Season of the Witch (7 page)

“Nope. You can’t get out of it. It was discussed and decided. Once a week, on Tuesdays to be precise, the
Question of the Day
comes from Akureyri. Or wherever you happen to be at the time. It’s all part of the deal, buddy.”

“And what on earth am I supposed to ask them?”

“Not my problem.
What’s your favorite place to party?
for instance. That should be easy enough for you. Get to it.”

I call Jóa’s cell phone.

“Hello,” she says. There’s something odd about her voice.

“Hi. Look, apparently we’ve got to go out on the street and do
Question of the Day
. I’d forgotten all about it. Can you come right away?” I turn around.

“OK.” Jóa is standing in the doorway with her phone to her ear.

Fortunately for us, the passers-by in Town Hall Square are in a good mood.

All looking forward to participating in the sufferings of Christ over Easter, no doubt. Within ten minutes we have our answers to the urgent question
What’s your favorite place to party?

The Sjallinn disco. Café Akureyri. The Vélsmidjan
bar. Glaumbær.

Glaumbær
? In Reykjavík? But it burned down thirty years ago.
That’s right. No other place has ever been as good.
I don’t suppose I have to specify the age of the person who gave that answer.

Now all I need is one more victim.

Three young girls walk into the square from Hafnarstræti, apparently in high spirits. They are convulsed with laughter when
I stop them and ask if they would mind answering the
Question of the Day.

“Who’s going to answer?”

They keep on giggling. I wonder if they’ve been smoking funny cigarettes.

All three are wearing low-riding jeans, exposing bare midriffs.

“Sólrún, you answer it,” says one of them.

“Yeah, Sólrún,” adds the other. “Answer what you said before.”

Sólrún is a pretty girl, a little bit chubby. Under her jacket she is wearing a sweater so low-cut that I very nearly forget what the
Question
is.

“All right,” says Sólrún, raising a clenched fist as if taking part in a political demonstration. “I’ll answer.”

“And your last name?”

“Bjarkadóttir.”

“What do you do, Sólrún?”

“I’m a student at the high school.”

Jóa takes a photo and goes off to send her pics in.

“What’s your favorite place to party?”

“Kjartan Arnarson’s dick.”

All three girls burst out laughing.

“What’s your favorite food?” I ask without a smile.

“Same answer!” gasps Sólrún. They fall about in gales of laughter.

“And your favorite drink?” But they have moved on, spluttering with giggles.

The news editor is in a ferocious temper. No doubt he’s late for his next gourmet dinner. “Einar, it isn’t rocket science. Even you ought to be able to cope with it. There are five answers to the
Question of the Day
. Not four, not three, not two, not one. Five. F-I-V-E. I’ve got five photos here and only four answers. Where’s the fifth?”

“It’s not fit to print,” I reply.

“Oh? Why not?”

“Believe me. It isn’t.”

“You mean the answer given by high school student Sólrún Bjarkadóttir?”

“Yes, that’s the one I mean.”

“So what did she say?”

“She said her favorite place to party was Kjartan Arnarson’s dick.”

A choking gasp from the news editor. “Who’s Kjartan Arnarson?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

“Come on, Einar. It’s just some high school joke. It’s fun. A young, plain-speaking voice in the paper. Of course we’ll print it.”

I feel sweat beading on my brow.

“Are you crazy? It’s out of the question.”

“It’s not for you to say. It’s my decision, buddy.”

“But…but…whoever he is, that poor guy…and I think the girl was high.”

“So? That’s her problem. Not ours. Really, the things I have to deal with…,” grumbles Trausti Löve as he hangs up.

The woman who fell into the glacial river is dead. She never regained consciousness. Her name was Ásdís Björk Gudmundsdóttir. Fifty-five years old, she is survived by her husband and a grown son.

Jóa has been in bed for ages by midnight when I abandon my attempts to drop off. I get up, check on Polly—who is fast asleep with her head under her wing—and go into the living room to consult the telephone directory.

