Pets Page 5
She looked back at me once, later on in the flight, and we smiled politely at each other.
Armann didn’t wake up until the captain announced that we were descending and that there were fourteen degrees of frost in Keflavik. Several passengers shivered at the very thought of it. But Armann didn’t seem to be very cold, he had clearly sweated while he slept, and I noticed that the woman by the window, who had just woken up too, couldn’t help smiling when she saw the beads of perspiration on the forehead of this overdressed man.
Armann didn’t say a word until we were just about to touch down. Then he suddenly started talking, and it was quite obvious that he was nervous. Out of the blue he began to tell me about a bartender he had met in his hotel in London. He had been chatting to him late one evening and the bartender—who had the same surname as both the Prime Minister of England and the author of Animal Farm (that is, before he assumed his “nom de plume”)—had told him a little story that explained why he had turned to heavy drinking and smoking as a young man. One of his teachers in secondary school had been a strict teetotaler, and just before he bade farewell to his pupils, who were going off to grapple with life or on to other educational institutions, he wanted to show them once and for all the destructive nature of alcohol and tobacco. He placed three glasses of water on his desk, and added alcohol to the first and nicotine to the second, leaving the third uncontaminated, just pure water.
“If one can talk about pure water in England,” Armann added in an aside.
Then the teacher opened a little cardboard box, and pulled out a black insect, which was about the size of a cigarette filter, with a pair of tweezers.
By now the airplane had come to a halt and people had started to pull down their belongings from the overhead bins. I asked Armann to excuse me while I got down my bag and, because I didn’t want to block the flow of passengers on the way to the exit, I tried to signal to him that I had to leave without hearing the rest of the story. Armann had also stood up and wiped his hand across his sweaty brow. Though he was well into his story about the bartender, he still looked rather sleepy and it was obvious that he wasn’t enjoying this part of the journey very much.
12
The bartender seemed to be keeping a close eye on what was happening at the table. No sooner had he said, “For God’s sake, let’s have no trouble,” than a hand gripped the shoulder of the man who had mentioned the contract and pulled him out of his seat. The cigarette fell from his hand and it was difficult to see what upset his companions more: the hot ashes that scattered over the table or the assault. The pale, sickly fellow was shaken about for several seconds, as if the ground under his feet was rocked by sharp tremors, and then his companions stood up to help him; one of them—the one who had tried to explain that his friend was in a bad way—was quick to act, but the other, who had obviously drunk more than the rest of them, took longer to heave his body up off the chair. The man who now held the weakling by the shoulders, dragged him towards the door and, before his mates had time to come to his rescue, slipped his hand into the inner jacket pocket and snatched out the tattered wallet. He then gave the man a push in the direction of his friends, which caused him to slump down in a heap at their feet. He grabbed hold of the plastic bag that he had kept on his table, ran to the door, and was out on the pavement before anyone could do anything. When the three comrades emerged a few seconds later and began to quarrel about the direction in which the damned fellow had gone, he had disappeared round the corner of Austurstraeti and Posthusstraeti. He dropped the wallet into the plastic bag and ran on in the direction of Hotel Borg. There was no sign that anyone had noticed him. When he had gotten as far as the alleyway behind the hotel he stopped, got his breath back, and spat on the pavement, as if he were getting rid of something that had been afflicting him for a long time. He looked inside the plastic bag and checked that he had everything: the book, the sailing ship, and the wallet. He then gave a sigh of relief and took a few minutes to gaze at a sculpture which depicted either a business man holding on to a briefcase, with the top half of his body enclosed in a large square stone block, or a large, walking stone block, with arms and a briefcase in one hand. He looked at the plastic bag, then again at the sculpture, shook his head, smiled, and walked on into Laekjargata.
