Season of the Witch (27 page)

“No, excuse me, madam, there’s no need!” I call after her.

Too late. She waves a gloved hand, without looking back.

I head for the nearest store to buy another pack of cigarettes. I never claimed to be perfect, did I?

In the industrial district north of Glerárgata is the Yumm candy factory, an uninspiring white-painted two-story building in the low-key style-less style so beloved of Icelandic builders. Build fast. Build cheap. And start cashing in.

I sit in my car in the parking lot, guiltily smoking and counting the minutes until half past three.

Surprisingly, Ásgeir Eyvindarson has agreed to meet me during his coffee break.

It was, admittedly, not quite that simple. I’d called his son, Gudmundur, and assured him yet again that it had never been my intention to make a fuss about his mother’s tragic death. But, I told him, her history of hypochondria had got me interested.
And the
Afternoon News
too. People in Iceland didn’t know much about the condition, and I wanted to find out more about it. The question was would he or his father be willing to talk to me about the experience of a family member of a hypochondriac—in order to inform the public about the disease? He said he would talk to his father about it, and shortly afterward he called back and said Ásgeir was prepared to meet me for half an hour.

The Yumm offices are on the upper floor of the building and the factory on the ground floor. A sweetly mouthwatering chocolate fragrance wafts around the entrance and stairs. The reception desk is piled with samples of the company’s wares: chocolate bars and chocolate cookies, crème-filled confections, bags of hard candies, liquorice, and a multicolored array of gummy shapes.

There is no receptionist at the desk, and three offices stand with open doors, apparently deserted.

I knock on the reception desk. “Hello! Einar here!”

“Come on in. I’m in the end office,” I hear from beyond. I follow the direction of the voice.

At the eastern end of the building is a large, bright office with a stunning view of the fjord and the mountains. Ásgeir Eyvindarson puts down his square gold-rimmed glasses, stands up from his mahogany desk piled high with papers, and offers me a seat on an imposing mahogany sofa, upholstered in pale yellow to match the curtains. On dark wood-paneled walls hang paintings by the luminaries of the modern Icelandic art world: Tryggvi Ólafsson. Tolli. Helgi Thorgils. So far as I can tell.

“I’m sorry,” he says, gesturing toward reception. “They’re all on coffee break.”

“No problem,” I answer with a big smile as I sink into the depths of the sofa. “I’m just grateful that you’re willing to give up your own break.”

Ásgeir sits facing me in a matching armchair and gives me a searching look. He’s quite a dashing-looking man of middle age, wearing neatly pressed black pants and a freshly ironed shirt in light blue with a dark red tie. He’s tall and well-proportioned, putting on just a little weight around the waist. His facial features are strong, with a pointed nose and gray mustache. His graying hair is combed forward over an almost unwrinkled brow, and as he leans forward I see that his hair is thinning slightly on top. A confidence-inspiring figure, in short.

“That’s absolutely fine,” he replies, pushing toward me a bowl of candy. “I may have been a little hasty the other day. I do apologize.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” I assure him, helping myself to a chocolate cookie and thinking:
My goodness, what a polite conversation. Really civilized. A credit to us both.

“I’m sure you realize that people who’ve been through such a painful experience as we have, in our family, can be rather touchy about prying, not least from the media.”

“I quite understand. And I didn’t mean to cause you any more pain. But I’d had that phone call from Gunnhildur and…”

He makes a face and waves my excuses away. “Not a word more about that. No more about all that nonsense. My son tells me that the positive side of all this is that you’re interested in learning more about hypochondria?”

“That’s right.”

“And that’s why I agreed to meet with you. People simply can’t imagine how difficult it is for the family of people who suffer from that bizarre disease.”

“Surely it’s most difficult for the patient?” The words pop out of my mouth as I switch on my tape recorder.

Ásgeir apparently isn’t listening—which is just as well.

“But I want to read the interview before it’s published. And I may prefer to remain anonymous.”

“All right,” I say. “But this kind of interview generally has greater impact if people are willing to be named.”

“Perhaps,” he answers thoughtfully. “But it has to be my decision.”

