Bragi Ólafsson - The Ambassador

“We have a Salomé night tonight,” said the girl in English as they went in the direction of the coat-check. “It’s première,” she continued, and Sturla nodded his head and felt for a moment as if they — he and this young, pretty woman, who seemed hardly aware of her naked breasts — were discussing a major cultural event (he didn’t, of course, rule out that possibility).

“I am looking forward to it,” Sturla interrupted the woman, who was beginning to describe this Salomé night in more detail, and while he thought about the similarity between that title and The Night of One Poem which he was attending in Druskininkai he told the woman (truthfully) that Salomé was one of his favorite stories; he had read the play both in English and Icelandic — she did mean Salomé, the daughter of Herod, didn’t she?

“It’s Salomé who makes her father cut the head off Judas,” the woman answered in English, and she let Sturla know she would bring him champagne once he was sitting back down; the show would begin any minute.

Sturla thanked her for this and when he allowed himself to look shamelessly at her youthful breasts she seemed suddenly to remember that they were on show for everyone’s eyes, and she gave a friendly smile to Sturla and thanked him for — for what? thought Sturla, which left him with a strange feeling: it wasn’t sexual in any way, it was more of a tender and affectionate feeling; he had seen something beautiful in this young woman who firmly believed that Salomé had forced her stepfather to behead Judas. While Sturla tried to figure out how a headless man manages to hang himself, he watched the back of the bare-breasted woman as she went towards the bar. He got his wallet from the overcoat, though he was a little uncomfortable leaving the new overcoat in the unguarded coat check.

The men at the table welcomed Sturla back with smiles and raised glasses; it was as though they had missed him in the two or three minutes he had been away. One of them, a rather tall man who seemed to be the spokesman for the companions, told Sturla in English that the show was beginning, but the other man who, without being especially fat in other respects nevertheless had the largest paunch Sturla had ever seen on any man, looked at Sturla with curious eyes and asked him where he came from. They said they were Russian and both seemed delighted to have an Icelander at their table. The tall one raised his glass again and said he would toast Sturla when his champagne arrived; his companion with the paunch said, out of the blue, that he had come to the right place, that this was the place for Icelanders, and he asked what Sturla was doing in Vilnius.

“I am a writer,” replied Sturla. “I am going to a poetry festival here in Litháen .”

“In. .” the tall one asked, confused.

“In Lithuania,” Sturla corrected himself, and they told him the Russian word for Lithuania.

Suddenly there was a loud noise from the club’s loudspeaker.

“I’m a writer too,” said the paunchy one, and he looked at the unlit stage.

The tall one giggled a little strangely, and Sturla thought that perhaps he was laughing at the same thing he himself found funny: the heavy Russian accent of his companion, which called to mind images of the grey and glowering Soviet figures in western movies about the Cold War.

“I write decadent books about Russian businessmen,” continued the big-bellied man in English. “You know: oligarchs. Not poetry, romans.”

“Really?” asked Sturla, sounding as skeptical as the word suggested; had the man meant to describe his books as “decadent,” or had Sturla misheard? And as soon as he asked whether the man had published many books the tall one lost control of the laughter that had been simmering under his giggles.

“I said: I write books,” answered the author, emphasizing the present tense of the verb “write.” He’d clearly been unsettled by the laughter of his companion, who clapped his paunchy friend on the back while he told Sturla that he shouldn’t trust his big-bellied companion (though he didn’t use the adjective “big-bellied”); it would be, to put it bluntly, dangerous to do so — though in all other respects Sturla shouldn’t be frightened; they were not dangerous men. The taller Russian’s knowledge of English and his convincing pronunciation had to a large extent thrown Sturla off-balance; with his own grammar-school English and clumsy Icelandic pronunciation, Sturla felt a definite sense of inferiority, but when the Russian continued Sturla thought he perceived an affectation in his word choice and his emphasis, and he decided that of the two parties he was faring a little better than the Russian in his struggles with the English language.

“He has no books under his belt,” said the taller one. “He is a businessman. He is the main character in the non-existing books he is talking about.” And he smiled at the self-professed author who responded to him, looking a little flushed in the face:

“I am going to write this book. Not poetry like you.”

He turned his eyes to Sturla. “Poetry is good but I am going to write roman.”

Then we’re in a similar situation, thought Sturla: he doesn’t want to speak ill of poetry but he doesn’t think he has any need for it. On the other hand, people everywhere around him seemed to have a need to tell him about their own desire to create, whether in the field of visual or written arts: the salesperson in the men’s clothing store, Áslákur in the elevator, and now this fat-bellied Russian in the strip club. Could it be that Sturla had the trustworthy countenance of a good listener, that people found they could entrust their secrets to him, tell him about their own personal creations, even before they have been created? If truth be told, Sturla was having some difficulty working out whether he was meant to repay the curiosity his table-companions had shown him and ask in turn what their job or business in Vilnius was — it had occurred to him that responding to questions of that nature might not be something these two were keen to do — and he counted himself lucky when he heard quiet music over the sound system: slow string music with soprano singing, far too loud for the small size of the hall. It was an aria from the opera Salomé, sung by Birgitta Nilsson:

“Jokanaan, ich bin verliebt in deinen Leib. .”

“Mu sick ,” said the shorter Russian, rather loudly, turning to Sturla with a happy expression on his face.

His companion — who Sturla had decided, at least in his own head, to call Igor, while he called the paunchy one Yuri (a suitably stout name) — shushed him and indicated with a series of hand gestures that he should listen to the music, not talk about it. Igor also turned disapprovingly in the direction of the Swedes at the next table, who seemed to be becoming impatient, or, at least, one of them seemed like he was going to belt out some motivational cheers, not unlike the ones you hear at soccer matches. Soon enough the aria died down and was replaced by the following recorded announcement in English, spoken by a rather overly-emotive male voice with a noticeably stiff pronunciation:

“Tonight is a Salomé night . If anyone in the audience is named Jokanaan then he is here on his own responsibility and judgment.” (Here there was a little pause, as if to heighten the gravity of what had just been said and what would follow.) “A man’s head is a heavy burden but please keep it erected and we will guarantee you your full pleasure and admissional investment. Ladies and. .” (Now came another, somewhat strange hesitation from the announcer; he heaved a sigh, as if he disapproved of something, and cleared his throat before continuing.) “gentlemen, please welcome and make way. . give head to Salomé Martysevic from Belarus: our Baltic Salomé with seven veils.” Then he suddenly burst into throaty laughter which reminded Sturla of the Hammer Horror movies he had seen at the Hafnarbíó Movie Theater on Barónsstígur when he was a teenager; the taller Russian, Igor, asked himself out loud, very displeased, how in heaven’s name Belarus had become one of the Baltic states.