Bragi Ólafsson - Pets

Except me of course.

I told him I understood what he meant, and while we laughed at the idea that he should perhaps speak English in Iceland — as there would be a chance of someone understanding him then — I thought he was cheerful and ready to make the best of our stay in London.

But then, exactly a day later, it seemed that Havard had gone off the rails emotionally and intellectually, and with each day that passed he seemed to move further and further away from the equilibrium that he had enjoyed that afternoon. It is probably ridiculous to talk about mental equilibrium in a person who has just arrived in a new country and spends a large amount of money on a musical instrument which he has never heard of before, but, considering his behavior during the rest of his stay, he seemed comparatively normal as we chatted in this friendly bar — even though that was the place where he decided to call himself Howard and to introduce me as Email from then on. Emil was far too Scandinavian a name for the British Isles.

It was also in this Spanish bar that Havard explained to two native bank clerks why we were in London. When he had finished telling me about his past, he took out his new instrument to have a look at it and handle it, and the men at the next table became very keen to find out what kind of guitar it was. One of them thought it was a toy guitar, and when Havard told him it was a ukulele, they admitted that they had never heard of anything called that. We were both rather chatty after the beer and the Spanish brandy that the bartender had recommended and were quite willing to talk to these city men. All Havard knew about the instrument he had been told by the man in the shop. It was a special guitar from Hawaii and originated in Portugal, and, when he mentioned that Elvis held a similar guitar on the cover of his album Blue Hawaii , the men remembered it and thought it was quite remarkable. Then they were curious to know where we came from, were we from Holland or Germany? Their interest didn’t diminish when they heard that we came from Iceland, and they asked what we were doing in London, since we weren’t just ordinary tourists, as Havard put it.

“We are taking care of some animals,” he told them and they grew even more interested. He told them about the animals: the cat Ratty, which Orn thought looked like a rat when he got it as a kitten; Moby, the albino guinea pig, which was named in honor of the white whale in the owner’s favorite book; Dick, the rabbit, which came into the house the day after Moby, so it seemed logical to call it that (even though it was a female); and last but not least, Ahab, the iguana, a nineteen-year-old lizard from prehistoric times — the oldest animal on earth and so on. It was named Ahab because of its expressive eyes, which Orn thought must be as deep as those of the captain of the ship Pequod ; he assumed that it would have the same wisdom and experience.

Orn told us all of this in the half hour we spent with him on our arrival at Brooke Road. He also showed us the flat, taught us a bit about the implements in the house, and set limits on how far we could go in making ourselves at home. Then he went off to the airport to board a plane heading for South America, where he was going to spend the summer on business.

“You are some noble Icelanders,” I think I remember one of the bank clerks saying, and though I realized that he was gently making fun of us, I didn’t mind; in fact it was understandable. I would think it rather amusing if I met two foreigners in Reykjavik who had come here specifically to feed some cats, hamsters, or even budgies.

Before the Englishmen said goodbye they asked us what we were called. They weren’t particularly surprised at Havard’s new name — they seemed to think it was natural for Icelanders to have English names — but when they heard Havard say my name they were perplexed and asked if it really was Email. We managed to convince them that it was and were very pleased with ourselves after they had left the bar.

I felt good that evening and, when we got on the last seventy-three bus heading north towards Stoke Newington, I was looking forward to staying at Brooke Road. However, things were to change and I can recall beginning to have doubts straight away the next day when I woke up just before noon, a little tired after our drinking session the night before. Havard had by then consumed two or three Special Brews to wake up and told me very proudly that he had given Ratty some beer in his milk dish.

8

The fact that I had witnessed, or at least heard, Havard’s acts, which could have been private if he had closed the door, made it even more impossible for me to come out from under the bed. Although Havard isn’t the type of man who normally hides things or feels ashamed of his human needs, I can’t — by suddenly appearing in the living room — admit that I have been watching him on the toilet and, even worse, that I have seen him masturbating. What makes it even more painful is the fact that he used Vigdis and called out her name to arouse himself. I haven’t just been prying into his most intimate, private life; I have confirmed what he said about me to his friend in Breidholt: I am a “real pussy.”

To put it bluntly, I have become the guilty party, if one can talk of guilt in connection with the events that have taken place here. Whatever crimes Havard has committed in the past — which one must admit are more than a few — his entrance into my flat (if one can use that term) is far from being a criminal act. Turning off a burner on the stove that belongs to an old friend who is obviously not at home is much more like a good deed.

There is a knock on the front door. The music in the living room has been changed once again; now one of the CDs from the bottom shelf is being played — a King Tubby CD that I bought in London five years ago. As far as I can hear, Havard is standing in the kitchen, pouring more beer into his glass. I can guess who is standing on the doorstep in the cold and know, at the same time, that it is pointless to ask God for help this time. Havard will invite Armann in and Armann will certainly accept. He knocks again before Havard goes to the door.

“Good evening,” says the new host.

I can’t hear what the visitor replies, but Havard invites him in, he is going to fetch the glasses. However, I hear Armann’s voice when he goes into the living room. He shouts, even though the music isn’t that loud:

“Emil hasn’t come home?”

“No,” Havard answers, and I can hear him moving something on the living room table. “Here, wait a moment,” he adds and turns off the music. “Won’t you wait a while and see if he comes back?”

“Well, I wonder if I should,” Armann says, as if he has something important to do at home and has to think about it first.

“Have a seat,” Havard says. “Can I offer you a beer or something?”

The front door closes; I hear Armann take off his shoes.

“A beer, you say?”

Although I can’t say I am overjoyed that Armann is about to accept a drink in my living room, I am relieved that he knocked on the door and not the friend Havard invited. At the same time I know that this friend will come later, it’s just a question of when he will turn up. The same applies to when Greta will call, or Vigdis, Saebjorn, or Jaime.

“What do you say, can I offer you a beer?” Havard says. “I’m pretty sure there’s one left.”

“He wouldn’t have any red wine by any chance, would he?” Armann asks.

I close my eyes automatically and cross myself in my mind: not only is he going to have a drink, but he is going to pick and choose what it will be.

“I don’t think so,” Havard replies. “I don’t think he bought anything in the duty-free store other than a few beers and, of course, some whisky and. . what else did he buy? Martini. Yes, and then there is this fine bottle of cognac, Remy Martini no less.”