After some routine housework, and general care of my roommate, I have an early night. I manage to read as far as the second act of Loftur the Sorcerer before I drop off to sleep. Perhaps Ásdís Björk, Gunnhildur, and Ásgeir Eyvindarson are at the back of my mind as I read, over and over again, Steinunn’s line:
The most painful thing of all is to find out that the one who possesses you, heart and soul, is evil.
Or maybe it’s something quite different on my mind. Or nothing at all.
The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray is the Quote the Day on one of the websites I come across. Those words of wisdom are attributed to Oscar Wilde in The Picture of Dorian Gray. Oscar certainly had a way with a witty quip—and contrived to sound profound as well.
If it’s an advantage to be led astray, then I think I’m suffering from a lack of emotions. I don’t feel I’m moving in the right direction. Nor the wrong one. I am, somehow, nowhere at all. Nothing’s happening. Why is no one, and nothing, leading me astray?
There’s not much to raise my spirits this morning. Not even the sun, which, yet again, has brought a breath of summer to the town center, conjuring up happy children, leisurely pensioners, and half-dressed girls with bare midriffs to enjoy the warmth. It strikes me that there’s nothing wrong, really. I’m just bored. And I have a feeling of restlessness, emptiness, and edginess that are old, familiar companions. In the old days I’d have taken a firm hand with them by having a drink. I can’t do that now. I must do something else. And as I open the window with its view of the opposite wall and light up, the solution is plain to me. I pick up the phone and call Gunnsa. She’s at school.
“Hi, Dad. I can’t talk for long now. Morning break is almost over.”
“Just wanted to hear your voice. How’s it going?”
“Fine. We start studying for exams next week.”
“Oh, yes. What do you think of that?”
“Not too good. But I’ll do my best. I’m determined to get a place at high school.”
“Since your old man made it, I’m sure it’ll be a breeze for you.”
I hear her smile. What a great feeling.
“And Raggi’s doing the same, is he?” I ask.
“Yes, he’s got it down. We’re going to study together whenever we can.”
“Good, good. So I suppose this means you won’t be coming to visit me anytime soon?”
“No, not till after the exams. Then I’ll come, I promise.”
“Thanks, honey. You’ve made my day.”
And she has. I get to work and make some phone calls about routine news items. Then I call Trausti Löve, determined to apply my newfound positive philosophy of life.
“Hello, my dear old Trausti.”
“Who is this?”
“Your friend Einar, of course. In Akureyri.”
“Sounds as if you’re on a bender.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re just not your usual self. Not the way you’ve been recently, anyway.”
“Can’t I be nice to my news editor without being accused of intoxication?”
Trausti’s silence tells me he doesn’t quite know how to take this.
“I wanted to let you know that I’ve sent you some news items. You were complaining that I wasn’t submitting any copy, weren’t you?”
“What? Yes.”
“And Trausti, I want you to know that I’m striving to do my best for you and the paper.”
“Are you sure you’re not drunk?”
“That’s pretty much the only thing I am sure of.”
No reply.
“My cup runneth over with the milk of human kindness.”
“And you’ll remember to send in the Question of the Day from Akureyri on Monday?”
“Absolutely. And I’ll even do more than that.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I’ll send you the answers too!”
“Good.”
“Yes, it is good, isn’t it? Quite splendid, in fact?”
He doesn’t know what to say.
“Finally, my dear Trausti, I want to say, have an enjoyable weekend, in the company of beautiful women and outrageously expensive vintage wines.”
“Thank you,” he brusquely replies. “And fuck you too.” He hangs up.
Strange how people can be so weird and graceless and ungrateful.
After my exercise in Christian charity, I feel so good that I go out into the sunshine, stroll over to Café Amor on the square, opposite the office, and order a cappuccino at an outside table. The young girls wheel their strollers past, midriffs bare—even the ones who really oughtn’t—and belly buttons on show.
