Season of the Witch (14 page)

“What pearl of wisdom came out of your Easter egg today, Trausti?”

“Oh, come on! Give it a rest, would you, buddy?” retorts the news editor.

“Could it be
No pain, no gain
?” I say.

“Ho, ho, ho. Very funny.”

I have to admit I’m rather enjoying rubbing salt in his wounds and then twisting the knife. I know it’s not big of me.
Little things please little minds
might have been the maxim from my egg. If I had an egg. I would have liked to come up with something funnier. But my childish glee is short-lived.

“You and Jóa must get over to Reydargerdi this afternoon or evening, to cover the public meeting at lunchtime tomorrow.”

I exhale my cigarette smoke into the clear blue sky as I sit out in the garden, watching the neighboring children kicking a ball around.

Goddamn it to hell
, I think to myself on this peaceful Easter Sunday when swearing is strictly forbidden, out loud at least.

“What kind of a slave driver are you?” I bark into the receiver. “You send us rushing around on a wild-goose chase, all over the country.”

“News isn’t confined to office hours, buddy. I thought you knew that.”

“Can’t we have one day off to relax?”

“I’m not relaxing,” retorts the news editor. “I’m busy, talking to you. If you imagine I see that as relaxing, you’re delusional.”

“But I’ve got a missing person case and a dead body to cover. Just as examples. Isn’t that more interesting than some politicians spouting the usual hot air, trying to drum up votes before the election?”

“You may well be right. But that meeting has got to be in Tuesday’s paper. Things are heating up over there, and we’ve got to be there if and when they reach the boiling point.”

He may have a point. But a thought crosses my mind and gives me pause: the new owners of the
Afternoon News
, alleged by their opponents to favor the Social Democratic Union and its leader, Sigurdur Reynir, may be quite happy to see in-depth reporting of the meeting in Reydargerdi, which is likely to consist of an all-out attack on the present government.

“So you’re happy to pay for a hotel for the two of us for some stupid political bullshit meeting?” I ask, just to get in Trausti’s face.

“Is it a matter of principle with you, to argue every point with the news editor?”

Only when the news editor is an idiot
, I think. But I say, “You realize this means that the
Question of the Day
from Akureyri will have to be bumped over from Tuesday to Wednesday?”

He says nothing. Then: “All right. We’ll handle it here. Now I really can’t be bothered to argue with you anymore, buddy. Have a good trip.”

Out of the kindness of his heart, Óskar has made up beds for us in two small and uncomfortable rooms in the basement, as the hotel is fully booked. After a mouthwatering dinner of Icelandic lamb with a Thai twist, Jóa and I make our way over to Reydin. It’s past ten o’clock on this Easter Sunday evening, and the bar is half full. About forty people, most of them incomers. Tomorrow’s public meeting isn’t for them. They wouldn’t understand the speeches, and nobody will be trying to win their votes. Yet the main reason for holding the meeting is the influx of these people and the consequences of their presence.

I glance around in search of Agnar Hansen and Co., but they are not here.

I go over to the bar and order a coffee for myself and a beer for Jóa from the same luscious bartender, who gives me a warm welcome.

“How are things?” I ask.

“Business is booming,” she smiles.

“No business to do with Agnar?”

“He doesn’t bring in much business. Not considering how much he drinks. He runs a tab here, which is paid—or not—by his dad.”

“I heard he was kicked out of here?”

“Yeah, the owner had had enough trouble.”

“What was the trouble this time?”

“Agnar sent some thugs to intimidate those Poles who beat him up last weekend.”

“Didn’t he go himself?”

“He wasn’t in any state to do much.”

“And he’s accepted the ban?”

She nods. “He hadn’t any choice about it. But he and his buddies have been running wild in Akureyri over Easter instead.”

“So are they still there?”

“So far as I know. Agnar ceremoniously informed me that they were going to spend the holiday weekend skiing there.”

“Yeah, well, I suspect that anyone trying to ski there at present will have a pretty rocky ride.”

She smiles. “I’m sure he’s stoned enough. And even when they’re not banned from here, they always go over to Akureyri now and then, for some fun.”

