—Caskie Stinnet
A diplomat is someone who never offends accidentally.
—The Diplomat’s Dictionary
Arngrímur’s cell phone rang, and after a short exchange he said to Birkir, “Your friend Gunnar is at the Felleshus front desk. I asked them to let him in.”
“Good. We’re actually finished here. We’d better go catch our flight to Frankfurt.”
They walked back down to the ground floor and out into the plaza. They watched Gunnar approach.
Gunnar greeted them informally. He held in one hand a fat half-eaten curried sausage; in the other he held a bun.
“Did you see the elephants?” Birkir asked.
“Yes.”
“And what did you make of them?”
“I thought they’d be bigger,” Gunnar said, and he bit into the sausage.
14:00
On arriving in Frankfurt, Birkir and Gunnar took a taxicab from the airport terminal to the nearby hotel the embassy staff had booked for them. Birkir waited in the cab while Gunnar took their luggage inside to check in.
“All set here,” Gunnar said when he came back out. “Take us to the Book Fair, please,” he instructed the driver.
“Which entrance?” the man asked.
“The main one, I guess.”
After driving awhile, they eventually spotted the sign “Frankfurter Buchmesse” pointing to the exhibition area. They passed several parking structures, finally reaching a tight group of large buildings dominated by a massive tower.
“Which one is the Book Fair in?” Gunnar asked the driver.
“The fair takes up all the buildings in the exhibition area,” the driver replied. He stopped at a taxicab stand and pointed to a gate. “You can go in there.”
Birkir paid for the ride and waited for a receipt. Then they climbed out and walked toward the gate, where they found a guard.
“Where can we buy tickets?” Gunnar asked.
“No tickets on sale today,” the guard replied. “You can come on Sunday. The fair will be open to the public then.”
Gunnar shook his head, “No good. We’re police from Iceland, and we need to talk to a guy who happens to be here today.”
The guard eyed them suspiciously. “Wait here. I’ll have to check with my boss.”
He turned away and had a brief conversation on his headset, and then asked Gunnar, “Where are you going to look for this person?”
Gunnar read from a piece of paper, “Booth H251, first floor of building number six.”
“You got ID?”
Gunnar and Birkir produced their passports and their Reykjavík police badges. The guard examined them carefully, and then spoke again into his headset. Finally he asked, “Is there anyone who can confirm your business here?”
Gunnar presented Arngrímur Ingason’s card, prominently imprinted with the Icelandic embassy’s emblem. “You can call the counselor of the Icelandic embassy in Berlin. He knows all about this.”
The guard spelled out Arngrímur’s name into the headset and gave the phone number.
“Wait here,” he said, disappearing through a door.
Ten minutes later, he reappeared bearing two plastic cards and a map of the exhibition layout.
“This will give you access for today,” he said. “You’ll find your guy here,” he added, pointing out the place on the map.
“Thanks very much,” Gunnar said, and he and Birkir used their pass cards to enter the exhibition area.
With the help of the map, and after a long walk around the concourse, they found building six. Inside, there were books everywhere they looked, and hordes of people, but it was not difficult to find booth H251—from a distance, they could see large pictures of Icelandic landscapes promoting a new book of photographs, and portraits of familiar Icelandic writers. A slim man with thin hair stood at a table arranging booklets.
“Good afternoon,” Birkir said in Icelandic.
“Oh, hello, good afternoon,” the man said, looking at Birkir in surprise. “Are you an Icelander?”
Birkir nodded. “We’re police officers from Reykjavík, and we’re looking for Jón the Sun Poet.”
“Goodness. I hope you intend to arrest him.”
“Is there a reason we should?”
“He’s driving all of us crazy, and this is only the first day of the fair.”
“How?”
“We’re a few medium-sized publishers sharing this booth, and someone was dumb enough to include Jón in the group. He’s been raising a ruckus all day.”
“How?” Birkir repeated.
