Pets

by Bragi Ólafsson

  When Greta asks if I have a dustpan and brush, Saebjorn answers that she is bound to find something like that in the big cupboard in the kitchen. She goes into the kitchen, opens the cupboard, and walks back into the living room, whistling a tune I recognize.

  “Wasn’t that somebody knocking?”

  I hadn’t heard anything.

  “No doubt this neighbor again,” Havard suggests.

  “I’m quite sure someone was knocking,” Greta says again, but she doesn’t seem willing to go to the door. Besides, it should be the job of one of the men. I hear someone stand up and the front door opens, but nothing happens to show that Greta was right.

  “Have a look outside,” Saebjorn calls out from the living room, and then I hear someone dial a number on his cell phone.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Jaime answers. But it sounds like he is going outside as Saebjorn suggested; the door is still open and I can feel the cold come in, as if it’s crawling along the floor and creeping into every corner of the flat.

  Saebjorn has started to talk to someone on the phone. He says he is at my place. He and Jaime had come here to fetch some CDs I had bought for them, but he’ll be there quite soon. I imagine he is talking to his girlfriend, Klara.

  I feel sorry for Jaime when he comes back in and closes the front door. He is shivering and tells them through his chattering teeth that he didn’t see anyone outside. Saebjorn switches off his phone and suggests to Jaime that they get going.

  “It’s something supernatural,” Havard says. “Isn’t it just Emil’s ghost? Hasn’t he just had an accident and . . .”

  “Don’t say that!” Greta stops him.

  “Well, things happen,” Havard answers indifferently.

  “Isn’t it just Emil in person?” Saebjorn suggests, more cheerful than he has been up until now.

  “I must have imagined it,” Greta says, and I think I have to agree with her. At least it wasn’t me.

  While she is tidying up in the living room—it sounds as though she is moving things and carrying glasses into the kitchen—Saebjorn says that maybe I didn’t feel like having any visitors this evening and had made myself scarce before they arrived. I know he is joking, but I begin to wonder if Havard, who hasn’t yet made any comment on Saebjorn’s idea, is pondering whether there is some truth in it.

  “Not to mention the fact that you climbed through the window so Emil hasn’t been able to come home again,” Saebjorn continues, still with the same humor.

  Havard doesn’t respond.

  “Maybe he is trying to frighten us by knocking on the door,” Jaime suggests. “He wants us to think it is a ghost.”

  For a moment I feel as if I’m taking part in an adventure story for teenagers, that I, the missing man whom everyone is searching for, can’t be bothered being in the story any longer and have started reading it instead, without telling the other characters that I have been found and that they can stop searching. But I’m beginning to worry that this conversation will lead to some conclusion. Havard, who doesn’t normally keep his thoughts to himself, hasn’t commented on my friends’ speculations, and I am really afraid that he will stand up any moment now and look for me in the only suitable hiding place in the flat.

  “Is he completely out?” Saebjorn asks. He is most likely referring to Armann. He hasn’t made a sound since he told all the others to help themselves.

  “He has gone completely,” Greta answers, and I think of limbo again; he has gone off to his own private mysterious realm. “Oh, he’s really sweet like that,” she adds.

  I was waiting for Havard to stand up and follow his suspicion into the bedroom, but it hasn’t happened yet. On the other hand, Saebjorn asks Greta to talk to him and the next moment they are standing in the hall between the bathroom and the bedroom.

  “What is the time?” I hear Havard ask Jaime, but can’t concentrate on what is happening in the living room because Saebjorn has started talking to Greta.

  “Are you going to stay here longer?” he asks in a whisper, and she nods in reply. She is going to wait a while for me.

  “Do you think you can keep an eye on them? It doesn’t look like this Havard is going to leave straightaway.”

  “Keep an eye on them?” Greta asks, no doubt with a smile.

  “I have to go, perhaps I’ll come back later or at least phone.”

