‘I’m looking for Tryggvi,’ he said. ‘I gather he sometimes drinks here.’
‘Tryggvi?’ the bartender repeated. ‘You think I know these blokes by name?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Do you know them by name?’
‘Talk to the guy in the green anorak,’ the bartender said. ‘He’s here every day.’
Erlendur peered across the dimly lit room in the direction the bartender pointed and glimpsed a man in a green anorak sitting over a half-empty beer glass. There were three shot glasses on the table in front of him. A middle-aged woman sat at the same table with a similar ration lined up in front of her.
Erlendur went over.
‘I’m looking for a man called Tryggvi,’ he announced. He fetched a chair from the next table and sat down beside them.
The couple looked up, surprised at the disturbance.
‘Who are you?’ the man asked.
‘A friend of his,’ Erlendur said. ‘From school. I heard he sometimes came here and I wanted to see him.’
‘And… what…?’ the woman asked.
It was hard to guess the couple’s ages; both had swollen faces and bloodshot eyes, and were smoking roll- ups. Erlendur had interrupted their cottage industry; they were rolling little cigarettes from tobacco and Rizlas. She carefully placed a pinch of tobacco in each Rizla, making sure that nothing went to waste, then he rolled them up and licked them.
‘Nothing,’ Erlendur said. ‘I wanted to see him, that’s all. Do you know where he is?’
‘Tryggvi’s dead, isn’t he?’ the man in the green anorak said, looking at the woman.
‘I haven’t seen him for ages. Maybe he is dead.’
‘You know him, then?’
‘I’ve stumbled across him from time to time,’ the man said, licking a new roll-up that the woman handed him.
‘Is it long since you last saw him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember when that was?’
‘It was probably… wasn’t it?… I don’t remember. Talk to Rudolf. He’s over there.’
The man gestured towards the door where another man in a blue ski jacket was sitting alone smoking, with a beer glass in front of him. He was staring down at the table and seemed completely absorbed in a world of his own when Erlendur took a chair opposite him. He glanced up.
‘Do you know where I can find Tryggvi?’ Erlendur asked.
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend of his. From university.’
‘Was Tryggvi at university?’
Erlendur nodded.
‘Do you know where I can get hold of him? They thought he might be dead,’ he said, nodding towards the couple with the roll-ups.
‘Tryggvi’s not dead,’ the man said. ‘I met him two or three days ago. If it’s the same Tryggvi. I don’t know any other. Was he at university?’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘He said he was going to get a job, try to go on the wagon.’
‘Really?’ Erlendur said.
‘I’ve heard it all before,’ the man continued. ‘He was down at the central bus station. Shaving in the gents.’
‘He hangs out at the bus station, does he?’
‘Sometimes, yes. Watching the buses. Sits there all day, watching the buses come and go.’
16
Later that day Erlendur walked in out of the rain and stood in the entrance to Skulakaffi, glancing round for the woman he had come to meet. He saw her sitting with her back to him, hunched over a cup of bad coffee and with a smoked-down cigarette between her fingers. He hesitated for a moment. Only the odd table was occupied, by lorry drivers reading the paper or labourers taking a late coffee break, men who had finished their pastries but still had a few minutes to themselves before they had to go back to work. The worn lino and shabby seats matched their weathered faces and the dried calluses on their hands. The place was more like a workers’ cafeteria than a restaurant and had not been painted in all the years Erlendur had been going there. Nowhere in town could you get better salted lamb with a sweet white sauce. Skulakaffi had been his choice for their meeting and she had agreed without protest, according to Eva Lind.
‘Hello,’ Erlendur said when he reached the table.
Halldora looked up from her coffee cup.
‘Hello,’ she said, her tone unreadable.
He held out his hand to her and she raised her own, but only to pick up her cup. She took a mouthful of coffee.
He stuck his hand in his coat pocket and sat down facing her.
‘You sure know how to choose a venue,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette.
‘They do good salted lamb here,’ Erlendur replied.
‘Same old country boy,’ Halldora said.
‘I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘You needn’t be polite for my sake,’ Halldora said, raising her gaze from the table.
‘All right,’ Erlendur said.
‘Eva told me you were living with some woman.’
‘We don’t live together,’ Erlendur said.
‘Really? What, then?’
‘We’re good friends; her name’s Valgerdur.’
‘Oh.’
Neither of them spoke.
‘This is just bullshit,’ Halldora said all of a sudden, grabbing the packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter from the table and stuffing them in her coat pocket. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking of,’ she added, rising from her seat.
‘Don’t go,’ Erlendur said.
‘I must,’ Halldora said. ‘I don’t know what Eva thought she would get out of this but… it’s just bullshit…’
Reaching over the table, Erlendur grabbed her arm.
‘Don’t go,’ he repeated.
Their eyes met. Halldora jerked her arm away, then sank back into her seat.
‘I only came because Eva wanted me to,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ Erlendur said. ‘Shouldn’t we try to do this for her?’
Halldora took out another cigarette and lit it. Erlendur thought it said ‘Mallorca’ on the lighter. He wasn’t aware that she had ever been on a holiday to the Med. Perhaps she had bought it to conjure up memories of sunshine. Or to keep alive the dream of hot sand on a beach somewhere. Once he had refused to take her on a package holiday to the sun, saying he couldn’t see the point of going to places like that. ‘The point!’ she had retorted. ‘The point is that people go there to do nothing!’
‘Eva’s doing well,’ Halldora said.
‘We should try to emulate her,’ Erlendur said. ‘I think it would help her if we could find some way of offering her our mutual support.’
‘There’s just one problem with that,’ Halldora said. ‘I don’t want anything to do with you. I told her and she knows it. I’ve told her over and over again.’
