Bragi Ólafsson - Pets

“Where is the ringing coming from?” Greta asks excitedly, as if she expects the telephone to tell them where I am.

Which it actually does.

Havard doesn’t take long to track down the sound; he rushes into the bedroom and grabs the phone.

“Emil here,” he says in a gruff voice.

Greta doesn’t answer him. Instead she comes into the bedroom and switches the cordless phone off. I’m relieved that I didn’t have my cell phone on me.

“I don’t find this at all amusing, to tell you the truth,” Greta complains. “I’m beginning to fear that something has happened to him.”

“It’s not a bad phone,” Havard answers. I’d give it to him if he would just get out of my home.

“What about his father?” Greta asks. “Do his parents live together?”

“That I can’t tell you,” Havard says. “But, I found the number of his father Halldor today and his mother answered the phone.”

As soon as Greta sits down at the foot of the bed, right above my head, she asks Havard to call my mother to find out if I have gone there. The mattress sinks down uncomfortably close to my head and just misses touching me. Havard tells her that my mother has already called, and then Greta asks whether he knows of some friend I could have gone to visit. “We can’t stay in his flat all evening, you can’t finish all his wine, I mean, he has only just gotten home from abroad.”

“ We ?” Havard seems to be rather offended. “Who are we ?”

“I mean all of us,” Greta says apologetically.

“I don’t know any of Emil’s friends,” Havard says. “I haven’t seen him for a long time, we never really knew each other very well.”

“You do know him, don’t you?” Greta seems to grow suspicious.

“Of course I know him. We were in London together. We also worked in the same place.”

“And was he expecting you here today? Did you speak to him first?”

Armann’s whistling drowns out the quiet waltz in the living room; “Künstlerleben” is just about to begin.

“Well, he didn’t really know that I was coming, I just came home from Sweden unexpectedly. It wasn’t really planned at all.” I hear him press on the keyboard.

“What were you doing in Sweden?” Greta asks. “Hey, you shouldn’t read his email,” she adds accusingly.

“I’m not doing much at the moment. You mean am I working or something like that?”

“Stop reading his email,” Greta repeats angrily.

“I’m not reading it, I’m just. .” He is interrupted by my cell phone, which starts ringing. The first person I think of is Saebjorn; he’s the only person I know who prefers to call a cell phone number before a home number, even though he knows that I am at home. “Hey, now he’s calling!” Havard shouts. “He’s seen that someone has called him from here.”

Oh yes? I say to myself, and Greta makes a similar comment; she asks if he really thinks so.

“Emil?” Havard seems convinced that it’s me. “Hello? Who is that? Saebjorn? Yes, this is Emil’s place. It is Emil’s. Who am I? I am Havard.”

I can feel Greta move her behind around on the bed, and then I hear her pick up something from my son Halldor’s toy box. It sounds like she is looking at a fire engine I gave him last summer.

“Yes, Saebjorn, I think so. I think he just nipped out. Yes, yes, do that. .”

Greta lets out a sound, as if she has pricked herself on something, and for a moment I feel as if it is I who has hurt myself, that she has sat further in on the bed and made the springs poke into the back of my neck. She probably pinched her finger in the ladder on the fire engine; I have done it myself.

“Vigdis?” Havard asks in surprise. “No, it isn’t Vigdis. It’s Greta, Emil’s friend. What? Do you want to talk to her? No, alright. Yes, I think he’ll be back soon. Shall I tell him you called? No, probably just out to the shop, but he has been rather long. Yes, just knock, we are here looking after his house. OK? Alright, Saebjorn. Goodbye, Saebjorn.”

“Who is Vigdis?” Greta asks.

“Emil seems to know some girl called Vigdis,” Havard answers, and I beg him, for God’s sake, not to say any more about it. “How did you manage to hurt yourself on that?” he asks, and I’m really thankful that he steers the subject away from Vigdis.

“I pinched myself,” Greta answers.

“Hey, I want to show you something in the other room,” Havard says. I imagine he is going to show her the ship and the book.

He stands up from the computer table, and, as he goes towards the door, I get ready to make the most of the opportunity and tap Greta on her foot while she’s still sitting on the bed. But just when Havard goes out of the room, Greta stands up, and before I can do anything it is too late to touch her. I curse myself for being so slow, but I am convinced that it would be less risky to try to get her attention when she goes to the toilet by herself, which she must do soon.

I think back to our first conversation in front of the toilet on the plane. If we get to know each other better (that is when this nightmare is over) that trip to the toilet will be a shared memory of our first conversation.

“I was beginning to think that you had both gone,” Armann says when they come into the living room. I haven’t heard much from him, apart from the occasional whistle to the Viennese waltzes. He seems to have forgotten that he was hungry.

“Here’s what I want to show you,” Havard says eagerly. “See here, isn’t she beautiful?”

“Is she your daughter?” Greta sounds surprised.

“Don’t you think she is pretty?”

“Yes, she’s a very pretty girl. How old is she?”

“She’s. . what. . she’ll be eight this summer.”

I had no idea that Havard was a father. I don’t even know if I should be happy for him, I haven’t a clue about the circumstances in which the poor child was conceived.

“She is very pretty, Havard,” Greta repeats.

For some reason I feel I can believe what Greta is saying, even though she seems to be something of a tease. It’s no doubt because I trust her; she is the only sensible person in here — apart from myself, that is. If she says that Havard’s daughter is pretty, then I believe that she is pretty. But I still find it difficult to accept the fact that he has a daughter.

“May I see, Havard?” Armann says, though I can’t imagine he is very interested in children.

3

“Is she holding a Bible?” Armann asks, and Havard sounds rather annoyed when he answers:

“Yes, is there anything wrong with that?”

“Absolutely not. The Bible is as good as any other book,” Armann says and adds that she is a pretty girl.

“Was the photo taken abroad?” Greta asks. “The atmosphere seems to be so foreign somehow, especially those heavy dark curtains in the background. Was it taken in America?”

“In America?” Havard hesitates for a moment and then tells Greta that yes, the photo was taken there; the girl’s mother, with whom he no longer lives — understandably, I say to myself — had gone off to America with the girl, but he sees her now and again. She visits him regularly, last time in Sweden.

Sounds likely, I think to myself.

But I think it is very strange that Havard never mentioned his family to me. If his daughter is nearly eight, she must have been two or three when we were in London. Now I recall that he told me once that he didn’t have any children; that children were better off without a father like him, as I think he put it.

“Well, my friends,” Armann barks after Havard has told them about his daughter and her mother. “One can’t just survive on photos. Isn’t it time we had something to eat?”