Pets (14 page)

But, of course, I had the task of explaining what had happened when Osk came home about four weeks later. Havard had been gone for a while by then, and he had added to my worries by causing another accident (if it could be called an accident). What I considered even more serious was the fact that he had taken the whale boat and the book. What he did to Moby and Dick could have happened to anyone—or almost anyone—and I decided to tell Osk, and later Orn, the truth about the accident. Havard had only meant to help the unfortunate animals, no doubt I would have reacted in just the same way and grabbed hold of the hose. But it was certainly a more unpleasant ordeal having to relate the fate that befell Ahab. The story of the rodents seemed trivial in comparison; at least these types of animals are easier to replace.

I pause for a moment over the word
supernatural
. Here I am lying under my own bed, recalling the ridiculous death of several animals which my companion and I were paid to look after five years ago, and now this Havard, whom I thought had cleared out of my life and was under careful supervision in an institution abroad, is back to haunt me, standing just a partition's width away in the living room. Am I imagining all this? Am I all right? Is something strange going on in my brain, just as I imagined a few hours ago was the case with Armann Valur? Am I experiencing what I felt earlier today, that I don't really belong here, that this isn't my own home?

Is the eccentric up there playing with me?

All I need to do is shake my head to get rid of these speculations. Not even that, because as soon as the phone starts ringing in the next room they disappear.

“This phone won't leave us in peace!” Havard barks. “It's all going to end in a mess!”

That is just what I'm beginning to be afraid of too.

11

I have no difficulty hearing what Havard says on the phone. Before answering, he turns down the Elvis in the living room; he is standing with the receiver no more than a meter away from the bed. I thought he was going to come into the bedroom or the bathroom, but he stopped in the hall; I can see his shoes from where I am lying.

“No, he just isn't at home, not at this moment but I'm expecting him to turn up any minute now. Greta? Your name is Greta. I'll do that.”

I hadn't expected her to call so soon. My watch is in the living room, so I don't know exactly what the time is, but, since I came home in the taxi at six o'clock, I can't imagine that it is later than seven-thirty or eight.

“Yes,” Havard carries on, “I am
. . .
at least we are old mates. Do I know where? No, I'm not sure, he has just come home from abroad and he must have nipped out. He wasn't here when I arrived. It was open. Oh, really? So he hasn't come to you? This evening? You were going to meet him this evening? You aren't Vigdis? No, of course not. What? Vigdis? No, I just thought that
. . .
No, you're called Greta, you told me just now. I'm Havard.”

The damn fool. I can't tell if he is mentioning Vigdis just for malicious pleasure, but I'm quite sure he thinks it is strange and probably thrilling that I seem to be involved with two women.

“Alright, I'll just have to tell him you called. You're coming over then? What? When you have put her to bed? Alright, fine. He will surely be back by then, Emil is not the sort of person to just go off. Alright, OK you do that.”

Then he says “bye, bye” in an exaggerated feminine manner and I imagine—at least I sincerely hope—that Greta has put down the phone. Not because she might think that the person who answered the phone is gay—I wouldn't mind that kind of misunderstanding—but because his greeting sounded more like an insult. Only Havard could think of talking to a total stranger like that.

As much as I look forward to Greta's visit, the last thing I want is for her to see my place for the first time in this impossible situation. It was clear that she intended to come over once her daughter has fallen asleep—she would hardly be putting her mother to bed—and that could mean that she will be here within an hour.

“Here, you have to have another drink,” Havard shouts from the kitchen, where he must have put down the phone.

“Trinken und trinken?” Armann replies, and it is even more obvious now than it was a short while ago that he appreciates my indirect hospitality. Besides, the alcohol has started to affect his speech.

“You are drinking cognac, aren't you?” Havard says from the kitchen, where he is still pottering about.

“There's still some left,” Armann says with a laugh and adds in a rather loud voice: “Here, I must tell you something the bartender told me at my hotel in London.”

“Yes, you and Emil were in London together, weren't you?”

“Well, we flew home together. But the bartender in the Cumberland Hotel where I stayed told me an interesting story. He told me why he became
. . .
well, almost exactly why he decided to become a drinker.”

“Almost exactly?” Havard has come back from the kitchen. Just as Armann is about to carry on with his story, the phone rings again. Havard sighs and repeats that this phone just won't leave them in peace.

“It could be Emil,” Armann says.

But I am not the person who answers when Havard introduces himself.

“Good evening,” he says formally. “This is Howard Knutsson speaking. Emil? No, Emil just isn't available. And who are you, if I may ask? Who am
I
? Well,
I
asked first.”

Armann obviously can't control himself and laughs, or rather giggles at Havard's sense of humor.

“What? Haeme? I think you have to repeat that! Emil's friend? What? Haeme?”

It is Jaime, my friend from Chile.

“What? When? I really don't know. I came to visit Emil and
. . .
Who am
I
? Havard, Havard Knutsson. Yes, he has come home. Yes, he came home but he went off again. Yes, you will just have to come around here, I should think that he will come back. Yes, yes, I'll be here. Alright, OK. Haeme, wasn't it? OK, sir. I'll let him know.”

“Who on earth was that?” Armann asks after Havard has hung up the phone and cursed Jaime under his breath.

“Some friend of our host,” he says without interest. “Someone called Jaime. I don't know where he was ringing from. I wouldn't be surprised if he was phoning from outer space.”

It is obvious that Havard was only pretending to be unable to pronounce Jaime's name while he was on the phone because now he says it almost exactly like Jaime himself.

Armann clearly recognizes the name.

“James? Can it be that some fellow called James is on the way over?”

“It was Jaime. It looks like we will have to entertain more visitors,” Havard answers wearily. It is possible that he is genuinely tired.

“I can tell you that Jaime is the Spanish version of the English name James,” Armann continues.

“Oh, is it?”

“And he was a friend of Emil's? I don't suppose he mentioned where he came from?”

“From outer space,” Havard says, and now his voice has a trace of annoyance as well as tiredness in it. “At least it sounded like that.”

“The extraterrestrial James?” Armann seems to be getting more and more boisterous. He laughs and asks which planet the man came from.

When no reply comes from Havard—who seems to be in the kitchen, I think I heard the fridge being opened—Armann shouts from the living room:

“Well, I was going to tell you about the bartender at the Cumberland!”

There is still no reaction from Havard. It sounds like Armann goes into the kitchen.

“He was called Nicholas Blair. Yes, I remember it now, it was Nicholas.”

“Haven't we heard enough about English jerks for the time being?” Havard snarls, though it clearly has no effect on Armann's storytelling.

“Some people are peculiar, it's as if they decide one fine day that they are going to be drinkers, though it is normally difficult for people to make decisions. But this fellow Nicholas received rather unusual encouragement to take to the bottle. It happened like this
. . .
”

At this point I lose the thread of Armann's story; there is a loud noise when Havard knocks a bag of ice cubes against the kitchen table—at least I think that's what he's doing—and then he starts crushing the ice.

“Then he poured water into the three glasses and
. . .
”

“Do you want ice in your cognac?” Havard interrupts.

“Not in cognac, Havard,” Armann answers in a reproachful tone and then carries on: “Once he has poured water into all the glasses he picks up a little container—probably a little test tube from a laboratory—and from it he pours alcohol into one glass of water. Then he picks up another test tube and tells his pupils that it contains nicotine.”

“Nicotine in a glass?” Havard asks in disbelief.

“Yes, nicotine in liquid form, just as you can have morphine or whatever it is called, hashish oil.”

“Hashish oil?” It sounds as though Havard is becoming slightly interested in the story now that Armann has mentioned hashish.

“Yes, or whatever it is called. At least he pours nicotine into the second glass and makes it clear that there is just pure water in the third glass, though we don't expect them to have had much pure water in England, especially not at that time.”

“At that time? What time was that?” Havard asks.

“It was probably in the fifties, he was no spring chicken, this fellow Nicholas.”

“This Nicholas, your friend, was a pupil in this class, then?”

“Yes.”

“And now he is a bartender in this hotel?”

“I have already told you that, yes.” Armann says, sounding annoyed at Havard's questions. “When he has polluted the water with alcohol in one glass and nicotine in another one, he takes a little box which contains some kind of insects out of his briefcase. Then he picks up one of them and drops it in the glass of water mixed with alcohol. And what do you think happens?”

“The bug gets drunk,” Havard says cheerfully. It is obvious that Armann has managed to get him in a better mood.

“Yes, it possibly feels the effects for a little while, but not for long because it dies.”

Havard laughs.

“So when the teacher has explained to the boys just how alcohol affects
. . .
well, I don't know what he said precisely
. . .
that this is what happens to insects who drink
. . .
then
. . .
”

Havard bursts out laughing and I hear him pour something over the ice in his glass.

“Then he picks up another insect, the same kind as before, and
. . .
”

“Here's to the bug!” Havard interrupts him.

“Alright, cheers,” Armann agrees. While he goes to fetch his glass in the living room he carries on: “So he puts the poor insect into the glass with the nicotine and the same thing happens as when he
. . .
”

“Drowned the other bug!” Havard adds and laughs.

“Well, at least this creature ends up the same way; it dies of nicotine poisoning. And then there is only the last experiment and, of course, it consists in putting the third insect into the glass with the pure water.”

“Armann, I think this friend of yours was having you on,” Havard butts in.

“No, no, this last insect just swims around in the water, full of life, and that's the end of the demonstration. Those which landed in the alcohol and nicotine had no chance of survival but the one which landed in the water was still alive when the teacher fished it out, no doubt just to be killed too afterwards.”

“So that was the prize for being sensible?” Havard says disgustedly. “Death.”

“It at least resulted in my friend Nicholas starting to smoke and drink in his teens; he couldn't bear the thought of having some creepy crawlies swimming around in his intestines.”

“Evil shall be swept out with evil, as the saying goes,” Havard crows. I can just imagine how this fellow Nicholas appeals to Havard.

“Yes, that's the point,” Armann agrees. “Force against force!”

“Steel against steel,” Havard adds.

“An eye for an eye,” Armann says and giggles like a little boy.

He sounds very relieved now that he has finally told his story, which has taken him half a day to tell me, although he naturally has no idea that he has just done so.

12

I never really liked the lizard—the ancient green lizard or iguana which Orn kept in his study upstairs. He had asked us not to let it out of the room—it often nibbled things that lay on the floor—and he told us especially not to let it into the kitchen; there was always a danger that it could have salmonella. Because of that risk, he added, we should always wash our hands after petting or holding it. I'm quite positive that Havard made a point of taking it into the kitchen, just because Orn had emphatically so asked us not to.