I nod.

He starts telling me about hypochondria in general terms, stroking his mustache from time to time, as if to focus. He adds nothing to what I’ve already learned from other sources.

I try to steer him in the right direction: “When did Ásdís Björk first start to display symptoms of the illness?”

Without missing a beat, he continues in the same helpful tone: “It was soon after the birth of our son. In fact, she had already shown a tendency to obsessive behavior during the pregnancy. It was all she could think about. She was always worried that something might be wrong, whether the baby was normal, whether she should avoid some particular kind of exertion, go out in a car, eat a certain food. But I gather that it’s not uncommon for first-time mothers to have such concerns. After Gudmundur was born, her anxieties became more focused on herself. She was always tired, complaining of stomach cramps, shortness of breath, insomnia. She started going to the doctor every week for a checkup, then twice a week. And when he assured her that she was fine, she couldn’t accept it. She maintained that only she knew how she felt. She thought our doctor was careless—or incompetent. But he was an old friend of ours from school, and she’d had complete confidence in him until then.”

“Karl Hjartarson,” I add.

He stops short and looks me in the face. “Yes. How did you know that?”

“Gunnhildur told me,” I reply, as guilelessly as I can manage. “Because you and I had got off on the wrong foot, I got in touch with Karl to ask about hypochondria. But he wouldn’t speak to me without your permission.”

Ásgeir nods. “If you want to talk to him, I’ll give you permission. But only to talk about the illness. Not about our private family affairs.”

“Of course.”

He gets back to his story: “Karl and I both did our best to convince her that, since he could find nothing wrong with her, nothing was wrong. He thought it was some form of postpartum depression. And her obsessive behavior gradually died down. When Gudmundur was growing up, she had many good years when she was focused on motherhood. And she was a wonderful mother.” He falls silent, and for a moment he seems to be holding back tears before adding: “And a marvelous wife.”

“So when did the problem recur?”

“When Gudmundur was in his teens, she was very anxious about him. She had no reason at all to be. He was careful not to upset her or cause her worries. He was a conscientious student and a good boy. That was when she started to obsess about her own health again. We both noticed that she was taking her pulse several times a day. She thought her heart rate was much too fast. If she felt her heart skip a beat just once, she would go into a panic. She went to Karl over and over again, but he found nothing wrong. And a few months later she started having heartburn and assumed she must have a stomach ulcer. And then headaches, which she attributed to a brain tumor. And aches and pain and so on and so on.

“After Gudmundur left home and moved down south, things went from bad to worse. For the past four or five years, it’s hardly
been possible to induce Ásdís Björk to leave the house, except to go to the doctor. Or doctors, in fact. Karl had no option but to refer her to specialists of all kinds—oncologists, cardiologists, surgeons, dermatologists, gastroenterologists, pulmonologists, immunologists, otolaryngologists—all depending upon what she thought was wrong with her at the time. For the last few months of her life she was convinced she had leukemia.”

“But what about psychiatrists or psychologists? Since it was primarily in her mind?”

“Yes, indeed. We tried all sorts of psychiatrists and psychologists. And sometimes they gave us hope of improvement. She would manage better for a few months. But then she would revert to the same state.”

“Is it true that she…?” I start again. “But what about medication? From what I’ve learned, antidepressants can sometimes be effective in treating hypochondria.”

“Yes, that’s right,” answers Ásgeir as he takes a candy from the bowl, apparently without thinking. “We tried various medications. Some seemed to be effective, but never for more than a few months.”

“Did she overmedicate?”

He stares at me as he crunches his way ferociously through the candy. “Yes, I think it’s true to say she did. She tended to take more than the recommended dose. She seemed to think she would feel better the more she took. And the medication was affecting her looks. She piled on more and more weight…”

“What was she taking before she died?”

He glares at me. “Why do you want to know that? I thought you were going to write an article about hypochondria? Or are you planning to write about the accidental death of my wife?”

“Surely we have to see her accidental death as a consequence of her hypochondria?”

