Pets (8 page)

“I was visiting a friend who is at university there,” I said. “Just disrupting his studies, he's learning economics. But besides that, I was just wasting money. Or converting it into something else; one doesn't really waste money by buying something with it, of course it is still in circulation.”

“It's still in circulation?”

“At least it doesn't disappear,” I said, beginning to regret my stupid attempt to be clever. “I mean the money I took with me, it's in London now,” I explained and tried to sound as if I was deliberately making a poor joke. “I didn't really waste it, I just exchanged it for something else.”

“I see,” Greta said with a good-natured smile.

“Well, I won the lottery a few weeks ago,” I was quick to add, trying to steer the conversation away from this silly remark about wasting money. I realized straight away that I had made matters worse; it was stupidly naive to tell a complete stranger that one had won the lottery. But her reaction didn't seem to indicate that I had made a fool of myself:

“May I ask how much you won?” she asked keenly.

“A million.”

“A million?”

“Yes, one million.”

“Then what? You went and wasted the lot in London? I mean, did you
take it all with you
to London?”

We both laughed. I answered that I hadn't wasted it all, and we began to laugh again at the verb “waste,” which is difficult to avoid using when talking about money; we had made a new version of the word game The Lady in Hamburg. While Greta told me about her unsuccessful shopping trip, as she called it—she had spent a whole day in town, from ten in the morning till seven in the evening and hadn't managed to buy a single thing for herself—I began to wonder if I had bought enough in London, if the trips to the music stores and book stores had been as productive as I had expected them to be, if one can use such professional terms in this context.

As I started thinking that, instead of meeting on the plane, we had bumped into each other in London, maybe walked into the same bar and one heard the other order a drink, Greta asked—not in the imaginary bar but beside me here in the bus—if I lived alone or with someone. I was surprised that she asked me this—I thought that these kinds of questions came later on, after you got to know a person better—but I told her the truth: I had lived alone for a little while now but had a seven-year-old son who lived in Denmark with his mother and came to visit me in the summertime.

“I'm in a similar situation,” she said. “I have a five-year-old daughter, and I live alone. Or almost, I live in the basement of my mother's house.”

We carried on talking for the rest of the ride, and I think, considering how we had only just met, we were quite frank about ourselves. I didn't mention that I had a girlfriend and thought it was very likely that she was keeping similar information to herself. It looked like the romantic comedy I had imagined outside the toilet on the plane might actually reach its happy conclusion. We agreed to meet in the evening, she would call me after she had had her supper, taken a bath and so on.

Of course Vigdis cast a large, dark shadow over the excitement and nervous fluttering that I felt inside, but it had to be like that; I wasn't going to stop now, I couldn't do it to myself nor to this interesting woman whom—however illogical it was—I continually imagined changing the sheets and scrubbing bathrooms in the hotel rooms in Akureyri where Vigdis worked. I wouldn't see Vigdis for several days and told myself that I had to wait and see what would evolve with Greta. I couldn't even be sure that anything would happen. It could be that whatever was meant to happen had already happened. If she called, it might just be to say thank you for our conversation on the bus; she had to spend time with her daughter this evening and maybe she would contact me later.

Her mother came to pick her up at Loftleidir Hotel. I had already declined the offer of a ride with them. I would take a taxi as I had to stop at a certain place on the way. Despite the fact that I was impatient to spend more time with this new girlfriend, it was too much of an insult to Vigdis to ride in Greta's mother's car. While I watched mother and daughter drive off, I suddenly felt that the clothes that Vigdis had asked me to buy in London were unbelievably drab. I thought that it would have been a real
waste
of money to have bought them.

I couldn't decide if I felt good or bad. When I sat in the taxi and told the driver to go to Grettisgata, I saw a dirty white Hyundai drive up to the couple from the duty-free store. I found it rather amusing that I, though I knew nothing about them, just the same, knew the name of the man who stepped out of the car. And he, this Eyvi, didn't know that I, a complete stranger who at this very moment was driving away in a taxi, was responsible for the fact that his brother was giving him a whole liter of fifteen-year-old malt whisky, instead of some cheap cognac in a plastic bottle.

