10
One aspect of Havard’s character I got to know while we stayed on Brook Road was his fear of the dark. I quickly noticed how uncomfortable he felt when he was alone after dark, and I got him to admit this weakness one evening, when he told me for the second time that he always thought he could hear someone behind him whenever he went upstairs. During the day he was often noisy, especially when he had been drinking—which was usually the case—but in the evening he was calmer and yet sometimes slightly apprehensive as he walked around the flat. I teased him by saying that he had read too many English ghost stories, but he gave me the impression that there was something else—something more profound—that was bothering him. I thought there had maybe been some incident in his childhood, which I had begun to imagine as rather bleak and joyless; I could just see Havard as a child, bent and hollow chested, surrounded by his grandmother’s old furniture and belongings while his mother and father were drinking next door.
Havard wasn’t very fond of the cat on Brooke Road, especially after it jumped on him on the sofa one evening while we were watching television. He was so startled that he dropped a glowing cigarette between his legs—it made an ugly mark on the sofa—and knocked over a mug full of beer which he’d placed on the floor. But he liked the other animals, especially Dick the rabbit and Moby the white guinea pig, and their acquaintance ended in a rather sad way. However, he never ceased to grumble about the names Orn had given them, saying that he couldn’t see the humor in giving an innocent guinea pig a whale’s name. Besides, Dick was by far the most ridiculous name he had ever heard for a female rabbit. He made no complaints about the cat’s name though and no doubt thought it was appropriate.
I was on my way home from the supermarket when the accident involving Moby and Dick occurred. We had visited one of the local pubs at lunchtime—our favorite, on the main street of the area, its walls were lined with books—and Havard had gone home before me, he couldn’t be bothered to help buy something for supper. In view of what was happening while I was in the shop, it was rather unfortunate that I bought guinea pig food—a bag of dry food enriched with vitamins—on that occasion.
I had given Havard the key to the house and had to ring the doorbell several times before he answered. When he finally heard the bell, he came running to the door and, with a look of despair in his eyes, pushed me towards the back garden. I remember being quite sure that he had broken the flower pot, which he had just missed so often while playing basketball in the garden. I always had the feeling that he made the guinea pig and rabbit nervous by bouncing that ball around. But on this occasion it was they—that is Moby and Dick—who made life more miserable (strange though it may seem) for Havard. When I reached the back garden, still holding on to the shopping bags, I saw them lying on the dirty, wet paving stones as if they were frozen; they looked all grey and exceedingly pathetic.
I remember Havard crouching down in front of the animals and groaning, “I don’t know how it happened,” but, by putting two and two together, I could see just as well as he could what had happened. I thought that the bag of cement, which Orn admitted he should have gotten rid of long ago, had been closed, and, when I asked Havard if he had opened it, he said no and claimed that either Moby or Dick had opened it. Still, one way or another they had both climbed inside the bag and were nosing about inquisitively in the grey cement when Havard came home and looked out of the window. He said that he had run out into the garden like a shot and grabbed the animals out of the bag. At first he had tried to brush the cement off them, but when he saw that that didn’t clean their fur properly, he had pulled out the hose that was lying curled up in the corner by the kitchen door and turned on the tap. He said he hadn’t had any doubts, as he hosed down the animals, that he was doing the right thing. He had tried to reduce the force of the water by narrowing the opening with his thumb, spreading the water over a wider area. When he put the hose down and bent to look at the animals, it didn’t take him long—maybe two or three minutes—to realize that things weren’t quite as they should have been. Not that it was a new experience for Havard; his life had probably never been as it was meant to be.
He said he had not timed it, naturally, but he guessed that the cement had only taken about four or five minutes to harden around the soft fur of the poor animals. It was, however, more difficult to say precisely when they had stopped breathing. I remember the first thought that came into my mind was that they had been walled up alive like the Canterville ghost. Of course there was no denying that the accident was tragicomic, and now, looking back on it—with Havard here, in person, in my living room, treating Armann Valur to my purchases from the duty-free store—I thought for the second time today that what doesn’t kill a man makes him stronger.
These words are no doubt appropriate in certain circumstances, but it would be necessary to rearrange them so that they make sense in this case.
When we sat down to accept what had happened and take stock of the situation, Havard suggested that we buy replacements. It must be possible to find another albino guinea pig and another light brown rabbit in a city as large as London, and it wasn’t entirely certain that Osk and Orn would ever see the difference. For some reason I found the idea rather distasteful. It was horrible to think of Osk coming home and noticing that the rabbit and guinea pig in the garden were not the same animals she had left when she went off on holiday. And Havard and I would pretend that nothing had changed. “Is that Moby?” Osk would ask, really perplexed, and we would coolly say that it was, as if we were rather surprised that she should ask such a question. “But Moby had a tear in its ear,” she was likely to say next, and we would look as if we didn’t understand what she was talking about; the ear had probably healed while she was in Europe. She had been away for a rather long time. Then she would look puzzled and think that Dick was a slightly darker color than she remembered and the guinea pig looked thinner; hadn’t we given it enough to eat? After discussing these strange changes in the animals—which we naturally weren’t aware of—we would sit down and have some tea or coffee and Osk’s suspicions would remain unsolved, something beyond our human understanding, perhaps supernatural.
