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.
Part Two. 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.