•
Had the bartender told Aron he’d been asked about while in the restroom? Could it be that Aron had failed to notice G. while he was in the bar? He can scarcely imagine that, although clearly Aron’s eyes were focused on the man in the coveralls as G. opened the door. The two plus two that Aron is required to put together to get to four does not involve large numbers. Either he’s pretending he has not noticed G., or G. has only been found out in his own imagination. How well does blocking your number work? He does not trust telecommunication any more than the communications he once served in his job as transcriber-assistant.
•
He allows a minute or two to pass before he follows. He has been in this store before. He once bought a Christmas gift for his parents here, a box set of piano music. Not just any music. However, he doesn’t really want to think about it, because his parents had felt nothing over the gift. And the possibility that it could be returned, exchanged for something else instead, was never mentioned. His father and mother did not think in that way, exchanging things. He had simply not chosen the right music. And so he was met with silence.
•
Aron is on the upper floor of the store, a kind of mezzanine, not unlike the one in the bookstore on Austurstræti. He is looking at movies in plastic covers. There is a strong smell of incense. Not an aroma—an aroma is not this strong. G. regards the man at the register, trying to ascertain whether he was the one who lit the incense. Some slow, viscous rock music is playing. He knows what this is, this is Icelandic music. He nods to the guy at the counter, goes up to the mezzanine, and installs himself at the classical music rack. It was here he found the gift for his parents. Then Aron’s phone rings and he sets down the movie he had been checking out before he answers the phone. G. cannot hear what Aron says very well because soon after he starts talking the music coming through the speakers begins to crescendo, and the time it takes to achieve its peak is about the length of Aron’s call, roughly three to four minutes. All that time, Aron stands by the movie shelves, turning a few times toward the front of the store as if to make sure no one is eavesdropping. And what G. gathers from his conversation, roughly, is that Aron is tired of someone’s incessant treachery, but he is planning to catch the game later, he is going to watch it on Austurstræti. Then he says to his conversation partner that he’ll “take a cab to your place later.” The last thing G. hears, just before the sensations of the music’s peak drown out his words entirely, is whether he, the person with whom Aron is talking, remembers “The Dandy,” the kid they always called “The Dandy.” G. hears nothing more over the music. He buries himself right down in the CDs as Aron turns around to go down to the lower floor. And so that he seems immersed in his own world, G. flips through the “S” section of classical music; he has reached Schumann by the time there’s no longer a risk Aron will identify him.
•
The Dandy? Did he make up the phrase or does it really exist? Is he himself inventing that word, or did it simply invent itself? He imagines that, every time he puts the CD in the music player, the one he gave his parents and now owns, having moved it from their collection on the upper floor down to his collection in the basement, his mother and father’s silence increases beyond its usual level, that it somehow becomes louder and thicker, more material, if you can say that about silence. They have called down a curse upon themselves with their indifference to the gift he gave them. Have they ever used the word dandy about their son’s tastes? Is Aron Cesar the first to do so? Have his parents ever called him “their boy”? Not that he remembers. It would be possible to count on one hand the times they have come down to the basement to see him since he moved there.
•
It doesn’t seem that Aron is looking for anything particular in the store. He puts away his phone, flips through an arbitrarily chosen rack in the middle of the floor; when he goes over to the counter and addresses the employee, G. moves closer to the opening between the upper and lower floors in order to hear when Aron starts talking to him. “That smells terrible,” he says, indicating the incense. “True,” the clerk replies, a thin-haired man of fifty who looks like he is almost certainly still caught up in the music he listened to when he was much younger; he tells Aron that earlier this morning a young girl from Germany came into the store, bought a bunch of music, mainly Icelandic, and after completing her transaction asked him if she couldn’t burn some incense, she felt the store lacked fragrance. He, the employee, did not know how to say no, especially since the girl had “saved