•
Aron. Barónsstígur. Nóra? Why is that woman’s name so familiar? Could it be that it came from the other side, from his time as a séance transcriber? How pale Aron was when he looked through the window! Had the color in his face, the lack of it, been a figment of the imagination? But of course—G. had managed to strike terror in Aron’s heart with the mention of Nóra’s name. The black cat awaiting its prey on Barónsstígur.
•
It’s probably been ten minutes since Aron stood in the same spot G. stands now: at the door to Caruso, in front of the framed menu. G. allows himself to think that the menu is the same as when the poet killed the photographer nearly ten years back. It was in the lavatory inside this building that the atrocity had taken place. But had they finished ordering? Was their order on the way to their table at the time Svanur shoved the photographer against the sink? G. had not intended to stand so long at the door to Caruso. For the rain is intensifying, the drops ceasing to be drops, turning instead into long rods condensed together as if it’s raining women’s voices as if they are dead even in memory, to quote another poem by the author of “The Redhead,” the poem about rain. The old and the new.
•
The next moment, the two come face to face, the old and new, everything coming together out in the rain. The phone rings, and G. reckons he knows at once who is calling him. Right up until the next moment, when he sees Aron coming out of the passageway back onto the street. Aron is holding an open umbrella, which he must have borrowed from the man he met, or been given it as a thanks for his welcome business; with his free hand he presses his cell phone to his ear. It occurs to G. that the number-concealing powers of his phone must have failed, that Aron is calling him, wanting to ask who was interrupting him earlier with indecipherable requests. No, he is talking to Nóra. He must be talking to Nóra. For it is not Aron’s voice that G. hears when his phone establishes its connection; it is his mother’s voice. “Hi, Mom.” He’s made it to shelter under a kind of awning protruding from the wall above the door to another restaurant on the street, approximately thirty feet from Caruso. “Where are you?” It actually suits him rather well that his mother should call just as Aron comes back out into the open air, because he thinks that, as he huddles under the shelter, a phone call to his mother makes him invisible to Aron, now strolling along the street toward him. He tells her that he is in town. “What are you doing in town?” she asks. “I had an errand,” he says. He cannot see whether Aron pays any attention from where he stands under the shelter, even though he almost brushes past him as he walks by. “I don’t know where your father is, either,” says his mother. Either? G. thinks to himself. She scolds him, her son, because she does not know where his father, her husband, is. “He was headed out for rolls and salami this morning, but hasn’t come back yet,” she says, and continues with her story while G. hurries after Aron, who is at the corner of Bankastræti. “He’ll turn up,” G. says, and asks, as he watches Aron walk toward the next corner, at Ingólfsstræti: “Do you know who Ósk Völundardóttir is?” “Of course I know,” replies his mother. “Wasn’t she in Parliament?” he asks. “If you are talking about Ósk Völundardóttur Bjarnason, then yes, she was in Parliament,” his mother says. “She lived in Brazil,” he says. “She fled to the country, yes,” she says. “But she’s no longer in Parliament, right?” he asks. “No.” His mother uses his name, but he does not care to repeat it here, he has never been fully satisfied with his own name. “But what are you doing in town?” she asks. “I was on the way to the post office,” he says. “Oh, then I would’ve had you take these letters I need to send, you should’ve let me know. Why don’t you tell me when you’re going out like this?” He starts chasing Aron up Bankastræti. “I need to go back anyway,” he says, and that somewhat heartens his mother. And she asks: “Today?” “I can go tomorrow,” he says. “But are you there now?” she asks. “Isn’t it pouring?” It’s raining women’s voices, he thinks to answer, and he even hears his mother gasp with surprise, as though she actually heard him recite the poet’s verse. But instead he asks: “Doesn’t she have a kid, Ósk?” “Why are you thinking about her?” His mother is noticeably surprised. “Do you usually think about the people in Parliament?” “No, I just saw her earlier here in town,” he says. “Then she must be on a city break,” she says. “Doesn’t she have a kid?” he asks. “Did she have any kids with her?” his mother asks in response. “No,” he answers, but as he’s about to remind her of Ósk Völundardóttur’s son, she takes the words from him. “She lives far in the north. She’s a mayor