Sun on Fire

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  “On Friday afternoons, we gathered outside the cooperative store at Hvolsvöllur and tried to sell our products. Sunna played her guitar and sang, and the rest of us offered our pieces for sale. We hardly sold anything, but people would throw coins into Sun’s guitar case and feel good about themselves. They didn’t realize what they were hearing. By pure chance, a recording has survived that the Icelandic Radio made at a June seventeenth National Day celebration in the village, with Sun singing three of the songs she composed to Jón’s poems. They’re all classics of their kind now, especially “Spring Wakes.” The recording quality is patchy, but they’re still played today and are considered a unique musical treasure. It’s sad that no other recordings were made of Sun’s singing.

  “We were having a great time back then at Sandgil, but our income was much less than we wanted it to be. We owed money at the co-op and we had to find some way of raising cash. It was then that Jón had the idea of growing cannabis in the attic. It wasn’t intended as a permanent solution, but it would do while we were trying to sort ourselves out financially.

  “The start-up costs were considerable. We needed greenhouse lamps and some seeds, so we borrowed from a loan shark in Reykjavík; most of what we made selling the crop went toward paying off the loan, so it had to be a big operation if we were going to have enough to live on. It was a spacious attic, and we had plants at all stages of cultivation. We dug up topsoil from the hayfield, and mixed it with horse manure and sand from the riverbank. Irrigation was precision work, and this was where Fabían came into his own; you have to let the plants dry a certain amount between waterings, and he had an instinct for it. We suspended the lamps at the correct height above the plants, and put up aluminum foil all around to make the most of the light. Harvesting was also tricky because you had to make sure to do it at a time when the active compounds were at their strongest concentration. Jón and I had learned how to do this in Spain, so we were producing high-quality stuff that sold well in Reykjavík.

  “Before long the cops got interested in us. We used a similar system as the one we’d had going in Spain. A young girlfriend of ours in Reykjavík followed us into the clubs; she kept the supplies, Jón and I did the dealing, and Rakel transferred the stuff between us. The cops searched us a few times, but only ever found small quantities, just enough for personal use, and they didn’t consider it worth their while to charge us. But the authorities became increasingly suspicious, and eventually ambushed us one Friday afternoon as we were approaching the outskirts of Reykjavík. It was a massive police operation, lots of squad cars and a huge commotion. All the stuff in our car was confiscated and Jón, Rakel, and I were arrested.

  “We were kept in solitary, and nobody said a word to us for three days. Then the prison chaplain came to speak to each of us, one by one. Sun was dead. She’d been burned alive the night we were arrested.

  “I can’t even begin to describe to you how this affected us. We were released after a week in custody, and then we got suspended sentences on most charges, with the rest canceled out by the time already served. It felt as if the system was embarrassed about something.

  “I went on a drug-and-alcohol binge, and was wasted for the next twenty years—it was the only way I could get through each day. Rakel and I broke up a few weeks after the fire. Our memories of Sun were so intertwined with our relationship that we just couldn’t deal with it. I went to Amsterdam, where I stayed for most of those two decades. It was the easiest place to get weed, and I funded my own use by pushing stronger stuff; for a good few years, I supplied a large part of the hard drugs that came onto the Icelandic market. But hophead though I was, I still managed to function on some level, because I attended classes at various open arts academies, where I succeeded in developing a distinct style of pottery that got noticed. I was able to work two or three hours a day around noon, enough to produce the odd piece. They became sought after, and I made so few that the price skyrocketed. It was just as well, since tougher guys than I muscled me out of the drugs market. I was done with that scene, burned out. I’d burned my candle at both ends, too, and lost my creative ability. By then I was heavily into heroin and I ended up on the street. News reached Iceland, and one day Jón and Rakel turned up. They pulled me out of the gutter, literally, and they straightened me out. They began by finding me my next fix and getting me off the street and into a bath. Then the detox began. Rakel had abandoned her novel when Sun perished in the fire, but she got through her grief by throwing herself into nursing studies, and after graduation she worked in a treatment center for alcoholics and junkies, so she knew all about tough love. After three weeks, I was well enough to travel, and the three of us flew back to Iceland. For the next twelve months I lived with them at Jónshús, and I’ve been clean ever since, and able to practice my art. I go to AA meetings most days and I’m grateful to God for every moment I’m allowed to live and work on my projects. That’s how I get my rush today. I’m lucky to be alive. Heroin can kill you any time.”

