Season of the Witch (35 page)

“I don’t mind.”

“I won’t keep it for long.”

I head for the door, smoking. “Thanks for letting me drop by.”

“I thought you wanted to talk about Skarpi,” says Rúnar.

“Yes, I do. Absolutely,” I reply. “But I had such a rough night I don’t think I can manage it now.”

“And it was my fault that they came after you…”

“Not really. They’re such a bunch of idiots. Better that they inconvenienced me than you. You must be very busy. Finishing essays, studying for exams?”

“Yes…,” replies Rúnar remotely. “But it’s hard to focus at present, as things are. At least I’ve got peace and quiet here.”

“Are you interested in social issues and history, like your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Following in his footsteps?”

No reply.

“Yes, it was very sad. A tragedy.” Kjartan Arnarson is happy to speak to me when I call him that evening. But he speaks gravely.

“After that business of the
Question of the Day
, you told me that Sólrún was upset. But did she seem to be in such a bad way?”

“Not really. Of course I wasn’t all that aware of how she was feeling. Not all the time. But I’ve heard she was deeply affected by Skarphédinn’s death.”

“I see. Because of his brother, Rúnar.”

“No, no. Because of Skarphédinn himself.”

“Skarphédinn?”

“Yes, apparently she was hopelessly in love with him.”

Now I’m lost. Yet again.

“But weren’t she and Rúnar close?”

“They were good friends. I know that. But it was the elder brother she was obsessed with.”

“Well, well” is all I can say.

“I gather that, according to Sólrún’s friends—those two who were with her that day and probably weren’t the best company for a sensitive soul like her—the joke about me was her misguided attempt to attract Skarphédinn’s attention. To elicit a public response, make him jealous.”

“Well, well,” I say again.

“I just don’t know,” he observes. “It’s all quite bizarre. Bizarre and complicated.”

Couldn’t agree more.

“You teach Rúnar, don’t you?”

“Yes. He’s in my first-year class.”

“Is he like Skarphédinn?”

“Both very bright. But Skarphédinn was totally extroverted, while Rúnar is very introverted. He seems to be terribly oppressed, somehow.”

“Maybe because his brother was so successful and popular?”

“Maybe. Or it could be something completely different.”

____

After watching
Street Rider
again, back home with my little Polly, I find I’ve run right out of energy. But my vague impression the first time I watched the movie, that there were more familiar faces in addition to Skarphédinn and Örvar Páll, is confirmed. And so at midnight, I’m still awake. Sólrún Bjarkadóttir is listed in the closing credits as an extra. She has a nonspeaking part among the gaggle of girls who flock around the leading lady, the little princess born with a silver spoon in her mouth, played by Inga Lína, now deceased. Sólrún is slimmer than when I met her, her pretty face open and unformed. In her brief appearances on the screen, she seems to be overacting in a desperate bid for attention. Saying what she shouldn’t:
Here I am! Look at me!

Still wide awake at 1:00 a.m., I reach for my tattered copy of
Loftur the Sorcerer
on the bedside table. I start on the third act and come across a sentence spoken by Loftur. I’ve seen it before, in Sólrún’s obituary:

Knowledge and innocence cannot be reconciled.

Ingibjörg Sigurlína Adalgeirsdóttir.

Last night I made a note of the full name of Inga Lína, the leading lady of
Street Rider
. Like Sólrún Bjarkadóttir the extra, Inga Lína has made her final exit. Both girls have moved on to another stage, where every actor is equal, and there are no stars and no extras.

I go back six years in the
Morning News
online archive and enter her name. There are three obituaries published when Ingibjörg Sigurlína died and favorable comments in a review of the movie: “The young novice actors in the leading roles, Skarphédinn Valgardsson and Ingibjörg Sigurlína Adalgeirsdóttir, play their parts convincingly. Their enthusiasm makes up for their lack of experience,” writes the critic. “These young people show great promise.”

Less than a year after the review was published, Inga Lína was dead. The obituaries are of the usual kind: a bubbly, sociable girl, with many talents and a promising future. “But the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,” writes one biblically minded obituarist. “Inga Lína lost her way in the jungle that modern life has become for so many, young and old…”

I don’t recognize any of the names of those who have written about her. Nor her parents’ names. She appears to have been an only child. In the phone book, I look up her father, who is listed as a master housepainter, with both landline and cell phone numbers.

“Adalgeir’s Painters,” is the answer on the cell phone against a hubbub of voices and workplace noise in the background.

I introduce myself and explain that I’m calling about his late daughter.

He’s taken aback. “Inga Lína? Why on earth? It’s been six years since she died!”

“I know,” I reply. “But two more young people, who were also in
Street Rider
, have just recently died.” The background noise grows fainter. He’s moved to a more private location.

“Two? I read about Skarphédinn. But who was the other one?”

“A girl who had a walk-on part. Sólrún Bjarkadóttir.”

He says nothing, then repeats: “Sólrún Bjarkadóttir? I don’t know anything…”

I wait.

“Unless that was the name of the girl who…”

He stops.

“The girl who…?”

“The other girl who fell for that boy, Skarphédinn. I think she and Inga Lína got into some kind of spat over him.”

“So were Skarphédinn and your daughter a couple?”

“A couple? That’s hardly the word I’d use for kids embarking on their first relationship. But I must say my daughter was very badly affected by the whole experience.”

“You mean being in the movie and becoming a star?”

“That was part of it. All the attention. And then she was broken-hearted about that boy, when it was all over and the kids
went their separate ways. She was a sensitive girl. She didn’t seem to see that life goes on when a certain period, or experience, is over. But…”

I wait.

