Kari does not dwell on these thoughts. What matters to him most is his crew, graffitiing—he feels good when he is bombing, which is all too rarely. He can’t afford cannons. He cannot hear anyone chasing him and opens his clammy fist to examine the phone; yesss, it’s got a camera and the battery is charged. Shoving the phone into his pocket he heads up a side street rather than the main shopping street, because there are fewer people around. He feels like everyone is looking at him, a boy who isn’t at school; he wants to be left in peace. He doesn’t care that he’s skipped classes; he’s done it often and there have been no repercussions. They threaten to expel him, tell him off, but none of that bothers him because these people don’t matter to him. I don’t matter to them either, he thinks to himself.
At last he reaches the derelict house where he and his friends spent the previous evening. He crawls in through a broken basement window and holds his breath against the smell of excrement and urine. In the half dark he fumbles his way toward the stairs up to the ground floor and then on up a wooden staircase to the second floor once he has made sure there is no one around. He is frightened of bumping into one of the old winos or crazed drug addicts who crash out there, but luck is on his side—the building is empty. He goes straight into a large room on the second floor, gets the cell phone out, and photographs the wall. This will go straight onto the Internet; he is proud of this wall. The whole expanse is awash in color, covered uncontrollably in white, gray, and violet, shadows of something he feels inside but does not know exactly what, something that draws him back again and again and allows him to forget.
The moment he has finished taking his photos, he hears men’s loud voices and noisy footsteps on the stairs. It’s the police! He is about to shove the phone in his pocket when one of the police officers whips it from him and holds Kari in a firm but gentle grip. Kari doesn’t answer their questions. They mean nothing to him; they cannot touch him—all they can do is take a statement from him down at the police station and drive him home.
This is the second time that he has been arrested recently. The duty sergeant recognizes him. He is friendly, asks Kari if he’s hungry or cold. But Kari doesn’t fall for these friendly overtures; he just shakes his head and gives the policemen monosyllabic answers. Virtually the whole group was arrested last time; they were all picked up by their parents, except Kari, who was driven home, as he is again this time.
He is sullen and angry at himself for being caught, and when he sees his mother sleeping in the living room, his feelings overwhelm him. It is more peaceful when she is not home. She wakes up when the policemen come in, and Kari sees her turn on the charm, making out that she is just fine while she talks to them. She claims to be surprised; she doesn’t understand this at all—it must be a new phase that will pass. Kari’s mom is still young, and despite her dissolute life she is still beautiful. Kari can tell she’s been drinking, but probably not since the previous evening; she isn’t drunk. He waits till the policemen have left before asking her for money.
7
EXHIBITION OPENING COPENHAGEN, SPRING 2005
The opening of the fine arts exhibition is being held at the Icelandic–Danish Cultural Association in the newly renovated docklands area, and the building is bursting at the seams. Crowds of people are standing or sitting at tables on the white paving stones in front of the glass building on a sunny afternoon in May. The sun reflects off the water and mirrors through the glass; the white pavement intensifies the brightness.
Inside is a plentiful supply of food. Trays piled with national gourmet cuisine with a modern twist glide around on the arms of courteous waiters: minute blood sausage tartlets, salted meat in aspic served in little aluminum dishes, croutons of rye bread with lamb pate on sticks. A band is due to start shortly, to appeal to the young people who perhaps don’t have an awful lot of interest in Icelandic painters who studied in Copenhagen in the middle of the last century. There are paintings by Thorarin B. Thorlaksson, Kristin Jonsdottir, Sigfus Gunnarsson, Thorvald Skulason, and Gudrun Johannsdottir among others. All paintings are from the earlier parts of their careers, landscape, a touch of cubism, a hint of romanticism, and some expressionism. Still life paintings, scenes through a window, harbor views, street scenes, and landscapes. Sigfus was one of the most ambitious. Both his sketchbooks and his cubist face paintings are on display, and his semiabstract paintings stand out with their vivid colors.