Still, I thought he might get nothing at all.

16

Before he sat down in one of the booths, he fetched a cup of coffee. He made a point of asking for a large cup of coffee, in a mug if they had one, and ordered another double vodka. There was a newspaper folded on the table. Once he had moved several empty beer glasses and dirty dishes over to the next table, he opened the newspaper and began to read. They were playing old, Icelandic pop songs on the radio. He skimmed through the newspaper, then he folded it again and used it to wipe the table, which was wet from the previous customers. He gazed into space for a few minutes, sipping his coffee and vodka now and then, always the vodka first, then the coffee. He took the book out of the plastic bag and placed it on the table, after first inspecting it to make sure it was perfectly dry and clean. He turned the pages slowly. He wasn't reading the text; he just seemed to enjoy looking at the old pages. Then he closed the book and gently stroked the back and front covers, as if he were wiping off a thick layer of dust and didn't want it to spread all over the table.

Next he put his hand in the pocket of his anorak and took out the money and the photo of the girl with the Bible he had acquired in Austurstraeti. Then he got his wallet out from his inner breast pocket and took out a slim pile of bills. When he had added the piles together, he found that he had forty seven thousand kronur. He straightened the bills, put them down on the table, and, finishing his vodka, pressed a glass down on top of them like a paperweight.

He glanced around, stretched his neck to see the two girls at the counter, and little by little began to act nervously, as if he was waiting for someone and was excited about it. He tapped the book with his index finger, gulped down the coffee, pressed the palm of his hand down on the empty vodka glass, and suddenly raised his hand, waving in the direction of the counter and calling hello until one of the barmaids noticed him. She asked if he wanted something; he beckoned her to come over to him. She didn't seem to understand his sign language at first, but then she came out from behind the bar and walked in the direction of the tables; she had a puzzled look on her face. He smiled kindly at her and asked for her name. She seemed surprised, looked away for a moment, and then asked what he wanted. He smiled at her again—as if he wanted to tell her it was all right, he was just asking out of curiosity—and then he pointed at his empty glass and told her to bring him a double whisky with ice, no more coffee, just a double whisky with ice. When she told him that they didn't usually serve at tables there, he took hold of her arm and pulled her closer. She didn't seem surprised, and he asked her in a whisper if she would come outside with him, maybe into an alleyway nearby; he would give her fifteen thousand kronur, just for coming with him for ten, fifteen minutes. Either she didn't understand what he was saying or didn't want to understand. She pulled her arm away and said something about him having to come to the bar, she didn't take any orders at the tables. But he seemed determined to get what he wanted, and he took hold of her arm again and repeated his offer: just the two of us somewhere nearby, just a few minutes for fifteen thousand kronur. He pointed at the pile of bills under the glass. Now she understood him; the girl loosened her arm by hitting him in the chest. She told him firmly, without broadcasting it all over the place, to leave. She used these words in the infinitive and when he didn't stand up she called to someone named Kristjan. It sounded as if this Kristjan was the owner of the restaurant, and it worked. He stood up from the table, knocked his glass over as he stretched for his money, snatched up his plastic bag, and pushed past the girl in the direction of the door.

Several customers had noticed that trouble was brewing—one of them had stood up to be ready for trouble—and the other barmaid started calling for Kristjan. The girl who had been offered the money seemed determined to stay calm, although she was clearly offended. She watched as he left the place, bumping into the corner of a table on the way and swearing coarsely, both in English and Icelandic. He went as far as the corner of Snorrabraut and Laugavegur before he stopped and put the money back in his wallet. Then he rushed across Snorrabraut, though the traffic lights were red, and slowed down as he approached the corner of Laugavegur and Baronsstigur.