He pulled his hood up over his head and made towards the junction of Austurstraeti and Laekjargata. He soon stopped walking, stood thinking for a short while in front of a large, brightly lit clothes shop, and then crossed the road, to the spot where he had taken the taxi earlier in the day. Once there he stopped in the middle of the pavement and sat down by a square that was covered in paving stones and resembled a gigantic chessboard. He took the wallet out of the bag and opened it to find seven bills—eleven thousand kronur—and two photos: one of a plump woman with dark hair and “Love, Mary” written on it in English, and the other of an unusually pretty and well-dressed seven- or eight-year-old girl, who was standing in front of dark red curtains and holding an open book, probably the Bible, in her hands. When he examined the wallet more closely he discovered an old driving license in a tight pocket. There was a photograph of the pale man under the cracked, matted plastic. He looked slightly healthier in the photo and his hair was longer than it had been in the bar a few minutes earlier. His name was Gisli Norholm, and that he was licensed to drive cars and vehicles carrying passengers on a professional basis.
He pushed the bills and the photo of the girl into his anorak pocket, replaced the photo of Mary and the driving license, stood up, and dropped the wallet into the green trash can beside the chessboard. It was still freezing cold, probably even colder than before. He was going to sit down again but changed his mind and walked up the steps towards the restaurant at the top of the slope. Then he went up Bankastraeti in the direction of Laugavegur. When he reached the corner of Klapparstigur and Laugavegur, he saw two policemen walking in the opposite direction on the other side of the street. He disappeared into an antique shop on the corner.
13
I had intended to wait for Armann—I was looking forward to seeing what he would buy in the duty-free store—but he was delayed once we entered the building and I didn’t see him again until I had reached baggage reclaim. He was accompanied by an airport attendant. They disappeared up the escalator, as if they were going back out to the plane. Armann was in his heavy wool overcoat and was flapping his arms; the uniformed attendant nodded continuously. I imagined that Armann must have left something behind on the plane; whatever had happened, he had clearly had the sense to ask for help.
The blonde had disappeared too quickly for me to keep an eye on her and I didn’t see her in the duty-free store either. I did however notice the educated woman with the hickey standing in front of the make-up counter; she was holding two pale green boxes of face cream and seemed to be trying to decide which one she should choose. I wondered if I should ask her to help me find something for Vigdis. I was sure that she had good taste, considering how she was dressed and the manner in which she had turned the pages of her magazine. I was just about to approach her when she put down both boxes and walked away. At that moment I decided to buy a good cognac and a box of chocolates for Vigdis.
The thought of Vigdis only made me think of one thing: the blonde from Hjalmholt. I looked for her in the crowd and came to the conclusion that she wasn’t interested in hanging about with all the consumer crazy Icelanders; if anything she would have rushed through the usual selection, only taking a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of Campari or Russian, not American, vodka.
“We have to buy something for Eyvi,” I heard someone say beside me as I stood in front of the cognac and whisky rack. The voice belonged to a man of about fifty with thinning hair. He was carrying an empty basket and reached up to the top shelf for a bottle of cognac.
“Why?” asked a woman of the same age, probably his wife, who stood on the other side of him. She sounded impatient.
“I can’t
be bothered seeing his pathetic smile if he doesn’t get anything,” the man said and gazed with a rather serious expression at the bottle, as if buying it was quite a responsibility.
“It’s your decision,” the woman said. “He isn’t my brother.”
It was obvious that the woman’s lack of interest annoyed him. She had half-filled her basket with sweets. He put the cognac bottle back on the shelf and took hold of a cheaper brand in a plastic half-liter bottle. He examined it carefully, turned it over to read the information on the back, and tried the lid to make sure it was sealed properly. Then he said:
“He’s been collecting our mail for the past three weeks, I think the least we can do is show our gratitude.”
“I didn’t ask him to do it,” the woman answered just as coldly as before.
“No, I did,” the man said determinedly. “I think it’s quite alright to give him something for coming to pick us up and looking after the mail.”
“He has been using our car for three weeks,” the woman objected. “Isn’t that payment enough for taking some letters and newspapers out of the mail box?”
I could see that she had said her last words on the matter.
“He’s coming to pick us up,” the man repeated, but got no response.
He still couldn’t decide what to choose and I felt rather sorry for him. I decided to help the fellow; no doubt I was bolder than usual after the red wine and liqueur that I had on the plane. I apologized for interfering and told him that instead of the plastic bottle of cognac he should rather buy a big bottle of whisky or even port. The duty-free store had good port. The man gave me a look of surprise but I noticed that he was grateful for my advice. His wife, on the other hand, glared at me.
“That’s an idea,” he said, looking confidently at the cognac bottle. “Do you hear that, Magga?”
“I want no part in this,” she said almost aggressively. “I don’t see why we have to give your brother a bottle of alcohol every time we come home from abroad.” Having said that she turned around and pushed her way through the crowd towards the make-up stand.
“I just can’t bear to look at his pathetic smile,” the man repeated almost whining, more to himself than to his wife who was no longer there to listen to him. He gave a nod in my direction to show he appreciated the advice. Then I showed him a liter bottle of malt whisky, imagining that this Eyvi would be happy with a bottle like that. By now, he would no doubt be standing with his face pressed up against the glass that separates the passengers, who have just landed, from those who have come to meet them.
“So this is good, you say?” the brother asked when he had put the cognac back and picked up the liter of malt whisky instead. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. As I nodded, I pulled my bottom lip over my top one and tried to give him the impression that he was being given advice by a specialist. I quite expected him to ask for more advice, perhaps chat a little now that his wife had gone off, but he was satisfied with what I had already told him, placed the bottle carefully in his basket, and added another liter of malt whisky. Then he thanked me again and went off, clearly pleased with his purchases.
I hadn’t intended to buy whisky but while I imagined Eyvi and his brother in the living room with both bottles on the table—it wasn’t easy to guess whose bottle had been opened—I put one in my basket. Then I chose a good cognac and some Belgian chocolates for Vigdis. I added a liter of dry martini and two cartons of Camel filters, as well as cigars that looked as though they were one hundred percent tobacco, though it wasn’t stated on the box. Before placing everything on the counter, I grabbed six cans of beer too. I expected to be told that I had exceeded the allowance, but I wasn’t stopped at the counter or at the customs gate.
I still hadn’t seen the fair-haired woman, but I had spotted Armann again and it was obvious that he was having some trouble. I decided not to bother about him. Instead, now that I had gotten through customs, I cheered myself up with the thought that I was a free man and after four hours of going without could even enjoy a cigarette. I welcomed myself and pulled my overcoat out of my suitcase. It was cold in the entrance but I enjoyed the fresh air and looked forward to settling down on the bus.
First of all I had to have a smoke. While I was unwrapping the pack of Hamlets that I had bought at Heathrow, I looked across the hallway and amused myself by wondering if Eyvi had arrived to pick up the couple from the duty-free store. I was keeping an eye out for the blonde woman at the same time. I saw two men who could have been Eyvi. One of them was half bald and wore a dark blue fleece jumper and grey Terylene pants and the other, whom I recognized from somewhere downtown—either he worked in a shop or at the Post Office—was quite like the brother, with thinning fair hair, running shoes, and some kind of tracksuit under his anorak. He was holding a set of car keys that he rattled to announce his arrival.
When I walked outside, I saw the couple in front of me looking in the direction of the car park. The Fly Bus had arrived and the driver had started to load suitcases into the luggage compartment. The couple stood surrounded by their suitcases and duty-free bags and were looking rather miserable, not exactly dressed for February’s frost. I lit a cigar and took a sip from the Cointreau bottle from the plane. When I looked at them again, the woman seemed to be quietly scolding the man—I imagined it was because of the whisky he had bought—and I didn’t think she did much to warm him with her hard, fierce expression. I strained my ears to catch what she was saying and seemed to hear her mention the bus. A few minutes later the man walked slowly back towards the entrance of the airport building. He stopped close to me, turned around, and looked at his wife, as if he was tired rather than annoyed. Then he carried on and went inside.
