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  He fell silent at this point, as if he was giving me the chance to say something. Then he asked for my opinion.

  “On what?” I asked.

  “Whether each copy could be different?”

  “That’s a question,” I said, and I realized as soon as I had said it that I had answered with this phrase before. It looked as if I had only one response on hand in reply to what the linguist was telling me and that answer had to include the word question.

  “But I personally don’t believe that each individual product of this kind is unique,” he continued and pointed again at my tape player. “Isn’t it made somewhere in East Asia? Where everyone is virtually the same, whether he works with a conveyor belt or at a desk or stoops half starved over some paddy field?”

  I said I thought it was produced in Korea or Japan and restrained myself from objecting to his statement that all the inhabitants of these countries were the same.

  “However it may well be that they are all individual,” he said, as if he regretted having clumsily exposed his antipathy for Asians. “Maybe it’s possible to find some minute differences between one Japanese and another. But then we can also consider the opposite of Japanese technology: the Russian automobile industry! No two vehicles are the same. Each Lada, Moskvitch, or whatever it is called, is absolutely unique. Of course the Russian car comes into existence in a similar manner as most babies do, that is to say under the influence of alcohol or drugs.”

  Suddenly he pushed his nose up in the air and sniffed. Then he looked back towards the flight attendant, who was approaching with the food trays, and said:

  “It seems as though they are going to treat us to something.”

  It flashed through my mind that Armann Valur could be as much under the influence as the Russian mechanics allegedly were. I thought it unlikely that the half glass of red wine he had drunk could stimulate those weird speculations on tape players and the book from Foyles. Not to mention the subject he moved on to next: that his favorite word was limbo. He felt that he, personally, was often in some kind of limbo, both in respect to his life as a human being, that is the life pattern—as he expressed it—and his life as a thinking individual amongst other thinking individuals, and often individuals who didn’t seem to think very much at all from one minute to the next. But whatever the outcome, and maybe exactly because of these thoughts of his, I was beginning to enjoy Armann’s company—even though he was certainly one of those personalities one would never wish to have as a lifelong acquaintance or consider inviting home.

  The aroma of the food seemed to have taken complete control of Armann and he had definitely lost all interest in those forms of research into which he had been giving me glimpses. He managed to stuff the book back into his pocket with a certain amount of difficulty—although it was a paperback it was too big for an average sized pocket—and he got ready for the meal by putting the flight magazine back in the seat pocket, brushing something off the sleeve of his overcoat and rubbing his hands together, like someone who is looking forward to something good. Next he took off his glasses and put them down on the table, which was ready for the food tray.

  I guessed we would get chicken.

  10

  The cab driver pulled up in the parking space in front of the ice cream stand at Ingolfstorg. He paid the driver and when he told him to keep the four hundred kronur change, the driver, who hadn’t uttered a word all the way, said he never took more than the rate; he pointed at the meter and said that was the price, that was what he accepted for the ride. Then it will just have to be danger money, he said as he opened the door and worked his way out. He shut the door behind him, zipped up his anorak, fitted his hood over his head, and walked into Austurstraeti with his plastic bag. When he had gone several meters along the street he suddenly turned round and went back in the direction of the square. The taxi was still in the parking lot, and he knocked on passenger’s side window as he passed by. The driver seemed startled; he watched his former passenger walk on, and then muttered something under his breath when he saw the passenger stop at the ice cream stand and talk to a young man.

  He asked for ice cream with a topping. Wasn’t it possible to have it hot, it was so bloody cold outside. The young man smiled and said he could make him a child-size ice cream, he would be quicker with it. Maybe that was the thing, he answered; he’d have a child’s size one. Children knew what they wanted; if anyone could make a right decision it was a child. When he took the chocolate-covered cornet (and looked goggle-eyed at it, amazed at how small it was) he asked the youth if he knew of any good bars in the vicinity, if there were any in Austurstraeti for instance. Yes, there were two or three in Austurstraeti, but there were more and rather better ones in the neighboring streets—the ones on Austurstraeti were pretty weird. There was one that was some kind of health bar and another very strange one on the right—he gave more accurate details on how to find it—but wasn’t quite sure whether he should recommend going there. He liked the sound of it and would take a look at the strange place. The young man asked him if he had come from the country and he replied that he had been in Breidholt. Then he smiled, pierced the crisp chocolate with his teeth, and took a large bite. With his mouth full, he told the young man he had been living abroad, hadn’t been in Reykjavik for several years. He swallowed the ice cream and gave a shudder, it was so cold, then added that he was just visiting an old friend before going abroad again. He paid for the ice cream, said he was going to take a look at this strange bar, and got a peculiar smile from the young man behind the counter.

  He walked straight over to the bar, as if he knew exactly where it was. He peered through the window before going in and dropped the half-eaten cornet on to the pavement. He stood on it and squashed it like he was putting out a cigarette.