somewhere, I can’t remember whether in Húsavík or Dalvík.” Aron has reached the corner of Skólavörðustígur and Bankastræti. He has a sprightlier step than before, despite the rain, and G. lets himself think that perhaps Aron is on some of what he sold the man on Þingholtsstræti. G. doesn’t pretend to understand those sorts of transactions, he has no desire to have any such sense, but isn’t it normal for a vendor to test the product himself in front of a buyer if a transaction is to be carried out, to convince the latter that the product is genuine? In order to bring his father back up as a topic of discussion, his mother tells him how his dad once chose this party, Ósk’s, in the election, something she could never bring herself to do. The actual reason for her calling him, except for letting him know that his father has not returned home, is to ask him to get something for her from a pharmacy. And with a promise to do it for her, G. manages to shake the call. It is quite a different story, however, to shake off the wetness. The need for an umbrella is almost an emergency. He could get an umbrella by dashing briefly into the pharmacy a couple corners down, and take out two birds with one stone, but it is doubtful that he will be able to keep up with Aron after such a digression. Then Aron himself comes to his aid. He suddenly changes course across the road, and from his determined gait it’s evident that he has some particular errand in the shop they both now head into. A shop G. knows is of Danish origin, without caring to mention its name. He knows umbrellas are sold there.
•
Aron heads straight for a display in the shop; he knows exactly what he is after. G. himself does not hesitate; he walks right up to the counter and says he wants one of the umbrellas hanging on racks that extend from the wall behind the boy at the checkout. It takes Aron a while to select what he wants to buy, long enough for G. to finish his transaction and take up position on the other side of the store, where he waits for Aron to head back out. In the meantime, he eyes some sunglasses, which he likes, not least because of how cheap they are. And he sneaks glances at the kid who served him, who is currently attending to Aron. He is an unusually handsome fellow, someone G. imagines could easily have an appearance not unlike Aron Cesar, if he wanted to. But this boy’s make is different. G. sees before him one of the members of the French Ébène Quartet. Could he imagine himself serving in such a shop? How would he conduct himself if he was at this very moment selling Aron the notebook he had chosen? He would perhaps interject a little comment about the book, even praise Aron for his choice, but in such a way that Aron felt uncomfortable accepting it.
•
He notices that the boy at the checkout is looking at Aron, contemplating him, thinking something. He is thinking the same thing as G. himself.
•
It is the second violinist of the Quartet he has in mind, he remembers. The black-haired one.
•
He really should buy some sunglasses. Too late now, because Aron has turned away from the counter and is hastening toward the door. So they come out onto the street, both with raised umbrellas. Aron proceeds noticeably more slowly now, as though buying the notebook has calmed him.
•
One of the first people G. passes as they walk up Laugavegur is a young man he saw not long ago in the old cemetery, where he goes sometimes, especially in summer. A man who at first glance seemed to be a woman. He has long flowing hair, which is now hidden under a rain hat made of gleaming black plastic; h
e’s wearing smooth, dark-purple corduroy pants, and a very narrow, light-brown suede jacket, double-breasted. What G. fixed in his memory when he saw him in the cemetery was how he crossed himself when they passed one another; what he especially notices this time is how he narrows his eyes at Aron, but then seems not to really notice G. as they pass each other in the very next moment. When he turns around to study this feminine figure a little longer, what crosses his mind is how the figure’s gait is practiced, that he needs to remind himself at every step that he is a woman when he walks. But why did he cross himself when he saw me in the cemetery? And why did he not just now? If I were him, I would hurry to cover; it can’t be at all good for his suede in drenching rain like this. Aron, however, has decided on his next stop. He pauses for a moment at a record-store window, framed by stone painted bright green, then heads across the street into a bar, one or two buildings farther up the street, a bar I know has a rather questionable reputation. Questionable reputation? How do I know that, I who never go into town? I’m making it up. As soon as Aron Cesar chooses a place the reputation of said place becomes questionable.
