Season of the Witch (19 page)

The youngsters who are walking around or sitting over a drink or a snack all seem to have their own individual style in clothing and hair—because today anything goes. But I’m surprised to see so many of them wearing slippers. I’ve never been able to understand why people who wear slippers at work don’t just stay home. But then, that’s my problem.

I wait outside Kjartan’s classroom until the door opens and the students bustle out, all appearing in a serious mood. When the last of them is gone, I squeeze past into the classroom. The teacher is wiping the board.

Kjartan is quite different from what I had imagined, going on his youthful voice and the nature of the scandal. He is about forty-five, below average height, wearing a worn brown corduroy suit. Around the ragged gray collar of his shirt is a shoestring-
thin bow tie. His small-featured face is pink, with a red goatee beard and bristly red hair.

Kjartan Arnarson looks more like a middle-aged nerd than a sex symbol for teenage girls. He glances up with a questioning look. I start by mentioning the embarrassing scandal, as I did with the principal. Kjartan gives me a strange smile. “You did what you promised. No more could be expected of you.”

After we briefly discuss what a shock Skarphédinn’s death has been for the school and his fellow students, I ask Kjartan whether he knew the dead boy.

“He was in my class last year. An exemplary student. Unusually mature and intelligent. Quite a Renaissance man, I would almost say. He was as much at home with computer science as with literature and other humanities.”

“But what about personally? How would you describe him, his character?”

“I didn’t get to know him much outside the classroom,” Kjartan replies. “But he gave me the impression of being what is sometimes called an
old soul
. I know it’s a vague term, but I can’t find a better way to put it. He was deeply interested in the past, in Icelandic history…”

He perches on the edge of his desk. “In some ways Skarphédinn seemed to think almost like a person from the distant past. He was fascinated, for instance, by Hólar and its history as the center of north Iceland over the centuries and a citadel of learning, a forerunner of today’s universities. He saw an unusually strong connection between knowledge and power and progress. By unusually strong, I mean in comparison with his contemporaries, who generally opt for high school and further education either to fulfill their parents’ ambitions and pressure or simply because their friends are going and they can’t think of anything better to do.”

He falls silent and glances at his watch.

“I’m afraid I’m late for a meeting. Are we finished here?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure,” I say. “Can I get back to you if I think of anything else?”

Kjartan takes his briefcase off the desk and walks to the door, slightly pigeon-toed. “I suppose so. But if you want to find out more about Skarphédinn’s ideas about life, you could check the
Morning News
online archive. I remember he sent in a couple of articles last winter, one about regional development and the other about patriotism.”

I walk out into the corridor with him and say in parting: “I hope that business in the paper hasn’t caused you too much trouble.”

Again he gives me that odd smile. “Just between you and me: after all the fuss and the way it was handled, I find I’m regarded as quite a hottie in my old age.”

At the end of the day I don’t send in any copy to the
Afternoon News
. News editor Trausti Löve alternately purrs and howls, like a feral cat. Meanwhile in Akureyri, Pal is wailing in distress on the upper floor. As I go downstairs and leave the building, I hear the sound of breaking crockery and screeching.

“Karó dear,” says Ásbjörn. “Darling Karó. Please calm down.”

I want to consider the concept of “patriotism,” if only in order that the process may awaken in my own heart noble feelings toward my native country and a desire to contribute what I can, in all good faith, to the welfare of the country and its people.

Those were Skarphédinn’s opening words in his article in the
Morning News
. He went on:

True patriotism must, above all, entail sacrifice. We offer our energies, our health, our material goods and comforts—we give up all that is most precious to us—for the sake of our country. Even life itself. The object must be to teach our nation to know and to love the truth, and to conduct ourselves in accord with that knowledge in every way. We should do nothing in our own interest, unless we are sure that it is also for the good of the nation as a whole, our native land. All our interpersonal relations should put justice and love in first place. We must devote our energies
to the quest to make Iceland the home of true happiness, personal and social development, equality, brotherhood and, perhaps above all, freedom.

If that exposition of patriotism is correct, it is obvious that young people—my generation—do not spend much of their time in service of that ideal. And I am no exception. I doubt that patriotism stirs in the bosom of any young Icelander today—except perhaps when one of our sports teams is doing well in international competition or when Icelandic entrepreneurs buy up foreign businesses. And in such cases patriotism is often manifested in its negative form, in other words as aggressive nationalism. It emerges in belligerence and arrogance toward other nations and not as a deep, sincere feeling toward our own people. I have come to the conclusion that nationalistic fervor is in fact the opposite of patriotism, just as selfishness is the opposite of love.

We must not settle for simply accepting the gifts our country bestows upon us in her bounty. We must give back to it all that we have. We must devote our whole lives to making ourselves into a nation of true patriots.

Shades of a young Jack Kennedy?
I think.

The second article is concerned with the regions and migration to the capital area:

It is painful for young people in the regions to watch their so-called saviors—large conglomerates in commerce, services, industry or fisheries—buying up everything of value in the rural areas for small change and pretending that
they will continue to run the enterprises there, then sucking out all the profit and closing them down, or transferring them to other places, where they merge into larger production units, or to market areas where a bigger profit is to be made. Is such a pattern of behavior likely to increase young people’s hopes that they can stay on in the region for a good life? No, of course not. And that is not the object of the exercise. The object is to make the rich richer and to leave the poor and vulnerable to fend for themselves. That is the end that justifies any means. In truth, it is surprising that young people still want to live in rural areas and fishing villages. The reason, one hopes, is that in spite of everything they know in their heart of hearts that the closer we move to the capital, the farther we go from the regions, the farther we have departed from our origins, from the essence of what makes us Icelanders.