“Jón has no idea how to work book fairs like this. You can’t talk to anybody here without booking a meeting weeks in advance, but he just barges into publishers’ booths and demands to speak to the boss. When he’s not doing that, he marches up and down the aisles bellowing out his poems as though this is some kind of performance-art venue. All readings here are tightly organized sessions. The security guards have brought him back here three times—the booth number’s on his pass card. For God’s sake, take him away with you.”
“I can’t see that we have reason to at the moment,” Birkir replied.
“He’s ruining Icelandic literature’s reputation. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“Undoubtedly, but . . .”
“And look, there he is. I’m off to a meeting. You’ll have to take care of the guy and the booth while he’s here. It’s your responsibility.”
And with that, he was gone.
Jón Sváfnisson was tall and voluminous, clad in blue overalls that were generously large even for him, with the legs turned up to reveal old leather walking boots, and so loose around his waist that they were only held up by the shoulder straps. He wore a red checkered cotton shirt, tucked into his pants. A prominent bald patch crowned his head, around which he’d tied a red cowboy neckerchief to hold back his long, dull, frizzy hair hanging down both sides. Above his unkempt beard covering the lower part of his face, a pair of piercing blue eyes gazed at the detectives.
“What do you want with me?” he bellowed once Birkir introduced himself and Gunnar.
“We’re investigating the embassy murder in Berlin,” Birkir replied. “Perhaps you haven’t heard about it?”
“Murder, murder most foul at the embassy! Yes, somebody may well have told me about that. Some folks’ sole occupation is spreading rumors. And then they pretend to be selling literature.” He underlined every word with an exaggerated gesture.
Birkir said, “You were at the embassy that evening.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, it happened at a party after your reading on Sunday.”
“Ah, yes. The fat gate-crasher—that disgusting slave driver—was bumped off. Someone did humanity a great favor that evening. I don’t think it was me, though. I would probably remember it. Although that’s not certain. When does a man kill a man?”
“How do you know who was killed?” Birkir asked.
“The Holy Spirit appeared before me,” Jón replied, raising his hands to heaven.
Birkir and Gunnar looked at one another.
“One of the girls at the embassy told me this morning,” Jón guffawed. “It was that windbag Anton, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, his name was Anton,” Birkir replied.
“So we agree on that, then. How about we just get on with selling literature? Time is precious, and I’ve got so many people I need to talk to today.”
Birkir said, “Anton went up to the ambassador’s office several times that evening to make phone calls. Were you with him any of those times?”
“No . . . yeah . . . no, how the hell am I supposed to remember that, I was totally wasted!”
Birkir glanced uncertainly at Gunnar, who grinned broadly.
“Your friend Fabían—is he here with you?” Birkir asked.
Jón looked around theatrically. “No, he doesn’t appear to be here,” he said, affecting a surprised expression.
“Where
can we find him?” Birkir asked patiently.
“Fabían! Fabían! Faaaabían!” Jón shouted in crescendo.
Visitors at nearby booths looked curiously in their direction, and when Jón saw that he had their attention, he held up his book and shouted, “Poetry! Icelandic poetry for sale! Come and have a look, dear friends.”
His audience looked away, and some walked off elsewhere.
“I need to get an agent,” the poet said, laughing.
Birkir was about to say something, but Gunnar put a hand on his shoulder, “Go get yourself a cup of tea. I think the Sun Poet and I need to have a little conversation.”
Birkir shrugged and said, “See you in a half hour.”
Birkir took off, and Gunnar pointed at a small refrigerator in the back of the booth. “You got any liquor here for your guests?”
Jón’s interest was aroused, and he crouched down and opened the mini-fridge to reveal bottles of beer and Icelandic firewater. Gunnar grabbed a couple of beers and flipped off their caps with an opener he found on top of the fridge. He passed one of them to Jón and took a slug from the other.
“Didn’t Fabían come here with you?” he asked.