•
At a glance, G. cannot see that anything other than drinks are served at this establishment. He expects Aron is looking for a drink. Before he followed him into the bar, he waited a short while outside, and when he entered, into air thick with a history of cigarette smoke; Aron was standing at the bar, and the bartender was in the middle of serving him a beer. But of course G. knows people are not allowed to smoke inside restaurants nowadays. This thick air is the dark face of this place, heavy with the thoughts customers leave behind, for thought cannot be cleansed away. He reaches for a magazine lying in the windowsill by the entrance and sits down at a table next to the window, which looks out onto the street. Aron seats himself on a high bar stool, and G. hears him groan heavily as he sits. The bartender brings him the drink, a tall glass full of golden, sparkling beer. He gets the sense that Aron is a regular here, that he is at ease with himself here. He and the bartender don’t talk to one another, but he imagines that in Aron’s world people usually don’t converse, except perhaps via phone, only when they want something. Aron lifts the glass to his lips, takes a gulp, and sets it back on the table. G. starts to think about counting the minutes until Aron’s phone rings. It must happen sooner rather than later. Someone will need to reach him. He also thinks he knows that Aron is preoccupied by the abrupt phone conversation earlier, debating with himself whether he should believe Nóra, the woman he has only just met, when she denied telling someone something. As G. contemplates him sitting at the end of the bar, suddenly he can’t figure out why he is keeping up his pursuit. Did Aron deserve this? If Aron realized someone was after him, would he feel anything about it? That some individual, totally unrelated to him, is sacrificing his time to pursue him? Does a man like Aron understand anything other than what can be economically assessed? Would he understand the meaning of G. delaying sending this story by mail, in order simply to be able to tail him?
•
Something tells him that his father will be much longer on his bakery trip than the time required to buy rolls and salami. And suddenly he is filled with the desire to have him sitting here, so that they could get coffee together, father and son. Or a beer. His father beer, him coffee. He would point out Aron to his father, as Aron sits at the bar, and tell him that this is the man G. once wished did not exist. “Like you yourself have sometimes wanted Mom not to exist,” he would add. And as soon as he imagines the words, he realizes they, father and son, have never spoken together like that before, that they have never really spoken about what they wanted in life, or did not want. His father had once asked if he could pass him a magazine lying on a foot stool in their living room on Aragata, and he, G., had sometime later turned down his father’s invitation to come with him to a lecture at the university, but they had never particularly expressed themselves to each other, beyond that, not about their own matters, as G. mentally phrased it. And he adds a few words more to what he imagines he would say to his father: “And like you have perhaps wished about me, too, that I didn’t exist.” And his father would reply: “Remember our trip to the Roman Baths. They weren’t, of course, Roman Baths, but a sort of spa, which neither of us cared about, me or your mother. But you stayed back at the hotel, while your mother and I went to rinse ourselves clean. And I felt like I had cleansed myself, not only of your mother, but of you, too. Or so I felt. You are correct, perhaps I have at some point wished you did not exist. Maybe I’ve thought something along those lines. But when we walked out of the bathhouse, your mother and I, I had no illusions that I was alone, I knew she was by my side when we walked out. And we went together to the hotel. And there you were. What I had wished had not come to pass.” Then his father would gently pat his shoulder in a fatherly way, and say to him: “Don’t forget to buy that cream for your mother.” Then they would take a sip of coffee, or of beer, and be silent together a little while. But can G. remember what it’s called, the thing he has to buy for his mother? Yes. The name of the cream indicates, to his ears, that many young women use such creams. Not Sara. She would not have used a perfume bearing this name, a name he translates faithfully over into Icelandic: Viðgerð. There are other women who need viðgerð. Sara is beyond that. Beyond repair, to use the English name. Viðgerð.
