Season of the Witch (24 page)

I think about his arguments for a moment.

“I had a phone call last night,” the editor says, interrupting my chain of thought. “From someone called Ásgeir Eyvindarson. You know the name, I take it?”

“Oh, yes,” I reply. I tell Hannes about my side of my conversation with Ásgeir and why he had called me.

“The man was seething with rage. I told him you were a journalist who wouldn’t be tempted into libel nor sensationalism and that threats would not impress you. Nor the
Afternoon News
.”

“And?”

“He was a little less agitated by the end of our call.”

“I find it very strange,” I remark, “that both he and that Reydargerdi crowd blame political persecution. What nonsense is that?”

“Well, isn’t it always the way? People who find themselves in a position of weakness—often due to their own mistakes—will claim they’re being victimized. Either personally or politically. It’s human nature to blame others for our own misfortunes.”

“All right. But what about this Reydargerdi nonsense? Isn’t that exactly what you were talking about? What am I supposed to do about that?”

“I’ve told you where I stand, sir.”

“Trausti seems to have the IQ of a radish. He dismisses the political allegations as bullshit, to quote his exact words. But we’re still supposed to report on them. So are we meant to publish what we
know
is bullshit?”

“We can’t tell,” replies Hannes. “We should simply report on what people think, whether or not we personally think it’s bullshit.”

“I’m having serious doubts, Hannes, about whether I belong on this paper anymore.”

“Perhaps your doubts are, in the end, a matter of whether we belong in this society anymore. I sometimes have doubts about it myself, sir. Even serious doubts. But we can’t pretend it’s not happening. Then where would we be?”

The elegant church on its hilltop site above the town center is crammed with people by the time I arrive, ten minutes late, for Skarphédinn’s funeral. I scuttle out onto the steps and wander back and forth for a while in the chilly wind before giving up and strolling down the hill into the arty Listagil district. I go into a café, and for half an hour or so I think things through over a cappuccino, then take my phone out of my pocket and make four calls. The first is to the Akureyri police station: I am informed that the names of the three men in custody will not be released to the press.

Good.

The other calls are to Reydargerdi: to the police station, the hotel, and the Reydin bar. Nobody is willing to be quoted about political overtones to the case.

Good.

What is not quite so good is that I get the three names from the innkeeper and from Elín, the bartender at Reydin. And Chief Höskuldur confirms that information—but off the record: Agnar Hansen, Gardar Jónsson, and Ivo Batorac, who is of Croatian origin.

What the hell am I going to do with these names?

I can’t just sit there. I climb the hill back up to the church and hang around for five minutes until the doors open. The pall-bearers are six young people—three boys, three girls. I recognize one of them—Ágústa Magnúsdóttir, chair of the drama group, deathly pale and stony-faced. The others must also be schoolmates of the dead boy. Maybe one of them is Fridrik. Following the coffin out of the church is a stricken trio—a middle-aged couple with a teenage boy. The man is gaunt-faced and emaciated, wearing a suit that is far too big for him, with a white shirt and black tie. His thick dark hair, swept back in a wave from his face, is graying at the temples. His shaven face shows dark stubble, and dark glasses are perched on his straight nose. The woman, tall and sturdily built, is wearing a black coat. Her oval face is thickly coated in makeup and painted with a red slash of a mouth, like on
a mask. Wearing black high-heeled shoes, she seems unsteady on her feet, or perhaps she’s simply unaccustomed to heels. The boy has long hair and heavy brows like his brother, but he is not as tall. On his handsome face are round glasses. He appears uncomfortable, walking awkwardly alongside his parents with his head bent. No doubt he would rather be anywhere else than here.

As the coffin is placed in the hearse, I observe the mourners leave the church.

Jóa is here with her camera, taking photos of the procession. I was reluctantly permitted to take her out of the office, where she has been hard at work doing Ásbjörn’s job for him.

The whole high school appears to be here, plus half the town. Skarphédinn was clearly a popular young man.

But are those responsible for his death safely behind bars?

Or are they here—right here—to see him off?

I recognize some faces in the crowd.