Just after boys stopped walking around with their jeans falling off and their shorts showing, the fashion world succeeded in convincing girls it was their turn to walk around half-undressed. And so it goes on. Once upon a time, I used to keep up with fashion. Now fashion doesn’t keep up with me.
How can you make a girl believe that a muffin-top of naked blubber sagging over her waistband is sexy? It may be kind of cute, and relaxed, and remind us that we all have a tummy. But sexy? And what about the boys walking around with their hairy ass cracks on show, thinking there’s something cool about it? How can that happen? Is there anything that isn’t possible? I wonder as I smoke my cigarette.
Then I give some thought to my irresistible urge to be at odds with news editors. Now, when Ásbjörn has finally been induced to accept that he’s not right for the job, and he and I are managing to get along all right in our new roles, another idiot is appointed, far worse than Ásbjörn ever was. And of course I get at cross-purposes with him from the start. How is that possible? Do I imagine I know more than anyone else about being a news editor—regardless of who’s trying to do the job? And then, when I’m offered the position myself, I turn it down!
Is there no limit to what’s possible?
I wouldn’t like to be the manager of me. Maybe it’s the idea of being managed I don’t like. We should all be colleagues—that’s the right term.
Would I want to have me as my boss? Absolutely not! I’d be in contention with me in no time.
A young man walks by, not in a sunny mood, anymore than the first time we met. Rúnar Valgardsson is wearing the same black suit, white shirt, and black tie as at his brother’s funeral. His long hair is ruffled by the breeze as he waits for a gap in the traffic so he can cross the road.
I stand up and walk over to him.
“Rúnar, hello. Remember me?”
He’s taken by surprise. “What? Yes,” he replies. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, still observing the shining cars passing by.
“I was planning to call you. I wanted to leave it a few days after your brother’s funeral. Have you got time for a chat now?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” he answers, shoulders hunched.
“That’s a pity.”
He says nothing.
“You must be on your way to school,” I say, although his clothes tell a different story.
“No. I just haven’t got time to speak to you now.”
He’s not hostile, but seems a little tense.
“When can we meet?”
“I really don’t know.”
“What about Sunday? No school or anything?”
“OK. Call me on Sunday.”
“One thing. I’ve been wondering who Skarphédinn’s oldest and best friend was. Your brother seems to have been very popular and had lots of friends. But who was his closest friend?”
It’s clear that he would much rather cross the road than answer me, but another car comes along and saves the day.
“Apart from you, I mean, of course. You were close, weren’t you?”
He nods. “Mördur, I suppose.”
“Where does he live?”
“In Reydargerdi. He moved there last year.”
“OK, thanks. What’s his last name?”
“Njálsson.”
“Mördur Nj
álsson. Thank you.”
A gap opens in the row of cars. “You’re dressed for a party. It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it? Even for a Friday?”
Rúnar strides out into the street. He seems relieved to get away.
“I’m not going to a party,” he mutters. I can hardly distinguish his words. “I’m going to a funeral.”
A funeral? I think as I return to my seat outside the café. Did he mean that literally? Or is he still in mourning for his brother?
I beckon the waiter, order another cappuccino, and ask if they have a copy of the Morning News for customers to read. Within a few minutes I have a fresh cup of coffee, a cigarette between my lips, and a copy of the Morning News. I turn to the Obituaries page, to see whose funeral is taking place today. Only one person has been moved to write in commemoration of Sólrún Bjarkadóttir, the high school student who in a moment of high spirits made a joke about her favorite place to party and in the lowest of spirits took her own life.
I’m ashamed to admit, even though it’s only to myself, that the poor girl had quite slipped my mind.
