Pets (9 page)

I light a cigarette, open a warm beer from the duty-free pack, and go into the bedroom to have a look at my emails. Greta comes to mind. I wonder if I'll ever get to know her well enough to receive emails from her. At this moment she is probably telling her daughter about the double-decker buses in London and how the people drive on the wrong side of the road, but she won't mention the man she met on the plane on the way home and again on the bus, nor the fact that she intends to meet him this evening once the little one has fallen asleep.

There are about twenty emails waiting for me on the computer: several from Saebjorn and Jaime; one from Jonas, my friend in London, that was written today (no doubt asking, for the sake of politeness, if I've arrived home safely); two from Vigdis; a few from some magazines I subscribe to; and all sorts of junk mail.

I feel I need to cheer myself up and decide to make instant coffee with whisky. When I go into the kitchen and feel how heavy the air still is, I push the kitchen window open wider.

18

He was half way across Baronsstigur when he suddenly turned round and went back in the direction of Snorrabraut. He pulled down his hood and stood for a little while by a shop window, in front of a dummy which was dressed like a teenager. He looked at his reflection in the glass, ran his fingers through his thick hair, and spat into the palm of his hand, so that he could flatten his hair a bit on one side. Then he carried on at a quicker pace and went into a clothing shop; the mannequins in the window stood stark naked and were spotlighted in the cold darkness that now enveloped the city. He undid the zip on his anorak, walked straight up to the counter on the right, and asked a neat, dark haired man in his forties if he could keep his plastic bag while he had a look around. The man took the plastic bag without uttering a word and when the bag owner had turned his back to gaze around the spacious shop floor, the dark haired assistant went over to his colleague at one of the cash registers, pointed out the customer to him, and said something that made him smile. They watched him walk into a department on the left, come out again, and look at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall by the entrance, but when he came back in the direction of the counter they looked away and pretended to be busy with some imaginary tasks.

When he had made a complete circuit of the area beyond the counter, and gazed at and fingered several garments on hangers, the dark-haired sales assistant came up to him and asked if he could be of any help. He said possibly, he was looking for a suit, of rather thick material, a proper suit, as he put it, something he could wear on more occasions than just family gatherings. The sales assistant said he understood what he meant, he was talking about a suit he could wear both for funerals and on more relaxed, informal occasions, an everyday suit; he knew just what he meant. He stretched out towards a light grey one and told the man that if he himself was looking for a suit this is the one he would choose. It doesn't matter where you are, he said, this suit is always appropriate. He took the clothes, examined them from the front and the back, and then asked to see something else slightly darker, maybe even black, but it had to be darker. Let's look more in this direction then, the sales assistant said, and motioned him to follow.

Before he selected another suit he had a better look at the customer, mumbled something to himself about the size he needed, then showed him a charcoal-colored suit that seemed to fulfill his requirements about utility and thickness. The customer's reaction was positive; it was just what he was looking for, could he try it on? He was shown into the changing room and when he began to undress he shouted out to the assistant: could he find some fine shirt for him, something that would go well with the clothes? The assistant was standing in front of the changing room with a light grey shirt when he appeared in the suit, shoeless, and with his hands outstretched. You have to put on your shoes, the assistant said, it doesn't look right with just socks. Apart from that it fits like a glove, I think the size is just right, that is, if you want my opinion. He said he thought so too, took the shirt, put it on, and placed his feet into his shoes. The assistant showed him that he looked first class by forming a zero with his first finger and thumb and told him he would give him the shirt, this very fine shirt, made of the best quality material, for half price with the suit. He could also show him a tie that would go very well with the shirt. He said no thank you, he was not interested in ties or bow-ties, but perhaps he could dispose of the old clothes for him, everything except the anorak and shoes. The assistant said that was no problem, said he would fetch the clothes personally from the changing room later. Then he accepted payment, tapped a simple drum beat on the counter, and said that was fine, now they were quits.

On the way out, the customer paused by the full-length mirror and gazed at himself for a little while, pulling his anorak away from his shoulders to see more of his new suit, but he stopped as he was about to button up the shirt's top button and walked back to the counter. He had forgotten to take the plastic bag with him. The dark-haired man had disappeared from the counter, but the other assistant passed him the bag and told him with a smile that the outfit he had chosen was cool. The smile remained on the face of the assistant until he had left the shop. It was a cold smile, and he waved at the customer's back with his index finger, just like a child who hasn't gained control of all the movements of his body yet. He nearly fell when he stepped out on to the pavement. He swore automatically, stopped for a short while in front of the shop window, pulled up his hood, and zipped up his anorak.