Here’s the principal of the high school.

Örvar Páll sees me, but pretends not to.

Kjartan Arnarson nods gravely to me.

I manage to have a word with him before he disappears out into the cold. I ask if there will be a funeral reception.

“Yes, the school’s holding a reception in Kvosin.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s the assembly hall in the Hólar building.”

The rituals we’ve developed to deal with death have always been hard for me to grasp. Funerals, eulogies, obituaries, fine. Showing the deceased respect and dignity—deserved or undeserved—at the final hour. But the wake? Doesn’t the compulsion to see the dead person lying in a coffin betray some kind of guilty conscience? Or masochism? Doesn’t it imply a lack of imagination?
Surely it should be enough for us to say our farewell in our minds? Think about the person, thank him or her for happy times—or even not so happy ones? I just don’t know. But what I do know is that I have never met anyone who found it good, or helpful, to go to a wake. And no one asked the dead guy.

Funeral receptions are much the same. Unlike the wake, the reception’s a public event, a sort of celebration of the deceased. The bereaved have to pretend they’re coping, thank the guests for their sympathy, chat about their dead relative, how they’re doing, and generally share. Then coffee is drunk, cakes and sandwiches are devoured, and every single person is desperate to make their escape.

I just don’t know. But what I do know is that funeral receptions make me feel as if I’m stuck in the coffin with the dead person and everyone he or she ever knew in life. There’s not much room to breathe in there.

I hover restlessly at the edge of the spacious assembly hall. What am I doing here, anyway? I’m a gate-crasher. I didn’t know the guy at all. But I’m striving to write about him and his demise. That’s probably what I’m doing here.

I’m very far from happy with it.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Skarphédinn’s brother, who is standing away from the crowd. Next to him, Ágústa from the drama group is bending his ear. He seems distracted or uninterested in what she is saying. In among the guests his father sits like an insensate object, all alone, white as a sheet, staring into space, or possibly asleep. He’s still wearing the dark glasses, so it’s hard to tell. His wife is close by, surrounded by guests and trying to take part in the conversation. Then she leaves her guests, goes over to her husband, and whispers in his ear. There is no reaction. I’m wondering if I should seize the opportunity to try to speak to
her. But there’s something in her weary yet stony expression that deters me.

I’m about to leave when a young man walks past who seems as uncomfortable as me. Skarphédinn’s brother strides off in the direction of the toilets. I follow, and before I know it we’re standing side by side at the urinals.

Today’s
Morning News
devoted nearly a whole double-page spread to obituaries in praise of his brother’s manifold talents and virtues. From them I gleaned the information that the younger brother’s name is Rúnar, and he’s a high school student too. Since he’s sixteen, he’s presumably in his first year.

I glance over at him, desperately trying to give the impression that I’m not just pretending I have to pee. He stands there in his black suit, white shirt, and black tie, head bent, absorbed. I think of running water. Nothing happens. I think of billowing, gushing waterfalls. Still nothing. I think about the Jökulsá River. A trickle.

Thank you, God.

He’s drying his hands as I walk over to the sinks.

I automatically offer my hand as I say: “Sorry, Rúnar. I just wanted to…” Then I realize what I’m doing and pull my hand away. “Sorry,” I say again. “Better wash first.”

He can’t help smiling as he finishes drying his hands. Then he hovers awkwardly by the sinks as I wash and dry my hands.

I offer my hand once more. “I’m sorry for your loss. I only knew your brother slightly. I just met him once, in fact. But he made an impression on me. My name’s Einar. I’m with the
Afternoon News
.”

We shake hands, moistly.

Initially Rúnar says nothing, but observes me from under his heavy brows. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“I interviewed Skarphédinn over at Hólar, at few days before he died. About the production of
Loftur the Sorcerer
.”

He says nothing, heads for the door.

I follow. When we get into the corridor I summon the courage to say: “As I’m sure you’re aware, your brother’s death has made him a public figure, because it’s the subject of a criminal investigation.”

He stops dead, staring down at the floor.

I have the impression he’s about to speak. I wait a moment.

“Skarphédinn was determined to become what you call a public figure,” he slowly says.

