And then you die az-8

by Michael Dibdin

Zen's drunkenness saved him initially. He was so startled that he fell over backwards, landing heavily on his buttocks as the assailant swerved past. It was one of the little dark men he had been seeing all evening. He turned now, the knife held out, and walked back to where Zen was lying sprawled on the paving stones. The blade of the knife gleamed in the light from the nearest street lamp, but the man's face was in shadow.

  Tackling a man on the ground is a tricky business. You have to stoop to his level to get anything done, and if you do you lose your only advantage. Aurelio Zen was aware of this, having been in this situation before, but playing the other role. His attacker, oddly enough, was also aware of it. He made no further berserk moves, did not hurl himself on his prone victim, just stood there, sizing up the situation.

  Zen was still drunk, but drunks can often focus very effectively on just one thing, which was all he had to do at present. So when the dark figure made its move, aiming a kick at Zen's ribs, he was ready. He flipped over, away from the blow, and was on his hands and knees before the other had regained his balance. The next assault was a straight lunge aimed at Zen's chest, which he parried at the cost of slit knuckles, then rose to his feet, using his assailant's impetus to throw him clear and to one side.

  They were both standing now. Taking the initiative, Zen moved in and aimed a kick at the hand holding the knife, following up with the heel of his right hand slammed up into the man's jaw. He felt completely fearless, even when the swung blade returning stung him on the shoulder. Off balance but totally in control, he stripped the man's shin with the instep of his left foot, causing a satisfying shriek, then stepped back to consider his next move.

  It was only then that he noticed the siren and the flashing lights at the far end of the street. A moment later a white Volvo with blue and red stripes and a yellow shield on the door pulled up. Disconcerted, Zen looked round for his attacker. He was nowhere to be seen. Two uniformed patrolmen got out of the car.

  One of them spoke to Zen, who shrugged and replied in Italian, 'Sorry, I don't understand.' One policeman inspected Zen's hand, which was covered in blood. The other bent down and picked up a knife from the pavement. He got out his radio and made a call, then the two men led Zen over to their car.

  The next hour and a half was spent in the emergency department of a hospital, where the injuries to Zen's hand and shoulder were cleaned and the former stitched. At a certain point he remembered the consul's card and the receipt with his address, which he handed to the hospital staff. When Snaebjorn Gudmundsson showed up in person, he initially seemed more agitated by Zen's lack of agitation than by what had actually happened. Zen just ignored him. He was feeling better than he had for months. He had no idea what had happened, still less why. That didn't matter. Something had, and he had dealt with it. He was in charge again, engaged with the real world, making and breaking. It felt good, and he wasn't going to let some weedy, neurotic diplomat tell him otherwise. In fact it was only with the greatest difficulty that Gudmundsson managed to convince Zen to come home with him and go to bed rather than take to the streets and see if there were any bars still open, but in the end he prevailed. They drove somewhere, Zen got out, they went inside, there was a bed, he lay down.

  He awoke in a bright, hard light. His shoulder and hand ached abominably, but neither could begin to match his head. He was lying fully clothed on a narrow wooden bed in a musty room filled with cardboard boxes. He had no idea where he was, or any memory of how he got there. The world was a painful enigma whose solution, if there was one, eluded him utterly.

  Some time later, Snaebjorn Gudmundsson appeared with a cup of tea in his hand.

  'Feeling better?' he asked in an excessively loud and patronizingly cheery tone. 'Bathroom's to the left. I'll be next door when you're ready to talk.'

  Twenty minutes later, Zen shambled into the room next door. It was a bleakly austere space stretching from one end of the small one-storey house to the other. The walls were white, the floor bare wooden boards, the furnishings hard and minimal. Since the front door was at one end, he must have crossed the room to get to the bed where he had woken up, but he had absolutely no memory of this.

  'So how are you feeling?' Snaebjorn Gudmundsson demanded, putting down the book he had been reading.

  'Like hell,' Zen replied succinctly.