  Greta laughs in reply and says she is used to looking after such little boys. Besides, Armann isn’t likely to get into trouble at the moment. Saebjorn shushes her and asks her to keep her voice down. They move into my bedroom.

  “I just don’t trust this fellow Havard completely,” Saebjorn continues in a whisper.

  Really? I say to my friend, though more to myself here on this side of the blue sheet.

  “I mean, there are things of value in here,” he adds, almost as if he is letting her in on a secret. I know exactly what he considers valuable. He is thinking about the CDs, the thirty-six discs I have just bought, and the other two-thousand in the specially made shelves, as well as all the records—my collection which, to my surprise, none of these guests who have come here today for the first time seem to have admired. Saebjorn, on the other hand, hasn’t caught sight of the valuables which Havard brought—the ship and the one hundred and fifty year old book which are lying here in front of my feet.

  “You don’t have to worry about Havard,” Greta says. “I think he is about to go, wasn’t he going to meet his friend downtown?”

  It’s obvious that Greta thinks Saebjorn is worrying unnecessarily. She laughs and whispers that it’s not a problem. She’ll wait here and Havard will go soon, it’s not as though there is a criminal in the place. They go back out again and Havard meets them with a question, do they know the name of the fiancée of the former president of Argentina? Miss Universe from Chile. He says he can’t understand that Jaime doesn’t know it, he comes from Chile and doesn’t know the name of the former Miss Universe who also came from Chile. If I know Jaime well it’s something that he absolutely does not want to know.

  “Cecilia Bolocco!” Greta says without thinking.

  “Hey, you’re right!” Havard shouts. “Now I remember: Cecilia Bolocco! Greta! You know it! And the man from Chile hasn’t a clue what I am talking about!”

  “Who do you think tries to remember such things, Havard?” When Greta says that, when she tries to defend Jaime, who I’m sure has become nervous around Havard, I am quite certain that we have a lot in common, that our short acquaintance in the bus has convinced us both that we have some kind of connection.

  While Havard continues to fuss over Jaime’s ignorance, Saebjorn asks his friend if he wants a ride in the car, he is going to look in at Klara’s and then go home, he has to wake up early the next morning. I imagine that Jaime is on his way to work—he works as a night watchman for the broadcasting company—and it turns out that I am right. When he accepts the ride, he says he has to return home before he goes to work. I know they don’t need to be reminded to take the CDs with them, but I wish I could ask Saebjorn to take Havard with him. Or at least offer him a ride.

  “So you are leaving?” Havard says, and it doesn’t sound as if he regrets their departure.

  Saebjorn asks if he wants to come with them, he can drive him downtown, but Havard declines the offer. He says he is going to wait a little longer for me, he isn’t going downtown before eleven-thirty at the earliest. “Thanks very much just the same,” he says in an exaggerated manner, which I know must annoy Saebjorn.

  While my friends are leaving I use the opportunity to turn over. It is a great relief to lie on my back, and I stretch my stiff legs too. I hear Greta say goodbye to Saebjorn and Jaime, and they seem to leave without saying a word to Havard. I gaze up at the mattress, up at the drooping, starless night sky, this worn material that has been the basis for my sleep for far too long. And for the first time since
I crawled under the bed there is complete silence in the flat. Nothing is said for perhaps thirty seconds, there is no music, I can only hear my own breathing. And it is uncomfortable. It is as though Greta has frozen still; she seems to have accompanied Saebjorn and Jaime to the front door, but I don’t hear her come back. I feel almost as if I am hiding from no one, and, strange as it may sound, I am relieved when Havard says “well, well” and announces that he is going to have one more drink. I’m waiting for him to say that he is going when he has finished his drink, but Greta takes over: “How did you and Emil get to know each other?” she asks.