“But the worst of it was that the kids started messing around with drugs. That sealed Inga Lína’s fate. After that, it was as if there was no going back. But she was never able to tell her mother and me everything. She was secretive.”

“Teenagers tend to be secretive, at least to their parents. They want to keep their own business to themselves, have some privacy. Surely that’s just part of growing up and demanding more independence. Part of trying to grow up?”

“Of course. I remember it well enough from when I was in my teens. But somehow you forget all that when you’re a parent yourself and trying to live up to the responsibilities. You tend to lose your memory, and empathy, about adolescent mood swings.”

“Was Inga Lína depressed?”

“She never was before that. But with the dope, she got into bad company, and she just lost all hope. She tried to get off the drugs. She went into rehab programs several times. But she never stayed. She would run away almost as soon as she got there. Her mom and I tried everything…”

It’s obviously hard for him to go on.

“Was her death an accident or…”

“She overdosed on that filth…I don’t know, we’ll never know. Was it accidental? Or the ultimate act of desperation and despair? That’s never been clearly determined. And I think that’s part of what eroded our marriage away from the inside, until there was nothing left but an empty shell.”

“So you and your wife are divorced?”

“Three years after we lost her. It was the only way. And now, when I’m just beginning to regain my balance, a reporter calls, opening up old wounds.”

He doesn’t sound angry, just surprised by the unexpected course of events.

“I’m really not looking to open old wounds. But it’s certainly odd that these three young people, who spent time together all those years ago, are now all dead.”

For a little while he says nothing.

“Yes, it is odd. But I hope you’re not going to bring up my family’s tragedy in your paper.”

“Only if it proves to be unavoidable, in connection with the two recent deaths.”

After giving him my usual assurances about handling information with all possible discretion, I thank Ingibjörg Sigurlína Adalgeirsdóttir’s father and say good-bye. And as I put the phone down, I realize how grateful I am not to be in his place.

“This is Mördur. Leave a message.”

It’s the same abrupt instruction as before on Mördur’s phone. Maybe he doesn’t use the phone much. Or perhaps he screens incoming calls. Or both.

I put my feet up on my desk, grab the phone again, and call Hotel Reydargerdi. Óskar answers.

“Yeah, Mördur was here at lunchtime for a meal. He’d just driven back from Reykjavík.”

“Is he there now?”

“No, no. He went on home after he’d eaten.”

I check the time. With a bit of luck and effort, I can get to Reydargerdi by five.

In reception Karólína is working, singing away in her sawlike hum. She doesn’t look up when I get myself a coffee for the road. Jóa’s with Ásbjörn in his office, planning sales strategy for the region. When I catch sight of Jóa, I suddenly remember I’ve still got to do the
Question of the Day
and send it off for the Tuesday edition. A few minutes later, Jóa and I are on Town Hall Square, and I induce five passers-by to answer the important question:
Do you play the lottery?

On my way out, having sent in the answers, I meet young Björg and Pal on their way in. Pal and Karó have a heartwarming reunion, and Björg and Karó share an affectionate hug. It looks very much as if everyone is living happily ever after. Like the end of a Disney movie.

I shake Björg’s hand. After a friendly greeting, I have a sudden inspiration and go back into my little closet. I open the obituaries about Sólrún Bjarkadóttir on the
Morning News
archive, and find her parents’ names. Sólrún was from Reykjavík. I look up her parents in the Reykjavík phone book. Then I have a discreet word with Björg.

After driving through Reydargerdi and getting directions from Óskar at the hotel I find Mördur’s house easily enough. At the eastern end of the village, it stands apart, surrounded by neglected grass. The once-white concrete walls are scarred with weather damage. Rusty relics of old farm equipment, hubcaps, and moth-eaten steel barrels are dotted around on the grass. In front of the house is a gleaming silver-gray Mercedes-Benz, a sign of the boom times. I park my heap of rust next to it, as a reminder that
sic transit gloria mundi.

I approach the house, which is on two floors. The basement looks uninhabitable and seems to serve for storage. The concrete
steps leading up to the front door are crumbling under the assault of wind and weather, although today there is a definite hint of spring in the air.

Where there should be a doorbell, a couple of wires stick pointlessly out of the wall. I knock at the door.

A young man answers. I’ve seen him before. He was sitting at the table with Agnar Hansen the first time I met him, at Reydin, and stood up and left when I addressed Agnar. And I saw him in the hotel bar when I was in Reydargerdi for the public meeting. If I hadn’t seen him twice in succession like that, I doubt if I’d have remembered him. In brown corduroy pants and a blue shirt, Mördur looks quite ordinary. Average height, average build, clean-shaven, short hair. His features are regular, unremarkable, like a child’s drawing of a face. Gold-rimmed round glasses give him a surprised look.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I say. “My name’s Einar. I’m with the
Afternoon News
.”

He nods. “I know who you are.”

“I’d like to talk to you about your friend Skarphédinn. I’m researching a piece about him.”

He glances around. “You haven’t brought a photographer? I don’t want any pictures.”

“No, I don’t need a photo. Just information.”

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. The bland non-responsiveness reminds me of a politician or a faceless bureaucrat.

“What would you like to know?”

“To start with—how long had you known each other?”

“We met about six years ago.”

“In Akureyri?”

“No, Reykjavík.”

He doesn’t seem to be thinking of inviting me in. I try to peer past him, but all I can see is the grubby wall of the hallway.

“That must have been at the time when Skarphédinn was down south, acting in
Street Rider
?”

“That’s about right.”

“Were you involved in the movie?”

“No, not at all. We just got to know each other around town, as you do.”

“So you’re from Reykjavík, are you?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“And how did you come to become such close friends?”

“We just hit it off.”

“So did you have the same interests?”

“The same philosophy, mainly.”