the day” for the store with her purchases. “You know what it reminds me of?” asks Aron. “Let me guess,” says the clerk, and mentions an English name that G. gathers is the name of a band. Aron says “What?” then adds “The smell reminds me of a girl I was once with. Or am with. What color was this German girl? I mean her hair.” “Red, I think,” replies the clerk. “You think?” Aron asks, laughing, and G. starts to sympathize with the follicly-challenged character, because there is hostility in Aron’s laughter, and when a younger man needles an older, it can smart. Aron continues, adding that “redheads are the best.” As he explains just what he means, G. once again recognizes his disgust for this person rising inside him. “So you are with this girl, or you were with her?” the clerk asks, like he is doing his best to follow this young man in what G. cannot consider anything but an inappropriate subject. “When is a man with some girl, and when was a man with her?” Aron replies. And when the clerk starts showing an affected interest in the topic, or perhaps an unconvincing one, from the sound of his reaction, Aron goes one step further, sharing something two people who have never talked to each before should share, and he tells the thin-haired clerk that he is heading to meet a girl later, that he is going to stay at her place tonight, but that does not mean he is with her. What does it mean, then? G. asks himself as he loiters over a similar collection of music to the box set he gave his mother and father, on a shelf above the rack where he is standing. The two men he is listening to, from here in the corner of this little store, seem in some way to get on rather well as they start exchanging the knowledge they think they possess about redheaded women, and as part of this topic their vocabulary becomes gradually more English rather than Icelandic. G. strives to hear every word that falls from their lips. And he reminds himself of the fact that Aron certainly had, when he was younger, known a redheaded woman, a fact that sorely wounds him each time he recalls it. He finds it, as before, a very unpleasant place for his mind to wander. In this moment, he wants above all to do something to Aron, even if only to throw him to the floor or punch him in the jaw, anything that will make clear to him, and not only him, but also anyone present to witness it, for example the clerk, that G. despises the values and beliefs he feels sure Aron holds dear. “If I were going to buy something from you,” he hears Aron say, “what would you suggest, for a guy like me?” At once it occurs to G. that Aron is about to offer the clerk something for sale, if he in turn buys something in the shop; as he thinks it, he tries to hear for himself the sounds behind the names the clerk suggests to Aron. It does not surprise him in the least that the list includes the old folk singer G. himself had thought about in connection with the fence, the cognac drinking, and the violin. It does surprise him, however, that Aron considers the suggestion, though it won’t be top of the list when it comes to choosing something to buy. G. never hears what ultimately gets chosen, but what undeniably sheds new light on Aron Cesar, in G.’s eyes, is that the former would prefer to buy vinyl and not a CD. G. had not imagined Aron having a turntable in his loft. He continues to listen to their chat, and feels his antipathy toward Aron flare again when the clerk somehow circles back to the topic of redheaded women. But then Aron thanks him, and they say goodbye to one another. Aron leaves the store. G. lets a little time pass before he too leaves, but as he walks past the counter, and the clerk asks, “All set?” it strikes G. that this thin-haired man, who does not seem to be a day under fifty, has been charmed by his conversation with t
he half-Brazilian. It is still raining when G. walks out of the store.
•
It is difficult to say whether what he feels toward this man, whom he has now pursued for almost two hours, is pure hatred. Is the feeling strong enough that he would go ahead and harm Aron, were he somehow given the opportunity? Yet Aron showed gratitude in the store, G. recalls as he follows him at a distance down Laugavegur and then onto Bankastræti. G. lets himself wonder whether the album Aron bought was a kind of private reward for his earlier transaction. To reward oneself for something that has not yet been achieved is something G. knows all too well. He uses the method all the time to motivate himself to do better, and it works. Because he could never live with receiving compensation for something he has not finished. The only thing that disturbs him in this respect is dying in the midst of an incomplete project for which he has already been remunerated. But would such a death not be a kind of payment?