“Doesn’t Agnar have a job?”

“Depends what you call a job.”

I get the impression that she’s not going to say any more.

“I promise I won’t quote you. But is he dealing drugs here?”

“I can’t answer that.” Elín steps back from the bar and starts washing glasses in the sink.

“They say silence can mean consent,” I say.

“Yes,” she answers, with her back to me. “Sometimes it can.”

When I join Jóa at the table, her beer has gone flat and my coffee is cold. I have second thoughts about Agnar:
If he’s dealing drugs, why would he need to get his old man to pay his bar bill?

“Pessimism has given way to optimism. We have come out of the doldrums into a time of high hopes for the future. And not hope alone. We now know for certain—we have reliable, indisputable evidence—that in this region, which means so much to us all, a
new era of progress and prosperity has begun, in this community that has the resources to offer its inhabitants all the facilities and benefits that have hitherto been confined to the capital area and tended to attract our people away to the city. We see bright prospects for our children, our grandchildren, for parents and grandparents. For ourselves. For the future.”

The members of parliament from the Conservative Party and the Center Party deliver identical speeches, more or less, then swagger back to their seats to an ovation from the packed convention room at Hotel Reydargerdi. At the table on the stage are representatives of all the political parties, plus the chair of the town council, Jóhann Hansen, and Mayor Anna Thóroddsdóttir, who is chairing the meeting. I met her on my first outing to Reydargerdi, last year. She seems to have put on weight since then. Her hefty frame is draped in a loose-cut black dress. In the front row is her uncle, Ásgrímur Pétursson, solemn in a gray three-piece suit. He is still as lean as ever, so far as I can tell. His hair is even thinner than when I saw him last. The members of parliament for the Social Democratic Union, the Radical Party, and the Other Party then get a chance to give their speech, which is:

“We can to some degree share the contentment of the parties in government, regarding the development in this region, which is boosting confidence and boldness in the local economy and the entrepreneurial spirit of this community; inaction has given way to action. But we ask you, people of Reydargerdi and the surrounding area, is this phenomenon real? Have employment opportunities improved in Iceland, in fact? Has the migration from the regions to the capital area been halted or even reversed? Hundreds of millions of
krónur
have been borrowed here. Have they benefited the local community or are they certain to do so? The answer is no, no, and no. In addition to which, we will have to face
up to the unforeseeable consequences of a completely wrong-headed development policy, relying on heavy industry that will pollute the environment and hydroelectric plants that will wreak the worst damage to nature in the history of our nation. Government policy for this region is characterized by lack of imagination, narrow-mindedness, and short-termism, and the same is true of so many other parts of the country that have suffered the effects of the population drain.”

And so on. And so on.

The opposition spokesmen garner little support and seem rather dejected as they return to their seats.

The chair of the meeting, Anna, declares that the floor is now open.

An awkward silence ensues.

The politicians on the stage seem to breathe more easily.

I’m about to whisper to Jóa, who’s sitting next to me snapping pictures, that I could have written this article with one hand tied behind my back sitting in my office when I hear a voice from the back of the hall. I look around and see an elderly woman stand up, arm raised. She says she’s a local housewife. “I’ve lived here in Reydargerdi all my life,” she quavers nervously. “I’ve brought up four children, and I have eleven grandchildren. Of those fifteen, only three are still living here. I can accept that. It’s the way things are. But I find it hard to accept that those of us who have stayed on here can’t move around freely in our own community. We can hardly leave our homes at night, especially at weekends, for fear of aggression, intimidation, and threats, even violence, from drunk and drugged ruffians of all sorts—Icelanders and foreigners. We didn’t have this problem before the days of what you choose to call
optimism
.”

She is breathless as she finishes her speech, as if the nervous effort has exhausted her.

Then she adds: “I’m not addressing myself to the Martians from parliament. I’d like to hear what the town council has to say. Thank you.”

Laughter. Haphazard applause begins, then spreads throughout the room.

The members of the panel shift uneasily in their seats.

