by Fred Vargas
‘Why aren’t we landing?’ Veyrenc asked.
‘Because of the birds, thousands of birds,’ Almar explained. ‘You have to circle for a bit to scatter them. Or if not, they use tractors. There,’ he said, pointing out of the window, ‘that’s the village of Sandvík, by the harbour, about fifteen houses, one of them’s where we’ll be staying.’
Once they were on the tarmac, Adamsberg watched as the flocks of birds regrouped.
‘A hundred inhabitants and a million birds on this island!’ said Almar. ‘Cool, eh? But watch out, don’t tread on any eggs, the terns can be ferocious.’
They left their luggage in the guest house, which was painted red and yellow with white windowsills, as clean as a child’s toy. This doll’s house must have been where the group had lodged ten years ago, including Victor and Henri Masfauré. The dining room smelled of baking rye bread and smoked cod.
‘The woman who runs it’s called Eggrún,’ said Almar, ‘I checked last night. Her husband Gunnlaugur is down at the harbour, he’s a fisherman, like three-quarters of the men here. We can start with him, that’ll show you what you’re up against.’
Adamsberg jotted down the names as best he could in his notebook, as he followed Almar down to the harbour. The interpreter talked for a while to Gunnlaugur, who was unloading his catch from the boat. From here, looking straight ahead along the jetty, they could see perfectly clearly the two ears of Fox Island, with its warm stone. Their tips were still white with snow, but the coastline was black. Three kilometres away at most. Retancourt looked impassively at the island.
‘The Frenchies are tired of life, are they?’ Almar translated.
Then to all Almar’s questions, Gunnlaugur replied by shaking his head, finally throwing them a glance of pity and scorn. All the other fishermen at the quayside, young or old, had much the same reaction, negative and dismissive, until it came to Brestir, one of the younger ones, more talkative and less anxious.
‘Hire my boat? So how many kronur do these idiots of yours have?’
‘They’re offering two hundred.’
‘Two fifty, plus five hundred deposit, in case I don’t see my boat again.’
‘He’s not wrong,’ said Almar, ‘I’d want paying in advance too.’
‘OK, tonight, back at the guest house,’ said Adamsberg.
‘No, now.’
‘I haven’t got that much on me.’
‘In that case, no dice, end of discussion,’ reported Almar, folding his arms.
Adamsberg scribbled a few words on his notebook, tore out the page and gave it to the interpreter.
‘Here’s the name, address and phone number of my senior deputy, with my signature,’ he said. ‘He’ll pay all right, he wouldn’t want me to leave this world in dishonour.’
Then Adamsberg opened his anorak and took out 250 kronur from the inside pocket.
‘Tell him he’ll get the five hundred deposit when we’re aboard,’ he said.
‘It’ll be high tide at about 1400 hours,’ said Brestir, pocketing the notes, ‘and I’ll wait here. But they should go and talk to Rögnvar. I don’t want it said that I’m a bad Christian who let a bunch of ignorant people go to their death.’
‘And where’s he?’
‘On the jetty, gutting cod. He has to do something.’
‘Where are we going?’ said Veyrenc swinging round. ‘To get extreme unction from a priest?’
‘Icelanders are Protestants,’ Almar said. ‘No, it seems Rögnvar once went over to the island.’
One of the fishermen with whom they had talked, or tried to, beckoned Almar over. A short conversation, and the interpreter returned.
‘What did he say?’ asked Veyrenc.
‘Do I have to translate everything?’
‘It’s your job, Almar,’ Adamsberg reminded him.
‘Right. Well, he asked if in the soft countries there were a lot of guys with stripy hair. I said it was the first time I’d seen one.’
‘Soft countries?’ said Retancourt.
‘He means Western Europe. Where men don’t have to fight the elements. Where they just talk.’
‘And they don’t ever talk more than he does?’
‘Not to strangers. Icelanders are said to be as severe as their climate, but as kind as the grass is green.’
‘Will you come to the island with us?’ Retancourt asked him.
‘Not on your life!’
‘But you’re only half-Icelandic, you should be immune to superstititon.’
‘My mother’s Breton, that only makes things worse. Here’s Rögnvar, the old man sitting on that chair, he’s only got one leg. Rögnvar, Brestir sent us to you. These foreigners are going to Fox Island, and Brestir thinks you should have a word with them before they go.’
Rögnvar stared for a long while at the faces of the three newcomers.
‘French?’ he asked.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Because it was Frenchies who died over there.’
‘That’s exactly it, they’re doing an investigation into that, they’ve got orders.’
‘No need for investigations, how many times did we tell them that when they got back? They were more dead than alive.’
Rögnvar put the bleeding codfish he was cleaning across his knee and took a deep breath. Adamsberg offered him a cigarette which he accepted eagerly.
‘You know,’ he muttered, ‘they say that in ten years’ time only the volcanoes will be allowed to smoke on this island. They want to ban cigarettes. Already, to get a drink you gotta pay an arm and a leg. You could say I’ve paid with a leg, ha ha. As if men haven’t always had to drink if they wanted to survive. Well, when they’ve ended up banning everything, tell you what, it’s quite simple, I’m off. To France,’ he said with a wink, ‘where a man can have a chat in winter outside a cafe on the pavement. Anyway, you go to the island, you better smoke some cigarettes, the beast doesn’t like the smell of humans.’
‘Tell them about it, Rögnvar.’
‘It won’t take long. It was thirty-seven years ago, I was young, there was this girl, she said she’d marry me if I’d go to Fox Island and bring her back a piece of the hot rock. I couldn’t give a damn about all their old stories, of course, so off I went in my father’s little boat. I can tell you there’s nothing there, no birds, nothing, no moss, not a seagull, weird. It was calm, yes, but a funny kind of calm. You could hear sounds of blowing, but there was no wind, and like something crawling, but no animal to be seen. It was eerie. The island’s no bigger than a pocket handkerchief. Just the front and the back, a smooth platform between the two ears, where once there was a guy did some herring drying, but that’s it. He’d gone over there so no one would steal his fish. He came to a bad end, is all I know about him. And the girl too, the one who sent me off there? The next year, she slipped on some puffin eggs and she fell off the cliff.’
‘And that’s the story, is it?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Almar.’
‘Well, Almar, let me have a smoke in peace, I’ll finish my story when I want.’
After drawing a few times on his cigarette with closed eyes, Rögnvar went on.
‘See, the stone, you couldn’t break a piece off it. So I picked up a bit of rock from nearby, she wasn’t going to know, was she? And I went back to the boat. But when I started the engine, I felt a terrible pain in my left leg. As if someone had set light to my bones. So I’m screaming, I’m clinging on the side of the boat, and rolling on the bottom, clutching my leg, and it doesn’t seem calm no more. Like as if there was this growling, and puffing, and there was a horrible smell. It smelled of decay, death. So I grab my leg with one hand and with the other I hold on to the rudder, I go back as fast as I can, nearly crash into the jetty, Dalvin and Tryggvi come running along. And after that everything went very fast. They whisked me off to hospital in Akureyri, and there, what they did, they just cut my leg right off! I woke up to find that. Not a wound, nothing, the leg had
just started decaying all on its own, no reason, it had gone blue and green. There was even an article in the paper about it. Another hour, and I’d have had it. It was the afturganga, he’d tried to kill me.’
‘What’s the afturganga?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘The living dead, the demon that owns the island. Now you’ve got the whole story, Almar.’
‘It’s not for me, it’s for them.’
‘Yes, I gathered that,’ said Rögnvar, looking sharply with his blue eyes at Adamsberg, who offered him another cigarette and lit one himself. ‘And what’s your name?’ he demanded, still through the interpreter.
‘Adamsberg.’
‘Could almost be a name from round here, like Berg. And you’re the one wants to go to the island?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But she doesn’t,’ said Rögnvar, pointing to Retancourt.
‘No.’
‘Then why has she come?’
‘Orders,’ said Adamsberg, spreading his arms in a gesture of impotence.