Kjartan Arnarson is listed in Akureyri. Profession: high school teacher.

Holy fucking shit.

A jolly little family is waiting for me in the newspaper offices when I arrive there around midday after a sleepless night. As I step across the threshold, I’m greeted with applause and cheerful barking. In the reception area Ásbjörn stands with Karólína, cradling Pal in her arms. All are wreathed in smiles. In the corner, Jóa is smirking.

“It worked!” exclaims Ásbjörn. “A girl brought Pal in just now. Her mother noticed the article in the paper this morning.”

“Where did they find him?” I ask, patting the excited little creature.

“He’d gotten lost down on the docks, and the girl spotted some boys about to throw him in the sea. She just managed to rescue him.” Ásbjörn concludes his account with a melodramatic shudder.

With her free hand, Karólína dries her eyes. “How can such boys have been raised? How could anyone treat such a sweet little doggie that way?”

I seem to remember her subjecting her husband to not-dissimilar treatment only yesterday.

“Sometimes humans are the only beasts that deserve the name,” remarks Ásbjörn as emphatically as before, before continuing more cheerfully: “Anyway. All’s well that ends well.”

Karólína kisses the dog right on the snout. “Mommy and Daddy have got their Pal back.”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” I say, entering my closet. I don’t expect things to be quite so rosy there.

And I’m right. On top of the piles of papers on my desk are three message slips. The first is from a man named Kjartan Arnarson, asking me to call. The second from Hannes, telling me to call. And the third from some woman. I shut my door, open the window with the view of the neighboring wall, and light up. Then I summon up courage and call Kjartan Arnarson.

A youthful male voice answers, “Kjartan.”

“This is Einar, from the
Afternoon News.
I had a message to call you. I think I know why.”

Silence. He takes a deep breath. “You think you know why, do you? You think you know what you’ve done to me?”

“I think I know what harm the comments have done you. And I can hardly express how much I deplore it.”

“Goddamned hypocrite. Fucking duplicity.” He does not raise his voice, in spite of the intemperate language. “Why on earth did you print that nonsense?”

“I know I can hardly expect you to believe me, but the comments were published against my wishes.”

“No, you can’t expect me to believe that. I just thank God that I’m not married and haven’t any children. Can you imagine the damage such an affair would do to a man’s marriage and family?”

“Yes, I can.”

I’ve been debating whether my loyalty to the
Afternoon News
extends as far as Trausti Löve. I’ve reached the conclusion that it doesn’t. Trausti betrayed me. I owe him nothing.

“I told the news editor in Reykjavík what the girl said and made it clear that it wasn’t fit to print. But he decided to publish it anyway.”

Kjartan laughs sarcastically. “You’re all the same, passing the buck. Oh, yes, you’re men of honor.”

“So you’ve already spoken to Trausti Löve?”

“Yes. He told me all the Akureyri content comes from you.”

“That is so. But I don’t decide what is printed and what isn’t.”

He says nothing.

“Will you give me an hour? I must speak to the editor of the paper. The buck stops with him. Can I call you back?” I say.

“Tell him I’m lucky not to lose my job. And tell him Sólrún Bjarkadóttir was suspended for a month. I interceded with the principal on her behalf, and he agreed to withdraw the suspension. She received a reprimand instead, for now.”

“So the principal believed you?”

“Sólrún admitted at once that it had been a joke that went too far. She’s a wreck. She’s just a young girl, trying to be cool. That anyone could do such a thing to a kid…”

We say our good-byes, coolly on his side. Now for Hannes.

“Hannes, do you understand now why I was unhappy about Trausti being appointed news editor?” I ask, temper fraying.

“Calm down, sir, calm down. I saw that awful blunder this morning, and I wanted to hear your side before going any further.”

I explain what happened.