Jón downed half a bottle in one gulp before replying, “Ah, this was a very good idea. You’re not totally dumb.”
Gunnar repeated the question.
Jón took another swig before replying, “Fabían, no, he didn’t come with me. He’s very ill, poor thing. He’d had enough of this goddamned trip. Flew back to Iceland on Monday. I should have gone with him.”
Gunnar sat down, and indicated to Jón to do the same. They drank without speaking, then took out two more bottles when they’d finished the first ones.
Finally Gunnar asked, “How well do you know the guys who were at the embassy Sunday evening?”
“Everybody knows me, and I know everyone who can be bothered to drink with me,” Jón said. “What’s your name?” he added, evidently having forgotten Birkir’s introduction—if he’d heard it at all. Gunnar told him his name and asked, “Were they buddies of yours from Reykjavík?”
“Buddies! Konrad and I often have a drink together both at home and abroad. He doesn’t get poetry, but he likes to hear limericks—especially if they’re smutty. I know some good ones. Wanna hear them?”
“Later. How do you know Fabían?”
“Fabían is my foster son.”
“Your foster son?”
“Yeah, or foster brother or maybe foster father, even. I took him under my wing when he was a kid, and he’s lived with me since—when he’s not in the hospital. He’s probably more mature than me. He sometimes gives me good advice. I certainly need it.”
“Why has he been hospitalized?”
“He was in the loony bin. At the beginning he suffered from some extremely peculiar type of depression—a mental narcosis—that’s what Doctor Psycho said. He was away with the fairies and didn’t look after himself at all, then he became totally helpless. He had to be fed and have his butt wiped. Then things got better. He came back to earth and was reasonably with it, but then he got cancer. He’s been fighting that goddamned monster for some years now.”
Jón raised his empty bottle. Gunnar reached for another one from the icebox, opened it, and handed it over.
“Did you know Anton?” Gunnar asked.
“I’d heard of him.”
“Were you on speaking terms?”
“No.”
“Do you think that Fabían was alone with Anton at any point that night?”
“You mean do I think that Fabían killed Anton?”
“You could put it like that.”
“I don’t think so. How was he killed?”
Gunnar didn’t answer the question, asking instead, “Did Fabían know Anton at all?”
“No.”
“The other guests—Helgi, Lúdvík, David, and Starkadur. Did you know them in Reykjavík?”
“Everybody knows everybody in Reykjavík. It’s a small place.”
“Are they old buddies of yours?”
“Whether people want to admit they know me depends on the circumstances.”
“Do you think that any of those guys is likely to have killed Anton?”
Jón gave a belly laugh. “I think Anton was the sort of guy who could have turned anybody into a killer. I don’t know who the lucky person was who actually did it. I don’t want him to be found. He did what had to be done.”
“Why?”
“This business Anton was involved in. It was nothing but slave trade—human trafficking and exploitation. A maniac like that is no loss.”
“How do you know that?”
“Word on the street, my friend. Word on the street.”
“Does that really mean it’s true?”
“No, the guy was probably just a relief worker helping the poor out there in East Asia. But why the fuck are you asking me? It wasn’t my job to arrest him or mess with him or anything. He was none of my business, dead or alive.”
Before Anna had headed off back to Iceland, she’d left her fingerprinting equipment with Gunnar. He now fished out the case containing this stuff and said, “I need to take your fingerprints so we can remove you from our suspect list.”
“Fingerprints?” Jón sprang up and shook his fist. “In your dreams, buddy. Nobody gets anything like that from me.”
“But it’ll help us with our inquiries.”
“I couldn’t care less what will or won’t help you. I’m not going to let you mess with my person. My dandruff and finger grease are nobody’s business but my own.”
“It’s not like this is dangerous.”
“It’s harassment. I don’t owe you anything.”
“Right. Where can we get hold of you over the next few days?”