Knowledge and innocence cannot be reconciled, a wise man once said. My dear Sólrún, I know that you, like others, were finding it more and more difficult to cope with your painful experiences in life. Those experiences were at odds with your own intrinsic innocence, your faith in the good. Sólrún, you weren’t a strong person—not in the sense of being able to resist the temptations that seem, for a time, to make life more bearable. But you were stronger than most in that important aim in life of giving of yourself, contributing to the happiness of others, and encouraging them. Then the day came when you could not go on. Not because you had no more to give, but because your gifts were misconstrued and desecrated. And although the knowledge of other people that you acquired in your life ultimately became unbearable for you, the place you have in my heart glows with joy and gratitude for the privilege of having known you, gratitude that you allowed me to know you. You will remain there, in my heart, forever, and the memory of you will be a source of strength for me.
R.
Although the obvious conclusion seems to be that the obituary must have been penned by Rúnar Valgardsson, I remind myself that I may be completely wrong. It may have been written by a woman—a friend, perhaps one of the girls who were with her the other day on the square. Or someone else entirely—male or female.
But by comparison with the flood of obituaries when Skarphédinn was buried, the obituary, though expressing beautiful sentiments, seems a sad and lonely memorial. What does that say about the life of Sólrún Bjarkadóttir?
Surrounded by sunshine, the scent of spring, and bustling Friday traffic, once again I’m feeling downcast. I take out my phone, get the number for the high school, and ask to be put through to Kjartan Arnarson.
“He’s out. He won’t be back today. He’s gone to a funeral,” the telephonist informs me.
“Right. Were lessons canceled today for the funeral of Sólrún Bjarkadóttir?”
“No, only for her class,” is the answer. “It’s so close to exams that we couldn’t give the whole school a day off.”
I thank her. I consult the paper and see that the funeral started at one thirty. I set off for the church.
Breathless from the effort of climbing the long stairway up to the church, I quietly slip inside. It’s two o’clock, and the funeral ceremony is well underway. In contrast with my previous visit to the church, there is plenty of room. The pews are about one-quarter full, and the mourners are spread sparsely around the church. As I stand at the doorway, I spot Rúnar Valgardsson sitting three pews in front of me, crying. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of discomfort, almost claustrophobic in its intensity. I discreetly sneak back out of the building.
As I walk, deep in thought, back down the stairway to heaven, I notice Pal running about on the grassy hillside, chasing after a ball. He finally catches it and runs with it toward a young girl, who claps her hands in pleasure. Pal proudly presents his trophy to Björg.
Quite a heartwarming moment. I feel better already.
Back at the office, Ásbjörn is in the reception area, chatting to a visitor over a cup of coffee. He’s looking a touch less frazzled than he has of late. Our visitor is his usual smooth self.
“Well, here he is,” says Ásbjörn, rising from his chair. He goes into his office and shuts the door behind him. Ásgeir Eyvindarson stands up and greets me warmly.
“I was wondering if there was any chance of seeing what the article will look like in the paper tomorrow.”
“That’s rather unusual,” I answer. “As a rule, interviewees don’t get to monitor the whole process.”
“That may well be,” he politely counters. With a smile, he adds: “But rules are made to be broken. I gather that you may have broken one or two before.”
What’s Ásbjörn been telling him? I wonder. But I’m well aware that it’s a good idea not to offend Ásgeir, all things considered.
“All right, then. But you’ll have to come into the ‘production department’ with me.”
I offer Ásgeir a seat in my closet-office and switch the computer on. I open the layout system and find the relevant pages.
ALL IN THE MIND?
is my headline for the main feature. The interview with Ásgeir is headed:
SHE ALONE KNEW HOW SHE FELT
“There you are,” I say.
He puts on reading glasses, peers at the screen, and strokes his gray mustache all the while as he reads. I don’t know why, but I’ve always had reservations about men with mustaches. Maybe because they seem to be equivocal about their facial hair, unwilling to go the whole hog and grow a proper beard.
I don’t know. What ridiculous prejudices I harbor, I think as I observe Ásgeir Eyvindarson stroking his mustache. This constant urge to classify people as good or bad. It’s never got me anywhere.