  Inside the bar, three men were sitting at a table beside the counter and a man and a woman were at another table near the window. The smell in there was the smell of yesterday, or all the yesterdays that had been since it opened—stale cigarette smoke that seemed somehow to choke any possibility of good memories. The interior was clearly not designed to distract attention from the customers, who all looked as if they had been there a long time. But, despite the fact that he had just come in, they took no special interest in him. He walked up to the bar and asked for a double vodka and coffee, if there was any coffee to be had. The bartender was a man of about fifty, with bushy eyebrows and a thick mustache. There was no coffee ready but he could make some; he, the bartender—who seemed to be the owner of the place—had coffee, that was no problem, he’d see to it straight away.

  The three men who sat beside the bar had clearly become interested in his conversation with the bartender; they turned round to face the bar and one of them, who seemed to be the oldest, or at least had sat there longer than the others, said the word coffee, as if it hadn’t been heard in there before. Then they carried on talking and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, they were quarreling noisily, so loudly that the bartender ordered them to shut up or they would have to leave. They calmed down quickly, almost as though someone had blinked again.

  He took the vodka glass and sat down at a table in the middle of the place but he stood up again straight away and asked the bartender, who was busy making coffee, if he could make a phone call. The men at the table looked at him again in wonder. He was shown into a room behind the bar that seemed to serve both as a wine cellar and the kitchen. There were several framed prints on one of the walls—they reminded him of the inside of a retired sailors’ home—as well as two pin-up pictures from porn magazines. One showed a pale woman of about fifty, who had remarkably firm breasts for her age. He gazed at the picture while he called information and asked for the number of Emil Halldorsson, Emil S. Halldorsson. While he held the receiver in his left hand and waited for the number, he grabbed hold of his crotch with his right hand, rubbing and pressing the denim with his thumb. He let go of himself when he got the
number, transferred the receiver to his right hand, and called again. Like when he called from Sudurholar, no one answered.

  When he came back out into the smoke-filled air in the bar he smelled the aroma of brewing coffee and stopped to breathe it in. Havard sat down again beside the vodka glass and had a swig. He was just about to light a cigarette when one of the three men by the bar spoke to him: Hey, you there, you got a special contract already? Laughter rose up around the table and was followed by a bad fit of coughing from one of them, who had a particularly pale face. Another, the only one who sat facing him, told him not to take any notice of his friend, he hadn’t woken up yet; he had no idea what he was saying. But he wanted to know what the man had meant when he asked if he had a special contract. The one who had spoken didn’t seem to be in any state to explain, he was too busy coughing, but his friend told him not to worry, it was nothing. Then he slapped the weakling on the back and stuck a cigarette in his mouth, as if to glue his lips together. The latter dragged out the cigarette, laughed wheezily while he got over his coughing fit, put the cigarette back between his lips, and lit it. Then he took out a leather wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out several kronur bills. He counted the money, returned it to his wallet, and put the wallet back into his pocket. The way he behaved suggested that he was in the habit of counting his money quite regularly. The newcomer stood up from his table, picked up his empty vodka glass, and walked up to the bar. The owner of the place, who had just poured steaming coffee into a cup for him, automatically brought out the vodka bottle, poured some into the empty glass, and asked if he needed milk or sugar in his coffee. He said no, turned around, and went up the table where the three men sat. He stood still for a little while, staring directly at the one who had just finished counting the money in his wallet. All three of the men stared back at him. Their expressions suggested that they had seen something unexpected; something was about to happen, and they would have to react.

  11

  After the meal, which turned out to be some kind of Cordon Bleu and not chicken as I had guessed, Armann fell asleep with his empty food tray in front of him. He had declined the flight attendant’s offer of coffee, finished off his red wine and one of the Cointreau bottles, and nodded off almost before he had swallowed it. The flight attendant suggested that I tip his seat back, so that he would be more comfortable. While I was adjusting Armann’s seat, the woman by the window asked me, with a slightly mocking expression on her face, if I was going to cover him up with a rug too. I smiled back and said I thought he was wrapped up well enough already. She looked as though she was going to try to fall asleep too, and when she had shut her eyes, with her head resting against the window of the plane, I imagined that she was tired after spending last night with her lover and was floating into sleep on those memories. Now, when it was nearly three o’clock and one hour into this three hour flight.

  On the other hand, it was impossible to say what was going on in Armann’s mind. At first I thought of him having fallen asleep like a little child, but after further reflection I decided it was inappropriate; one would never see this kind of expression on a child’s face, even if its parents had poked it for fun or pulled its skin this way and that. Sleep would never disfigure a face so badly, except perhaps on a person who always slept alone and didn’t have to think day and night of looking good for a wife or lover. I smiled at this poor theory of mine—I began to wonder if I had been infected by my fellow passenger’s lively imagination—but I only needed to look over to the other side of the aisle to realize that there might be some truth in it. A middle-aged couple, who had asked me earlier to help them get their luggage down from the overhead bin, were asleep, and there was such a childlike, peaceful expression on the man’s face that it was impossible to imagine he had ever frowned, or looked depraved or lustful, even when he was enjoying intercourse with his wife.

  “May I take the tray?” the flight attendant asked.