•
The rain worsens. Aron turns off Bankastræti onto Bernhöftstorfustígur, and from there goes down the stairs and out onto the little patch of grass behind the large statue of the woman with water pails. If he was light of foot when he walked along Laugavegur, after his business transaction in Þingholtsstræti, his step is even lighter now, and has ample grounds for being so. Trade flourishes, his mind has been refreshed with a beer, and yet more beer is on the way, together with soccer on television; he has acquired some new music, on shiny black vinyl, music undoubtedly already spinning revolutions in his head; and at the end of the day the warm embraces of a woman—potentially a redhead—await him. He transfers the plastic bag with his new record over to the hand holding the umbrella, and uses the other to slap the broad backside of the statue, on her ass, hitting rather firmly, it seems, and aggressively. When he reaches the sidewalk of Lækjargata he heads over to the front vehicle by the taxi sign, taps on the passenger-side window, and puts down his umbrella. Then he opens the door, says something to the driver, and stoops inside. It’s not possible to say whether G. had already made a decision, but as soon as Aron let slip, during his phone call in the record store, the words “take a cab,” he felt that should not discourage him from staying in the chase. G. tries to imagine the next hours of his life, whether he has on his hands a long trip, with the meter of the cab flickering mercilessly, whether he will be forced to wait a long time in the cab while Aron meets the man to whom he spoke before returning downtown to watch the game. It’s been a long time since G. was last in a taxi. But isn’t that all the more reason to explore this part of Aron’s journey? Without giving the driver of the car behind any particular notice, G. opens the door and asks if he is free. Of course he’s free, he’s there waiting for passengers. He settles into the back seat and asks the driver, a young man with strikingly pale features, to pursue the car in front. The driver looks at him, puzzled, and then points to the car in front. “That one?” “Yes,” says G. “Go when he goes.” “But shouldn’t you just go in the other car with him?” asks the driver with a smile. “Wouldn’t it be cheaper for both of you to share a ride?” The question comes out of the blue; G. initially decides not to answer, but is forced to when the driver asks again. And he lets the wrong response slip out, giving the pale man at the wheel yet more of a motive to smile. No doubt G. isn’t thinking entirely clearly at the moment, he isn’t accustomed to such situations, getting into a taxi and asking the driver to follow the car in front. By the time he has fastened his seatbelt and looks up, out the window, he sees that Aron has exited his car. He waves to the driver and slams the door. G. releases his belt, but waits before getting out, wanting to let Aron decide where he should head next. As G. reckons he knows, Aron is on the way to the sports bar. But what had caused him to settle into a taxi only to emerge from it again one minute later? As soon as Aron heads toward the crosswalk, G. excuses himself, and asks if he owes the driver anything. The driver smiles like before, and shakes his head.
•
I’ll send it by cab to your place later. That’s what Aron had said on the phone, not I’ll take a cab to your place later, like I heard him say.
•
Aron has almost reached the crosswalk to Lækjartorg Square by the time G. exits the car. But as he starts to hurry after him, G. hears the taxi driver call out: “Don’t lose him!” G. spins around to look back at him, and the driver’s pale face is halfway out the window. And he does not stop there: “Keep up with him!” the driver shouts, even louder than before. And it seems Aron can hear him, because he turns around. As does G., too, to avoid making eye contact with Aron. When G. looks back toward Lækjartorg, Aron still has his eyes on the taxi, and he himself is in the line of sight. Aron meets his eyes for a moment, a few moments. And G. can see that Aron is thoughtful, even surprised, by the driver’s shouts. And conceivably by him, G., too, this man paused midway between Aron and the taxi. Is it a coincidence that I have seen this man in the black overcoat pop up more than once, more than twice, in the last two hours, G. imagines Aron wondering. But wouldn’t he already have reacted, if he had the feeling someone was following him?
•
The Dandy? What he wouldn’t give to know what was going through this fellow’s head.
•
But what was the driver playing at? Does he think I owe him something? G. ponders. Is he claiming payment for my holding up his car? G. turns around in a semicircle, not knowing at all where to go. He is on the traffic island, caught between lanes, cars approaching behind him, and the only thing he can think to do is get back over the street and flee for cover behind the statue of the woman carrying water. He almost trips over the sidewalk, such is his haste.
•
He cannot tolerate having to rush.
•
In the sanctuary of the broad woman bearing her pails, G. takes the risk of looking around for Aron, but by then Aron has vanished, no doubt well on his way to the bar on Austurstræti. If he had set off by taxi, Aron and he would probably have gone as far as Hverfisgata, if that was where they were headed; this struck G. as the likeliest outcome. But it was a good feeling not to have gone anywhere. And to know where Aron was going to be for the next two hours or so. The prospect of that space of time raised a number of questions in G.’s mind, which he decides to ponder from within the supermarket opposite the sports bar, the one they had previously been in. There were seats to sit at in the window.
•
He avoids looking in the direction of the taxis as he crossed Lækjargata, knowing that the pale driver’s eyes will be scanning the area for him.
•
But why is he doing this? He could be home listening to Jaroussky or Gérard Souzay singing Fauré or Hahn. Or Duparc. He could have mailed his envelope. But instead he has gone into a supermarket, actually little more than a glorified kiosk, gone into it for a second time, this place where the music coming through the speakers is controlled by some addled adolescent at a radio station nowhere near here, in some other part of the city. He is hungry. But now he can allow himself what he wanted back when he watched Aron buy croissants, plums, and yogurt: to get something himself. He decides he wants þykkmjólk, the sugary yogurt drink. Croissants, two of them, one with ham and cheese, the other plain. He also gets a coffee, but skips the plums. And he sits down by the window, from where he has a view out onto Austurstræti.
