Bragi Ólafsson - Pets

The thought of Vigdis only made me think of one thing: the blonde from Hjalmholt. I looked for her in the crowd and came to the conclusion that she wasn’t interested in hanging about with all the consumer crazy Icelanders; if anything she would have rushed through the usual selection, only taking a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of Campari or Russian, not American, vodka.

“We have to buy something for Eyvi,” I heard someone say beside me as I stood in front of the cognac and whisky rack. The voice belonged to a man of about fifty with thinning hair. He was carrying an empty basket and reached up to the top shelf for a bottle of cognac.

“Why?” asked a woman of the same age, probably his wife, who stood on the other side of him. She sounded impatient.

“I can’t be bothered seeing his pathetic smile if he doesn’t get anything,” the man said and gazed with a rather serious expression at the bottle, as if buying it was quite a responsibility.

“It’s your decision,” the woman said. “He isn’t my brother.”

It was obvious that the woman’s lack of interest annoyed him. She had half-filled her basket with sweets. He put the cognac bottle back on the shelf and took hold of a cheaper brand in a plastic half-liter bottle. He examined it carefully, turned it over to read the information on the back, and tried the lid to make sure it was sealed properly. Then he said:

“He’s been collecting our mail for the past three weeks, I think the least we can do is show our gratitude.”

“I didn’t ask him to do it,” the woman answered just as coldly as before.

“No, I did,” the man said determinedly. “I think it’s quite alright to give him something for coming to pick us up and looking after the mail.”

“He has been using our car for three weeks,” the woman objected. “Isn’t that payment enough for taking some letters and newspapers out of the mail box?”

I could see that she had said her last words on the matter.

“He’s coming to pick us up,” the man repeated, but got no response.

He still couldn’t decide what to choose and I felt rather sorry for him. I decided to help the fellow; no doubt I was bolder than usual after the red wine and liqueur that I had on the plane. I apologized for interfering and told him that instead of the plastic bottle of cognac he should rather buy a big bottle of whisky or even port. The duty-free store had good port. The man gave me a look of surprise but I noticed that he was grateful for my advice. His wife, on the other hand, glared at me.

“That’s an idea,” he said, looking confidently at the cognac bottle. “Do you hear that, Magga?”

“I want no part in this,” she said almost aggressively. “I don’t see why we have to give your brother a bottle of alcohol every time we come home from abroad.” Having said that she turned around and pushed her way through the crowd towards the make-up stand.

“I just can’t bear to look at his pathetic smile,” the man repeated almost whining, more to himself than to his wife who was no longer there to listen to him. He gave a nod in my direction to show he appreciated the advice. Then I showed him a liter bottle of malt whisky, imagining that this Eyvi would be happy with a bottle like that. By now, he would no doubt be standing with his face pressed up against the glass that separates the passengers, who have just landed, from those who have come to meet them.

“So this is good, you say?” the brother asked when he had put the cognac back and picked up the liter of malt whisky instead. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. As I nodded, I pulled my bottom lip over my top one and tried to give him the impression that he was being given advice by a specialist. I quite expected him to ask for more advice, perhaps chat a little now that his wife had gone off, but he was satisfied with what I had already told him, placed the bottle carefully in his basket, and added another liter of malt whisky. Then he thanked me again and went off, clearly pleased with his purchases.

I hadn’t intended to buy whisky but while I imagined Eyvi and his brother in the living room with both bottles on the table — it wasn’t easy to guess whose bottle had been opened — I put one in my basket. Then I chose a good cognac and some Belgian chocolates for Vigdis. I added a liter of dry martini and two cartons of Camel filters, as well as cigars that looked as though they were one hundred percent tobacco, though it wasn’t stated on the box. Before placing everything on the counter, I grabbed six cans of beer too. I expected to be told that I had exceeded the allowance, but I wasn’t stopped at the counter or at the customs gate.

I still hadn’t seen the fair-haired woman, but I had spotted Armann again and it was obvious that he was having some trouble. I decided not to bother about him. Instead, now that I had gotten through customs, I cheered myself up with the thought that I was a free man and after four hours of going without could even enjoy a cigarette. I welcomed myself and pulled my overcoat out of my suitcase. It was cold in the entrance but I enjoyed the fresh air and looked forward to settling down on the bus.

First of all I had to have a smoke. While I was unwrapping the pack of Hamlets that I had bought at Heathrow, I looked across the hallway and amused myself by wondering if Eyvi had arrived to pick up the couple from the duty-free store. I was keeping an eye out for the blonde woman at the same time. I saw two men who could have been Eyvi. One of them was half bald and wore a dark blue fleece jumper and grey Terylene pants and the other, whom I recognized from somewhere downtown — either he worked in a shop or at the Post Office — was quite like the brother, with thinning fair hair, running shoes, and some kind of tracksuit under his anorak. He was holding a set of car keys that he rattled to announce his arrival.

When I walked outside, I saw the couple in front of me looking in the direction of the car park. The Fly Bus had arrived and the driver had started to load suitcases into the luggage compartment. The couple stood surrounded by their suitcases and duty-free bags and were looking rather miserable, not exactly dressed for February’s frost. I lit a cigar and took a sip from the Cointreau bottle from the plane. When I looked at them again, the woman seemed to be quietly scolding the man — I imagined it was because of the whisky he had bought — and I didn’t think she did much to warm him with her hard, fierce expression. I strained my ears to catch what she was saying and seemed to hear her mention the bus. A few minutes later the man walked slowly back towards the entrance of the airport building. He stopped close to me, turned around, and looked at his wife, as if he was tired rather than annoyed. Then he carried on and went inside.

The frost was beginning to sting my cheeks. I put out the half-smoked cigar and was about to get into the bus, but when I swung my bag up on to my shoulder I noticed the blonde woman standing outside the door with her luggage. She was lighting a cigarette. I had another drink from the miniature bottle and got out a pack of cigarettes from my coat pocket as I walked over to her.

“I have to ask you for a light,” I said.

“It’s alright to do it,” she answered.

I was almost sure she was referring to what she had said when she came out of the toilet in the plane. The words were exactly the same, except instead of letting me know that it was alright “to enter,” she now said it was all right “to do it.”

14

It wasn’t very bright inside the antique shop. What little light there was came from the weak yellow glow of lamps that were positioned amongst the dark wooden furniture; the atmosphere was better than the bar on Austurstraeti. He watched the policemen walk down Laugavegur until he couldn’t see them any more, then he wandered round the shop and inspected the furniture and knickknacks. He stopped in a corner, sat down in a deep, wide armchair that was covered in dark green upholstery, and stayed there for a while. There weren’t many customers in the shop: a middle-aged shop assistant stood beside a tall chest of drawers and arranged small statues around a mantelpiece clock; a young couple, who were holding a little girl by the hand, were interested in a beautiful sideboard with a mirror; and an old lady walked to and fro looking at different objects, fingered some of them but didn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular. He stretched out his legs, slid further down in the chair, and leaned his head back. He held the plastic bag on his lap as if it was a cat and after a few moments he had closed his eyes and seemed to be asleep. It was warm in there.