Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

The shower perked Lena up; she’d made it slightly too cold to be comfortable. Her lethargy was washed away, leaving behind a clear, alert mind in a body that broke out in goose bumps when she emerged from the shower – everywhere except on her calves, where she’d had a skin graft. The patch was just as smooth and shiny as when the skin had been fixed there. She’d been ten years old at the time. She didn’t know whether it was because the new skin didn’t react to cold or whether goose bumps simply didn’t form there. Maybe it was a combination of both. Lena hurried to dry her calf. She didn’t want to remember it, didn’t want to relive being burned, didn’t want to think that because of it she wouldn’t ever be able to wear a short dress on a night out like her friends. And least of all she didn’t want to remember how Tryggvi had liked fire; fire that had hurt her so badly. Her parents had forbidden her ever to mention his fascination with it. That ban must still be in place. It had been introduced when the community residence caught fire.

Downstairs the doorbell rang. Lena hurriedly wrapped a large, full-length towel around herself. Of course the lawyer couldn’t see through the ceiling, but any protection was good. The woman mustn’t find out about this. For Lena’s sake, and for her parents’, but most of all for the sake of their memories of Tryggvi.

Margeir tried hard to hide his desperation but it was difficult to rein it in, and the tiny beads of sweat he could feel forming on his forehead weren’t helping. ‘But might you be making changes soon? A new schedule for the spring, which could open up the possibility of moving the show?’

The station manager’s face showed no sign of sympathy. Behind him hung a poster that declared: It’s never too late to become the person you could have been . Underneath the text smiled a toothless old man, a thick textbook in his arms. Even though it would be a few decades before Margeir was anything like as old as the subject of the picture, he felt compassion for the old man nonetheless. It would probably be simpler to take a college course than to deal with his boss; at school at least you dealt with lots of different teachers, not one person who controlled everything. The small, private radio station had a monarch, who now sat before Margeir and didn’t seem inclined to do him any favours. If his proposal found no favour with the manager, there was no higher court to which he could appeal.

‘You were offered an earlier time slot when I hired you. You didn’t want it then.’ The manager shrugged. ‘The early bird catches the worm.’

‘I certainly did want it. I just couldn’t take it, because I had another job besides the radio show. But I gave that up ages ago, so things have changed now. It would make such a difference if I could have a morning or afternoon slot. Since I was offered as much last winter, I thought I’d ask whether the offer was still open.’

The manager scowled. ‘It’s not quite that easy, mate. Things have changed a lot since you started.’

Margeir knew he meant the recession, which had swallowed everything in its path. But it was unfair to use it as an excuse; unlike other industries, radio had actually been positively impacted by the financial crisis. ‘Listenership is up. Advertising sales have increased.’

‘Exactly.’ The scowl was gone, replaced by a contented smile. ‘That’s exactly what I meant. People listen to us now because we offer independent talk radio. National issues keep us afloat. Your show is more like…’ The manager stared at the ceiling as he searched for the right words. ‘Gossip, froth, pop songs. These days people want to quarrel and fight, not sing along.’

‘Have you listened to my show recently?’ When it looked as if the manager wasn’t going to answer him, Margeir continued hurriedly. He didn’t need the humiliation of hearing him say no. ‘The show might have started off on a lighter note, since it was primarily music, but it’s completely different now. I do exactly the same as the others during the day – take calls from listeners who are furious about the country’s situation. So the schedule is more or less the same all day and all night. People are just as angry at night as they are in the daytime.’

‘Precisely.’

Margeir hadn’t expected this reply. Was the manager agreeing with him? His tone of voice suggested otherwise. ‘What do you mean?’

‘From what I’ve heard, your show is practically a variation on what we’ve got on during the day. A lamer version of the primetime shows. I’m not about to reshuffle my most popular DJs to make room for someone who doesn’t have the same spark.’

‘What do you mean, spark?’ Margeir knew exactly what he meant, but he couldn’t think of a way to defend himself. He’d often thought the same thing. His passion was dis-appearing, his enthusiasm waning. He answered calls out of a sense of duty and took the path of least resistance, saying as little as possible instead of expressing strong opinions or deliberately disagreeing with the caller. In fact, he often agreed with them, which usually put them off. The people who called in were more used to being contradicted and provoked, and didn’t know how to respond when the radio host simply said: Yes, you’re right, I see your point .

‘You know what I mean. I heard a repeat of your show the other day and it was crap. You could almost feel how bored you were with your listeners. I was this close to calling you and telling you not to bother showing up again.’ As he said this, the manager brought his index finger to his thick thumb until they nearly touched. ‘Luckily for you, I didn’t want the hassle of having to find a stand-in, so it’s thanks to my laziness that you still have your job. But as long as you go on like this, you can forget about me moving your show up. Daytime hosts need to be sharp and motivated. Not half asleep or bored out of their skulls. Who do you think would advertise for that kind of host?’

‘If I just had the chance to try out an earlier slot, maybe I could convince you that I’d do really well with it? I’m very interested in engaging with national issues, even though they weren’t originally meant to be part of my show.’ Margeir was lying; he found all the nonsense going on in Iceland these days deathly dull: just endless incomprehensible political entanglements and lunatic bank and business magnates. Why waste your energy wailing on about greed and dishonesty? ‘I read every newspaper I can get my hands on and I’m always online, so the show you heard wasn’t a typical one. I must have been under the weather. Everyone has off days.’

‘I don’t.’ His boss wasn’t joking, even though everyone at the station knew that he was no better than the rest of them; he always seemed to get the wrong end of the stick with the callers he spoke to, and ended up getting irritated by them. Maybe it was easy to think you were perfect if you were a dictator. ‘But it doesn’t make any difference; I see no need to mess with something that’s working fine. If it ain’t broke, fix it .’

Margeir was itching to correct him, but let it go for fear that it would bring this brief visit to a premature end. ‘How about as a sidekick to another DJ? I don’t mind playing a supporting role.’

The manager stuck out his lower lip and wrinkled his nose at the same time – quite a feat. ‘Nah.’ He thought for a moment, but then repeated: ‘Nah. It’s all running so smoothly right now that there’s no chance. All the shows that need two hosts already have them, and it would be crazy to have three. There wouldn’t be room for guests in the studio. Do you want to stand behind them, shouting to be heard?’