‘Orders, my foot. And that one,’ he said, pointing to Veyrenc, ‘he’s come because he’s your friend.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But that woman, even if she’s furious as a killer whale, she could be useful. Because they say that only unusual strength can overcome an afturganga. Or some great spiritual force. But I don’t get the sense of any great spiritual force round here.’
Adamsberg smiled.
‘You don’t really have orders to go, do you?’ Rögnvar went on.
‘Nope.’
‘You just wanted to come?’
‘Yes.’
‘That is to say, you thought it was you that wanted to come. But really it was him.’
‘The afturganga?’
‘Yes, he was calling you from far away.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe he’s got something to say to you. How would I know, Berg? But you can be sure of one thing, when an afturganga summons you, you’d be wise to obey. Good luck, Berg, don’t know if we’ll meet again.’
‘In that case,’ said Adamsberg, ‘I’ll leave you my cigarettes,’ and he put the packet on the old man’s knee, alongside the cod.
After the conversation with Rögnvar, a certain unease reigned in their little group, at whom the fishermen were now looking as if to bid farewell. Unfinished sentences, questions unanswered, desultory conversation, and it lasted until lunchtime.
‘Eat up,’ Adamsberg said finally.
‘Feeling uncertain about it?’ asked Veyrenc with a smile.
‘No, I’m sure about it, because the afturganga has summoned me in person. It’s an honour. It reassures me.’
‘Yeah, right, he’ll have a smoke with you, commissaire,’ said Retancourt, ‘with his grey scaly back and his death’s head, and he’ll tell you all about it. How he gobbled up the legionnaire, and Madame Masfauré, and how he’d have gobbled up the lot of them if the fog hadn’t lifted.’
‘So that proves, Retancourt, that he can’t command a fog for more than two weeks.’
‘That would be plenty long enough.’
‘Danglard has sent me a text, saying that Lebrun came to the office,’ said Adamsberg, looking at his phone. ‘He wanted to see me. Personally.’
‘And?’ asked Veyrenc.
‘And nothing. They told him I was away on family business. He wouldn’t speak to anyone else.’
‘And is Danglard wondering how we’re getting on?’
‘No. He doesn’t want to know. Where is the Arctic Circle, Almar?’
Almar burst out laughing and waved his arms.
‘It runs right through the marriage bed,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?
‘It’s what they say. The pastor here one day discovered that the Arctic Circle ran right through the middle of his house, and the middle of his bed, what’s more. Cast a bit of a chill over their sex life, because he didn’t want to cross the line unknowingly. Big laugh, eh?’
‘But where is it? Does the house exist?’
‘Jean-Baptiste,’ Veyrenc said, ‘the Arctic Circle moves every year.’
‘All right, and where is it now?’
‘Apparently, there’s a fence showing you where it is. Do you really want to set foot in it?’
‘If we make it back, why not?’
XXXVII
BRESTIR WAS READY and waiting, and Adamsberg handed him the promised five hundred kronur. This time, the Icelander’s blue eyes did not express the ironic indifference of the morning, but the respect owed to foolhardy hotheads who might never be seen again.
‘This is the starter, this here’s the gear lever,’ Brestir said. ‘You’ll be heading into the wind, it’s blowing from due west.’
In the strengthening breeze, the official temperature was minus 5 degrees, but with the wind-chill factor, more like minus 12. The three French police officers were warmly clad, Adamsberg a little more lightly than the others, with his anorak over his old Pyrenean sheepskin jerkin, which had been washed so often it was as stiff as a tortoiseshell. He looked at the sky, which as far as the eye could see was bright blue, dazzling the eyes.
‘Once you’re out at sea, don’t steer straight ahead,’ Brestir warned them. ‘The bow waves will be too strong for the boat, you might get into trouble, and above all it could affect the engine. You’ll have to tack. Who’s steering?’
‘I am,’ said Veyrenc.
‘Okay,’ said Brestir, after looking hard at the compact build and strong face of the lieutenant. ‘Get the balance right, have the woman in the middle,’ he advised, without beating about the bush. ‘She shouldn’t lean to one side or the other.’
Almar translated all this, a little awkwardly. Veyrenc started the engine and they left the little harbour, steering south to start with. The fishermen had paused in their activity, and a little group of men was watching their departure with fatalistic expressions. Only Rögnvar raised his arm to wave them off.