  Janis Joplin had provided a quiet backing to this account, but now Helgi increased the volume and listened in silence:

  “And that’ll be the end of the road, babe, I know you got more tears to share, babe.”

  The track ended, and he turned the volume down again and asked, “Do you know how Janis Joplin died?”

  “No.” Birkir shook his head.

  “Her heroin dealer wasn’t a user himself, and he always needed to get a regular addict to try any new batch to assess its strength, because you never knew for sure how strong the stuff was that you got from the middlemen. The dealer got a new delivery, and this time his guinea pig wasn’t around, but he distributed the stuff anyway, and Janis got a fifty-dollar fix. She shot up alone in her hotel room, and then went down to the lobby to change a five-dollar bill so she could buy fifty-cents’ worth of cigarettes from a vending machine. She was back in her room when the heroin hit her. It was eight times stronger than what she usually had, and eighteen hours later they found her dead, clutching four dollars and fifty cents. Eight users died that weekend after injecting stuff from that consignment.”

  Helgi was silent for a moment before adding, “I could have ended up the same way every time I shot up.”

  “Tell me about the Sun Poet,” Birkir asked. “What has his life been like?”

  Helgi smiled listlessly. “My friend Jón has not written one single line of poetry since his ray of sunshine died. People began to call him the Sun Poet because the songs Sun composed to some of his poems had become popular standards in Iceland. The original poems have been republished, but there are no new ones. He recites them whenever he gets the opportunity, but his spirit died with Sun. After the Sandgil fire, his parents let him move into their basement, and they provided for him while they were still alive.

  “He couldn’t work, and would probably have ended up in an institution if they hadn’t taken him in. When they died, he inherited the house and various other assets. He lives mainly by renting out rooms, but he’s a bit haphazard about collecting the rent. You could say he’s created the beginnings of the commune he dreamed about having at Sandgil. Rakel looks after any practical issues. His choice of lodgers isn’t based on their ability to pay the rent, but rather on whether they can add something to the culture of the house. Life is never dull in Jónshús—it’s an academy of free thought and rampant creativity in the most unpredictable fields. A tiny legacy of the hippie culture is alive there in a protected workplace. Jón keeps a watchful eye over everything, and although he produces nothing himself, he gets satisfaction in helping others with their artistic undertakings.

  “He drinks more than is good for him, but not so much as to be life threatening, and he doesn’t use any other stuff. In fact, if he’s immersed in his literary studies, weeks can go by without his remembering to have a drink—but then an old buddy shows up and drags him off to the bar. That can end with him going on a real bender, especially if he’s in a manic phase, and sometimes that’s result
ed in a few days on the psychiatric ward. Rakel deals with that, like she deals with everything to do with Jónshús.”

  Helgi stood up. “That was the story of Jón the Sun Poet and me, and now I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me in peace to get on with my work.”

  He turned up the volume of the music to indicate that the conversation was over.

  Birkir returned to the police station to upload the voice recordings from his visits to Fabían and Helgi. Then he called Gunnar to tell him about his day’s success, or lack of it.

  “I don’t think we’re on the right track in this case,” he concluded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We definitely have the wrong guy in custody.”

  “Sure, but it’ll stir things up some. I’m convinced of that.”

  “This is not correct procedure,” Birkir insisted.

