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.