‘Can you manage it all right?’ Adamsberg shouted from the bow, loud enough for Veyrenc to hear him in the teeth of the wind.
‘Yes, it’s a good little boat,’ Veyrenc shouted back, ‘it’s well balanced and it responds well.’
‘Tack north now.’
The boat took its zigzag course towards the island with the two white ears.
‘Sure you don’t know how to trap seals?’ shouted Adamsberg, pulling his hood tightly round his own ears to protect them from the freezing wind.
‘Never had to,’ laughed Veyrenc, who was as unperturbed as if he were driving an ordinary police car.
There was something extremely solid about Louis Veyrenc, and Adamsberg felt it forcefully during this crossing. Meetings in an office are not very revealing of true solidity.
‘South now.’
‘Is this really the time to worry about hunting seals?’ asked Retancourt.
‘Now or never, lieutenant! North again, and come in gently. It’s not sand, it’s dark shingle.’
‘I don’t want to rip the boat open,’ said Veyrenc, as he carefully steered the boat, sideways on, towards the beach.
They hauled the boat up on to the shingle, Retancourt alone taking the bows. Adamsberg asked Veyrenc for a cigarette – having left his as a last bequest to Rögnvar – then took off his gloves and sheltered behind the hull of the boat to light it, which was not easy.
‘Old wives’ tale!’ said Retancourt, whose shapely nose and blue eyes were all they could see emerging from her bright yellow hood.
‘We should do whatever Rögnvar says,’ said Adamsberg.
‘The creature will be waiting for you in any case,’ observed Veyrenc, ‘whether you smoke or not.’
‘Just as well not to offend it with the smell of humans. You should smoke one too, Louis, as a matter of courtesy, I’m sure Danglard would approve. I’ll take the first steps up the beach, and I think our meeting place will be the warm rock.’
Adamsberg pointed up at the plateau
where the remains of some wooden sheds could still be seen.
‘It can only be there,’ he said. ‘The other side is a steep cliff.’
As they crossed the long windswept beach, the shingle gave way to flat rocks which sloped upwards about twenty-five metres towards the ruined sheds. The snow and ice still remaining in places made progress difficult. Retancourt alone reached the plateau without an increased heart rate.
‘Well,’ puffed Adamsberg, ‘they certainly did use up three-quarters of this old building for firewood. Let’s look for the famous rock now, but we’d better not get separated.’
‘Yes, we should separate, ’ said Retancourt, ‘because it’s stupid to waste time. The whole place is only a hundred metres long by forty across. We’ll still be able to see each other.’
‘As you like, lieutenant.’
A few minutes later, Veyrenc, who was near the fox’s left ear, signalled to the others. The famous rock, in fact just part of a rock, was no bigger than a child’s cot. Smooth and worn to a silky sheen by many hands, it was covered with carved inscriptions.
‘Since I got the summons, I’ll go first,’ said Adamsberg, and he knelt down and took his glove off to feel the black and slightly shiny surface of the rock with the palm of his hand. ‘Yes, it is warm,’ he confirmed.
‘Good thing we came all this way, then,’ commented Retancourt. ‘To find out something we already knew.’
‘What’s this writing? What do you make of it, Louis?’
‘Old Norse, must be runes. Do you want me to copy some for Danglard?’
‘Why not?’ said Adamsberg. ‘It would make a nice present for him. A respectful offering.’
‘No way!’ said Retancourt abruptly, as she scanned the western horizon. ‘We mustn’t waste any time.’
‘You’re right,’ said Adamsberg, to mollify her, and stood back up. ‘We have to look for where they bivouacked. That’s what I’m after.’
‘It must be down there,’ said Veyrenc, pointing back towards the beach. ‘In that niche, where the two ears would have shielded them a bit from the wind. Just before the ground rises. That’s where I’d have camped.’
‘Good,’ said Adamsberg, ‘we’ll go back down, I suggest backwards like on a ladder, we don’t want to take a tumble here. And he didn’t even come,’ he added in a slightly disappointed voice.