  “Hey,” Gunnar said petulantly. “Go home and press your pants—or whatever you do to help you relax. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  21:20

  Gunnar knew exactly how he wanted to finish the day: at the bar where he spent most evenings. He did try to take a good break from alcohol now and again—to allow his body to recover—but today he had plenty of excuses for having a drink.

  The first person Gunnar saw as he hobbled into the bar was Konrad, the ambassador, sitting at a table all by himself reading Der Spiegel, a whisky on the rocks in front of him. Gunnar signaled to the waiter to bring his usual and, without pausing to ask permission, plumped himself down opposite the ambassador.

  “Hello again,” he said, putting aside his crutches.

  It took Konrad a moment or two to realize who this guy was, but then he greeted him cheerfully.

  “The Germans are writing about the murder at the embassy,” he said, pointing at the magazine. “And they’ve got it absolutely goddamned on the nail. They report exactly what happened, and what we knew at the time of writing. No speculation, just facts. This is what I like so much about German reporting.”

  Gunnar could see that Konrad was not on his first glass of the evening. He asked, “Any chance you’ve thought of something new about that evening, something you haven’t already told us?”

  “It’s clearly a conspiracy,” Konrad said. “A goddamned conspiracy to get me into trouble. And they succeeded—the foreign minister has reshuffled some postings, I’m getting a desk here in Reykjavík, and I have to look after a few negro states in Africa out of a suitcase. Pardon my language.”

  “So will the counselor, Arngrímur, take over your post in Berlin?”

  “Arngrímur!” Konrad snorted with laughter. “No, Arngrímur Ingason will never be an ambassador.”

  “Why not? Isn’t he a very skillful diplomat?”

  “Skillful diplomat! Oh yes, he is, the asshole, but an ambassador he will never be.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s just how it is. Some embedded rule at the ministry, no one knows from where.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Konrad leaned over toward Gunnar and lowered his voice. “Every time a new minister takes office, the chief secretary, among a load of other practical concerns, reviews a list of various foreign policy matters, and I happen to know that the list includes a declaration that Arngrímur Ingason will never be appointed Icelandic ambassador. Never! No explanation. On the other hand, he gets certain perks, like he doesn’t have to work here in Iceland and he can spend as long as he chooses in each posting. So he hasn’t had to move around as much as others. He’s a very handy assistant to any ambassador, of course, because he drives himself hard in his duties. He’s so goddamned boring, though. Doesn’t even drink.”

  Konrad took another sip of whisky and, although his glass was still half full, he waved to the bartender to bring him another one.

  “Can I offer you something?” he asked Gunnar.

  Gunnar had finished his beer and bitters, and pointed at the glasses in front of him. “Same again, please. So what’s this rule on Arngrímur all about?”

  “That’s the big question. Arngrímur’s father was Ólafur Ingi Esjar, a member of parliament and big-time wholesaler—in his time, he was Iceland’s most powerful man behind the scenes. Arngrímur was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He completed his law qualification with top marks and was made sheriff at Hvolsvöllur before he was thirty. That was in 1972. In the Register of Lawyers from that time he’s down as Arngrímur Esjar, but he changed his name to Ingason when he started working for the Foreign Ministry in 1975.”

  “Any idea why he changed his name?”

  “No.”

  “Was there some malpractice when he was sheriff?”

  “If so, it’s been covered up.”

  “Well, anyone who’s interested should be able to dig that up. But I don’t see that it has anything to do with our case, so it’s none of my business.”

  The waiter brought Gunnar another Holsten and Jägermeister and, for Konrad, a whisky on the rocks. Konrad took a sip from the glass he already had, poured what was left into the new glass, and passed the empty one to the waiter along with a fifty-euro note. “Keep the change, my friend,” he said, and then turning to Gunnar added, “Not a good idea to have too many glasses in front of you. People might think you’re on the sauce.”