  I was going to pass her the woman’s tray first. She seemed to be asleep, but then I saw she hadn’t touched the dessert, so I offered to lift Armann’s tray instead—he had clearly enjoyed all the food. But in order to get the tray off the table I had to be rather organized; he had put his glasses down in his unused coffee cup and his right hand—with three fingers gripping the tray, as if to prevent it from being thrown away—lay in his lap, heavy with sleep. I managed to loosen his fingers and move his hand without waking him. I couldn’t think where to put his glasses while I helped the flight attendant, so I pushed them into the pocket of my shirt and got rid of our used food trays.

  Once the food trays have been removed, one feels that a very important stage has been reached. Besides having been fed and feeling comfortably full, the second stage of the journey has begun, or is about to at least, and then there’s not so long to wait until one can fill one’s lungs with, on the one hand, desperately wanted cigarette smoke and, on the other hand, cold fresh air, at least if one is on the way, as we were, to Iceland from abroad.

  The flight attendant thanked me for helping her with the trays and offered me more coffee. I accepted and added what was left of the first liqueur bottle to it.

  Vigdis came to mind. When I called her from the hotel the day before yesterday she said she would call me from Akureyri after I got home, though she wasn’t quite sure when. She was going to be at a meeting which could last all evening. She had asked me to buy her a jumper and some pants from a certain shop on Oxford Street; I didn’t find them, despite looking for an hour yesterday on my last trip to the shops. She had also told me to buy some special make of clothes for Halldor, my son, but I hadn’t had time to find them either. I bought a computer game instead, and I was already beginning to worry that it would be outdated by the time he came to visit me from Denmark in May or June. As I hadn’t bought anything for Vigdis I was going to get some perfume or sweets for her in the duty-free store and find some clothes for her later on Laugavegur; I wouldn’t see her before next weekend at the earliest anyway.

  Armann and the woman by the window were both sleeping soundly. I was wide awake and stood up to go to the toilet, though I didn’t have any great need to go. One of the toilets was out of order—there was a hand-written sign—and I stood behind a young man who was waiting for the other one. The flight attendant, who had freed me of the food trays, was filling up the wine supplies on her trolley in the space beyond the toilets. She smiled at me and asked if I wanted more to drink with my coffee. I said no thank you, I had enough for the time being. Then I sensed that someone had joined the line, and, on turning around, I came eye to eye with the blonde from Hjalmholt. Before I turned back again she seemed to screw up her face, as if she had an itch or was trying to move her glasses further up her nose, although she wasn’t wearing any. The man in front of me was becoming impatient. He muttered something under his breath. The flight attendant thought he was talking to her, and he asked grumpily if she couldn’t find a plumber amongst the passengers. I turned to the girl.

  “This is going to take some time,” I said cheerfully and tried not to let the man in front hear me.

  “I’ve plenty of time,” she answered with a smile.

  Of course people have enough time onboard airplanes; they have far too much time. I couldn’t think of anything more to say to improve on the clumsy remark I had made, but she came to my rescue by filling the silence:

  “Can you imagine what went wrong in the other toilet?”

  “I’m doing my best not to,” I said, rather pleased with myself for this answer. The fact that I was standing here in the aisle of the airplane talking to this beautiful woman, whom I had kept in the back of my mind for fifteen years, made me feel like I was in some kind of romantic comedy—the kind of film I usually try to avoid, though in this case I must admit that I wanted it to continue and reach a conclusion I had already started to hope for. “But I am beginning to wonder if something has happened in this one as well,” I ad
ded.

  “They are dangerous places, these toilets,” the blonde said. “I think I’ll mess my pants in a minute.”

  I didn’t quite know quite what to reply to this, if she really meant what she was saying.

  “There is an even longer line at the other end of the plane,” she continued. “I don’t know what’s going on; maybe there was something in the food.”

  “You can go before me,” I said, trying to sound as if I wasn’t doing her any special favor. “That’s if the person inside ever comes out.”

  “Can I?” she said, gratefully, and just then a middle-aged woman came out of the toilet with a small child.

  “No problem,” I said. “I can wait.”

  She thanked me and when the woman and child had gone back to their seats, and the man in front had disappeared into the toilet, she said she knew what it was like with children. It took twice as long to help them though they were half our size. We didn’t say any more before she went in, but I couldn’t help imagining what she was doing once she had disappeared inside the plastic door and bolted the lock. I was in no hurry to get to the toilet and I rather hoped that she would take her time. I enjoyed standing there, making sure that no one disturbed her.

  “It’s alright for you to enter,” she said with a smile when she came out, but I was partly wishing that she had left some kind of smell behind. Then she thanked me, and as she walked off in the direction of her seat, I noticed that she was carrying a little toilet bag.

  I’m not sure if I imagined it but I felt as if she had given me some kind of signal with her eyes when she smiled at me. I was quite certain I wouldn’t be able to shake this woman out of my mind straight away. There was a rather heavy, heady perfume floating in the air that appealed to me straight away; she had brought her perfume in her toilet bag and had decided to use it after our conversation.