  9

  I expect Havard to answer Greta’s question with some nonsense, some rubbish about our long friendship, but I’m relieved when he says that we don’t really know each other much:

  “We really don’t know each other at all,” he says, and Greta sounds amazed. She says something I can’t make out because some kind of banging drowns out her words; someone seems to be hitting the back or seat of an armchair. Then Havard says that he was with me in England several years ago, we had been working together and some relative of mine had sent us to London to look after his animals.

  “Yes, you told us earlier, didn’t you?” Greta interrupts. “What kind of animals were they?” Her voice is full of childish enthusiasm, which, I have to say, surprises me.

  “He had a rabbit and some kind of guinea pig,” Havard answers. “A snowy white albino guinea pig. Then there was the lizard. An iguana lizard. Some kind of miniature prehistoric monster. And a cat.”

  Greta gets excited at this information. She laughs and says it’s like a whole zoo and tells him that she has been looking after some little hamsters for the past two weeks. “Well, sort of,” she adds: she has been staying with her sister in London too. There were two little hamsters in the bedroom where she slept, really crazy little things which slept all day and kept her awake all night. Then one of them gave birth to several babies, which it had been trying to eat when they found him. “Or her, I should say.”

  “That’s exactly what these stupid creatures do,” Havard says.

  “How do you mean?”

  “They eat their offspring.”

  “Yes, but only if they think someone is going to take them away,” Greta answers, as if objecting to Havard’s low opinion of hamsters. “They don’t have babies just to eat them,” she adds.

  “People should not have such animals in their homes,” Havard says. “It always ends in some sort of trouble. But, on the other hand it’s alright to have a dog. One can even make money on dogs.” He tells her that we had a daily wage in London, that my relative had paid us a small daily allowance for looking after his house and animals, but she could just imagine how far that went to keep us. So he had started betting on dog races and that had helped us to a certain extent. There’s money to be made on dogs if you know how to play.

  “But did you know that Emil was coming today?” Greta asks. I can imagine that she wants to change the subject, that she doesn’t believe a word of the nonsense Havard is telling her. “I mean, was Emil expecting you?”

  “I’m sure he was. Isn’t he just on the way to visit his girlfriend. This Vigdis? He had at least started to write her an email, I saw it on the computer in there just now. Maybe he stopped somewhere on the way, no doubt some bar. Even I stopped at several bars on the way here today.”

  “But the water? Wasn’t there water boiling on the stove when you came here?”

  “He just forgot it. I mean, people forget. He probably forgot that I was going to visit him too.”

  It is difficult to say what Greta thinks about this friend of mine who says in one breath that we don’t know each other at all and then in the next that I was expecting him to come for a visit. And what does she think about me—some fellow who really wants a date but obviously has a girlfriend, doesn’t turn up for the date, and lets four other men come in his place?

  “But you haven’t met for some time?” Greta asks.

  “No,” Havard answers curtly, and when he starts talking again he raises his voice, as if he is talking to Greta from another room. “I have been living in Sweden. We haven’t seen each other for five years. I really only came today to return something I borrowed from his relative there in London.”

  “What, something you borrowed five years ago!” Greta doesn’t try to hide her amazement.

  “Yes,” he answers. “An old book and some kind of carved model of a ship. It’s in there beside his bed.”

  In there beside his bed? I suddenly feel very uncomfortable; I grow hot all over, without any sweat appearing, and some sort of irritation spreads through my body. In there beside his bed? In there beside me?

  “And what are you doing in Sweden?” Greta asks. “Not looking after some animals again?”

  Havard laughs and is about to say something when Greta interrupts him; she has to phone home. She seems to go into the kitchen, the sound of her dialing comes from there. She has to wait a little while before there is an answer, then she says hello to her mother and asks if her daughter is asleep. It sounds as though her mother has managed to get the little girl to sleep. She begins to talk about something that Greta isn’t very interested in—something to do with the family, some problem that I can’t imagine Greta wants to get involved in, as she is just back from abroad and full of thoughts of me perhaps. Or Havard; how she can get rid of him. I am listening hard to hear Greta’s reply when Havard suddenly comes into the bedroom and stops in the middle of the room. I feel one hundred percent sure that he will address me or, without saying a word, just drag me out from under the bed like some criminal on the run. But instead he sits down in the chair in front of the computer and starts to unlace his shoes. Of course I am in no position to peep out from under the sheet, but it is clear that his shoes are rather tight; he has to pull hard to get them off.