But, of course, I had the task of explaining what had happened when Osk came home about four weeks later. Havard had been gone for a while by then, and he had added to my worries by causing another accident (if it could be called an accident). What I considered even more serious was the fact that he had taken the whale boat and the book. What he did to Moby and Dick could have happened to anyone—or almost anyone—and I decided to tell Osk, and later Orn, the truth about the accident. Havard had only meant to help the unfortunate animals, no doubt I would have reacted in just the same way and grabbed hold of the hose. But it was certainly a more unpleasant ordeal having to relate the fate that befell Ahab. The story of the rodents seemed trivial in comparison; at least these types of animals are easier to replace.
I pause for a moment over the word supernatural. Here I am lying under my own bed, recalling the ridiculous death of several animals which my companion and I were paid to look after five years ago, and now this Havard, whom I thought had cleared out of my life and was under careful supervision in an institution abroad, is back to haunt me, standing just a partition’s width away in the living room. Am I imagining all this? Am I all right? Is something strange going on in my brain, just as I imagined a few hours ago was the case with Armann Valur? Am I experiencing what I felt earlier today, that I don’t really belong here, that this isn’t my own home?
Is the eccentric up there playing with me?
All I need to do is shake my head to get rid of these speculations. Not even that, because as soon as the phone starts ringing in the next room they disappear.
“This phone won’t leave us in peace!” Havard barks. “It’s all going to end in a mess!”
That is just what I’m beginning to be afraid of too.
11
I have
no difficulty hearing what Havard says on the phone. Before answering, he turns down the Elvis in the living room; he is standing with the receiver no more than a meter away from the bed. I thought he was going to come into the bedroom or the bathroom, but he stopped in the hall; I can see his shoes from where I am lying.
“No, he just isn’t at home, not at this moment but I’m expecting him to turn up any minute now. Greta? Your name is Greta. I’ll do that.”
I hadn’t expected her to call so soon. My watch is in the living room, so I don’t know exactly what the time is, but, since I came home in the taxi at six o’clock, I can’t imagine that it is later than seven-thirty or eight.
“Yes,” Havard carries on, “I am . . . at least we are old mates. Do I know where? No, I’m not sure, he has just come home from abroad and he must have nipped out. He wasn’t here when I arrived. It was open. Oh, really? So he hasn’t come to you? This evening? You were going to meet him this evening? You aren’t Vigdis? No, of course not. What? Vigdis? No, I just thought that . . . No, you’re called Greta, you told me just now. I’m Havard.”
The damn fool. I can’t tell if he is mentioning Vigdis just for malicious pleasure, but I’m quite sure he thinks it is strange and probably thrilling that I seem to be involved with two women.
“Alright, I’ll just have to tell him you called. You’re coming over then? What? When you have put her to bed? Alright, fine. He will surely be back by then, Emil is not the sort of person to just go off. Alright, OK you do that.”
Then he says “bye, bye” in an exaggerated feminine manner and I imagine—at least I sincerely hope—that Greta has put down the phone. Not because she might think that the person who answered the phone is gay—I wouldn’t mind that kind of misunderstanding—but because his greeting sounded more like an insult. Only Havard could think of talking to a total stranger like that.
As much as I look forward to Greta’s visit, the last thing I want is for her to see my place for the first time in this impossible situation. It was clear that she intended to come over once her daughter has fallen asleep—she would hardly be putting her mother to bed—and that could mean that she will be here within an hour.
“Here, you have to have another drink,” Havard shouts from the kitchen, where he must have put down the phone.
“Trinken und trinken?” Armann replies, and it is even more obvious now than it was a short while ago that he appreciates my indirect hospitality. Besides, the alcohol has started to affect his speech.
“You are drinking cognac, aren’t you?” Havard says from the kitchen, where he is still pottering about.
“There’s still some left,” Armann says with a laugh and adds in a rather loud voice: “Here, I must tell you something the bartender told me at my hotel in London.”
“Yes, you and Emil were in London together, weren’t you?”
“Well, we flew home together. But the bartender in the Cumberland Hotel where I stayed told me an interesting story. He told me why he became . . . well, almost exactly why he decided to become a drinker.”
“Almost exactly?” Havard has come back from the kitchen. Just as Armann is about to carry on with his story, the phone rings again. Havard sighs and repeats that this phone just won’t leave them in peace.
“It could be Emil,” Armann says.
But I am not the person who answers when Havard introduces himself.
“Good evening,” he says formally. “This is Howard Knutsson speaking. Emil? No, Emil just isn’t available. And who are you, if I may ask? Who am I? Well, I asked first.”
Armann obviously can’t control himself and laughs, or rather giggles at Havard’s sense of humor.