I nod. “But not like this?”

To some extent Rúnar strikes me as a typical insecure teenager in pain. But in other ways he gives the impression of being mature beyond his sixteen years.

“I’ve been assigned to find out about your brother and write an article about him and his life,” I quietly tell him. “I’ve talked to various people who knew him. But I must admit I haven’t managed to put together a full picture of him.”

Rúnar looks toward the assembly hall.

“Until now, I haven’t felt I should approach your family. And really I feel it’s inappropriate to be ambushing you here. But would you mind meeting me? We can just talk. I won’t quote you, if that’s what you prefer. But I need some reliable information.”

Head bent, he makes no response for a while. Then he says: “All right. But don’t call me at home.”

I make a note of his cell phone number, and promise not to get in touch for a few days. Then he returns to the assembly hall, to try to survive his brother’s funeral reception.

____

AKUREYRI CASE—THREE IN CUSTODY

Three young men, all residents of Reydargerdi, have been placed in police custody in connection with the investigation into the death of high school student Skarphédinn Valgardsson in Akureyri…

That is how I start my article. My conscience is not at ease when I conclude the piece by giving the names of the three young men. I state in my article that their involvement in the case remains unclear and that the period of custody is short. My conscience isn’t clear, but it could be worse. Not a word about political spin.

In order to ensure that my piece gets into print in that form, without any artful editing or editorializing by Trausti Löve, I call Hannes and ask him to keep an eye out. He gives me his word. He also gives me permission to continue to focus on my article about the dead boy.

I’ve asked Ásbjörn to tell his old buddy, Chief Ólafur Gísli, what I’m doing.

I had to call Ásbjörn on his cell phone. The landline seemed to have been unplugged.

“Ólafur Gísli has no objection,” he says, leaning against the doorway of my closet. “He says everything we print is our responsibility anyway.”

“Did you get the impression he thought they’d got the right guys?”

Ásbjörn writhes against the doorpost, like a horse scratching its itchy back. His puffy face is so flushed and weary that it is almost bluish. “No, I wouldn’t say so. But it sounded as if they were beginning to talk. He wouldn’t say any more.”

“Not at this point in time?”

“No, not at this point in time.”

I observe Ásbjörn. “Hey, Ásbjörn, you’re not looking too good. You almost remind me of me in the mirror on a Monday morning.”

He shakes his sweaty, disheveled head. “That’s quite possible. Maybe I should start drinking like you used to. Maybe that would make it more bearable.”

“What’s wrong, Ásbjörn?” I ask, standing up.

“I think Karó’s having a breakdown,” he says in a shaky voice. “She’s a nervous wreck. She doesn’t sleep. She roams around the apartment all night, crying. Pal’s a bundle of nerves. And I can hardly get any work done. I’ve unloaded everything onto Jóa. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Probably I’d go on such a bender that I’d never come out of it.”

I feel moved to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Won’t you tell me what’s upsetting Karó?”

“I only wish I knew that myself. I ask her and ask her and beg her to tell me what’s wrong. But she just cries even more. Isn’t that what they call hysteria?”

Weird idea, hysteria,
I think to myself.
Based on the theory that a woman’s womb can drive her mad.

Ásbjörn shrugs his shoulders in despair.

“Have those mysterious phone calls stopped?”

“Yes, they’ve stopped.”

“Do you think it’s got anything to do with them?”

He gives me a questioning look. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said you’d intervened. I suppose you were yanking my chain, were you?”

“Um, yeah,” I admit shamefacedly.

“So you don’t know anything?” he asks in an accusatory tone.

“No, I don’t know anything. You and I are both rather square at the edges, Ásbjörn.”

He looks at me again, even more bewildered. “Square at the edges? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Have you been unfaithful to Karó?”

Ásbjörn flushes red. “How dare you? How could you think that?”

Maybe because I’d have trouble being faithful to Karólína,
I think to myself.
Or to Ásbjörn, for that matter.
But I say: “Well, it just occurred to me. And what about her? Couldn’t the state she’s in indicate that she’s been up to something herself?”