After a brief pause, he replies. “I see what you mean. Yes, of course that’s right. I wasn’t aware of everything Ásdís Björk was taking, but recently it was mainly Prozac. And she took sedatives sometimes. Valium, or something like that.”

“I’ve read that some hypochondriacs feel better if they have a drink.”

“Oh, really?” he replies. “Ásdís Björk didn’t often drink, but she enjoyed it, and it made her feel better. She had become so withdrawn. That’s true.”

“How did the alcohol mix with the medications?” I ask. “Did she know her limit?”

“It was a very rare occurrence. She wasn’t a drinker at all.”

“On social occasions, then? Parties and so on?”

“She didn’t really do that anymore. And if she did attend, she preferred to go home early. So I suppose I would have to say she knew her limit.”

I realize I’m on thin ice now, but I ask anyway: “On the wilderness tour, people were drinking beer, weren’t they?”

“Oh, yes,” he replies frankly. “We always serve beer. Not a lot. It wouldn’t be appropriate. On that last trip she had some beer. But not much.”

I decide to leave well enough alone. For now. He glances at his watch. I do the same. We’ve run well over the half hour he promised me. I switch off my tape recorder and thank Ásgeir for his time.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he remarks as we stand up. “About interviews having more impact if people speak in their own name and not anonymously. I think you’re right. I’ve noticed it myself when I read the papers. And apart from
anything else, there’s so much gossip and rumor flying around here in Akureyri. Especially if people start believing Gunnhildur’s fantasies. So it’s probably best for me to speak in my own name. Then people will know the truth of it.”

His expression is determined, but also searching.

“That sounds good to me,” I reply. “I think it will work better that way.”

He goes to the door of his office. “But you’ll let me read your article before it’s published. You promised.”

“I will.”

“When will it be published?”

“Well, if Karl can speak to me tomorrow, we ought to make the Saturday edition.”

“I’ll call Karl and let you know later today. Can you meet him any time?”

“I don’t even need to meet him. I can talk to him on the phone,” I answer. I don’t know what to make of the helpfulness of this man who, only a few days ago, raged at me, threatened me, and slammed the phone down. We shake hands. As he closes the door I notice that his light-blue shirt is now damp under the arms.

On my way out I pass through the reception area, where a young girl is now sitting at the desk. In one of the offices I spot Ragna Ármannsdóttir, focused on her computer screen. On the inside of the door to the stairs is a poster for the production of
Loftur the Sorcerer
by the Akureyri High School Drama Group.

I come to a halt. On the poster is a photo of Skarphédinn in the title role, wearing a collarless white shirt and a black waistcoat and gazing intensely at a book with a black cover. At the bottom of the poster are three corporate logos identifying the sponsors
of the show. In this case Hotel KEA, the Bonus low-price supermarket chain, and the Yumm candy factory.

I turn to the receptionist and ask: “Are you sponsoring the high school students’ show?”

“Yes,” she replies with a smile. “But the leading actor has died. The play’s been postponed until after the exams in the spring.”

My evening chat with the chief of police in Akureyri is along these lines:

Me: “What’s new?”

Him: “Lovely cheeks.”

“What cheeks? What are you up to?”

“Lovely cheeks. Delightful. Have you never tried them?”

“Er…”

“Just can’t stop.”

“Well…”

“
Slurpslurp
. So what are
you
having for dinner?”

“Oh, I see what you mean.
Cod
cheeks. Nothing. I’ve eaten too much candy today. I took a chance on calling you direct, not via Ásbjörn, just this once. I don’t want to disturb him. Have you heard from him today at all?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’d rather you heard it from him. But I think he’s in need of a friend this evening.”

“Oh? Is something up? Anything serious?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe what’s up is perfectly fine.”

“How can something be up if it’s fine? Is that one of your funny southernisms?”

“Give him a call.”

“I will.”

“But there’s nothing new then, apart from the cod cheeks?”

“No, we’re reexamining everything from the start, as I said. And there’s one thing I want to ask you—just for a change.”

“Oh, good. Ask away.”

“You met Skarphédinn at a rehearsal and interviewed him, didn’t you?”