“What? Haeme? I think you have to repeat that! Emil’s friend? What? Haeme?”
It is Jaime, my friend from Chile.
“What? When? I really don’t know. I came to visit Emil and . . . Who am I? Havard, Havard Knutsson. Yes, he has come home. Yes, he came home but he went off again. Yes, you will just have to come around here, I should think that he will come back. Yes, yes, I’ll be here. Alright, OK. Haeme, wasn’t it? OK, sir. I’ll let him know.”
“Who on earth was that?” Armann asks after Havard has hung up the phone and cursed Jaime under his breath.
“Some friend of our host,” he says without interest. “Someone called Jaime. I don’t know where he was ringing from. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was phoning from outer space.”
It is obvious that Havard was only pretending to be unable to pronounce Jaime’s name while he was on the phone because now he says it almost exactly like Jaime himself.
Armann clearly recognizes the name.
“James? Can it be that some fellow called James is on the way over?”
“It was Jaime. It looks like we will have to entertain more visitors,” Havard answers wearily. It is possible that he is genuinely tired.
“I can tell you that Jaime is the Spanish version of the English name James,” Armann continues.
“Oh, is it?”
“And he was a friend of Emil’s? I don’t suppose he mentioned where he came from?”
“From outer space,” Havard says, and now his voice has a trace of annoyance as well as tiredness in it. “At least it sounded like that.”
“The extraterrestrial James?” Armann seems to be getting more and more boisterous. He laughs and asks which planet the man came from.
When no reply comes from Havard—who seems to be in the kitchen, I think I heard the fridge being opened—Armann shouts from the living room:
“Well, I was going to tell you about the bartender at the Cumberland!”
There is still no reaction from Havard. It sounds like Armann goes into the kitchen.
“He was called Nicholas Blair. Yes, I remember it now, it was Nicholas.”
“Haven’t we heard enough about English jerks for the time being?” Havard snarls, though it clearly has no effect on Armann’s storytelling.
“Some people are peculiar, it’s as if they decide one fine day that they are going to be drinkers, though it is normally difficult for people to make decisions. But this fellow Nicholas received rather unusual encouragement to take to the bottle. It happened like this . . .”
At this point I lose the thread of Armann’s story; there is a loud noise when Havard knocks a bag of ice cubes against the kitchen table—at least I think that’s what he’s doing—and then he starts crushing the ice.
“Then he poured water into the three glasses and . . .”
“Do you want ice in your cognac?” Havard interrupts.
“Not in cognac, Havard,” Armann answers in a reproachful tone and then carries on: “Once he has poured water into all the glasses he picks up a little container—probably a little test tube from a laboratory—and from it he pours alcohol into one glass of water. Then he picks up another test tube and tells his pupils that it contains nicotine.”
“Nicotine in a glass?” Havard asks in disbelief.
“Yes, nicotine in liquid form, just as you can have morphine or whatever it is called, hashish oil.”
“Hashish oil?” It sounds as though Havard is becoming slightly interested in the story now that Armann has mentioned hashish.
“Yes, or whatever it is called. At least he pours nicotine into the second glass and makes it clear that there is just pure water in the third glass, though we don’t expect them to have had much pure water in England, especially not at that time.”
“At that time? What time was that?” Havard asks.
“It was probably in the fifties, he was no spring chicken, this fellow Nicholas.”
“This Nicholas, your friend, was a pupil in this class, then?”
“Yes.”
“And now he is a bartender in this hotel?”
“I have already told you that, yes.” Armann says, sounding annoyed at
Havard’s questions. “When he has polluted the water with alcohol in one glass and nicotine in another one, he takes a little box which contains some kind of insects out of his briefcase. Then he picks up one of them and drops it in the glass of water mixed with alcohol. And what do you think happens?”
“The bug gets drunk,” Havard says cheerfully. It is obvious that Armann has managed to get him in a better mood.
“Yes, it possibly feels the effects for a little while, but not for long because it dies.”
Havard laughs.
“So when the teacher has explained to the boys just how alcohol affects . . . well, I don’t know what he said precisely . . . that this is what happens to insects who drink . . . then . . .”
Havard bursts out laughing and I hear him pour something over the ice in his glass.
“Then he picks up another insect, the same kind as before, and . . .”
“Here’s to the bug!” Havard interrupts him.
“Alright, cheers,” Armann agrees. While he goes to fetch his glass in the living room he carries on: “So he puts the poor insect into the glass with the nicotine and the same thing happens as when he . . .”
“Drowned the other bug!” Havard adds and laughs.
“Well, at least this creature ends up the same way; it dies of nicotine poisoning. And then there is only the last experiment and, of course, it consists in putting the third insect into the glass with the pure water.”
“Armann, I think this friend of yours was having you on,” Havard butts in.
“No, no, this last insect just swims around in the water, full of life, and that’s the end of the demonstration. Those which landed in the alcohol and nicotine had no chance of survival but the one which landed in the water was still alive when the teacher fished it out, no doubt just to be killed too afterwards.”
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