After walking for a few minutes he disappeared into a store, where he asked if he could make a telephone call. While he was looking for the number in the directory, he said he wanted to buy cigarettes, one pack of Viceroy and something for his throat, something strong for his throat. Then he pressed the numbers. He waited for a short while and gazed absentmindedly into space, then he suddenly jerked into life, pressed the receiver closer to his ear, and slammed it back down. He said yes very decisively, like someone who has successfully completed a mission, and flicked his hands away when the shop assistant asked if he had said something. He paid for the cigarettes and throat lozenges, but corrected the man when he was going to charge for the phone call—the line was busy. Then he left and walked slowly up Vitastigur.

He stopped on the corner of Grettisgata, put his hand in his pocket for a cigarette, and lit it. He looked in both directions and pointed alternatively up and down the street, as if he was showing himself the way or asking which direction he should go. A big truck came up Vitastigur and braked suddenly at the corner of Grettisgata to allow a small white car to cross. It came speeding along from the west, obviously going much too fast for the road conditions. The truck driver watched the white car disappear, almost as if he was watching a ball spin over a tennis court. He had trouble with the ice when he tried to drive off. The wheels of the truck spun for a little while; then he let the truck slide backwards into a vacant parking space in front of the dry cleaner's on Vitastigur.

It was nearly six o'clock. A middle-aged man came running up the street from Laugavegur; he had a full plastic bag—a white bag that swung back and forth as he ran—in one hand. Then he suddenly stopped after passing the dry cleaner's, turned around, and disappeared into a doorway. He disappeared just like any other stranger: you don't expect to see them again in this life.

19

Cold, fresh air streams in through the wide open kitchen window. I begin to think spontaneously of Armann's speculations about the rise and fall of temperatures in the world; in a short while I'll be standing on the line between these great opposites (or however he expressed it): the cold coming in through the window and the water which I am going to boil for the coffee. I fill the smallest pot with icy cold water and switch on the burner. However, I don't know why I fill the pot for one little cup of coffee; I just feel uncomfortable watching such a small quantity of water boil. Probably, deep down, I am afraid that I will forget the pot on the burner, the water will evaporate, and the pot will burn and turn black inside.

The last sounds of “Lonely Fire” fade away. I turn the record over and turn the volume up slightly before I go back into the bedroom and answer the email from Vigdis. I'm aware that it is rather loud—the music itself isn't exactly very quiet—but I think it's all right to let Bella upstairs know that I am home. She will no doubt be very happy, if I am to believe what Tomas told me just now, that she couldn't find a better neighbor than me.

I seem to be surrounded by elderly people. I would think Bella is nearly eighty. Tomas next door could be about sixty-five, and an elderly couple and their middle-aged son live in the little house to the east. Although there wasn't much truth in the newspaper ad for the flat—in particular the information regarding its size and condition—at least one detail was correct: it is in a quiet district.

The Pocket Money

1

I have just settled down to write an email to Vigdis when there is a knock on the front door. When I get up from the computer someone knocks again, twice as fast this time, and before I open the door I decide to peep out of the living room window to see who it is. While I open the curtains slightly, there is another knock, this time so insistently loud that I take extra care not to be seen as I peer out through the crack. When I see a man in a blue nylon anorak with a hood standing outside the door, I presume that this is the man who Tomas told me had come at lunchtime. My suspicions are confirmed when I see he is carrying a white plastic bag.

He continues to knock, not as often as before but even louder, and I risk putting my head a little closer to the window to see if I can get a glimpse of his face. The next moment he takes several steps backwards and looks up at the building, as if he expects me to be watching him from the floor above. I still can't see his face properly, because of the hood, but as I watch his movements—how he lifts his body and lets it slump down somehow with each step—it dawns on me.

I know who he is.

I automatically close the curtain and take several steps back from the window.

“Can it be?” I whisper to myself. “Can it really be?”

According to what I had heard, which was confirmed by his father several months ago, Havard Knutsson was kept in an institution in Sweden and should be in custody there for at least the next three years. He had only spent one year in this “so-called home,” as his father Knutur referred to it.

“Can it really be him?” I wonder and refuse to believe it. I almost feel as if I have seen a ghost, and I begin to imagine that Havard died in the institution and his ghost has started knocking on people's doors—people who he knows wouldn't let him enter in the flesh. But the heavy blows on the door are too realistic to allow me to pretend that he's a ghost who would vanish when I opened the door. I try to convince myself that what I thought I saw in this man's movements was a mistake, I had only imagined the worst; this man outside may be someone completely different from the man he appears to be. But I don't manage to convince myself. There is only one person in the world who moves like this; it
is
Havard.

