Michael Dibdin - And then you die

Zen took out his cigarettes and looked questioningly at his host, who nodded.

'The street in which you claim to have been attacked…'

'What do you mean, "claim"? Look at my hand! Why do you think I needed all these stitches?'

'Let’s leave that for a moment. At all events, the street is not very well lit, and the nearest camera was quite a long way from where this happened. Nevertheless, one of the police officers on duty saw you fall over and then start lashing out with your feet and fists, and called in a patrol car. What he didn't see, and what re-examination of the video tape has failed to reveal, is any evidence of a second person.'

'Are you calling me a liar?' demanded Zen, really angry now.

'Not at all. I'm merely telling you what the police report stated.'

'You think my idea of a good time is to get so drunk I see people who aren't there and then slash my hand and shoulder with a knife I brought along for the purpose?'

'Are you drunk now?' asked the consul.

'No! Just horribly hung over.'

'Of course. Just a moment.'

He walked out to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a small glass filled with a brownish liquid. 'Drink this.'

'What is it?' Zen asked, sniffing the liquid. It smelt indescribably foul.

'Just drink it. Knock it back in one. You'll feel much better.'

Zen did as he was told. A sharp burning sensation in his mouth and throat was abruptly followed by the most intense onrush of nausea he had ever experienced. He knew without the slightest doubt that he was going to vomit massively there and then, all over the consul's hardwood floor. Then it passed, and was succeeded by a warm glow. The consul nodded.

'If s an infusion of hakarl, decomposed shark's meat pickled in raw alcohol In about five minutes you'll feel much better. But it was important to check whether you were still suffering the active effects of the drinks you had last night before evaluating the results of my little test.'

'What test?'

'When I asked how many people there were in the street.'

'I told you, there were eleven.'

Snaebjorn Gudmundsson regarded him solemnly.

'I only saw eight,' he said.

Zen laughed harshly, getting some of his own back at last.

'Maybe you need glasses!'

'There are no glasses made for this.'

'For what?'

Gudmundsson sighed.

'We call it fylgja. If s a special faculty. People who have it are called skyggn. All children are skyggn until they're about five, and many after that Almost all lose it when they reach puberty, but a few people retain the gift into adult life. It appears that you may be one of them, Dottor Zen. If so, you are only the second foreigner I've ever heard of with this faculty.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about'

The consul laughed.

'And when I tell you, you're going to think that I'm drunk. But try and accept that this is a well-attested phenomenon. What it means, of course, is another matter. If s like talking about religion. You may believe in God or you may not, but if s a perfectly respectable intellectual position to hold that God does not exist and that religion is simply a tissue of meretricious falsehoods designed to give people an illusory sense of purpose. What is not a respectable intellectual position is to hold that people do not have religious experiences. You follow me?'

'Whaf s all this got to do with whatever it is you said I had or was?'

'If s completely analogous. Some people believe in the existence of the huldufolk, others don't. Their existence is therefore debatable. What is not debatable is that there are people who claim to be able to see them.'

'See who, for God's sake?'

'The "hidden people". Traditionally, they have been regarded as a race of supernatural beings who live all around us, but in a parallel dimension which is only perceptible to those who are skyggn.'

'But you surely don't believe in this nonsense, do you?' Snaebjorn Gudmundsson shrugged.

‘I don't have fylgja, so if s all rather theoretical. I'm simply trying to come up with a rational explanation for what happened to you last night the people you saw in the street, and the one you say attacked you.'

'A rational explanation based on totally irrational premises. If the police camera didn't pick him up, if s because he was dark skinned and wearing dark clothing, that's all.'

The consul laughed.

'Iceland is an odd place, dottore. Geologically, if s the youngest landmass on the planet Think of it as the pizza country. If s about the same shape, and hot out of the oven. Up north they have geysers, volcanoes, lava flows. You can stand there and watch the terrible process of the earth being made, right in front of your eyes, while across the fjord the glaciers are calving icebergs. But enough of all this abstruse talk. How about some lunch?'

Zen shivered visibly.

‘I couldn't eat a thing.'

And he meant it. He was hungry, but not for anything you could get here. He needed food for his soul. He needed to go home, before he crossed to the other side of the shadow line Snaebjdrn Gudmundsson had described, and became one of the huldufolk himself, an invisible alien haunting the streets of this unreal city where it was always midday on the thirtieth of February.

'I think I'll go and lie dpwn for a bit,' he said. 'I didn't sleep well last night.'

Gudmundsson nodded.

'Of course. I'll let you know if there are any developments.' He was awakened by a light tapping at the door. It opened to reveal the consul. 'You have a visitor,' he said.

Zen rolled up off the bed. It was like being back in hospital, he thought. People came in and out of your room and told you what to do next. He had been living like this for almost a year now. When would he sleep in his own bed again? But where was that bed? Rome, he supposed, but the idea didn't carry complete conviction.

His visitor turned out to be Borunn Sigurdardottir, the policewoman who had interviewed him at the airport the day before. She nodded at him and made a short speech which Snaebjorn Gudmundsson translated.

'She brings good news. The chief pathologist has now confirmed the preliminary findings of the autopsy performed yesterday. His conclusion is that Signor Angelo Porri died of natural causes, a heart attack to be precise. The police therefore have no further interest in the matter, and you are free to go, with apologies for the unavoidable delay.'

Inspector Sigurdardottir handed over the passport in the name of Pier Giorgio Butani to Zen. Then she flashed Zen a brief smile, like a shaft of sunlight glancing off an ice field, and left.

'Well, that’s all very well' Zen said testily to Snaebjdrn Gudmundsson. ‘I can leave, but how? The only ticket I've got is on Alitalia. Do they fly to Iceland?'

'No.'

'Then what am I supposed to do, have them divert another plane to pick me up?'

‘I imagine that they will have made arrangements with another airline to fly you to America. We can check with the airport. But the first step is to inform the embassy in Copenhagen. I'll do that on the land line in my study.'

He returned a few minutes later.

'Well, that’s done. They're going to contact Rome. We're to await instructions.' A silence fell.

'Where did you learn Italian?' asked Zen.

'When I was a student in Florence, many years ago.'

'Studying what?'

'Art.'

'Oh yes, you said you were an artist.' 'Yes.'

Zen glanced around the stridently bare walls. 'So you sell all your work?' 'None of it.' 'None?'

'No. If s no good, you see.'

Zen smiled politely.

'I'm sure you're just being modest'

'Not at all. I may not be much of an artist, but I'm an excellent judge of art. I sometimes wish I weren't. It might make it possible to believe that my stuff had some value. But it doesn't. I know that'