Bragi Ólafsson - Pets

When he had made a complete circuit of the area beyond the counter, and gazed at and fingered several garments on hangers, the dark-haired sales assistant came up to him and asked if he could be of any help. He said possibly, he was looking for a suit, of rather thick material, a proper suit, as he put it, something he could wear on more occasions than just family gatherings. The sales assistant said he understood what he meant, he was talking about a suit he could wear both for funerals and on more relaxed, informal occasions, an everyday suit; he knew just what he meant. He stretched out towards a light grey one and told the man that if he himself was looking for a suit this is the one he would choose. It doesn’t matter where you are, he said, this suit is always appropriate. He took the clothes, examined them from the front and the back, and then asked to see something else slightly darker, maybe even black, but it had to be darker. Let’s look more in this direction then, the sales assistant said, and motioned him to follow.

Before he selected another suit he had a better look at the customer, mumbled something to himself about the size he needed, then showed him a charcoal-colored suit that seemed to fulfill his requirements about utility and thickness. The customer’s reaction was positive; it was just what he was looking for, could he try it on? He was shown into the changing room and when he began to undress he shouted out to the assistant: could he find some fine shirt for him, something that would go well with the clothes? The assistant was standing in front of the changing room with a light grey shirt when he appeared in the suit, shoeless, and with his hands outstretched. You have to put on your shoes, the assistant said, it doesn’t look right with just socks. Apart from that it fits like a glove, I think the size is just right, that is, if you want my opinion. He said he thought so too, took the shirt, put it on, and placed his feet into his shoes. The assistant showed him that he looked first class by forming a zero with his first finger and thumb and told him he would give him the shirt, this very fine shirt, made of the best quality material, for half price with the suit. He could also show him a tie that would go very well with the shirt. He said no thank you, he was not interested in ties or bow-ties, but perhaps he could dispose of the old clothes for him, everything except the anorak and shoes. The assistant said that was no problem, said he would fetch the clothes personally from the changing room later. Then he accepted payment, tapped a simple drum beat on the counter, and said that was fine, now they were quits.

On the way out, the customer paused by the full-length mirror and gazed at himself for a little while, pulling his anorak away from his shoulders to see more of his new suit, but he stopped as he was about to button up the shirt’s top button and walked back to the counter. He had forgotten to take the plastic bag with him. The dark-haired man had disappeared from the counter, but the other assistant passed him the bag and told him with a smile that the outfit he had chosen was cool. The smile remained on the face of the assistant until he had left the shop. It was a cold smile, and he waved at the customer’s back with his index finger, just like a child who hasn’t gained control of all the movements of his body yet. He nearly fell when he stepped out on to the pavement. He swore automatically, stopped for a short while in front of the shop window, pulled up his hood, and zipped up his anorak.

After walking for a few minutes he disappeared into a store, where he asked if he could make a telephone call. While he was looking for the number in the directory, he said he wanted to buy cigarettes, one pack of Viceroy and something for his throat, something strong for his throat. Then he pressed the numbers. He waited for a short while and gazed absentmindedly into space, then he suddenly jerked into life, pressed the receiver closer to his ear, and slammed it back down. He said yes very decisively, like someone who has successfully completed a mission, and flicked his hands away when the shop assistant asked if he had said something. He paid for the cigarettes and throat lozenges, but corrected the man when he was going to charge for the phone call — the line was busy. Then he left and walked slowly up Vitastigur.

He stopped on the corner of Grettisgata, put his hand in his pocket for a cigarette, and lit it. He looked in both directions and pointed alternatively up and down the street, as if he was showing himself the way or asking which direction he should go. A big truck came up Vitastigur and braked suddenly at the corner of Grettisgata to allow a small white car to cross. It came speeding along from the west, obviously going much too fast for the road conditions. The truck driver watched the white car disappear, almost as if he was watching a ball spin over a tennis court. He had trouble with the ice when he tried to drive off. The wheels of the truck spun for a little while; then he let the truck slide backwards into a vacant parking space in front of the dry cleaner’s on Vitastigur.

It was nearly six o’clock. A middle-aged man came running up the street from Laugavegur; he had a full plastic bag — a white bag that swung back and forth as he ran — in one hand. Then he suddenly stopped after passing the dry cleaner’s, turned around, and disappeared into a doorway. He disappeared just like any other stranger: you don’t expect to see them again in this life.

19

Cold, fresh air streams in through the wide open kitchen window. I begin to think spontaneously of Armann’s speculations about the rise and fall of temperatures in the world; in a short while I’ll be standing on the line between these great opposites (or however he expressed it): the cold coming in through the window and the water which I am going to boil for the coffee. I fill the smallest pot with icy cold water and switch on the burner. However, I don’t know why I fill the pot for one little cup of coffee; I just feel uncomfortable watching such a small quantity of water boil. Probably, deep down, I am afraid that I will forget the pot on the burner, the water will evaporate, and the pot will burn and turn black inside.

The last sounds of “Lonely Fire” fade away. I turn the record over and turn the volume up slightly before I go back into the bedroom and answer the email from Vigdis. I’m aware that it is rather loud — the music itself isn’t exactly very quiet — but I think it’s all right to let Bella upstairs know that I am home. She will no doubt be very happy, if I am to believe what Tomas told me just now, that she couldn’t find a better neighbor than me.

I seem to be surrounded by elderly people. I would think Bella is nearly eighty. Tomas next door could be about sixty-five, and an elderly couple and their middle-aged son live in the little house to the east. Although there wasn’t much truth in the newspaper ad for the flat — in particular the information regarding its size and condition — at least one detail was correct: it is in a quiet district.

1

I have just settled down to write an email to Vigdis when there is a knock on the front door. When I get up from the computer someone knocks again, twice as fast this time, and before I open the door I decide to peep out of the living room window to see who it is. While I open the curtains slightly, there is another knock, this time so insistently loud that I take extra care not to be seen as I peer out through the crack. When I see a man in a blue nylon anorak with a hood standing outside the door, I presume that this is the man who Tomas told me had come at lunchtime. My suspicions are confirmed when I see he is carrying a white plastic bag.