•
The sports bar. And not just the bar itself, but he can even see Aron Cesar inside the bar, sitting at a table by the window. Someone is sitting opposite him, at the same table, it looks like they are talking. Maybe it’s his imagination, but G. feels that there is a sense of anticipation in the air inside the bar. He discerns this from the gestures of the various people moving to and fro inside. One of them touches a TV screen on the wall; another ferries three pints of beer over to one of the tables.
•
He arranges the croissants, yogurt drink, and the coffee cup so that the croissant with the ham is closest to him on the table. Behind it, the c
arton of þykkmjólk, and behind that, next to the window, the other croissant. He sets the coffee beside the carton, to its right, and he reaches out for a newspaper someone here before him has left open. Then he casts his eyes over a little story about a young chamber music group that is heading to the Baltic States to give a concert, accompanied by some dancers. What does dance have to do with chamber music? The music group has more girls than boys. More young women than young men. But are these youths old enough to be considered gentlemen? Chamber Gents. Chamber Gents? Where has that phrase come from? He knows that he read it in a novel, he remembers the book’s cover being red. The ham-and-cheese croissant tastes amazing. It’s a taste that reminds him especially of England, of the only trip he took overseas with his parents. He uses the past tense, not the continuous present, “he has taken,” etc., because the three of them, he and his mother and his father, are not likely to travel together again. But he had recalled this earlier. He had gone to the city of Bath, in England, with them. He was fifteen then, and they in their mid-sixties. This was one of two international journeys he had taken in his life, the other being to Paris eight years back; that time, he went alone. That trip he also replays in his mind, sitting here watching Austurstræti, anticipating eating the other croissant, which he’s planning to have with his coffee.
•
He sips þykkmjólk along with his ham croissant. And he wonders again about the phrase Chamber Gents. What about men like himself and Aron? Thirty-five years old, but each in his own way not deserving to be called a gentleman, even less a chamber gent. These young people who are on the way to the Baltic States to play their classical instruments can, on the other hand, lay claim to such a title, at least in the not-so-distant future, and perhaps already. These kinds of people are accustomed to wearing, from an early age, a hat and tails, as the saying goes; they’ve passed all sorts of exams in this and that at high school and college, in addition to all their musical degrees. He knows their type. Sara had all the accoutrements of such a group, and would undoubtedly have made many trips like the one he’s reading about in the paper, had her life taken the direction her parents intended for her. If he reads the press report correctly, these young, creative folk are likely ten years or more younger than Aron. And what about the two of them? They’re both the age Mozart was when he died. In this vein, he recollects the names of several artists and poets who did not live longer than Mozart, but nevertheless attained such success that he, sitting on a tall stool and looking out on Austurstræti, remembers their names. How could men like he and Aron Cesar possibly do something that left a mark? Will today contribute anything significant? In such a short time, it would be unlikely he could achieve anything of merit that others would notice; far easier to record one’s name in history through something malevolent. Some evil. By stopping someone or other in their tracks. What he’s reading at the moment, back at home, is a biography of a man whom he cannot wait to die between the covers of the book. Something on every page screams out to the reader’s desire for the subject to be removed from play immediately, even though the reader knows it won’t happen until the end of the book, on page six hundred something. What a monster this man was. I have already mentioned that nothing is more tedious than stories or conversations about crime and drugs, yet one thing that frustrates me more than drugs and crime is the man in the half-read book, the spiritual father to Mussolini in Italy, who gathered about himself beautiful things and beautiful women, radiating like the sun with his self-confidence, then defiled beauty by fucking her. Apologies. He had not meant to use such language. It was not in his nature. But he let it be, he let it feature. Sorry again, he had not meant to rhyme. But to have started reading a book, to have made a decision about a book you intend to read, ought to demand reflection and responsibility to one’s nature. Going as far into a long book as he has done with the biography I just mentioned forces one to grasp for terra firma. There’s no stopping mid-chapter. But he just cannot wait for the subject to die off. He wants to get the assurance at the book’s close that this vile person is dead, even though he has already cheated by flicking through the final pages and scanning for what would be revealed in the final description, with the following words: “… dies from a stroke at his desk.” But the assurance that he dies still cannot be obtained except by reading every word in the order it appears. And instead of staying home and reading, he is sitting here in a kiosk masquerading as a supermarket, and he has just been shouted after on the street.
Narrator Page 6