And Then You Die (11 page)

‘Drink this.’

‘What is it?’ Zen asked, sniffing the liquid. It smelt
indescribably
foul.

‘Just drink it. Knock it back in one. You’ll feel much better.’

Zen did as he was told. A sharp burning sensation in his mouth and throat was abruptly followed by the most intense onrush of nausea he had ever experienced. He knew without the slightest doubt that he was going to vomit massively there and then, all over the consul’s hardwood floor. Then it passed, and was
succeeded
by a warm glow. The consul nodded.

‘It’s an infusion of
hakarl
, decomposed shark’s meat pickled in raw alcohol. In about five minutes you’ll feel much better. But it was important to check whether you were still suffering the active effects of the drinks you had last night before evaluating the results of my little test.’

‘What test?’

‘When I asked how many people there were in the street.’

‘I told you, there were eleven.’

Snæbjörn Guðmundsson regarded him solemnly.

‘I only saw eight,’ he said.

Zen laughed harshly, getting some of his own back at last

‘Maybe you need glasses!’

‘There are no glasses made for this.’

‘For what?’

Guðmundsson sighed.

‘We call it
fylgja
. It’s a special faculty. People who have it are called
skyggn
. All children are
skyggn
until they’re about five, and
many after that. Almost all lose it when they reach puberty, but a few people retain the gift into adult life. It appears that you may be one of them, Dottor Zen. If so, you are only the second
foreigner
I’ve ever heard of with this faculty.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

The consul laughed.

‘And when I tell you, you’re going to think that
I’m
drunk. But try and accept that this is a well-attested phenomenon. What it means, of course, is another matter. It’s like talking about
religion
. You may believe in God or you may not, but it’s a perfectly respectable intellectual position to hold that God does not exist and that religion is simply a tissue of meretricious falsehoods designed to give people an illusory sense of purpose. What is not a respectable intellectual position is to hold that people do not have religious experiences. You follow me?’

‘What’s all this got to do with whatever it is you said I had or was?’

‘It’s completely analogous. Some people believe in the
existence
of the
huldufolk
, others don’t. Their existence is therefore debatable. What is not debatable is that there are people who claim to be able to see them.’

‘See who, for God’s sake?’

‘The “hidden people”. Traditionally, they have been regarded as a race of supernatural beings who live all around us, but in a parallel dimension which is only perceptible to those who are skyggn.’

‘But you surely don’t believe in this nonsense, do you?’

Snæbjörn Guðmundsson shrugged.

‘I don’t have
fylgja
, so it’s all rather theoretical. I’m simply
trying
to come up with a rational explanation for what happened to you last night, the people you saw in the street, and the one you say attacked you.’

‘A rational explanation based on totally irrational premises. If the police camera didn’t pick him up, it’s because he was dark skinned and wearing dark clothing, that’s all.’

The consul laughed.

‘Iceland is an odd place,
dottore
. Geologically, it’s the youngest landmass on the planet. Think of it as the pizza country. It’s about the same shape, and hot out of the oven. Up north they have
geysers
,
volcanoes, lava flows. You can stand there and watch the terrible process of the earth being made, right in front of your eyes, while across the fjord the glaciers are calving icebergs. But enough of all this abstruse talk. How about some lunch?’

Zen shivered visibly.

‘I couldn’t eat a thing.’

And he meant it. He was hungry, but not for anything you could get here. He needed food for his soul. He needed to go home, before he crossed to the other side of the shadow line Snæbjörn Guðmundsson had described, and became one of the
huldufolk
himself, an invisible alien haunting the streets of this unreal city where it was always midday on the thirtieth of February.

‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit,’ he said. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night.’

Guðmundsson nodded.

‘Of course. I’ll let you know if there are any developments.’

He was awakened by a light tapping at the door. It opened to reveal the consul.

‘You have a visitor,’ he said.

Zen rolled up off the bed. It was like being back in hospital, he thought. People came in and out of your room and told you what to do next. He had been living like this for almost a year now. When would he sleep in his own bed again? But where was that bed? Rome, he supposed, but the idea didn’t carry complete
conviction
.

