Season of the Witch (32 page)

“Oh? I should have thought it would be a good thing, if people have gained some insights…”

“
Oh, dear Gunnhildur, I had no idea!
” she mimics a sympathetic voice. “
Oh, how hard it must have been for you with Ásdís Björk! It’s just so sad!
”

“Um…,” I say.

“Goddamned ridiculous nonsense. And the lies that bastard Ásgeir tells. Just trying to make himself look good. I can’t believe you’ve done this to me!”

She shakes her gray braid.

“But the article’s based mainly on medical information—”

“I don’t believe a word they say, those quack doctors. I know what I know.” She folds her arms across her meager chest, as if to say that she won’t be persuaded.

“Would you like to come out into the sun?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. “We could have a little walk outside.”

She gives me a searching look, then shrugs. “When you don’t have many options, none of them are good.”

I help her into her coat, and she places a scarf around her neck. Then we stroll arm-in-arm, step-by-step, out into the garden of the care home. Residents are out and about. Three women and a man stand in a little group, enjoying a smoke. I’m thinking of lighting up too when my companion points to the smokers and observes: “There are plenty of ways to kill yourself—and others.”

I change my mind, cram my hands into my jacket pockets, and keep a firm hold on the cigarettes.

She looks up, squinting into the brightness. “Goddamned sun! Is it going to kill us off too? You can have too much of a good thing!”

We walk for a while without speaking along the path around the outside of the building.

“This seems a nice enough place?” I observe, just to say something.

Gunnhildur scoffs. “It’s like living at an airport hotel, surrounded by people you’ve nothing in common with, except that you’re waiting for the same departure. Just you wait, young man. Your time will come.”

“Yes, that thought has occurred to me.”

She starts questioning me about where I’m from and who my family are, how old I am, what I’ve studied, and where I’ve
worked. I try to answer her questions without getting into anything too complicated. And there’s plenty of that. We have completed our circuit of the care home when Gunnhildur halts at the entrance, gazes sharply at me from her limpid blue eyes, and says:

“Right. I’ve survived our little stroll. Now tell me whatever it is you’ve been wanting to say.”

I decide that honesty is the best policy. “I’ve been feeling bad because you feel I’ve let you down. That really wasn’t my intention…”

She shakes her braid without speaking.

“I still haven’t found anything to prove that your daughter’s death was anything but an accident, which resulted from her illness…”

Gunnhildur sighs and stamps her foot. “That’s enough, young man. You’ve said all that before. If you’ve come to me hoping for absolution, you’ve had a wasted journey.”

I continue, refusing to be distracted: “But I found out yesterday that Ásgeir is negotiating to sell the candy factory. So you were right about that.”

Her face brightens. “Well, well. It’s about time.”

I raise a finger to stop her. “And before I came here to see you, I made a phone call to your grandson, Gudmundur, down south. I implied that I was interested in hearing what he thought of the article in today’s paper—since I’d got in touch with his father through him. He was fine with it. Before I said good-bye, I said I’d heard rumors in the business world that he and his father were planning to sell Yumm. And he said that was correct.”

I take my notebook out of my pocket. “Then he said, without prompting—I’m repeating it word for word—
The time had come long ago for us to get out of the business and cash in. It was a constant struggle to keep the company going. But Mom was always
absolutely against selling. She felt it would be a disgrace for her and for the family. We’ve been entrusted with running the company, she always said, and it’s our duty to nurture it and enhance its value. But the truth was that we never got any real profit from the company, and we even had trouble meeting the payroll. As I say: it was time.
That’s what your grandson, the economist Gudmundur Ásgeirsson, said to me. Off the record, admittedly.”

Gunnhildur is lost for words.

“None of this proves that Ásdís Björk’s death was caused by her husband, Gunnhildur. Not at all. But I haven’t given up. That’s what I came to tell you.”

She grips my wrist tightly in her hand. “I told my dear Ragna that you were a bit silly, my boy, but that you meant well.”

She lets go.

“It turns out I was right, after all.”

She turns and walks slowly into the
Hóll
care home, head held high.

When Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir feels better, I feel better. Simple as that. I call Jóa and invite her and Heida out to dinner at the Fidlarinn restaurant.

I enjoy the bright panoramic view out over the fjord as I wait for my guests in the green-upholstered penthouse bar. I have a smoke and a Coke. Life seems pretty much OK. My overwhelming thirst has gone. For now.

