Pets (12 page)

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.”

“Rémy Martin,” Armann corrects him, with such emphasis on the “r” sounds that Havard can't resist teasing him. It was something I didn't really expect him to notice.

“Oh, is that right!” he says, copying Armann's pronunciation without sounding too sarcastic. “So you would prefer cognac?”

“Yes, thanks, just one glass. But I mustn't stop too long. I'll just wait for him a little while, I really must thank him for taking care of my glasses.”

I have to smile. Does he have any reason to hurry? Do I really deserve thanks for having ruined his homecoming?

“Here, I hadn't thought of it but maybe I should make some coffee.” Havard suddenly begins to sound just like a homely housewife. “It's just a question of whether old Emil has any coffee.”

“What did you say?” Armann asks, and Havard repeats that he is going to make some coffee to go with the cognac.

I don't hear Armann decline the offer of coffee and I try to make out what he is doing, but I can't hear him at all. Havard, on the other hand, has started looking for the coffee in the cupboards and, just when I remember that I had bought coffee before I went abroad, he finds it and tells Armann.

“Just help yourself to the cognac,” he says, and, as far as I can make out from Armann's answer, he seems to have gone into the kitchen too.

“We have to use the proper glasses, don't you agree? I wonder if your friend has some special glasses for cognac?”

“I don't know, I only drink whisky myself,” Havard says. I hear him turn on the tap and fill the coffee jug. “He must have something like that, our friend is a man of good taste.”

The cork is pulled out of the Rémy Martin bottle.

“And you say he just popped out for a second?” Armann asks.

“He must have, he wasn't at home when I arrived. He can't have gone far, there was water boiling on the stove.”

“And the front door was open?”

“Not quite, no. The door wasn't open, I had to climb through the window. I couldn't let the water boil over.”

“That is strange,” Armann says. I hear him pouring himself a glass and expect that they have found my cognac glasses, which I keep in the lower cupboard.

“How did you get to know each other?” Havard asks.

“We don't know each other very well. I just sat beside him on the plane on the way home from London today. Or he sat beside me.”

“So you weren't traveling together then?”

“Well yes, we sat together on the plane. I beside him and he beside me.”

“But when did he call you, did you say?”

“Just about um
. . .
what
. . .
maybe three quarters of an hour or an hour ago. Must have been as soon as he got home. He just left a message on my answering machine, I hadn't gotten home by then. Of course I thought that I had left my glasses on the plane, so I spent rather a long time at the airport.”

Havard asks Armann if he wouldn't prefer to sit in the living room. They have to wait for the coffee; it will no doubt take a while.

“And what do you do?” he asks, without mincing his words, once they have sat down.

“You could say I work with linguistics,” Armann answers.

I'm quite sure that he's more than willing to discuss the latter calmly over drinks, but it doesn't look like Havard is going to give him the opportunity to do so, at least not straight away.

“Hey, why don't we play some music? At least there is no shortage of music here at Señor Emilio's place.”

I don't hear Armann reply and imagine that he prefers silence to anything his host is likely to play. There is silence for a minute until Armann asks:

“What's your name again? I haven't asked you, have I?”

Havard answers the question and then says cheerfully: “A little classical music? Shall we put a little classical music on the player, eh?”

Armann answers, but I can't make out what he says. Then he raises his voice and asks: “So you are called Havard? Isn't that what you said?”

“My name's Havard. Havard Knutsson.”

“Oh, yes? Knutsson? That's not a bad name.”

I can remember that Armann had given my name a similar appraisal. Havard seems to be engrossed in selecting music or putting it on. I don't hear him until he suddenly offers Armann a cigar—from the boxes I bought in the duty-free store I'm sure. I wonder whether Armann will offer his new friend an Opal and then realize that he probably finished the box he had on the plane; he didn't get to the duty-free store to buy more because of the trouble over his glasses.

He declines the offer of a cigar, says he stopped smoking a long time ago.

The coffee-maker makes itself heard and I swear to myself in frustration at not being able to share their pleasure. When the music starts—some classical piece that I don't recognize straight away—I hear Havard go into the kitchen and call out on the way:

“Here, isn't that Mozart? I just put on some Deutsche Grammophon CD. Isn't it old Mozart?”

“No, my friend,” Armann answers. He raises his voice so that Havard can hear him from the kitchen. “That is not Mozart.” Maybe he read the cover of the CD, but he seems to have some knowledge of music, contrary to what I had imagined on the plane. “It's Mahler. A rather remarkable work, it's sixteen-year-old Mahler. Just about the only chamber work of his that has been preserved.”

“Jawohl,” I hear Havard say, mainly to himself. “Chamber music, yes.” Then he is suddenly standing in the hallway. “More cognac?” he offers, and again I am amazed at how polite and cultured he can appear to be and how he manages to hide all traces of his character underneath the surface.

“Let it come, let it come,” Armann barks, as if he is beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol and is ready for anything.

I feel a new wave of hopelessness sweep over me and ask myself again what I have done to deserve this. The first answer that occurs to me is that I am paying for the unexpected good fortune of winning a million in the lottery and for deciding to waste at least a quarter of it on a trip abroad—on music, books and videos—instead of using it on something that could be considered constructive, something material, something that doesn't just go into one's head and end there.

Someone turns down the heavy, emotional music—I remember now, with Armann's help, that it is Mahler's piano quartet—and I hear that Havard has come back into the living room when he says: