was much too fast. If she felt her heart skip a beat just once, she would go into a panic. She went to Karl over and over again, but he found nothing wrong. And a few months later she started having heartburn and assumed she must have a stomach ulcer. And then headaches, which she attributed to a brain tumor. And aches and pain and so on and so on.
“After Gudmundur left home and moved down south, things went from bad to worse. For the past four or five years, it’s hardly been possible to induce Ásdís Björk to leave the house, except to go to the doctor. Or doctors, in fact. Karl had no option but to refer her to specialists of all kinds—oncologists, cardiologists, surgeons, dermatologists, gastroenterologists, pulmonologists, immunologists, otolaryngologists—all depending upon what she thought was wrong with her at the time. For the last few months of her life she was convinced she had leukemia.”
“But what about psychiatrists or psychologists? Since it was primarily in her mind?”
“Yes, indeed. We tried all sorts of psychiatrists and psychologists. And sometimes they gave us hope of improvement. She would manage better for a few months. But then she would revert to the same state.”
“Is it true that she…?” I start again. “But what about medication? From what I’ve learned, antidepressants can sometimes be effective in treating hypochondria.”
“Yes, that’s right,” answers Ásgeir as he takes a candy from the bowl, apparently without thinking. “We tried various medications. Some seemed to be effective, but never for more than a few months.”
“Did she overmedicate?”
He stares at me as he crunches his way ferociously through the candy. “Yes, I think it’s true to say she did. She tended to take more than the recommended dose. She seemed to think she would feel better the more she took. And the medication was affecting her looks. She piled on more and more weight…”
“What was she taking before she died?”
He glares at me. “Why do you want to know that? I thought you were going to write an article about hypochondria? Or are you planning to write about the accidental death of my wife?”
“Surely we have to see her accidental death as a consequence of her hypochondria?”
After a brief pause, he replies. “I see what you mean. Yes, of course that’s right. I wasn’t aware of everything Ásdís Björk was taking, but recently it was mainly Prozac. And she took sedatives sometimes. Valium, or something like that.”
“I’ve read that some hypochondriacs feel better if they have a drink.”
“Oh, really?” he replies. “Ásdís Björk didn’t often drink, but she enjoyed it, and it made her feel better. She had become so withdrawn. That’s true.”
“How did the alcohol mix with the medications?” I ask. “Did she know her limit?”
“It was a very rare occurrence. She wasn’t a drinker at all.”
“On social occasions, then? Parties and so on?”
“She didn’t really do that anymore. And if she did attend, she preferred to go home early. So I suppose I would have to say she knew her limit.”
I realize I’m on thin ice now, but I ask anyway: “On the wilderness tour, people were drinking beer, weren’t they?”
“Oh, yes,” he replies frankly. “We always serve beer. Not a lot. It wouldn’t be appropriate. On that last trip she had some beer. But not much.”
I decide to leave well enough alone. For now. He glances at his watch. I do the same. We’ve run well over the half hour he promised me. I switch off my tape recorder and thank Ásgeir for his time.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he remarks as we stand up. “About interviews having more impact if people speak in their own name and not anonymously. I think you’re right. I’ve noticed it myself when I read the papers. And apart from anything else, there’s so much gossip and rumor flying around here in Akureyri. Especially if people start believing Gunnhildur’s fantasies. So it’s probably best for me to speak in my own name. Then people will know the truth of it.”
His expression is determined, but also searching.
“That sounds good to me,” I reply. “I think it will work better that way.”
He goes to the door of his office. “But you’ll let me read your article before it’s published. You promised.”
“I will.”
“When will it be published?”
“Well, if Karl can speak to me tomorrow, we ought to make the Saturday edition.”
“I’ll call Karl and let you know later today. Can you meet him any time?”
“I don’t even need to meet him. I can talk to him on the phone,” I answer. I don’t know what to make of the helpfulness of this man who, only a few days ago, raged at me, threatened me, and slammed the phone down. We shake hands. As he closes the door I notice that his light-blue shirt is now damp under the arms.
On my way out I pass through the reception area, where a young girl is now sitting at the desk. In one of the offices I spot Ragna Ármannsdóttir, focused on her computer screen. On the inside of the door to the stairs is a poster for the production of Loftur the Sorcerer by the Akureyri High School Drama Group.
I come to a halt. On the poster is a photo of Skarphédinn in the title role, wearing a collarless white shirt and a black waistcoat and gazing intensely at a book with a black cover. At the bottom of the poster are three corporate logos identifying the sponsors of the show. In this case Hotel KEA, the Bonus low-price supermarket chain, and the Yumm candy factory.
I turn to the receptionist and ask: “Are you sponsoring the high school students’ show?”
“Yes,” she replies with a smile. “But the leading actor has died. The play’s been postponed until after the exams in the spring.”
My evening chat with the chief of police in Akureyri is along these lines:
Me: “What’s new?”
Him: “Lovely cheeks.”
“What cheeks? What are you up to?”
“Lovely cheeks. Delightful. Have you never tried them?”
“Er…”
“Just can’t stop.”
“Well…”
“Slurpslurp. So what are you having for dinner?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Cod cheeks. Nothing. I’ve eaten too much candy today. I took a chance on calling you direct, not via Ásbjörn, just this once. I don’t want to disturb him. Have you heard from him today at all?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’d rather you heard it from him. But I think he’s in need of a friend this evening.”
“Oh? Is something up? Anything serious?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe what’s up is perfectly f
ine.”
“How can something be up if it’s fine? Is that one of your funny southernisms?”
“Give him a call.”
“I will.”
“But there’s nothing new then, apart from the cod cheeks?”
“No, we’re reexamining everything from the start, as I said. And there’s one thing I want to ask you—just for a change.”
“Oh, good. Ask away.”
“You met Skarphédinn at a rehearsal and interviewed him, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. On the Saturday before Easter. At Hólar.”
“Did you notice whether he had a cell phone?”
“Yes, I did, actually. His phone rang just at the end of our interview.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“We’ve searched high and low for a phone, but we can’t find it. And no cell phone is registered in his name.”
“No, well, you can buy a cell phone without Big Brother knowing about it. You can buy them anywhere, not just in ordinary shops here in Iceland. In other countries or in the duty-free store or from anyone.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. Don’t go twisting my words. There is no SIM card or cell phone number in Skarphédinn’s name anywhere. And if you’re going to rant on about it still being possible to buy a SIM card without Big Brother’s knowledge, then save it. Even if the bosses down south want to make it compulsory to show ID in order to buy a SIM card so that the name and number can be traced, they’re not doing it for my benefit.”
“Really? Isn’t it being done at the request of the police?”
“Quite possibly. But nobody asked me.”
“What a scandal!”
“Just the usual. They don’t call me before they go off half-cocked. And I’m in the phone book, after all.”
“So you think it’s unnecessary for people to be registered when they buy a SIM card?”
“It’s not unnecessary. It’s insulting and demeaning for ordinary people.”
“But it would make the police’s job easier, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ve never asked anyone to make my job easier. I want police work to be difficult. It isn’t supposed to be easy. What kind of a country is it, where police work is easy?”
“A police state?”
“Quite. I don’t want to live in a country where the government bases its actions on the criminal. I want to live where the government treats people like people.”
“Hear, hear.”
“If the government bases its actions on gangs of crooks, it will finish up, sooner or later, as a gang of crooks itself.”
“Hear, hear.”
“Are you making fun of me, you bastard?”
“Far from it. You really aren’t the Bad Cop, are you?”
“I can be the Bad Cop. If I need to. I just want to be a policeman, not a spy or a soldier. Anyway. Do you know the number of Skarphédinn’s cell phone?”
“No, I never got it. What about all his friends and acquaintances and family?”
“That’s what’s so odd. You’re the first person who’s said he had a cell phone. Everybody else says he was so old-style that he didn’t like to carry one. It seems far-fetched.”
“Not really. Not going on what I’ve heard about his character. Or, to be more precise, going on some of what I’ve heard. And I’m a bit old-style that way myself.”
“But you did see him with a cell phone?”
“Yes. But I suppose he could have borrowed it.”
“Who from?”
“No idea. But what about the landline? Presumably you’ve checked the calls on that line?”
“Yes. But we didn’t get much out of it. He doesn’t seem to have used the phone much.”
“A modern man rebelling against modernity?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
On my way from the Yumm candy factory down into town, I’d visited a second-hand bookshop and invested in a dog-eared old paperback copy of Loftur the Sorcerer.
Now I’m lying on the sofa in the living room with a cushion under my head and my roommate perched on my shirt collar. She sings and chirps as I page through the old play, which has, for whatever reason, sprung into life once more.
I read about a man who longs to be master of his own life, to control all around him, taking no account of any other person, or of anything other than his own will, or, as the play puts it, his own desire. And I read about the timeless theme of the love triangle.
I’m too sleepy to get any further than the middle of the first act. I stop at a line spoken by Ólafur, who is in love with Steinunn, the peasant girl impregnated by his friend Loftur. I fall asleep over that line and wake up to it in the middle of the night as Polly pecks at my neck:
He who feels that he has wronged another, will often find that he hates him.
“They say you shouldn’t go to a doctor who has dead plants in his office.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Very sensible of you not to risk it.”
“Pardon?” I’m lost.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Dr. Karl Hjartarson. “Just being frivolous. Inappropriate, I know.”
“That’s…” I manage to say. “That’s all right.”
“Just fooling around. Doctor jokes aren’t to everyone’s taste. But at any rate, I’ve just been watering my plants, trying to resuscitate them. But without success.”
I think of the cacti in Björg and Gudrún’s home.
“I suppose you can’t think of everything when you’re busy keeping patients alive,” I remark.
“Even that doesn’t always work,” he replies with a sigh. “Whatever. Ásgeir said it would be enough for you to talk to me on the phone?”
Can this be the same man who, only the day before yesterday, put on a mask of professionalism, claiming to be gagged by his Hippocratic oath? People are unfathomable.
“Hello?”
I’m abruptly jerked from my thoughts.
“Yes, yes, I’m still here. It’s this article I’m researching about hypochondria. I’m wondering if you can help me at all?”
“Yes, hypochondria. I almost feel I’ve become a specialist, although it’s a field not covered by any medical specialty.”
And he gives me a long lecture about the illness, research from other countries, symptoms, and theories. A variation on a familiar theme.
“And was Ásdís Björk’s case unusual, in light of what you’ve learned about the condition?” I ask when I can get a word in edgeways.
“No, I wouldn’t say so. She was fairly typical of the most difficult cases. No treatment seemed to help her, except in the very short term.”
“I gathered from Ásgeir that you tried a number of medications?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you aware of her misusing the drugs? Or overmedicating?”
“At times, yes. But I can’t go into details. Ásgeir’s permission doesn’t extend to making their private affairs public.”
“No,” I say, trying to find a subtle enough way to pose my question. “But toward the end of her life, what medications seemed to be most effective? I mean, what was the result of the treatment you prescribed?”
“Unfortunately, we can’t really call it a result. The only real result was Ásdís Björk’s untimely death.”
“Was she on medication at the time of her death?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. “Well, I suppose it’s all right to tell you that she was on Prozac. That shouldn’t do any harm.”
“Only Prozac?”
“Yes, only Prozac. Antidepressants were generally the most effective treatment for her. They reduced the anxiety and helped distract her from the obsessive thoughts. For a while, anyway.”
I thank him for the information. I wish I could ask him if taking Prozac might have made Ásdís Björk so woozy that she could have lost her balance and fallen overboard. But I know that will get me nowhere. I say:
“The more I learn about
Ásdís Björk, and this illness—or imaginary illness…”
“Oh, it’s not an imaginary illness,” the doctor interjects. “For the patient, it’s absolutely real. You must make that crystal clear in your article.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry, I put that wrong. But from all I’ve learned about hypochondria, it seems to me that it springs essentially from mental distress. Profound unhappiness?”
“In my view—and you must not, absolutely must not, quote me—you’re quite right.”
“You were old friends, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I’d known Ásdís Björk ever since high school. Back then, she showed no sign of that kind of unhappiness. I think perhaps her Achilles’ heel was really that she had such a sweet personality—she had a profound desire or need to please others, to make them happy. I had the impression that behind it all lay a certain lack of security or self-esteem. But I’ve no idea where that could have come from.”
“But this unhappiness or distress—what did that entail? Didn’t she ever tell you, or the specialists who treated her, what was wrong?”
“If she did, I couldn’t share that with you. That would be a step too far over the boundaries of confidentiality.”
“No, of course. But would it be fair to say that her hypochondria was, in a sense, an unconscious cry for help?”
“A cry for attention, at least.”
Before we say good-bye, I find myself saying: “It sometimes seems that the whole of society is making an unconscious—or even conscious—cry for attention. Don’t you think this society is attention-seeking?”
He laughs. “You could say so. That’s not a bad diagnosis.”
“Or maybe even hypochondriac? A whole nation of imaginary ills?”
He is silent for a moment. “No, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. But medicalization, as the medical profession sometimes calls it, is certainly real. And it’s cause for concern.”
“All these personality disorders. Don’t we all have one? Is anyone normal anymore?”
“Well, it depends how you look at it. Psychiatry isn’t my field, although I’ve learned a lot about it of late. In a British journal, for instance, I read a paper about a disorder that you could attribute to a whole society and not just individuals. It’s called narcissistic personality disorder or NPD. Of course the idea comes from the Greek myth of Narcissus, who fell in love with his own reflection. In narcissistic personality disorder, the person exhibits obsessive self-admiration, leading to the complete lack of morals or conscience. I read a quote from a British specialist who said that a diagnosis of NPD crops up in almost every major criminal case these days.”
Season of the Witch Page 21