Over our meal we chat about this and that—including the mouthwatering French venison we’re eating. Afterward we return to the bar. Why would anyone need to go to Copenhagen? Or Reykjavík, even?

Jóa and Heida have just started on their coffee and cognac when my cell phone rings.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Is that Einar the newshound?”

“Who is this?” I ask.

“This is Chief of Police Ólafur Gísli,” answers a voice I have now identified.

Jóa and Heida are chatting as I speak.

“It sounds to me,” comments the chief, “as if you’re enjoying female company.”

“It’s not what you think. And not what I might hope.”

“Excellent. I think you should leave your present location and move on to the next.”

“Oh? What location is that? Has something come up?”

“Yes.”

I’m instantly alert. “Do you mean a crime location?”

“A crime scene, that’s right.”

“OK. Where shall I come to?”

“The offices of the
Afternoon News
, on Town Hall Square.”

“What’s happened there?”

“I can’t, and won’t, tell you on a cell phone.”

“I’ll be there. Right away.”

I end the call, then sit for a few moments, motionless. Has there been a break-in at the office? Arson? Has the place been trashed? Has someone been murdered there?

“What?”

I’m startled out of my thoughts. Jóa and Heida are looking at me like two question marks.

“I don’t really know. A teddy bear just called and—”

“Teddy bear?” queries Heida.

“That’s what Einar calls his anonymous informants,” Jóa whispers to her.

“…and he said I should go right away to our offices. Something’s happening there, according to him. Or has happened. Or God knows what.”

I summon our waiter and ask for the bill. “Sorry, girls, duty calls. And Jóa, I think you should come with me. We may need pictures.”

“But my gear is all there, at the office,” Jóa points out.

“Well, let’s hope the place hasn’t been vandalized, and your stuff hasn’t been stolen, or…” I comment.

“And I’m all dressed up,” grumbles Jóa.

It’s a quiet evening on the square as Jóa and I walk hurriedly over from the restaurant. It’s not yet eleven o’clock, so the night is young. We stop at the square and look up at the building. Ásbjörn and Karólína’s apartment on the top floor is dark, but the lights are on in the offices on the floor below. I glance around. The only vehicle I spot nearby is a black car on the pedestrian street.

“That’s odd,” I observe. “I don’t see any police cars or anything.”

Jóa says nothing.

As we walk over to the building and quietly mount the stairs, I feel my heart beating faster. When we reach the landing outside the office I glance at Jóa. She is deathly pale. I put my ear to the door and hear a low rumble of voices inside. I summon up courage, seize the doorknob, and open the door. There’s no one in the reception area. I cautiously enter one step at a time, followed by Jóa.

The door to Ásbjörn’s office is ajar.

“…and that’s how they came to call him Hákon!” Ásbjörn brays with laughter.

“Hahahahaha!” howls the chief of police.

I shove the door open.

Ólafur Gísli and Ásbjörn appear startled by our sudden appearance. They are sitting there in their shirtsleeves, feet up on Ásbjörn’s desk. Rosy-cheeked, they are drinking glasses of Coke-and-something. On the desk is a half-f bottle of vodka. Pal is lying on the floor, snoring.

They make a quick recovery and raise their glasses to us.

“Cheers!” exclaims the chief. “Cheers to the investigative journalist. Welcome to our crime scene.”

“Hahahaha,” giggles Ásbjörn, grasping his jiggling belly. “Ahahahahah!”

Ólafur Gísli smirks. “Just testing your response time.” He glances at his watch. “Four and a half minutes. Not bad.”

“Not bad,” slurs Ásbjörn. “Almost as quick as the emergency services. Hohohoho!”

I look over at Jóa. “Crank call, Jóa. Just these two drunks having a joke at our expense. Let’s get back to HQ.”

Ásbjörn jumps to his feet. A bit too quickly—he sways on his feet. “No, not at all, my dear Einar,” he says, stumbling toward me. “Now, now. We’re just havin’ a relaxin’ drink together, me and my ol’ buddy Ólafur Gisli. We wanna ask you to join us. We thought you’d be all alone.”

“That’s very nice of you,” I reply, as drily as I can manage—the state of the two of them is, I have to admit, a pretty funny sight. Ásbjörn in particular.

“My dear Einar,” rambles Ásbjörn, “you’re nowhere near as bad as I always thought. Really, you’re…you’re…”

He’s looking for the right word. Then his unfocussed eyes light up with an idea. He envelopes me in a hug. The smell of his perspiration wafts up into my nostrils.