His visitor turned out to be þórunn Sigurðardòttir, the
policewoman
who had interviewed him at the airport the day before. She nodded at him and made a short speech which Snæbjörn Guðmundsson translated.

‘She brings good news. The chief pathologist has now
confirmed
the preliminary findings of the autopsy performed
yesterday
. His conclusion is that Signòr Angelo Porri died of natural causes, a heart attack to be precise. The police therefore have no further interest in the matter, and you are free to go, with
apologies
for the unavoidable delay.’

Inspector SigurDarðòttir handed over the passport in the name of Pier Giorgio Butani to Zen. Then she flashed Zen a brief smile, like a shaft of sunlight glancing off an ice field, and left.

‘Well, that’s all very well,’ Zen said testily to Snæbjörn Guðmundsson. ‘I can leave, but how? The only ticket I’ve got is on Alitalia. Do they fly to Iceland?’

‘No.’

‘Then what am I supposed to do, have them divert another plane to pick me up?’

‘I imagine that they will have made arrangements with
another
airline to fly you to America. We can check with the airport. But the first step is to inform the embassy in Copenhagen. I’ll do that on the land line in my study.’

He returned a few minutes later.

‘Well, that’s done. They’re going to contact Rome. We’re to await instructions.’

A silence fell.

‘Where did you learn Italian?’ asked Zen.

‘When I was a student in Florence, many years ago.’

‘Studying what?’

‘Art.’

‘Oh yes, you said you were an artist.’

‘Yes.’

Zen glanced around the stridently bare walls.

‘So you sell all your work?’

‘None of it.’

‘None?’

‘No. It’s no good, you see.’

Zen smiled politely.

‘I’m sure you’re just being modest.’

‘Not at all. I may not be much of an artist, but I’m an excellent judge of art. I sometimes wish I weren’t. It might make it possible to believe that my stuff had some value. But it doesn’t. I know that.’

‘But you keep working?’

‘Oh yes. What else would I do?’

‘So where are your paintings?’

Snæbjörn Guðmundsson stood up.

‘Would you like to see them?’

Zen’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted was a guided tour round some amateur dauber’s studio. Fortunately the telephone rang next door.

‘It’s Rome,’ said the consul, reappearing in the doorway a moment later. ‘For you.’

Guðmundsson’s study, by contrast with the living area, was a jumble, of papers and files. Zen seated himself at the desk and picked up the phone.

‘
Pronto
.’

‘
Buona sera, dottore
. This is not a secure line, so it’s important that we do not identify ourselves or be too specific about the
matters
under discussion.’

‘I understand.’

‘We have spoken before, most recently on your connecting flight from Pisa to Milan.’

‘Ah yes.’

‘I understand that you have had a tiresome time recently, but that everything is now sorted out.’

‘That’s right. What’s not clear is how I’m to continue my
journey
.’

‘The answer is that you aren’t.’

‘I’m not?’

‘No. There have been developments. In fact we have reason to suppose that they may have pre-dated your departure, but our American counterparts have only just seen fit to inform us.’

‘I hope there’s no lack of trust implied.’

‘If so, it would be totally unjustified. There have been no breaches of security this end, I can assure you.’

‘That’s good to know. So if one of these attempts on my life finally succeeds, I can the secure in the knowledge that the leak was of non-Italian origin.’

‘Please don’t be facetious. It’s also most inappropriate to
mention
such matters on this connection. In any case, there will be no more such episodes.’

‘That’s certain, is it?’

‘Absolutely certain. As I said, there have been developments, as a result of which the event at which you were to participate in the United States has now been postponed and may well be
cancelled
altogether.’

Zen hardly dared to believe what he had heard.

‘In short, one of the two principal protagonists has decided to co-operate with our side,’ the Foreign Ministry man went on. ‘As
a result, your participation has been rendered superfluous. There is therefore no need for you to attend, and no risk that any further attempts will be made to prevent you from doing so.’