“Is this our new news-gathering policy?” I angrily expostulate. “Am I supposed to put up with this unprincipled clown,
who’s been thrown off TV? He’s allowed to run amok, playing stupid tricks, and with no idea of the bigger picture. He can only do harm to the paper and its staff. And—most important of all—destroy the lives of innocent people. Just to put himself in the limelight and sell a few more papers.”

“I’m sure Trausti meant well. He is supposed to make sure that the paper always takes people by surprise, and raise our profile,” Hannes feebly counters.

“If it had been a news item, or an important article, it might have been acceptable to take chances. But this…”

“I know what you’re saying, my good sir, but…”

“Look, Hannes,” I interrupt, “if we don’t publish an apology on the front page tomorrow…”

“On the front page?”

“Yes. On the front page. If we don’t publish an apology there tomorrow, signed by the news editor, taking personal responsibility for the error, you’ll have my resignation. And I assure you, I’m not bluffing.”

“Now, now…”

“No,
now nows
won’t help. If you don’t do this, I might as well give up and go home. How do you think I would be able to get interviews and information after such a scandal? Gain people’s confidence, make contacts?”

I hear Hannes light a cigar, puff, and exhale. “All right, my good sir. We’ll do as you say. Trausti will learn his lesson.”

“I doubt it.”

I’ve got a grip on myself, but I’m as angry as ever.

“Anything else of interest?” Hannes inquires, signaling a change of subject.

“Yes, actually, really good news,” I reply. “Pal has turned up. Joy is unconfined in the domain of the former news editor—and
actually I’m beginning to feel Ásbjörn would have been preferable to Trausti.”

Once I’ve filled him in on the details of Pal’s rescue, Hannes comments:

“Indeed. Well, I think such good news calls for a follow-up. An interview with the girl who saved the little dog, a photo of them together. It will be a feel-good human interest story for people in Akureyri, and other readers, in tomorrow’s paper. In the first place it will counteract any negative impact of the matter we were discussing earlier. Secondly, it’s a story that everyone can identify with. Thirdly, it will be a justification for our unprecedented Missing Dog story in today’s paper. And fourthly, it will demonstrate that the
Afternoon News
can help people with their everyday problems. So what do you say to that?”

I think about what he has said. I must admit he has a point. “OK, I’ll do it. And you’ll rake Trausti over the coals?”

“As good as done, my good sir. As good as done.”

Kjartan Arnarson is far from thrilled when I tell him about my dealings with Hannes.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says. “And I may still take other action to regain my good name.”

In reception Karólína is working, and Pal is once again tethered to the desk by his leash. Karólína is singing in a whiny voice like someone playing a saw, humming something undefined as she works. Her singing voice is nothing like her throaty speaking voice. I ask after Jóa. Karólína tells me she’s gone out with her camera bag. Ásbjörn is at his desk in his office. I can see he has shaken off his worries. I tell him about Hannes’s idea.

“Excellent,” he says. “Good for everyone.”

“I suppose you made a note of the girl’s name, address, and phone number?”

“Of course. Karó and I are going to send her a little something today, to say thank you.”

He takes a piece of paper from his pants pocket and hands it to me. I make a note of the information, then pass it back to him.

I get hold of Jóa on her cell phone, and before long we are on our way to meet the intrepid canine rescuer, Björg Gudrúnardóttir, who was quick to agree to an interview. In the backseat Pal sits quietly, tethered to the door handle.

“Where were you?” I ask as I struggle to find my way to Holtagata using a map of the town.

“I looked in at the
Akureyri Post
. Their offices are just near ours, on Skipagata.”

“The
Akureyri Post
? I’ve been intending to drop by, but I haven’t had time. Remarkable, the way they’ve managed to publish a local weekly paper year after year. We really need to establish a good relationship with them.”

“I met the editor. I suggested the three of us get together some evening at one of these fine local restaurants that I’m always hearing about. The Easter break has started, and I think we deserve a little fun, Einar, after our hard toil and pizza diet. Do you agree?”