Jóhann Hansen doesn’t look happy. He passes a trembling hand over his smoothed-back graying hair and pulls at the neck of his dark red sweater. After a moment’s thought he takes his place at the lectern.

“Thank you for your question. I understand your concerns,” he soberly observes. “These issues are constantly under discussion among those who represent the community here.” He pauses, then continues. “We will continue to scrutinize these issues and seek to achieve a solution that everyone will be happy with.”

This doesn’t raise much applause. Not even Ásgrímur Pétursson is clapping.

“Any more comments or questions?” asks Anna, desperately trying to keep control of the meeting.

“What are the authorities planning to do about all the illegal drugs that are pouring in here?” asks a man’s voice from somewhere in the hall. “Whether they’re to be sold up at the hydroelectric plant or on the factory site or here, in the streets and bars? How long is this going to be allowed to go on?”

Anna Thóroddsdóttir opts to answer this herself. “It would be naive to assume that major development projects like these, which have led to an influx of people from all over the world, won’t give rise to any social problems. The unavoidable price…”

“Now who’s being naive?” asks the same voice. “Weren’t the municipal authorities naive in neglecting to take into account the
unavoidable price
, as the mayor chooses to call it?”

The whole meeting breaks into applause.

“If you’ll allow me to finish what I was saying,” resumes Anna, obviously disconcerted, “when a community undergoes such a huge transformation, there will inevitably be a price to pay. We may even call it a revolution. Here in Reydargerdi we have experienced, and are experiencing, a revolution in our standard of living…”

“Anna!” shouts a young woman. “Don’t you know that traveling pimps come here regularly, with girls from down south for sale? Are the town authorities in favor of sex trafficking?”

A wave of applause. Mainly from women.

Two men give a wolf whistle. Some males in the audience exchange conspiratorial looks.

“Have the town authorities formulated a policy to respond to organized crime if it seeks to establish itself here in Reydargerdi?” asks an elderly man tranquilly. “I don’t just mean the degradation entailed by bringing in cheap labor, as it’s called—impoverished workers with limited rights, who are nobody’s responsibility. I’m also referring to the marketing of amphetamines from Estonia and heroin from St. Petersburg and cannabis coming in by ferry from Scandinavia. And, like the lady who spoke earlier, I also mean prostitution and pornography and the sex trade in general. I ask again: Have the town authorities formulated a policy to respond to this menace?”

Anna Thóroddsdóttir looks at Jóhann Hansen, who in turn looks at Ásgrímur Pétursson. The expressionless face of the local boss gives them nothing to work with.

“So Jóhann Hansen thinks he’s going to safeguard our children from drugs and violence, does he?” exclaims a woman.

There is no need to articulate the rest: Jóhann Hansen couldn’t even safeguard his own son! And now our children need protection from his son!

A muttering spreads though the hall. Nobody is clapping. You can feel the toe-curling embarrassment. That was a blow below the belt.

Jóhann Hansen looks down at a sheet of paper and makes a note with a shaky hand. Then he removes his misted glasses and wipes them on the sleeve of his sweater.

The member of parliament for the Radical Party breaks the oppressive silence by calling from his seat: “It’s encouraging to hear how many people here have realized what is really happening here and agree with the Radical Party’s views. Right from the start, when the governing parties started paying court to the regions and dangling prospects of industrial development, we have been arguing that international finance will entail international problems…”

Though in full flood with his party political address, he is soon silenced by boos from the audience. And the public meeting in Reydargerdi on Easter Monday gradually deteriorates into a shouting match among the bigwigs from down south.

I switch off my tape recorder and stand up with a nod to Chief of Police Höskuldur Pétursson, who is sitting directly behind me, then make my way through the crowd to the hotel bar. A few teenagers stand in a huddle, smoking. Two middle-aged men are sipping beers. At the corner of the bar is a young man who looks familiar. I can’t identify him until I’ve had a nicotine hit.
It’s the guy who was sitting at Agnar Hansen’s table at the Reydin bar. When I approached he stood up and left. He doesn’t seem to notice me. Maybe he doesn’t remember me.

A pale and distressed Jóhann Hansen gives the closing remarks at the meeting: