Pets (6 page)

“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 added.

“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.

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.