Michael Dibdin - And then you die

They drove on for a while in silence. At last the structures of the airport appeared in the distance. Zen lit a cigarette and turned to Gudmundsson.

'You said that I was only the second case you're heard of where a foreigner had this…'

'Fylgja. Yes.'

'Who was the other?'

Gudmundsson laughed.

'Ifs a droll story. I told you that Keflavik was originally built as a military base during the Second World War. Well, one of the servicemen stationed there started showing symptoms of the condition, going on about people that no one else could see and so on. A lot of those rocks were torn up and blown apart to lay out the runways and base facilities, and so many of the "hidden people" must have been made homeless. At any rate, the medics who examined the man had never heard of the huldufolk, of course. They decided the guy was crazy and shipped him back to the States. This was just before the Normandy landings.'

Zen smiled.

'Lucky man!'

'Not really. The ship he was on got torpedoed by a U-boat off Newfoundland and went down with all hands.'

The parking lot at the airport was almost empty. Snaebjorn Gudmundsson pulled up right in front of the handsomely sterile terminal building.

'Now before we part,' he said, turning to Zen, 'I would suggest that you bear in mind what happened to that GI.'

Zen frowned.

'How do you mean?'

Gudmundsson sighed.

'I absolutely believe everything that you told me about what happened to you last night. I also give you my word that I shall not reveal it to anyone else. I strongly advise you to do the same. What may seem quite plausible here in Iceland will sound like arrant lunacy back in Italy. People will remember that car accident you had, and begin to wonder if the injuries you sustained were purely physical. Do you see what I mean?' Zen nodded.

'Yes, yes. Of course. I thought you meant something else.' 'What?'

'When you said I should bear in mind what happened to the American. I thought you meant that my seeming good luck might turn out to be a death sentence in disguise too.'

Snaebjorn Gudmundsson laughed.

'Of course not! Actually, he was very much the exception. Most people who are skyggn enjoy excellent health and live to an exceptionally old age.'

They both got out of the car. The consul fetched a trolley for Zen's bags. Once they were loaded, the two men stood there awkwardly.

'Thank you for your help,' said Zen. 'And good luck with the painting.' Snaebjdrn Gudmundsson grimaced.

'Just one authentic piece before I die, that’s all I ask. It doesn't matter how small or insignificant, still less whether anyone else notices or cares. Just one true thing, so that I can feel that my life hasn't been wholly wasted.'

They shook hands.

'It's been a pleasure to meet you, whoever you may be,' Snaebjorn Gudmundsson commented with an arch smile. 'I wish you a safe and pleasant onward journey. And please try and forget about what we've been discussing. It's really just a strictly local folk myth of no wider significance. It may or may not be true here, but it certainly isn't anywhere else. There are no hidden people where you're going!'

The first thing he did, after being flushed out of the side entrance of the Stazione Termini in a party of hearty young foreign backpackers and their parasitical horde of touts, rogue cabbies, beggars and pickpockets, was to get something to eat. Not that he had any excuse for feeling hungry. They'd fed him something called 'breakfast’ on the flight to Denmark, and something else called 'a snack' on the connecting plane to Fiumicino. But this wasn't a question of physical hunger. His needs were deeper and more complex than that, and luckily he knew just how to satisfy them.

He crossed the busy street, delighting in several near misses and a very ripe insult from one of the drivers vying for position, then headed towards Piazza della Repubblica. After a few more life-enhancing, near-death traffic experiences, he turned left along Via Viminale, humming a sprightly melody he eventually identified as the national anthem, last heard in truncated electronic form emanating from Snaebjorn Gudmundsson's cellphone. 'L’Italia chiamo, stringiamoci a coorte, siam pronti alla morte…'

Opposite a curvaceous section of a redbrick rotunda, once the southern corner of a vast complex of public baths erected by some Roman emperor, stood a poky little establishment about the size of a neighbourhood barber's shop. Inside the window, a roast piglet reclined languidly in a glass case as though taking an afternoon nap. Once through the doorway, there were a few rough wooden tables, chairs and benches. The proprietor, Ernesto, a short man who had come to closely resemble the product he sold, presided from a zinc serving bar at the back. He gave a mock start of astonishment as Zen walked in.

'I thought you were dead!' he exclaimed in a Roman accent that would have needed one of his own knives to cut.

Zen nodded.

'There was a rumour to that effect.'

The two men shook hands, the owner having wiped his off on his filthy apron.

'That shocking business in Sicily!' exclaimed Ernesto with a massive shrug which effectively erased that island from the atlas. 'It was all over the TV and papers, but of course De Angelis and the rest of the lads gave me the inside story. It's sickening, just sickening! What are we supposed to do with those people? We've tried everything, and nothing works. Let’s face it, they're just not like us. Never were, never will be. And now they're talking about building that bridge to the mainland, at the taxpayers' expense, needless to say. You know what I say? Forget it! Stop the ferries! Patrol the straits with gunboats and shoot the bastards if they try to smuggle themselves into the country. They're worse than the Albanians.'

At any other time, Zen might have been inclined to agree, but in his present state he felt like gripping Ernesto by the arms and trying to convince him that they were all – yes, even the Sicilians – fratelli d'Italia. He had enough common sense left, though, to realize that this would not do. Although open to the general public, Ernesto's establishment also functioned as a private club for a circle of privileged regulars, and like any club it had its rules. One of these was that a certain amount of purely rhetorical racism had to be tolerated in the spirit in which it was offered, as an innocuous way of establishing commonality and bonding, expressing solidarity and exasperation, and excluding outsiders. Like the human body, a community could only tolerate a certain degree of invasive otherness without internal collapse. The Romans had had fifteen hundred years of practice in the necessary strategies of passive aggression, and Zen for one did not feel that it was his business to criticize them. The baths which once covered this whole area of the city might have been pillaged and quarried and razed to the ground, but the people were still here.

'So where have you been all this time?' Ernesto went on. 'They told us you'd survived that Mafia bomb, but when you didn't show up here I began to wonder. Maybe they're not telling us the truth, I thought. Even De Angelis didn't seem to know anything definite. Maybe we're all out of the loop, I thought. Maybe the whole thing is just a huge lie! After all, it wouldn't be the first time, would it?'

Zen seated himself at one of the narrow tables.

'It certainly wouldn't.'

'So where were you?'

'At the end of the earth, Ernesto. If s a long story, and I've got an appointment at the office in fifteen minutes. Meanwhile I'm ready for some real food.'

'Right away, dottore, The usual?'

'The usual.'

Ernesto took one of the filled rolls from the glass cabinet, set it on a plate, then added two more thick slices from the roast and set it down in front of Zen along with a small carafe of white wine and a knife and fork.