  'Yes, well, you seemed a bit the worse for wear last night, I have to say. Apart from your various injuries, I mean.' 'I drank a lot.'

  'Expensive business here in Iceland.' 'I'll pay you back.'

  'Oh, don't worry about that. You're evidently a VIP. I'll bill the embassy’

  Zen collapsed in a chair made of wooden slats on a stainless steel frame. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. 'Did they find the person who attacked me?' he asked. Gudmundsson looked at him oddly.

  'No, they didn't. You say he was dark, unkempt looking and short?'

  'Shorter than me, and I'm shorter than most people here.'

  "That's very unusual. Our genetic pool here in Iceland is remarkably homogenous. Or to put it another way, everyone's related to everyone else. We don't have a distinct class of shorter, dark-skinned people, like the Lapps in Finland.'

  "They must be immigrants.'

  'That s not really a problem here. We're an island, of course, which helps. The points of entry are strictly controlled and we're very particular about who we let in. Excessively so, some might say, especially if if s a matter of non-Northern European individuals. When the United States military applied to build Keflavik as a base during the war, the government agreed on condition mat no black servicemen be stationed there.'

  Zen waved dismissively.

  'Well, all I know is that I saw plenty of these people about last night. And this was before I got drunk. Like that one I told you I saw standing beside you outside the cafe yesterday, while you were talking on the phone. They looked different, they dressed different and they acted different. And one of them tried to kill me.'

  An odd look came into Gudmundsson's eyes.

  'You say they dressed differently. How?' Zen shrugged.

  'I don't know. Like people who had just arrived from some remote village in the country. They were wearing coarse, homespun garments, badly cut and badly put together. They looked completely out of place, like the gypsies in Italy, but it didn't seem to bother them. On the contrary, they were staring at the other people in a really blatant way, with this sort of mocking, malicious smile.'

  Snaebjorn Gudmundsson nodded slowly, considering all this. Then he stood up and beckoned.

  'Come this way a moment’

  He walked over to the front door and opened it on to the tiny patch of garden that divided the house from the street. The consul looked both ways, then turned to Zen.

  'How many people are there in sight at the moment?'

  Zen counted rapidly.

  'Eleven,' he replied.

  'Ah’ said Gudmundsson.

  'Why?'

  The consul ushered him back inside and closed the door.

  'The reason why the police were on the scene so quickly last night was that all of downtown Reykjavik is monitored by a system of closed-circuit video cameras connected to viewing screens at the central police station, to deter and control violence among the roving packs of drunken youths who often go on revelling until five or six in the morning at this time of year. The patrol cars are parked strategically around the perimeter of the area, and can reach any trouble spot in seconds.'

  Zen took out his cigarettes and looked questioningly at his host, who nodded.

  'The street in which you claim to have been attacked…'

  'What do you mean, "claim"? Look at my hand! Why do you think I needed all these stitches?'

  'Let’s leave that for a moment. At all events, the street is not very well lit, and the nearest camera was quite a long way from where this happened. Nevertheless, one of the police officers on duty saw you fall over and then start lashing out with your feet and fists, and called in a patro
l car. What he didn't see, and what re-examination of the video tape has failed to reveal, is any evidence of a second person.'

  'Are you calling me a liar?' demanded Zen, really angry now.

  'Not at all. I'm merely telling you what the police report stated.'

  'You think my idea of a good time is to get so drunk I see people who aren't there and then slash my hand and shoulder with a knife I brought along for the purpose?'

  'Are you drunk now?' asked the consul.

  'No! Just horribly hung over.'

  'Of course. Just a moment.'

  He walked out to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a small glass filled with a brownish liquid. 'Drink this.'

  'What is it?' Zen asked, sniffing the liquid. It smelt indescribably foul.

  'Just drink it. Knock it back in one. You'll feel much better.'

  Zen did as he was told. A sharp burning sensation in his mouth and throat was abruptly followed by the most intense onrush of nausea he had ever experienced. He knew without the slightest doubt that he was going to vomit massively there and then, all over the consul's hardwood floor. Then it passed, and was succeeded by a warm glow. The consul nodded.

  'If s an infusion of hakarl, decomposed shark's meat pickled in raw alcohol In about five minutes you'll feel much better. But it was important to check whether you were still suffering the active effects of the drinks you had last night before evaluating the results of my little test.'

  'What test?'

  'When I asked how many people there were in the street.'

  'I told you, there were eleven.'

  Snaebjorn Gudmundsson regarded him solemnly.

  'I only saw eight,' he said.

  Zen laughed harshly, getting some of his own back at last.

  'Maybe you need glasses!'

  'There are no glasses made for this.'

  'For what?'

  Gudmundsson sighed.

  'We call it fylgja. If s a special faculty. People who have it are called skyggn. All children are skyggn until they're about five, and many after that Almost all lose it when they reach puberty, but a few people retain the gift into adult life. It appears that you may be one of them, Dottor Zen. If so, you are only the second foreigner I've ever heard of with this faculty.'

  'I have no idea what you're talking about'

  The consul laughed.

  'And when I tell you, you're going to think that I'm drunk. But try and accept that this is a well-attested phenomenon. What it means, of course, is another matter. If s like talking about religion. You may believe in God or you may not, but if s a perfectly respectable intellectual position to hold that God does not exist and that religion is simply a tissue of meretricious falsehoods designed to give people an illusory sense of purpose. What is not a respectable intellectual position is to hold that people do not have religious experiences. You follow me?'

  'Whaf s all this got to do with whatever it is you said I had or was?'

  'If s completely analogous. Some people believe in the existence of the huldufolk, others don't. Their existence is therefore debatable. What is not debatable is that there are people who claim to be able to see them.'

  'See who, for God's sake?'

  'The "hidden people". Traditionally, they have been regarded as a race of supernatural beings who live all around us, but in a parallel dimension which is only perceptible to those who are skyggn.'

  'But you surely don't believe in this nonsense, do you?' Snaebjorn Gudmundsson shrugged.

  ‘I don't have fylgja, so if s all rather theoretical. I'm simply trying to come up with a rational explanation for what happened to you last night the people you saw in the street, and the one you say attacked you.'

  'A rational explanation based on totally irrational premises. If the police camera didn't pick him up, if s because he was dark skinned and wearing dark clothing, that's all.'

  The consul laughed.

  'Iceland is an odd place, dottore. Geologically, if s the youngest landmass on the planet Think of it as the pizza country. If s about the same shape, and hot out of the oven. Up north they have geysers, volcanoes, lava flows. You can stand there and watch the terrible process of the earth being made, right in front of your eyes, while across the fjord the glaciers are calving icebergs. But enough of all this abstruse talk. How about some lunch?'

  Zen shivered visibly.

  ‘I couldn't eat a thing.'

  And he meant it. He was hungry, but not for anything you could get here. He needed food for his soul. He needed to go home, before he crossed to the other side of the shadow line Snaebjdrn Gudmundsson had described, and became one of the huldufolk himself, an invisible alien haunting the streets of this unreal city where it was always midday on the thirtieth of February.

  'I think I'll go and lie dpwn for a bit,' he said. 'I didn't sleep well last night.'

  Gudmundsson nodded.

  'Of course. I'll let you know if there are any developments.' He was awakened by a light tapping at the door. It opened to reveal the consul. 'You have a visitor,' he said.

  Zen rolled up off the bed. It was like being back in hospital, he thought. People came in and out of your room and told you what to do next. He had been living like this for almost a year now. When would he sleep in his own bed again? But where was that bed? Rome, he supposed, but the idea didn't carry complete conviction.

  His visitor turned out to be Borunn Sigurdardottir, the policewoman who had interviewed him at the airport the day before. She nodded at him and made a short speech which Snaebjorn Gudmundsson translated.