“Really, you’re all right. Yes, thass what you are. All right.”

Ásbjörn places his hands on my shoulders, looks at me with unusual affection, and turns to face Ólafur Gísli, who is smirking.

“Ólafur Gísli. Thass what Einar is. He’s absolutely all right.”

I burst out laughing. Jóa too.

“But he keeps it secret,” mumbles Ásbjörn. “Why’s it such a well-kept secret,” he asks me, “how all right you are?”

“Maybe it’s because it sometimes slips my mind that I’m quite all right. Do you suppose that’s it?”

He doesn’t hear me. He’s hugging Jóa now. She makes a grotesque face.

“And you, dear Jóa. My darlin’ Jóa. What would I have done without ya?”

“I don’t know,” answers Jóa.

“What the hell would I have done without ya? Jóa, lemme give you a drop of vodka…” He turns toward me. “I know I can’t offer you a drink, Einar. Wouldn’ be appropriate. You’ve been doin’ so well. Ólafur Gísli, give Jóa a drink, and get a Coke for Einar. And Einar, you know…” He stumbles and almost falls. I hold him by the shoulder. “Look, I’m blind drunk, and you aren’t. You’re stone-cold fucking sober! Einar, my friend…”

Suddenly he is completely serious. “I’m just celebrating with my friend Ólafur Gísli—my very best friend, although you’re really quite all right too, Einar, aren’t you?…I’m celebrating a turning point in my life. A crossroads. A whole new chapter.”

After a dramatic pause, Ásbjörn declaims: “I have a daughter!”

He lifts his glass. He is red-faced and sweaty.

“My dear friends. Share a toast with me. I have a daughter. A beautiful, delightful daughter.”

“Cheers!” we chorus. They toast in triple vodkas. I toast in octuple Coke.

“An’ my darlin’ Karó,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. “Karó, my sweet, dear Karó…”

“Yes, how is Karó taking the news?” asks Jóa.

Over dinner at Fidlarinn I’d recounted the story of the long-lost daughter to Jóa and Heida.

“Karó? Jóa, lemme tell you how Karó’s takin’ it. She’s gonna take Björg like our own daughter, that we haven’t been able to have. Like the daughter we haven’t been able to have! Just think! That’s how Karó’s taking it. Isn’ that wunnerful?”

He dries his eyes. “Yes, it’s quite wonderful,” he answers his own question.

“And where’s Karólína this evening?” I ask.

“She’s popped down to Reykjavík to tell her parents all about it,” replies Ólafur Gísli, who’s been wearing a lopsided smile during his friend’s monologue. He adds, suddenly quite sincere: “Their childlessness became more and more difficult for her to cope with over the years. Ásbjörn was getting deeply concerned about how unhappy she had become. He felt he had nowhere to turn—until Pal joined the family.”

Ásbjörn flops down into his chair, panting for breath.

“We were sitting here swapping jokes before you arrived,” the chief tells us. He swigs from a fresh bottle of vodka. “We’ve made a habit of it since we were in high school.”

Ásbjörn wipes away his tears and sweat and drinks deeply from his glass. “Yes, it’s your turn. Tell us a joke.”

Ólafur Gísli strokes his cheek. “Yeees, let’s see. Now then: A city girl was once sent to the country to spend the summer on a farm. On her first day, she was out in the farmyard with the farmer, who asked her if she knew any country skills. How about milking? he asked. She replied that of course she knew how. She sat on the milking stool by one of the cows and started fiddling
with the udders. The farmer felt she was taking a long time and asked her: Aren’t you going to start milking? Then the girl answered: I’m waiting for them to get hard!”

Ásbjörn Grímsson guffaws and rolls about laughing. Ólafur Gísli joins in. I burst out laughing too, at the sight of Jóa trying not to.

Shortly after that we leave the two old buddies to their drinking, at the scene of the crime.

I say to Jóa: “Hannes just mentioned it the other day. I think I managed to convince him that there were plenty of good reasons for you not to return to Reykjavík just yet. I hope so, anyway.”

As we got into my car at the parking lot, Jóa had mentioned her plans for the future.

“I hope so too,” she says. “I really don’t want to leave yet.”

“So is this the Real Thing?” I venture to ask her as I drive down Skipagata toward the square. Young people are out cruising by now, and the town center is crammed with cars.