He grips the door knob again, then knocks several times and calls my name; he seems quite confident that I am at home. I immediately suspect that his next move will be to peep in through the mail slot, and before that can happen I decide to tiptoe across the floor, as silently as I can, and hide in the bathroom. Though it isn't likely that he can see me behind the thick curtains, I feel completely exposed in the living room. On the way to the bathroom I see steam rising from the pot on the stove; the water for the coffee has started to boil. If Havard peeped through the kitchen window at lunchtime, I think it's likely he'll do it again now. I don't hear anyone knocking, which must mean that he has gone or is standing outside the kitchen wondering how he can get in through the window. The music that I had just turned up—perhaps too high—doesn't sound as good now as it did earlier.

There is a knock on the glass and I don't have to wonder whether it is the kitchen or the living room window. If there is something that I am certain of at this moment, it is that Havard has noticed the pot on the stove and is standing outside the window calmly trying to decide whether he should do his old mate a favor and remove the pot from the stove or just leave it and go away. While I ask myself what I would do in his position, I can hear that he has come to the same conclusion as me; I hear the latch being lifted and know instinctively that he is forcing the window open. Without a second thought I rush from the bathroom to the bedroom. I realize that I am taking quite a risk and it is very likely that Havard has seen me; one can easily see the hall between the bathroom and the bedroom from the kitchen window. In order to see if he has come in, or if he even intends to come in, I peep as carefully as I can out of the doorway.

Now I see him properly for the first time; he has pushed down his hood and poked his head in through the open window. I notice that his hair is longer than when I saw him last, five years ago. He has a grip on the shelf above the sink and it is quite clear that he is going to heave his body through the open window. I don't dare to look any longer; any second now he could lift up his head and I probably wouldn't have time to draw back. Besides, it's not safe to stand in the doorway any longer. I try to avoid being in view from the kitchen window—except perhaps for one or two seconds—as I slide cautiously into the bedroom, stand for a few seconds in the middle of the room, and try to hear what he is doing out there. He groans as he struggles, and I imagine that he has gotten stuck on the window latch or torn a hole in his anorak or pants, when he suddenly says “damn it” and some other words that are drowned by the music in the living room.

I get down on my knees without even thinking, poke my head under the bed, and pull out a box of toys that belong to my son Halldor. I then lie down on the soft carpet, squeeze my body in under the bed, and pull the sheet down to the floor—to hide myself from the doorless entrance to the bedroom and from the window that faces the dim back garden.

I still find it difficult to believe that it is actually Havard in the kitchen, that the man would even dare to visit me at all. And why on earth does he have to choose today? I thought I had seen the last of Havard Knutsson; once again I have found out how ridiculous it is to believe something in this life.

I hear a noise through Big Fun's loud guitar playing, like something heavy falling on to the floor. There seem to be two thumps, then the window bangs shut; I think it is bound to break, but I don't hear the sound of broken glass.

There is no doubt about it, Havard is inside. He pants, and something that he notices—I can't imagine what—makes him exclaim with disapproval:

“What on earth is this?”

It sounds as though he is walking into the living room. I didn't see what kind of shoes he was wearing when I looked at him from the window, but they tap on the floorboards as he walks. If I know him at all, they are patent leather shoes with pointed toes; I can't imagine that the Icelandic winter would have any influence on the type of shoes that Havard Knutsson wears.

“What cement!” he says indignantly, and the next moment the music has been turned off. “No wonder my pal Emil can't bear to stay at home!”

I repeat his words to myself: What cement. No wonder I can't bear to stay at home.

Cement is, of course, one of the first words that come to mind in connection with Havard: cement in its literal meaning. I don't know what to think about this unexpected visit. And I don't know quite what to expect. I haven't heard from Havard for about five years, since we sat in the kitchen on Brooke Road in Stoke Newington and I gave him four hundred pounds to go away. Go away as far as possible, much further than just out of London, preferably to another country. And he said—with a grin fueled by the two or three pints of Special Brew he had drunk before lunch—that if I could give him four hundred more then he would never show his face again.

I should have given it to him. Though there isn't much one can be confident that Havard will do right, I believe that he would have kept that four hundred pound promise. At least he has kept his word about what would happen otherwise.

He goes back into the kitchen. I hear the sound of bubbling water die down; he must have taken the boiling water off the stove, and I presume that he has turned the gas off, though it's not quite certain. More likely, he has just taken the pot off the heat.

2

“Hello!” Havard shouts. “Hello, Emil?” He is in the living room. I hear him move the bottles on the table, then open one of them, probably the whisky. “Is anyone at home?” he calls out. I hear the seal tear and the metallic sound when the cap is screwed off; I can hear it clearly because there is no real wall between the bedroom and the living room, just a partition through which one can hear almost everything.

“Not bad,” he says.

Now he is sniffing it. I wait for him to take a swig, to hear the splash from the fifteen-year-old whisky when the bottle is tipped up, but I don't hear anything like it; instead he slams the bottle down on the table and the next moment his shoes echo on the hall floor.