“In Iceland, for fuck’s sake. There’s nothing for me here. Nobody wants to talk, and Konrad canceled the reception he was going to hold. Change of plans, he said. My poems will find their readers in another place and another time. Probably not until I’m dead, though. A living poet is considered dangerous. He might tell the truth.”
Gunnar got up to say good-bye.
“Get lost,” the poet said, and stormed off along the aisle.
Gunnar heard him chanting at the top of his voice, “Poems, poems—Icelandic poems for sale! Dear friends, get yourselves a book of poems!”
Gunnar heard a woman in the next booth say to her colleague in German, “Oh my God. The Icelander is off again.”
Birkir was not in the cafeteria, and Gunnar had to call his cell to find where he was in the exhibition. Birkir gave him the aisle number, and when Gunnar had at long last muddled his way to the right place, he found Birkir looking at books on classical music in a large display booth.
“I’ve got lots of publishing offers,” Birkir said. “China is guest of honor at the Book Fair this year, and everybody thinks I’m one of their publishers. Maybe this is the right moment for a career change.”
“I think I’m getting a cold,” Gunnar said, sniffling.
“What did the Sun Poet have to say?”
Gunnar rehashed his conversation with Jón Sváfnisson. “We’re not getting anywhere,” he said finally, and sneezed into his sleeve. “Fucking foreign countries.”
“Well, we’re going home tomorrow,” said Birkir. “The embassy has confirmed our booking. It’s a direct flight from here.”
As Gunnar and Birkir headed for the Book Fair’s exit, they spotted two security guards escorting Jón, one on each side of him, toward the gate. They stopped and watched as the poet said good-bye, shaking hands with both guards before climbing into the cab they’d hailed for him. Evidently, the Sun Poet’s business at the Frankfurt Book Fair was done.
Birkir wasn’t as reluctant to travel abroad as Gunnar, but it certainly wasn’t one of his favorite activities. The journey itself always took a whole day, or at least used all the energy Birkir had at his disposal for one day. He’d heard that the soul couldn’t fly across the
ocean as fast as the body, that it always took a few days for it to completely “arrive.” He understood this theory well. It usually took him a week after getting home to return to biorhythmic equilibrium. The only foreign travel he really enjoyed was when he went abroad to participate in marathons; then he would travel in the company of like-minded folks and have the clear goal of running 42.2 kilometers along with several thousand fellow runners—preferably in under three hours, which he’d not yet achieved. Running filled him with a special energy that lasted for weeks, whereas sitting on a plane for a similar length of time left him completely drained for the rest of that day.
So, after the flight from Frankfurt to Reykjavík, he was cooked, but his sense of duty drove him to report immediately to the office of his superior, Magnús.
“I finished writing this on the flight home,” Birkir said, putting his comprehensive Berlin-trip report on the desk.
“Where’s Gunnar?” Magnús asked as he leafed through the papers.
“At home in bed. He came down with a cold yesterday and then he got lumbago.”
“Lumbago? How come?”
“He sneezed violently.”
“He gave himself a backache by sneezing?”
“Yes, on the plane. Those seats are much too narrow for him.”
“Goddamned bag of lard.”
Birkir shook his head. “He isn’t just fat, he’s big. That’s not his fault.”
“Maybe not.”
“It took him a half hour to get out of the plane after we landed. I borrowed a wheelchair to help him out to the taxi. I wanted to get an ambulance, but he wouldn’t let me. He also used a lot of very bad language.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes, he wanted to fly Saga Class, but they wouldn’t let him upgrade.”
“He thought he needed Saga Class?”
“Yes—he’d flown Saga Class on the outward journey and was more comfortable in that seat. There’s more room.”
“How did he get the seat?”
“Our traveling companion from the embassy was kind enough to switch with him.”
“Well,” Magnús said. “Tell him to see the doctor and get something for his back. We need to get this case wrapped up ASAP.”
Sun on Fire Page 9