Standing with an exhibition program in one hand and a soda water in the other, Hrafn Arnason looks around the room. Hrafn is a regular visitor to Copenhagen because the company has its factories here. In previous years the company produced frozen prawns and smoked salmon, but now it produces fresh sushi and sashimi, which it sells in gourmet delicatessens in Denmark and Sweden. Business is going well; sushi bars are trendy. Hrafn is hoping to meet an acquaintance here who has recently bought up a hotel. The idea is to get him to open a sushi bar inside and Hrafn will offer him a discount on his products. Hrafn is always on the lookout for new business opportunities; he wants to expand, and he needs more regular customers. He likes best to see to everything himself—just like his father before him. He knows most of his staff and prefers to employ Icelanders, even here in Copenhagen, and he regularly visits the site at Norrebro where the packing is done and watches the work being carried out.
Hrafn is standing so stock-still he is nearly invisible, alone with his thoughts in the crowd. Someone suddenly attracts his attention, fair hair, brown eyes, a slender body; then Masha’s face fills his line of vision and she kisses him three times. Hrafn hasn’t seen Masha and Larisa since the previous year, at the business conference in Moscow. As soon as he sees Masha, he wonders how many restaurants she owns in Moscow. Until now he has stuck to Copenhagen and Malmo in Sweden, but there is no reason why he shouldn’t sell sushi to Moscow. He catches Larisa’s eye. He has not forgotten her, despite his efforts to, and he slides his hands up into his sleeves, feeling embarrassed.
“Call me Masha, Mr. Arnason. How lovely to see you again!” Mariya says loudly. Her English is as stiff as before, and she lets her Russian accent show through. Mariya is a powerful woman from a powerful country; she does not need to submit to other nations’ rules of pronunciation.
“I didn’t know there were artists in Iceland,” continues Masha with a smile. “Larisa told me there were only a handful.” Larisa smiles politely at Hrafn, her eyes constantly wandering to the paintings on the walls. She clearly has more interest in them than in Hrafn, and he is relieved and disappointed at the same time. He follows her gaze, and, because he does not know what they want of him, to break the ice he begins talking about Icelandic art.
When he talks about the first Icelandic painters, their innovative work, how they had to go abroad to study, and how most of them came to Copenhagen, Larisa is all ears, which surprises him. She looks intently at the paintings as Hrafn explains how they went all out in the fight for independence at the turn of the century and painted the beauty of the Icelandic countryside, rural prosperity, and bright, clear nights. He also mentions their value and supply and demand and talks about the careers of Sigfus Gunnarsson and Svavar Gudnasonar, who were both connected to the CoBrA movement. “The works of Sigfus and Svavar are amongst those that fetch the highest prices,” he says and mentions a sum. He is careful what he says because he is not an expert like Larisa and he doesn’t care to reveal his lack of knowledge.
“I bought a painting not long ago that could be by this woman,” he says a moment later, pointing to a painting by Gudrun Johannsdottir. Masha nods, taking in what he says, but her mind is clearly elsewhere. Larisa has moved to the other side of the room, where she is looking at Sigfus Gunnarsson’s sketchbooks in a display cabinet.
By chance, the director of the cultural association suddenly appears and greets Hrafn with open arms; she used to know his parents. Hrafn introduces her to Masha, not quite knowing what to say.
“We met at a business conference in Moscow last year,” he says final
ly.
The director introduces Hrafn to a woman standing at her side. “This is Hanna Jonsdottir; she’s an art historian. She wrote a piece in the exhibition program for us and helped us with Gudrun’s paintings.”
Courteously, Hrafn offers her a firm handshake, briefly taking in her delicate features and gray eyes, her smooth brown hair drawn back in a ponytail. Mousy, he thinks, glancing quickly at her dark gray cotton dress.
Not unattractive for an entrepreneur, thinks Hanna. From the corner of her eye she notices how he draws his hands up into his sleeves so they are less conspicuous. She smiles politely.
“Hrafn has a good collection of paintings,” the director is saying to Hanna.
“Perhaps you have something by Gudrun? They’re still searching for paintings by her,” Hanna asks, but Hrafn shakes his head. Excusing himself, he turns back to Masha and casts his eye around for Larisa. He still does not know what these Russian women want of him and that bothers him. He wants to get to the bottom of it; he wants to have things under control.
A camera flashes on the other side of the room, and Hrafn thinks he sees Larisa slipping her camera back into her bag; she is standing by the cabinet where Sigfus Gunnarsson’s sketchbooks are displayed. She walks toward him smiling. Her eyes are no longer scanning the paintings; instead they rest a good while on Hrafn. He suddenly feels very warm, but just then he spots the acquaintance he was looking for. The hotel owner. And prospective sushi bar owner, though he doesn’t know it yet. Let off the hook, Hrafn greets him with delight. He is not sure he could resist Larisa’s beauty again. Hrafn introduces his colleague to Masha, and she greets him with great interest. Is this what she’s after, he wonders as he introduces them and sees the mutual business interest in their eyes, a mixture of curiosity, greed, and cunning. They briefly exchange courtesies and then Masha suddenly excuses herself. Larisa follows her like a shadow. They are some paces away when Masha turns around.
“Send me a photo of the painting.”
Hrafn is surprised at this request. So she did hear what he said about the painting that might be by Gudrun. But he agrees—why not indeed? They are both collectors, though Masha is on a totally different scale than him. Hrafn wants to sell sushi to Moscow and therefore needs Masha’s friendship. He is relieved to see Larisa go; the day is too hot and her skin too silky smooth to bear. He pushes away all thoughts of her body and, with business in mind, turns to his colleague.
8
GOLDSMITH FROM BRUGES REYKJAVIK, CURRENT DAY
Kristin, the gallery director, seems to love staff meetings. “Just so we’re all singing from the same song sheet,” she says when she calls Baldur asking him to call another meeting. Items on the agenda can be wide-ranging. They need to resolve issues around the coat check, the cafe is not up to scratch, and they need to buy new chairs for the events room. And, of course, they regularly need to discuss exhibits and other things that are going on in the gallery.
In the beginning, these meetings irritated Hanna. She did not appreciate getting a phone call and being required to attend a meeting with half an hour’s notice. In the Netherlands she grew accustomed to being organized, but that does not necessarily work well here. On Fridays, before the day is out, she likes to plan the week ahead, but she has often seen her plans fall by the wayside and finds she has to take the week as it comes. They are now sitting in the meeting room choosing among three styles of IKEA coffee mugs for the cafeteria; the cafe manager wants their opinions.
Steinn is still in the hospital; he has been off work for over a week. Hanna sorely misses him; she sees now how much he has helped her. She wants to get back to her work as quickly as possible and, without further ado, points at the mug she likes best. Edda chooses the same one, Agusta goes for the bigger one, and Baldur wants the third option.
“The majority rules,” says Kristin with a smile, handing Edda the sheet of paper. “We’ll order this one with the saucer and the matching side plate.”
Hanna continues to compose the letter in her head, her first letter to the new mayor about the extra work involved to get back on track with the outdoor artworks in need of repair, and also about possible funding for a weekend workshop for youngsters. The vandalism seems to be on the rise, if anything. The statue she and Steinn went to examine is not the only one that has suffered. Steinn had written a report and had begun to clean the statue before he ended up in the hospital, but already there are more repair jobs waiting.
Hanna is also impatiently waiting to hear from Steinn about his discovery; they need to examine the infrared image of The Birches painting again, with Composition in Blue for comparison. She has not gotten any further in her investigations. Steinn has all the information about Composition in Blue and its ownership history, and Hanna cannot work out how a painting that matches it could be hidden under The Birches painting. Gudrun would not have painted over a work by Sigfus Gunnarsson, that’s for sure. Hanna’s thoughts buzz around in circles when she tries to get a grip on it. She heard from Edda that Steinn is doing well and should be coming back to work soon, but she hasn’t talked to him herself. Their friendship is not that close; they only know each other through work and have no connection outside of that. It wouldn’t be appropriate to trouble him with work matters in the hospital, and she is even less inclined to call him at home and maybe get Helga on the line.