The frost was beginning to sting my cheeks. I put out the half-smoked cigar and was about to get into the bus, but when I swung my bag up on to my shoulder I noticed the blonde woman standing outside the door with her luggage. She was lighting a cigarette. I had another drink from the miniature bottle and got out a pack of cigarettes from my coat pocket as I walked over to her.
“I have to ask you for a light,” I said.
“It’s alright to do it,” she answered.
I was almost sure she was referring to what she had said when she came out of the toilet in the plane. The words were exactly the same, except instead of letting me know that it was alright “to enter,” she now said it was all right “to do it.”
14
It wasn’t very bright inside the antique shop. What little light there was came from the weak yellow glow of lamps that were positioned amongst the dark wooden furniture; the atmosphere was better than the bar on Austurstraeti. He watched the policemen walk down Laugavegur until he couldn’t see them any more, then he wandered round the shop and inspected the furniture and knickknacks. He stopped in a corner, sat down in a deep, wide armchair that was covered in dark green upholstery, and stayed there for a while. There weren’t many customers in the shop: a middle-aged shop assistant stood beside a tall chest of drawers and arranged small statues around a mantelpiece clock; a young couple, who were holding a little girl by the hand, were interested in a beautiful sideboard with a mirror; and an old lady walked to and fro looking at different objects, fingered some of them but didn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular. He stretched out his legs, slid further down in the chair, and leaned his head back. He held the plastic bag on his lap as if it was a cat and after a few moments he had closed his eyes and seemed to be asleep. It was warm in there.
When the old woman left the shop the doorbell rang, warning the customers to expect a cold gust of air. He opened his eyes and sat up straight in the armchair. The shop assistant had moved behind the counter; she was fiddling with a copper-colored standard lamp that had a light red shade. He got up from the chair, walked over to the counter, and said good morning. The woman smiled in a friendly manner and nodded. Carefully, he took the box, which contained the
sailing ship, out of the plastic bag and, as he put it down on the table, said he would like to show her something. She asked what it was, and he turned the box round so that she could see the beautifully carved ship; her face lit up. He told her that it was from the middle of the nineteenth century and she replied that she could imagine that, without knowing anything about it of course. He put his hand under it and lifted it up so that she could see it better. When she asked where he had gotten hold of it he answered: “in England.” He had bought it a few years ago in London for two thousand pounds. She nodded again and looked at him closely, as if she was trying to fathom why he was showing her the ship. If that was the case, the answer came immediately: was she interested in buying it from him, he would let her have it at a very reasonable price. She smiled and when he said that he would let her have the ship for a hundred and fifty thousand kronur, she laughed in a rather embarrassed manner. She wasn’t so sure about that, they weren’t buying much these days, but she was willing to let her husband have a look at it, he was the one who evaluated the goods here, she didn’t have any say in such matters. Then he said that there was no doubt to be had about this object. If he let them have it for a hundred and fifty thousand he was almost giving it away. The woman said that she wasn’t sure if there was a market for such objects. He interrupted her and said with a smile that he wasn’t intending to sell the ship, he was going to give it to a good friend of his. He had only been curious to find out what he could get for it.
He burped. It seemed as if he had accidentally let the burp slip out; he put his hand in front of his mouth and mumbled a muffled apology into the palm of his hand. Suddenly there was a very clear change in the woman’s manner. It appeared that something more serious than a burp had made the man seem highly suspicious. Her face showed how nervous she had become. The corner of her mouth twitched and she backed away. While he put the ship back inside the bag and thanked the woman, she glanced around the shop, like she was looking for the couple with the child. She seemed very relieved when he made his way to the door. He looked out of the window in both directions before stepping out into the street, then he took hold of the door and swung it slightly back and forth to make the bell ring. The shop assistant gave him a forced smile when he waved goodbye and left.