“Are you there, Emil?” he says, as if he knows quite well that I am hiding in here and am only waiting for the right moment to come out and surprise him.

I lift the dark blue sheet up one or two centimeters, and my heart nearly stops when I see Havard pause in the space between the bathroom and the bedroom. I can't see if he is looking in here, but I hear him whistle something and imagine that he is trying to decide in which direction he should go. Then he grows silent, goes into the toilet, and stops in front of the sink, no doubt to look at himself in the mirror.

“He can't have gone far,” Havard says to his reflection. “The millionaire Emil S. Halldorsson.”

How on earth does he know about the lottery prize? Who has he been talking to? Who told him about it? It has to be the reason for this visit. Unless it is entirely a coincidence that he calls me a millionaire, which is most unlikely.

“What's that?” he says, surprised, and the next moment I hear him screwing the lid off something, probably my aftershave, and slap his hand on his cheeks or neck. “Après-rasage,” he says with a hard French accent, and then in English, before he bangs the bottle down on the table beside the sink.

I was right about his shoes. He is wearing the same kind of shoes he wore five years ago: black patent leather shoes with pointed toes that have clearly covered a lot of ground; perhaps these are the shoes he bought in London just after we arrived there together. On the other hand, his pants—dark grey Terylene pants that droop down a little over his shoes when he opens his fly in front of the toilet bowl—seem to be comparatively new. I haven't seen him in this kind of pant before.

He starts whistling again as he urinates. I turn my head and push it down into the carpet with as much strength as I can muster.

The air under the bed is terrible. When I bought the flat I got someone to rub down the rough surface on the walls, and the resulting dust collected in the carpet, where I suspect most of it still is. It feels as if my head is getting stuffed full with dust, which isn't exactly what I need in these circumstances.

By lifting the sheet slightly higher I see that Havard is still wearing his anorak. It seems to be torn above the lower right-hand pocket, which might have happened when he climbed in through the kitchen window. When he pulls the anorak back—probably to prevent it from getting in the way of the stream of urine—I can see he is wearing a suit and a light grey shirt, which I must admit goes very well with the suit. My first thought is that he has been shopping in Reykjavik on credit and expects me—who, in his mind, is quite well off at the moment—to help him pay the bills. He stops whistling for a moment, farts, and sighs happily, and when he starts whistling again I think I recognize “Habanera” from
Carmen
.

It is obvious that he has consumed quite a lot of liquid. He zips up his fly and, without washing his hands, rushes out of the door by grabbing on to the lintel and pulling himself out into the hall. I don't remember these abrupt movements of his. He seems to be in a hurry and I begin to hope, feebly, that he will leave soon, perhaps snatch something to take with him and then disappear before I return from the shop or from wherever he has imagined that I have gone. But these hopes are short-lived; he stops suddenly in the hall and comes back into the bedroom—my guess is that something caught his eye as he was coming out of the bathroom. He walks straight up to the computer, which is in the corner by the headboard of the bed, just beside my legs.

He sits down at the table; the old wooden chair creaks and his nylon anorak crinkles. I lie dead still and don't dare to lift the sheet. Havard presses one key on the keyboard and then seems to stand up from the chair. He takes off his anorak, throws it on the bed, and sits down again.

“
‘Dear Vigdis,
'
” he reads out loud, and continues in a lower voice:
“
‘Here I am back from London at last. How are you? Is the hotel busy? You told me the other day that you would be attending some meeting today so I shall just write to you. It was a good trip. I visited Jonas, though he was busy studying for his exams. Then I went to some concerts at Vortex and Pizza Express
. . .
' Concerts at Pizza Express! That's the damn jazz place he was always trying to drag me along to! You are such a pussy, Emil!”

Of course, that's not quite true; I remember once trying to get him to come with me to a jazz concert in London, but that was at Pizza on the Park, not Pizza Express. He carries on reading:

“
‘As you can imagine I bought some music and a few books et cetera
. . .
'
” At this point Havard stops reading the unfinished letter and asks himself who this Vigdis can be. Then he carries on reading quietly, snorts at something I have written and stops reading when he gets to the words “to settle my accounts.” He repeats the words out loud with a question mark at the end. “What on earth does the man mean: ‘To settle my accounts?
'
” adding, in a husky voice as if it came from the throat of some grumpy old man: “Emil and Vigdis. Who are you fucking these days, Emil?” Next he pretends to be a small child trying to read from a primer: “Emil likes fucking Vigdis. Vigdis always says yes when Emil wants to go to bed. She wants Emil to be happy and Emil is always happy because Vigdis is so good to Emil. But now little Emil is sad because he went away and there was no Vigdis there. Emil misses Vigdis very much. He has written her a letter.”