She listens absentmindedly to Kristin talk about the cafeteria and drags her thoughts back to her work, to the unfinished letter on her computer. She suspects there will be more such letters. The mayor will soon discover that Hanna is an expert at this sort of letter writing and it is not worth sidestepping the issues she raises. Years of dealing with bureaucracy in Europe, funding applications, and raising money have made Hanna almost unbeatable when it comes to this sort of thing. Letters like this one are her forte; she manages to appeal to the reader’s pretension, patriotism, pride, and professional conscience in such an affable manner that her request is almost always well received. If this doesn’t happen the first time around, she writes more letters, and then even more. She gets her way in the end. The new mayor is an art lover, and, besides, it is impossible to refuse necessary maintenance to artworks owned by the city—that would not sit well with public opinion. Hanna can just imagine the headlines in the papers: “New Mayor Leaves The Water-Bearer to the Vandals.” The locals know their city’s statues; they are landmarks that many have known since childhood.
Edda passes a carrot cake around. Hanna smiles at her. Sugar is exactly what is needed to make this meeting bearable, and she helps herself to a generous slice before handing it to Agusta. Baldur and Kristin are discussing something in undertones. Baldur fishes some papers out of a plastic folder, but Hanna barely pays attention. She is just finishing her cake and assumes that the meeting is over. She has the next sentence of the letter formed in her head and then Kristin announces another item on the agenda.
“Do you mean the exhibition with the Austrian twins?” Hanna asks, but Kristin shakes her head.
“No, no, no, that’s all sorted. I want to talk about another exhibition. Admittedly it’s only in the early stages, and I really want you all to keep up to speed from the beginning because it’s very short notice. Baldur has been working on this for the last few weeks and now it’s all falling into place.” Kristin takes a bite of cake. “Baldur, you tell them about it,” she adds with a smug look.
Baldur runs his fingers through his thick hair as if he doesn’t know how to begin and puts the papers down on the table. Hanna notices the letterhead is from a well-known gallery in Cologne. The letter is in German and addressed to Baldur personally.
“Well, I’ve been working on this for a few weeks now,” says Baldur, looking at Agusta and Edda but not Hanna.
“Liaising with a German curator who approached me with an idea.” He clears his throat. “You know how the Germans are thrilled with Icelandic landscape painting, Icelandic romanticism, and so forth. Well, it’s Herbert Grunewald who wants to put o
n an exhibition with Icelandic and German artists, a large exhibition that will also travel to Cologne and be shown in his gallery there, and maybe in other places, possibly London. Our plan is to put together romantic and contemporary landscape painting, and even those from earlier periods. Herbert could potentially get a hold of paintings by big names that have never been shown here, even classics like Caspar David Friedrich.”
Baldur pauses for a moment to let this news have the intended effect. He is talking about one of the most famous romantic painters. That such a small gallery as theirs, in the back of beyond, should have one of his paintings on loan is virtually unheard of in the art world. It would smash all their box office records to date.
Hanna gives him a look of questioning disbelief, and he adds, “Well, maybe not his best-known works, but probably oil paintings nonetheless. This will obviously be the biggest exhibition of the year, and Kristin and I have already begun to sound out Icelandic artists. Ruri, Georg Gudni, Eggert Petursson, and Ragna Robertsdottir will all be included and maybe some others too. The idea is to follow this with a stylish book and have articles about landscape painting in it. The opening will coincide with the Arts Festival this spring.”
Hanna does not utter a word but stares dumbfounded at Baldur, who avoids her gaze and begins to hand out copies of the letter from Herbert Grunewald in which he talks about the exhibition and possibly loaning them paintings.
“He also mentions watercolors by Durer,” Baldur adds. Then he looks at Hanna, with an unflinching look that says: I dare you. Hanna stares stiffly back at him; she is beside herself with anger. She would love to throw her coffee in his face, and in her head she jumps up onto the table and, drawing her foil from its sheath, aims it at his rib cage, getting the better of him. How dare you, she says silently. How dare you steal my idea!
The Perfect Landscape Page 10