17

The familiar sound that comes from loudspeakers when the needle touches the black vinyl adds to the good feeling I have that this little flat, on Grettisgata, is my home, and that now I am back safely after being away. Maybe I wasn't away very long, but it was long enough to look forward to coming home, which isn't strange when one has bought a collection of books, CDs, and videos and is dying to switch on the stereo in the living room. I get a wonderful shiver when the first tones of “Lonely Fire” pierce the heavy, two-week-old air, to which I have added the smoke from one of the Hamlets that I bought at Heathrow.

I wonder whether I should perhaps have invited Tomas up for a cup of coffee—he looked so cold out in the garden—but I decided against it. He must understand that I am not going to put myself out for someone, as my grandmother would have said, when I have just arrived home from abroad. I feel I need to spend some time alone in my flat—listen to a little music and even lie down on my bed—before I start entertaining others.

The living room window seems to be frozen shut when I try to open it. I don't dare to press hard on the single sheet of glass, so I decide to go out into the garden to see if I can scrape away the ice from the outside. While I'm putting on my shoes, I put my hand into my shirt pocket automatically—as I usually do before going outside, to make sure that I have some change or a credit card with me—and find something unexpected. Before I pull it out of my pocket, I realize what it is: Armann Valur's glasses.

“I don't believe it!” I say out loud to myself. It's exactly the last thing I need at the moment. I remember straight away that I put them into my shirt pocket when I passed the food tray to the flight attendant, but can't understand why on earth Armann didn't miss them when he woke up.

I try not to think of where Armann is at this moment. No doubt he has made them turn everything on the plane upside down. If his panic—flapping his arms in front of the airport official—was anything to go by, it didn't seem likely that he would leave the airport without his glasses. Besides, I know now, as I am holding on to the thick-lensed glasses, that he has considerable need of them. The only thing I can do is call him or try to contact someone at the airport; I am almost sure that Armann is still there.

I can't have been the one who decided to put the glasses in my pocket; someone else must have made the decision.

According to the telephone directory, Armann could almost be considered my neighbor; he lives on Raudararstigur. I am pretty sure I have the right man: Armann Valur Armannsson, Icelandic linguist. His phone rings four times before the answering machine clicks in. I must admit that I am quite surprised that he uses such technical devices, and I'm even more surprised when his message is repeated in English: “This is Armann Valur speaking. I am not in at the moment. Please leave your name and telephone number and I will see what I can do.”

It's difficult to say if the last phrase is meant to be a joke or not and I hesitate for a moment before leaving a message:

“Hello Armann, this is Emil speaking, you probably remember me from the plane. I hope I haven't caused you too much inconvenience. I was just coming home a few minutes ago and I spotted that I've got your glasses. I am most terribly sorry, of course I didn't intend to
. . .
” I don't get any further: a shrill beep informs me that my time has run out. I immediately regret having hoped that “I haven't caused him too much inconvenience.” Obviously the inconvenience that I caused him was “too much”: I was responsible for him missing the Fly Bus into town and no doubt prevented him from buying some Opals in the duty-free store by depriving him of his sight. I had, at least, not
made his day
, although I realize that he probably isn't familiar with the expression. I can't imagine using the verb “to spot” will improve his opinion of me either. I call the answering machine again and ask Armann to contact me concerning the glasses, I'll be at home this evening. I rush to give him my telephone number before the beep cuts me off.

I put the heavy glasses down on the table in the living room and start unpacking my suitcases. I line up the wine on the right hand side of the table, place the cigarettes and cigars in front of the bottles, and pile up the books (all eight of them), the video cassettes (of which there are seven), and the CDs (there are thirty six of them, not counting those I bought for Saebjorn and Jaime) at the other end of the table. I have to laugh when I look at Armann's glasses in the center of the table, and I can't make up my mind whether this ridiculous mistake, this terrible misfortune, is worse for Armann or me. At least there is no special good fortune involved; I realize that we are about to meet again, the linguist and I.