  Gunnar said, “We found out there were more connections between the guests at the embassy than they were willing to admit at first. Jón and Helgi are childhood friends and went on to live together in a commune in Fljótshlíd, on a farm called Sandgil. Fabían lived with them there, too. Jón’s fiancée died when their house burned down in 1975.”

  “I remember that,” Konrad said. “Jón didn’t improve with the loss of his sweetheart, poor guy.”

  “So three of the embassy guests are linked to this fire.”

  Konrad was about to take a sip from his glass, but put it down.

  “No,” he said. “Four.”

  “Really?”

  “One of that gay couple is the brother of the girl who died.”

  “Which one?”

  “Starkadur, I think his name was.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It came out at the party that night. There was some drama around it.”

  “In what way?’

  “When Jón recited his poem ‘Spring Wakes,’ Starkadur burst into tears. Helgi tried to calm him down, and I heard them talk about how the girl was his sister.”

  Gunnar pondered this news. “Is it possible Anton Eiríksson was linked to the fire in some way?” he finally asked.

  “No, I don’t think that’s possible, I can’t see it. He was living in a different part of the country at that time. We were comrades in arms in politics.”

  “Oh, well, that’s that, then. Must have been a coincidence.”

  “Probably,” Konrad said, taking a large sip of whisky. “But there is another angle. Arngrímur was the local sheriff at the time and must have been involved in the case somehow.”

  “Were there any irregularities?”

  “Definitely not. Arngrímur always does everything by the book. That’s what’s so irritating about him.”

  “And he wasn’t even at the embassy the night Anton was killed,” Gunnar said.

  “Alas not. He had that meeting scheduled, but was called away to handle another matter. I would be ambassador in Berlin tonight if he had been present. He always makes sure everything goes like clockwork. Anton would not have been killed on his watch, goddammit.”

  He emptied his glass in one gulp.

  22:30

  “Go home and press your pants,” Gunnar had said to Birkir, and that was exactly what Birkir did. In the center of his living room stood a large heavy ironing board that was his refuge when he needed to think. He began with the pants he’d worn that day, pressing them and hanging them up. Next, he turned his attention to the nine shirts he had washed the previous week; he had not had time to deal with them since, but now set about ironing them with his custom
ary efficiency, bestowing on each shirt the same methodical attention to detail. First sleeves, then back. He did not rush the job—if the occasion demanded, this was a task he could complete in no time at all, but he preferred to wait until he had the leisure to enjoy the process and leave his shirts looking like new.

  Tchaikovsky wafted over from the music system: “Elégie” from his Serenade for Strings, played by a chamber orchestra. This was the type of music Birkir almost always listened to, slow classical pieces; he had a sense of having had sounds like this in his environment when he was very young, but he couldn’t link it to other memories, nor did he usually try to. It wasn’t important.

  He was thinking about the men who had been the ambassador’s guests in Berlin on the night of the murder. They were all unusual characters, and it was worth getting to know them properly. He’d already gotten a fair picture of these guys, but he needed to keep going, to delve into the past, if necessary. He was convinced that would lead them to the last visitor to enter the ambassador’s office that night.

  He decided to drive out to Fljótshlíd the following day to take a look at the place where a young woman had lost her life so many years before.

  Gunnar had drunk enough. After having bought several rounds, Konrad said the bar had gotten too rowdy and he was going to move on elsewhere. But Gunnar decided to go home, and asked the bartender to call him a taxi. He tottered out to the sidewalk, leaning on his crutches, and the cab soon arrived. It was a short drive back, and having paid the fare, Gunnar got the driver to open the door for him and take the crutches, before easing himself out of his seat. “It’s my back,” he explained. “Lumbago.”

  “Get well soon, then, and take care,” the driver said as he climbed back in and drove off.

  Gunnar had to support himself on one crutch while holding the other with the same hand as he fumbled for his house keys in his jacket pocket. This took all his attention, and he didn’t notice the shadowy figure sneaking up behind him.