•
He decides to use the time while Aron is drinking his beer to run back to the pharmacy. Aron undoubtedly will sit for at least a quarter of an hour, if not half-an-hour, or more. Ten minutes would suffice for G. to go to the pharmacy, even if he pops into the Danish store en route and gets the sunglasses, as he is thinking of doing. When do bars like this open? And what time is it? It is not yet one. There is no one in here except G., Aron, and the bartender. And, actually, a middle-aged man in gray coveralls, in whose direction Aron looked when G. opened the door. It was like Aron thought the one in the coveralls had been the one who came in, not G., when the door opened. Which is odd. By right, Aron should have looked toward the door. But instead he looked toward the man in the coveralls.
•
It has cleared up when G. comes back out into the fresh air. I can see the way he squints his eyes when he opens the door, like the sun is shining. But the sun does not shine, although it is not raining, either.
Fifteen Minutes Later
For the second time today, he is on the way to the same bar. But this time his bag also contains sunglasses and skin cream. Should he put on the glasses before entering? You whose mouth is made in the image of God. / A mouth which is Order itself. At the drugstore counter, mouthwash was on sale, and he’d had great difficulty stopping himself from buying some. It occurs to him he could wait outside the bar for Aron to come out. The air inside was hardly palatable, and his return might raise suspicions, though no one except the man in coveralls seemed to have noticed him the first time. But when he re-enters the place, there’s no Aron at the bar, just an empty beer glass. There’s now some music on the loudspeaker system, and the music reminds him of the call Aron got on his cell while inside the post office. The man in gray coveralls is still here; he has moved to the inner room, has only gone deeper in, and the way he holds his head and slumps over the table indicates that he does not feel too well. G. cannot see the bartender, but when he goes to the bar, and a thousand króna banknote has been left next to the empty beer glass, he curses himself for having gone to the pharmacy and lost Aron. At that moment the bartender reappears, and G. nods his head to him. “Did he leave, the guy who was here earlier?” he asks. “Aron? He’s turning beer into water,” says the bartender, and points to the empty glass. “He must have gone to the restroom.” Then he asks if he can get G. anything, but G. wants nothing. He must get out. He has made a mistake.
•
It has started to rain again as he comes back out onto the sidewalk. He unfurls the umbrella and crosses Laugavegur, and it just so happens that he sees the man in the light-brown suede jacket, the one h
e saw cross himself in the cemetery. He’s headed up Laugavegur. His jacket is darker than before, and there is a certain darkness over his whole person, in part because he’s now carrying an umbrella. What G. suspected when he saw him earlier is confirmed now, that this man’s gait loses its evident femininity if he cannot fully concentrate. The umbrella is distracting him. G. stations himself by the corner of the next building, the record shop, the one whose window Aron had looked into, and he watches the kid in suede disappear into the rain, amid the other pedestrians. G. likes standing in the rain, likes the sound of the drops when they patter against the taut nylon of his umbrella.
•
The street can thank the foreign tourists for how lively it is right now. And for a moment, G. reflects on how Aron Cesar should be grateful that he is following him, because he believes that Aron is somehow sad, and G. suspects there is something hanging over him that he wants to break free of. Although Aron evidently does not seem to lack people to chat to, G.’s image of him, alone at the bar, and of the empty glass he left on the table, is colored with tones that evoke sadness and compassion. This is a lonely man surrounded by people, he thinks. When Aron comes out of the bar, he is holding a shot glass, and has a cigarette in his mouth. He opens his umbrella, lights the cigarette and takes a drink. As he smokes he looks along the street, then toward the record store, looking so fixedly in this direction that G. begins to suspect he’s planning to head there. Something in the window from earlier has attracted Aron’s interest. He kills the cigarette, returns inside with the glass, and when he comes out again, goes straight across the street and into the store.
Narrator Page 5