  Greta is still talking to her mother. Havard stands up from the chair; if I’m not mistaken, he is undoing his pants. Something hard bangs into the arm of the chair or desk—probably the buckle on his belt. I hear his pants slide down to the floor, and then Havard sits down on the edge of the bed. He makes some kind of drumming sound with his mouth, a sound that forms a melody. I try to anticipate where the springs will press down into my body if he lies down on the bed. My speculations are accurate, the mattress sags down about ten centimeters when Havard lies down, and the springs poke into the lower part of my stomach and my groin. It doesn’t cause any great pain, but I swear to myself; why the hell does the man have to let me know physically that he has found out where I am? He sighs with pleasure, and I can feel him stretching. Greta is clearly trying to finish off her telephone conversation; I heard her say earlier that she would probably be a little late coming home and now she repeats it to her mother.

  “Come and talk to me, Greta! I’m here in the bedroom!” Havard calls out as soon as she is off the phone. I hear her come into the hall and then suddenly there is a knock at the door. Greta asks him to wait. I’m not particularly surprised that, despite the fact Havard is lying on the bed, he doesn’t seem to be at all worried that I might be the person on the doorstep. The front door is opened and Greta calls out “Hello?” into the dark. Havard is amused; he laughs, as if he is saying to himself that of course there was no one outside. Greta must be hearing things. She calls out my name and now I’m afraid that she will wake up or disturb Bella in the flat above or give Tomas a reason to knock again. I don’t expect Armann to be woken up by the sound of her voice. She calls again in a loud whisper, “Hello? Emil?” almost as if she expects me to be hiding out there in the cold and doesn’t want anyone else to notice me. I wish I could answer her; I long to be able to answer her.

  But I wasn’t the one who knocked on the door.

  10

  I wasn’t the one who knocked, I repeat to myself. Of all those who have come here today I am the only one who hasn’t knocked on the door.
I opened the door with a key. I let myself in. It’s as though I have to remind myself that it is I who live here.

  When Greta has closed the door she calls to Havard: “Didn’t you say that the man who knocked earlier was wearing an anorak?”

  “Yes, was it him?” Havard answers, and I can just see the grin on his face as he lies there half naked just above me.

  “No, I didn’t see anyone,” Greta says, sounding surprised. “I don’t know who it could have been.”

  She seems to be in the living room.

  “I was wearing an anorak,” Havard calls out cheerfully. “Maybe it was me? Maybe I was coming a second time? Can you be bothered to come in here?”

  She tells him to wait. I imagine she is having a drink. Then I hear her using her lighter, and I recall the moment when we stood outside the airport smoking together. I haven’t had a cigarette for four or five hours. Then she opens the front door again, as if she is trying to convince herself that there is no one outside.

  “The second coming of Howard Knutsson,” Havard whispers to himself and lifts up his body so that his weight moves from his behind to his legs. With this distribution of weight the springs press down near my face; they are only one or two centimeters away from my nose. Then I hear him drop something onto the floor. I lift the sheet a fraction and see his underwear lying there; they are white, and I notice that they are the same brand I wear. His pants, on the other hand, have been put on the chair. I imagine he is still wearing his shirt.

  Suddenly it feels as if the sheet is pulled—it goes up several centimeters. Havard tosses about on the bed, and he seems to be spreading the duvet over his body.

  “I want to show you something!” he calls out.

  He is going to show her something! A little something! He is probably under the duvet; he is relaxed now, so the springs are down over my stomach again. I hear Greta enter the room.