Ásgeir removes his glasses and folds them into a leather spectacle case.
“Reading this,” he says as he puts the glasses away in the breast pocket of his jacket, “one can’t help thinking that perhaps it was a blessed release for Ásdís Björk, an end to her sufferings.”
I gaze at him, speechless.
“Yes, I know it’s a strange thing for me to say. But nothing could be done for her. There was no prospect of a cure. She would simply have gone on suffering and desperately searching for new ways to assuage her pain.”
“So you mean that her death was a relief? For her, or…”
“A relief, in a sense, yes. For her.” Lost in thought, he gazes out of the window at the opposite wall. “I just hope your article will help people understand this illness better and…”
He leaves the sentence hanging and walks out of the room.
“Um, Ásgeir,” I say, following him, “I saw on a poster that you, or the Yumm factory, are a sponsor of the high school drama group’s production of Loftur the Sorcerer.”
“Yes, that’s right,” he says, continuing toward the door. “We give some support to local cultural events from time to time.”
“It’s certainly praiseworthy when the private sector makes the effort to sponsor the arts.”
He looks me up and down. “Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if you knew a young man named Skarphédinn Valgardsson?”
“Skarphédinn Valgardsson? Isn’t that the boy who was found dead at the dump?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Wasn’t he the one who called you to ask you to sponsor the play?”
“Quite possibly,” he replies. “Some young man called and asked for sponsorship. Was that him?”
“I think it must have been.”
“So?”
Without waiting for an answer, he disappears down the stairs.
Not that I could have said anything.
No landline is listed for Mördur Njálsson in Reydargerdi. I call information and get his cell phone numb
er.
It goes straight to voice mail:
“This is Mördur. Leave a message.”
As a rule, I have to force myself to comply with such churlishly worded orders. This time I haven’t got the energy to make myself speak.
I call Óskar at Hotel Reydargerdi and ask how things are around town.
“Much the same,” he answers. “We’re as busy as ever, and everything’s topsy-turvy.”
“Any news of Agnar and Co. since they got out?”
“Much the same too,” he laughs. “They’re pretty busy, keeping themselves topsy-turvy.”
“Are they behaving themselves?”
“No, they never behave themselves. They run wild in the evening, complaining of injustice one minute then boasting about getting the better of the Akureyri police. Those boys are just a total mess.”
“Have they been allowed back into Reydin?”
“They haven’t been barred, I don’t think. But they get thrown out on a regular basis. I just heard they’re off to Akureyri for some fun this weekend.”
“That’s something to look forward to, then.”
“Not really. I hear they’ve been muttering about revenge.”
“What revenge? What for? And against whom?”
“I don’t know. I doubt if they know themselves. It’s just some kind of revenge, for something, against someone. That’s all a pack of idiots like that need.”
“Well, well. By the way, do you know someone called Mördur Njálsson?”
“Mördur? Sure.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s just a kid, about twenty, who used to live in Akureyri. He moved here to study for his high school exams. He’s an extramural student. And he’s also writing something. He wanted some peace and quiet to work.”
“It’s debatable whether there’s more peace and quiet over there at present, surely?”
“No, he’s got a little house at the edge of the village, very peaceful. He’s a quiet kid.”
“Do you know where I can get in touch with him?”
“No, I don’t. But he dropped in a couple of days ago for a coffee. He said he was driving south to Reykjavík and staying the weekend, so far as I remember.”
“Bon voyage,” I savagely mutter.
Before I go home to Polly to give us both a bath, I call the head office in Reykjavík and ask for my friend Guffi. He has moved on from his old job in foreign news and been promoted to the business section, after being admitted to the hallowed ranks of MBA students at trendy Reykjavík University. Guffi is better informed than anyone else I know about developments in business, the machinations of investors, and the pursuit of worldly pleasures—having moved on from the radical Marxism of his youth. I suppose that’s what they mean by progress.
Season of the Witch Page 23
