Pets (13 page)

“Haven't we got quite a chamber atmosphere here now? It's a pity old Emil isn't here, he would be sure to enjoy it.”

“It's not bad,” Armann answers. “Not bad at all.”

“But wait a minute, I'd like to show you something,” Havard interrupts, and I hear him lift up the plastic bag. “I'm going to show you something special, something I'm going to give my friend Emil.”

The crinkling of plastic gets louder. Armann makes a sound that usually accompanies pain or suffering, but I realize it is caused by the cognac that I bought for Vigdis.

9

“And what have you got there?” Armann asks, full of curiosity.

“This is a whaler,” Havard says proudly.

It takes me several seconds to realize what Havard is showing him. He has the beautifully carved model of the whaler
Essex
—the ship that was sunk in the early nineteenth century by the mythical giant whale which Melville later used as his model for
Moby-Dick
. The carved ship belonged to Orn, my father's friend on Brooke Road, until Havard stole it and an original edition of
Moby-Dick
from 1851.

“A whaler, eh?” I can hear that Armann hasn't quite followed. “You are trying to say that you have a whaler in the bag?”

“Well it's not a speedboat,” Havard answers, as if he thinks that Armann is trying to dispute the matter.

“No, it's not a speedboat, you're right about that.”

“And it's not a submarine,” Havard says with a laugh.

“No, no, it's a whaler,” Armann answers. “I can see that now, it's a whaler.”

Havard's theft of these irreplaceable objects made the last three weeks that I spent at Brooke Road after his departure completely unbearable. I had thought about making up some story about a burglary, but I decided against it at the last moment and told Osk the truth when she returned from her trip. Later on, I told Orn over the phone that my friend—the same person who had been responsible for the deaths of the iguana and the rodents—had vanished one day, without me being able to do anything about it, and had taken the valuables with him. Osk didn't take the news particularly well, as was to be expected, but Orn's reaction, when I called him in San José in Costa Rica, was one of surprise rather than anger. I couldn't believe how well he took the news. He didn't insist in any way that I find my friend; instead he advised me to stay clear of this Havard for as long as I could. The less we knew about this unfortunate character the better. He refused to consider my proposal of pro forma compensation for the objects, and when we met again two years later at my father's house he offered me the use of his flat whenever I felt like it; his daughter no longer lived there and he only used it now and again. What I appreciated most of all in Orn's generosity was the fact that he asked me not to mention the incident to my father; he said that we should forget about it, and so should Osk of course.

I understand from what I have just heard that Havard has come to give me the ship, and I begin to wonder whether the book might be buried in the plastic bag too. All at once I feel it is worthwhile huddling here under the bed—it's as if this pathetic confinement has suddenly acquired a purpose. But on the other hand, I can't be sure that Havard will leave the ship behind if I don't make an appearance; I am quite certain that he wants to hand over the precious object to me in person.

“Some woman, to whom I spoke today in an antique shop, was going to give me two hundred and fifty thousand kronur for it,” Havard says. “Isn't it right to say
antique shop
? Or what do you think? It's an
antique shop
, isn't it?”

“I thought you were going to give it to Emil,” Armann answers. He doesn't seem very interested in either the ship or the term
antique shop
.

“That is just what I am going to do. You don't really think I would give it away for two hundred and fifty thousand, do you? Oh, no, sir, that ship is not for sale. I borrowed it from Emil's relative while I was in England a few years ago and now I have come to return it. I have this book too:
Moby-Dick
, the original edition. 1851.”

The plastic bag is crinkled again, and despite my joy that the book should also come with the ship, I think it is almost unforgivable that he dragged it around in a plastic bag—I can just imagine how worn and tattered the bag is.

“Now that is something!” Armann says and asks to see the book.

“You must be careful with it,” Havard warns him. I find it difficult not to laugh. This advice, which actually sounds like it is meant for a child, is quite appropriate when one remembers how roughly Armann treated his paperback on the plane earlier today. I think about the woman who sat on the other side of Armann; how she turned the pages of the magazine as if it was something of extreme value.

“And you are going to give it to Emil as well?” Armann asks. He seems to be surprised, or even amazed. “The original edition of
Moby-Dick
?”

“I'm just returning it,” Havard corrects him. “I borrowed it from one of his relatives and just thought it was time to return it. I have had it for at least five years now.”

“Maybe five years isn't a very long time for such an old book,” Armann says and laughs.

“Maybe not for such a book,” Havard answers, “but it is for me. At least
these
five years have passed rather slowly for me.”

If I'm not mistaken, there is remorse, or a touch of remorse, in his voice.

“But at least you have had time to read it, I presume,” Armann says cheerfully, and I imagine that he is handling the book.

“Me?” Havard says in a tone that makes it clear that he is not the kind of man to read such a book. “Armann, why don't we put something more cheerful on the hi-fi?”

I was truly amazed at how long Havard had tolerated listening to the Deutsche Grammophon CD, but on the other hand I was looking forward to listening to the works of Alban Berg, which is also on the CD. That type of music would certainly not be very acceptable to his sensitive ears. A series of short pieces for cello and piano by Anton Webern is playing now, and I am sure Armann is enjoying them. So he answers Havard first by saying that he may change the music, he isn't going to interfere, but he adds that he thinks it is a particularly beautiful work which he hasn't heard for a long time.

“But you like Elvis, don't you?” Havard asks. He seems determined to liven up the conversation and the music.

“I can't really say I do,” Armann answers, obviously still engrossed in the book.

“We'll just have it on low,” Havard says and cuts off Anton Webern. It's clear that he has the Elvis CD nearby, as only a few seconds pass before the first track begins. It is “Heartbreak Hotel.” Havard does as he promised; he turns the volume down but then suddenly adds:

“Here, I am going to play ‘Hound Dog,' you know that song, don't you?”

Armann doesn't bother to answer, and I can't help thinking that Havard's interest in the song about the hunting dog must have been sparked by his remembering the premature death of the rodents, Moby and Dick. He stops “Heartbreak Hotel” and I have already started to hum “Hound Dog” in my mind. The volume is turned up as soon as the song begins and Armann says something. I can't make it out, but it sounds as though he isn't particularly pleased and feels that things could be better right now.

10

One aspect of Havard's character I got to know while we stayed on Brook Road was his fear of the dark. I quickly noticed how uncomfortable he felt when he was alone after dark, and I got him to admit this weakness one evening, when he told me for the second time that he always thought he could hear someone behind him whenever he went upstairs. During the day he was often noisy, especially when he had been drinking—which was usually the case—but in the evening he was calmer and yet sometimes slightly apprehensive as he walked around the flat. I teased him by saying that he had read too many English ghost stories, but he gave me the impression that there was something else—something more profound—that was bothering him. I thought there had maybe been some incident in his childhood, which I had begun to imagine as rather bleak and joyless; I could just see Havard as a child, bent and hollow chested, surrounded by his grandmother's old furniture and belongings while his mother and father were drinking next door.

Havard wasn't very fond of the cat on Brooke Road, especially after it jumped on him on the sofa one evening while we were watching television. He was so startled that he dropped a glowing cigarette between his legs—it made an ugly mark on the sofa—and knocked over a mug full of beer which he'd placed on the floor. But he liked the other animals, especially Dick the rabbit and Moby the white guinea pig, and their acquaintance ended in a rather sad way. However, he never ceased to grumble about the names Orn had given them, saying that he couldn't see the humor in giving an innocent guinea pig a whale's name. Besides, Dick was by far the most ridiculous name he had ever heard for a female rabbit. He made no complaints about the cat's name though and no doubt thought it was appropriate.

I was on my way home from the supermarket when the accident involving Moby and Dick occurred. We had visited one of the local pubs at lunchtime—our favorite, on the main street of the area, its walls were lined with books—and Havard had gone home before me, he couldn't be bothered to help buy something for supper. In view of what was happening while I was in the shop, it was rather unfortunate that I bought guinea pig food—a bag of dry food enriched with vitamins—on that occasion.

I had given Havard the key to the house and had to ring the doorbell several times before he answered. When he finally heard the bell, he came running to the door and, with a look of despair in his eyes, pushed me towards the back garden. I remember being quite sure that he had broken the flower pot, which he had just missed so often while playing basketball in the garden. I always had the feeling that he made the guinea pig and rabbit nervous by bouncing that ball around. But on this occasion it was they—that is Moby and Dick—who made life more miserable (strange though it may seem) for Havard. When I reached the back garden, still holding on to the shopping bags, I saw them lying on the dirty, wet paving stones as if they were frozen; they looked all grey and exceedingly pathetic.

I remember Havard crouching down in front of the animals and groaning, “I don't know how it happened,” but, by putting two and two together, I could see just as well as he could what had happened. I thought that the bag of cement, which Orn admitted he should have gotten rid of long ago, had been closed, and, when I asked Havard if he had opened it, he said no and claimed that either Moby or Dick had opened it. Still, one way or another they had both climbed inside the bag and were nosing about inquisitively in the grey cement when Havard came home and looked out of the window. He said that he had run out into the garden like a shot and grabbed the animals out of the bag. At first he had tried to brush the cement off them, but when he saw that that didn't clean their fur properly, he had pulled out the hose that was lying curled up in the corner by the kitchen door and turned on the tap. He said he hadn't had any doubts, as he hosed down the animals, that he was doing the right thing. He had tried to reduce the force of the water by narrowing the opening with his thumb, spreading the water over a wider area. When he put the hose down and bent to look at the animals, it didn't take him long—maybe two or three minutes—to realize that things weren't quite as they should have been. Not that it was a new experience for Havard; his life had probably never been as it was meant to be.

He said he had not timed it, naturally, but he guessed that the cement had only taken about four or five minutes to harden around the soft fur of the poor animals. It was, however, more difficult to say precisely when they had stopped breathing. I remember the first thought that came into my mind was that they had been walled up alive like the Canterville ghost. Of course there was no denying that the accident was tragicomic, and now, looking back on it—with Havard here, in person, in my living room, treating Armann Valur to my purchases from the duty-free store—I thought for the second time today that what doesn't kill a man makes him stronger
.

These words are no doubt appropriate in certain circumstances, but it would be necessary to rearrange them so that they make sense in this case.

When we sat down to accept what had happened and take stock of the situation, Havard suggested that we buy replacements. It must be possible to find another albino guinea pig and another light brown rabbit in a city as large as London, and it wasn't entirely certain that Osk and Orn would ever see the difference. For some reason I found the idea rather distasteful. It was horrible to think of Osk coming home and noticing that the rabbit and guinea pig in the garden were not the same animals she had left when she went off on holiday. And Havard and I would pretend that nothing had changed. “Is that Moby?” Osk would ask, really perplexed, and we would coolly say that it was, as if we were rather surprised that she should ask such a question. “But Moby had a tear in its ear,” she was likely to say next, and we would look as if we didn't understand what she was talking about; the ear had probably healed while she was in Europe. She had been away for a rather long time. Then she would look puzzled and think that Dick was a slightly darker color than she remembered and the guinea pig looked thinner; hadn't we given it enough to eat? After discussing these strange changes in the animals—which we naturally weren't aware of—we would sit down and have some tea or coffee and Osk's suspicions would remain unsolved, something beyond our human understanding, perhaps supernatural.