  'She brings good news. The chief pathologist has now confirmed the preliminary findings of the autopsy performed yesterday. His conclusion is that Signor Angelo Porri died of natural causes, a heart attack to be precise. The police therefore have no further interest in the matter, and you are free to go, with apologies for the unavoidable delay.'

  Inspector Sigurdardottir handed over the passport in the name of Pier Giorgio Butani to Zen. Then she flashed Zen a brief smile, like a shaft of sunlight glancing off an ice field, and left.

  'Well, that’s all very well' Zen said testily to Snaebjdrn Gudmundsson. ‘I can leave, but how? The only ticket I've got is on Alitalia. Do they fly to Iceland?'

  'No.'

  'Then what am I supposed to do, have them divert another plane to pick me up?'

  ‘I imagine that they will have made arrangements with another airline to fly you to America. We can check with the airport. But the first step is to inform the embassy in Copenhagen. I'll do that on the land line in my study.'

  He returned a few minutes later.

  'Well, that’s done. They're going to contact Rome. We're to await instructions.' A silence fell.

  'Where did you learn Italian?' asked Zen.

  'When I was a student in Florence, many years ago.'

  'Studying what?'

  'Art.'

  'Oh yes, you said you were an artist.' 'Yes.'

  Zen glanced around the stridently bare walls. 'So you sell all your work?' 'None of it.' 'None?'

  'No. If s no good, you see.'

  Zen smiled politely.

  'I'm sure you're just being modest'

  'Not at all. I may not be much of an artist, but I'm an excellent judge of art. I sometimes wish I weren't. It might make it possible to believe that my stuff had some value. But it doesn't. I know that'

  'But you keep working?' 'Oh yes. What else would I do?' 'So where are your paintings?' Snaebjorn Gudmundsson stood up. 'Would you like to see them?'

  Zen's heart sank. The last thing he wanted was a guided tour round some amateur dauber's studio. Fortunately the telephone rang next door.

  'It’s Rome’ said the consul, reappearing in the doorway a moment later. Tor you.'

  Gudmundsson's study, by contrast with the living area, was a jumble of papers and files. Zen seated himself at the desk and picked up the phone.

  'Pronto.'

  'Buona sera, dottore. This is not a secure line, so ifs
important that we do not identify ourselves or be too specific about the matters under discussion.'

  'I understand’

  'We have spoken before, most recently on your connecting flight from Pisa to Milan.' 'Ah yes.'

  'I understand that you have had a tiresome time recently, but that everything is now sorted out’

  'That s right. What’s not clear is how I'm to continue my journey.'

  'The answer is that you aren't.' 'I'm not?'

  'No. There have been developments. In fact we have reason to suppose that they may have pre-dated your departure, but our American counterparts have only just seen fit to inform us.'

  'I hope there's no lack of trust implied.'

  'If so, it would be totally unjustified. There have been no breaches of security this end, I can assure you.'

  'That s good to know. So if one of these attempts on my life finally succeeds, I can die secure in the knowledge that the leak was of non-Italian origin.'

  'Please don't be facetious. Ifs also most inappropriate to mention such matters on this connection. In any case, there will be no more such episodes.'

  'That's certain, is it?'

  'Absolutely certain. As I said, there have been developments, as a result of which the event at which you were to participate in the United States has now been postponed and may well be cancelled altogether.'

  Zen hardly dared to believe what he had heard.

  'In short, one of the two principal protagonists has decided to co-operate with our side’ the Foreign Ministry man went on. 'As a result, your participation has been rendered superfluous. There is therefore no need for you to attend, and no risk that any further attempts will be made to prevent you from doing so.'

  Zen laughed lightly.

  'It was Nello, right?' he said.

  'Please!'

  'All right, but it was, wasn't it?' 'Well, yes. How did you know?'

  'He talked to me in the car, while they were driving me to meet you know who. He explained how they lit the landing strip for the aircraft. The other man told him to shut up. I could tell he was a talker then. Any competent cop or magistrate could have got him to open up eventually. He was one of those people who just can't bear to be silent’