Under both articles he is credited:

The author is a high school student in Akureyri with a sincere interest in the future of the Icelandic people.

The articles were written nearly a year ago. There is something about this call for self-sacrifice that is hard to reconcile with the individualism that Skarphédinn had advocated with such passion in our interview about
Loftur the Sorcerer.
This youthful idealist, so deeply concerned for this country and the regions, seems at first glance to have little in common with a young man who chooses freedom over discipline and turns up at a party dressed
as a witch. But then I remember, of course, how rapidly opinions, lifestyle, and philosophy can change at that age.

Maybe Skarphédinn simply liked to have fun, as his school friend said. Maybe he felt the urge to try out new roles all the time. Or maybe he meant every word, sincerely and deeply. Maybe I’m just not seeing the connection.

But I remember that when Jóa and I were driving back to Akureyri after our expedition to Hólar, there was a request on the radio played for Skarphédinn and the other kids in the drama group:
Season of the Witch
, which was about the need to be all sorts of different people.

So many different people to be
That it’s strange, so strange…

One thing’s for certain: nothing’s certain.

Since I’ve got the
Morning News
archive open, I enter the name Inga Lína in the search engine. I can’t remember her last name. And Inga Lína may be a diminutive. Anyway, I get no hits. I think I ought to rent
Street Rider
again and take a closer look.

Today is Ásdís Björk Gudmundsdóttir’s funeral, and so there are three commemorative articles about her in the paper. I read them with interest but don’t learn much. They’re typical obituaries:

Ásdís Björk was a fine woman, who made a good home for her husband and son, and also played an active role in the management of the family firm, the Yumm candy factory. Just in case, I jot down the son’s name: Gudmundur Ásgeirsson. Age: 25. Economist.

Jóa is a jill of all trades at the office today. Ásbjörn looks in now and then, with a face like a storm cloud, just like the ones outside. He hardly speaks before disappearing back upstairs.

I seize the opportunity and smoke all over the office, as much as I like.

But that doesn’t dispel the clouds from my brain.

I’m still reluctant to approach Skarphédinn’s family. I take another look at the list of members of the drama group, with phone numbers, that Ágústa gave me. On the first number I get voice mail, but I don’t leave a message. On the second number there is no reply. The third won’t talk to me. The fourth person on the list is Fridrik Einarsson. His character in the play is called Ólafur: Loftur’s boyhood friend and assistant to the steward at Hólar. He’s not willing to meet me, but reluctantly agrees to answer some questions on the phone. I tell him I’m writing an article about the dead boy and the last hours of his life.

“Skarphédinn was my friend,” he says in a hoarse voice. “If I can do anything to help figure out what happened to him, I won’t say no. But I’ve already told the police what I know—which isn’t much.”

“Maybe an article in the paper—whenever it gets published—may spark some memories or produce some clues. Who knows?”

“Who knows?” He replies. “Nobody knows nuthin’.”

“Quite. So how would you describe Skarphédinn?”

“In many ways he was a very strange guy…” He falls silent. “No, wait. I’d better not say it like that, not on the record. I’ll start again: Skarphédinn was in many ways a very unusual person. He was especially good to his friends—nothing was too much trouble. And he was incredibly bright, man, really incredibly. He’d read everything. Literally. He was a walking fucking encyclopedia…” He stops again. “Don’t write
fucking
.”

“How did you meet?”

“We went to elementary school together.”

“Was he from Akureyri originally?”

“No idea. Skarphédinn never talked about the past. He was a here-and-now guy. Right here, right now—that’s how I would describe him.”

“Was he popular?”

“He was
The Man
. You know?”

“The Main Man?”

“Oh, yeah. When he decided something should be done, it got done. And if anyone didn’t want to join in, it was just:
Fuck you
!”

“Fuck you? Is that what Skarphédinn said to people who didn’t want to join in?”

“No, no, don’t write
Fuck you
. But he had no time for wimps and assholes. Get it?”

“Was it Skarphédinn who got you to join the drama group?”

“Yeah, of course. I’d never have thought of joining otherwise. And Christ has it been a blast, man!”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

“No shortage there. He could take his pick. They were all over him, drooling. Girls. Young women. Even old bats of forty were dropping their panties.”

“But when he died? Did he have some particular girlfriend at that time?”

“Why should Skarphédinn have settled for just one girl at a time? He sampled the goods, like anyone would in his place.”

“Is that what he said? Are you quoting his exact words?”

“I think so. He was quite cool about it.”

“Did you notice anything unusual that day or the evening before he disappeared?”

“No. But he was on a roll.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Are you crazy? No, he was always the life and soul of the party.”

“Was he drunk, that evening at Ágústa’s party?”

“He was just having fun.”

“Did he take drugs?”

Fridrik is, for the first time, disconcerted. “If he had, I would never say so. Never.”

“But what about this dress he was wearing?”

“The witch’s robe?”

“Yes. Why was he wearing it?”

“He just felt like it. I asked him, and he said:
Tonight I feel like a witch, and that’s why I’m dressed as a witch.
He was in his element, man!”

“So he danced and drank and so on, did he?”

He makes no reply, but goes on: “He jumped up on a table and howled out over the crowd:
I bear the Terror Helmet above you all!
I didn’t get what he was on about. What’s a terror helmet, anyway?”