Zen laughed lightly.

‘It was Nello, right?’ he said.

‘Please!’

‘All right, but it was, wasn’t it?’

‘Well, yes. How did you know?’

‘He talked to me in the car, while they were driving me to meet you know who. He explained how they lit the landing strip for the aircraft. The other man told him to shut up. I could tell he was a talker then. Any competent cop or magistrate could have got him to open up eventually. He was one of those people who just can’t bear to be silent.’

‘Well, that’s what happened. And you’ll be pleased to know that there’s some evidence that the incident at Versilia may have been a contributing factor. In their view, it seems, that was their last hope of preventing your appearance at the event in America, and when it failed the outcome was preordained. So one of the protagonists, the one you mentioned, apparently decided to make a deal. His cooperation in return for a new identity and a new life over there.’

‘Any chance of that for me?’

‘Better still, you can have your old one back. You’re to return immediately for a complete briefing at your normal place of employment. Our embassy in Copenhagen will send full details to the consul shortly. I wish you a pleasant journey and a safe return home.’

When Zen reappeared in the living room, Snæbjörn Guðmundsson looked at him curiously.

‘The embassy in Denmark is going to contact you about my travel arrangements,’ Zen told him.

‘Ah.’

‘Basically, I’m going back to Italy.’

‘I see.’

‘Immediately.’

The consul nodded his understanding of the rules of this game. He glanced at his watch.

‘Well, that’ll probably be the two-thirty to Copenhagen.’

Zen looked surprised.

‘What time is it now?’

‘Half past ten. Plenty of time.’

‘It can’t be only half past ten! It must be noon at least.’

‘No, half past ten in the evening. The flight’s in the early
morning
. We’re so remote, you see. It takes three hours to get to Europe, and we’re on British time, so that’s another hour. If you want to get to a business meeting on time, you have to leave after midnight. But don’t worry, I’ll get you there in plenty of time.’

He looked at Zen and smiled.

‘You asked to see my paintings. Come this way.’

Zen, who had completely forgotten this aspect of their
conversation
, followed the consul into his kitchen, then out into the back yard of the house, a concreted rectangle containing a large pile of black ash.

‘There they are,’ said Guðmundsson. ‘The most recent ones, that is. The others are feeding the flowers in the beds at the front. What do you think?’

Zen gave a nervous smile.

‘Are you some sort of performance artist?’ he asked.

He had heard of people like that, who did things associated to his mind with circus performers and children’s entertainers.

‘Well, maybe I am,’ Guðmundsson replied. ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way. This business has disrupted my normal schedule, of course, but on the whole I work hard, six hours a day at least. And at the time I’m always convinced that I’ve finally managed to produce something worthwhile. But then when it’s finished I look at it and realize that I was wrong. It’s just another botched job, one more piece of ugly nonsense. And God knows there’s enough ugly nonsense in the world already. So I bring it out here and burn it.’

Zen gave what he hoped would be perceived as a judicious nod.

‘It’s like the Hippocratic Oath,’ the consul went on with a face as straight as a priest. ‘All would-be artists should be made to sign it. Rule number one, “Do No Harm”. If I can’t achieve
something
even vaguely resembling the sort of art I saw every day while I lived in Italy, the very least I can do is not clutter up the planet with any more trendy bric-a-brac. It seems that all I can
manage is the clever, and who needs that? We’re all clever these days. We’re all so fucking clever. I’d rather make a nice bonfire and at least feel clean afterwards.’

He closed the door and led the way back inside.

‘I’d better call the embassy in Copenhagen and find out about your flights.’

Zen went back to the storeroom where he had spent the night, and packed up his bags. When he reappeared next door, Guðmundsson was already there.

‘Right. They’ve booked you on the two-thirty to Copenhagen, as I thought, with an onward connection to Rome. You’re to
contact
someone named Brugnoli on arrival. The tickets will be
waiting
at the SAS counter at Keflavik. If you’re all set, we might as well go.’