Doctor Vésteinn put on his glasses and headed out, his footsteps the only sound in the room. As the door clicked shut behind him Sæmundur slammed his fists on the desk, stifling a roar of frustration.
Þrjú
Karnivalið was one of the few places of entertainment in Reykjavík where humans and huldufólk drank together. Garún was familiar with the bouncers working the doors and slipped them a few krónur as they let her in. She’d had the cash ready in case someone unfamiliar was on shift, but decided to still slide them the money. The bouncers wouldn’t hesitate in deciding who to evict the next time she throat-punched some asshole, probably human, for groping her. Hopefully.
The bar was filled with smoke and loud, drunk people, located in an antiquated house that was in no way built to house a bar of this scope. Every night Karnivalið filled up with people who called themselves artists, writers, poets, kuklarar, revolutionaries, and so on. Everyone was busy being seen and seeing others.
Garún felt as if she vaguely knew everybody in there, as if the same night was on repeat weekend after weekend and everyone knew their designated role and lines beforehand. They identified as artists, but Garún felt they were more into saying they were instead of actually working at it. They talked ten times more than they worked; every sketch was an accomplishment, every idea pure brilliance. Some of them lived together in communes, usually as squatters. It was a source of pride to live on the margins of society, of not belonging. But for them it was a self-imposed exile, a choice. Many proudly identified as part of some grass-roots organisation, as radical revolutionaries, but when the call came to take real, dangerous action, there was always a sudden change of tone.
Her friends were gathered in the same corner as usual. Or, she hoped that they were her friends. Most of them, at least. She did not know what they said about her behind her back and while she tried not to care, she sometimes couldn’t help it.
Not all of them were like that, of course. But some. They were like most of the people in this bar, in Reykjavík. When it came to fighting for real change, to take action that truly meant something, they hesitated. They became afraid.
Garún glanced at the group and tried to spot if Diljá, Jón or even Hrólfur were there. Didn’t look like it. She’d been avoiding most of them all summer. She really could have used Jón’s presence there to get into the conversation. Garún thought it was largely due to him that the others had accepted her so quickly when she’d started hanging around the same bars as them, seeing them at the same art openings. He’d always given her space to talk, to be heard. To exist. When she’d voiced the idea of staging a demonstration in front of City Hall, he had been first to back her up. Instead of giving in to their reflexive fear, dismissing her, they’d listened. He was a poet, called himself Jón Fjarðaskáld – poet of the fjords. A bit tacky, but it had stuck. He wrote beautiful, subversive prose, where opposition to oppression and injustice were hidden in naturalistic metaphors. Garún wasn’t much for poetry, but she thought she recognised the real deal when she read it.
Garún was the prime agitator for the demonstration. It had been her idea. Not that it mattered, but still. It made her feel as if she was doing something that truly mattered. They were going to change things. The others hadn’t liked it initially, but Jón had supported her fully through the debate. He’d convinced some of them to take part. Make a difference. She’d been surprised at how even the most passive and content people had joined in. But she didn’t really feel comfortable facing them right now. She had other things on her mind.
Garún tried to sneak past them unseen to the stairs that led up to the upper floor. Lilja noticed her and waved, gestured for her to sit with them. A friendly sign, but Garún knew better. The looks on their faces as they noticed her told her everything she needed to know. She signalled to them that she was first going to the bar. She might as well start drinking now.
At the bar she almost had to scream at the bartender to get service. Even though Karnivalið was open to blendingar, that didn’t necessarily mean that they were well treated. When she finally got her beer she was pretty sure that she paid considerably more for it than the other guests. But at least she was served.
She made her way back to the table and grabbed a free chair. At the other end of the table people were talking politics at full volume. It overwhelmed any other discussion, as so often before.
“The protest will just be the beginning,” said Jónas Theium.
He called himself a poet, a radical, and a revolutionary. He’d been adamantly against Garún’s idea when she first brought it up. He and most of the people at the table were unlikely to show up, she thought. It would have to be up to Jón. Garún wasn’t good at sucking up to people she hated.
“The people have the power and we need to show it! It’s just a matter of gathering a crowd and marching back down to …’
Garún stopped listening. She’d heard it a dozen times before. Others agreed with Jónas and rattled off hollow and meaningless clichés, inflating their own egos with a superficial discourse about equality and revolution. None of them had taken any part in the organising, in reaching out to people. They hadn’t understood her in the slightest when she started talking about how oppressive the city walls were, how they were intended to keep the “undesirable’ non-humans out, not to protect the city from the dangers of untamed nature. The walls were a comfort to
