Hypothermia - Страница 16

‘Oh, thank you. It’s you, is it?’ the old man said when he recognised Erlendur.

‘How are you?’ Erlendur asked.

‘Bearing up,’ the old man answered. Then he asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ and Erlendur heard the growing excitement in his voice. ‘It’s not about Davíd, is it? You haven’t found out something?’

‘No,’ Erlendur said hastily. ‘Nothing like that. I was just passing and thought I’d look in.’

‘I’m not really supposed to get up but I can’t simply hang about in bed all day. You wouldn’t come along to the lounge with me, would you?’

The old man gripped Erlendur’s arm as he helped him into the corridor and together they went in the direction he indicated. They sat down in the lounge where the radio was on and a familiar voice was reading a serial.

‘Do you happen to remember a friend of your son’s called Gilbert who moved to Denmark around the time Davíd went missing?’ Erlendur asked, deciding to come straight to the point.

‘Gilbert?’ the old man whispered thoughtfully. ‘I can barely remember him.’

‘They were at sixth-form college together. He lived in Copenhagen for years. He spoke to Davíd just before he vanished.’

‘And could he tell you anything?’

‘No, nothing concrete,’ Erlendur said. ‘Your son hinted to Gilbert that he had formed a relationship with a girl. I remember that you didn’t think this was likely; we discussed it specifically. What Gilbert says may indicate something different.’

‘Davíd wasn’t in any relationship,’ the old man said. ‘He would have told us.’

‘It hadn’t necessarily got very far; it might only have been in the early stages. Your son hinted as much to Gilbert. Did no girl ever get in touch with you after he vanished? Did no one who you didn’t know call and ask after him? It need only have been a voice on the phone.’

The old man stared at Erlendur, trying to remember all that had happened during the days and weeks after it became clear that his son had vanished. The family gathered, the police took statements, friends offered their help, the press needed pictures. Davíd’s parents hardly had time to come to terms with what had happened before they collapsed exhausted into bed each night and tried to catch up on some sleep. Not that they got any rest. At night their minds would present them with vivid images of their son and they were filled with dread at the thought of never seeing him again.

The old man continued to gaze at Erlendur, trying to recollect anything unfamiliar or unexpected, a visitor or a phone call, a voice he didn’t recognise, an odd question: ‘Is Davíd home?’

‘Did he chase after girls at all?’ Erlendur asked.

‘Very little. He was so young.’

‘Did no one who you didn’t know very well ask after him – a girl of his own age, for instance?’ Erlendur rephrased his earlier question.

‘No, not that I can remember, not that I can remember at all,’ the old man said. ‘I, we, would have known if he’d met a girl. Anything else is out of the question. Although… I’m so old now that I may have missed something. Gunnthórunn would have been able to help you.’

‘Kids are often shy when it comes to talking about that sort of thing.’

‘That may well be true; it must have been a very new relationship. I don’t remember him ever having a girlfriend. Not once.’

‘Do you think his brother would have known?’

‘Elmar? No. He would have told us. He wouldn’t have forgotten something important like that.’

The old man began to cough, an ugly, rattling noise that grew steadily worse until he couldn’t stop. Blood spurted from his nostrils and he collapsed on the sofa in the lounge. Erlendur rushed out and called for help, then tried to tend to him until it arrived.

‘I haven’t got as long as they thought,’ the old man groaned.

The nurses shooed Erlendur away and he watched them move the old man back to the ward. They closed the door and he walked away down the corridor, not knowing if he would ever see him again.

Erlendur lay awake that night, thinking about his mother. His thoughts often strayed to her at this time of year. He pictured her as she’d been when they had lived out east, standing in the yard, gazing at Mount Hardskafi, then looking back at him encouragingly. They would find him. All hope was not yet lost. He no longer knew whether the image of her in the yard was a memory or a dream. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

She died three days after being admitted to hospital. He sat at her bedside throughout. The staff offered him the chance to rest in an empty room if he wanted but he declined politely, unable to bring himself to leave his mother. The doctors said she could go at any minute. Although she regained consciousness from time to time, she was delirious and did not know him. He tried to talk to her but it was useless.

So the hours passed, one by one, as his mother slowly drew near the end. His mind was flooded with memories of his childhood when she had seemed to be everywhere in a strangely circumscribed world; a watchful protector, a gentle teacher and a good friend.

In the end she appeared to regain her senses slightly. She smiled at him.

‘Erlendur,’ she whispered.

He held her hand.

‘I’m here with you,’ he said.

‘Erlendur?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you found your brother?’

13

It was shortly before curtain-up when Erlendur parked at the stage door. He knew he was late but he wanted to finish what he had set out to do before calling it a day. A friendly caretaker showed him the way to the dressing rooms but was anxious on his behalf, warning him he would have very little time. Erlendur sought to reassure him by explaining that he had called ahead and Orri was expecting him. It shouldn’t take long.

Pandemonium reigned behind the scenes. Actors were pacing the corridors in full costume. Others were still being made up. Stagehands were dashing about. Out in the audience a few scattered figures were beginning to take their seats. A disembodied voice announced that it was half an hour till the performance began. Erlendur knew that the play was Othello. According to Valgerdur the critics had described the production as ambitious and original in its way, but incoherent.

Orri Fjeldsted was alone in his dressing room, going over his lines, when Erlendur eventually tracked him down. He was playing Iago in a 1940s-style suit, because the director, a young go-getter recently returned from his studies in Italy, according to Valgerdur, had decided to set the production in Reykjavík during the Second World War. Othello was black, a colonel in the occupying American army; Desdemona was a Reykjavík girl involved with the GIs. The colonel had just returned from a mission to Europe when he met Desdemona. Meanwhile, Iago was plotting his downfall.

‘Are you the policeman?’ Orri asked when he opened the door to Erlendur. ‘Couldn’t you have found a better time?’

‘I’m sorry, I meant to get here ages ago – it won’t take a moment,’ Erlendur said.

‘At least you’re not a bloody critic!’ the actor exclaimed. He was small and scrawny, almost wizened, with thick greasepaint on his face, an unconvincing Clark Gable moustache glued to his upper lip and his hair slicked back from his forehead. He reminded Erlendur of a gangster in an American movie.

‘Do you read the reviews?’ Orri Fjeldsted asked. He had a powerful voice despite his diminutive size.

‘Never,’ Erlendur said.

‘They’ve really gone to town with their bullshit on this one,’ Orri said, and Erlendur remembered that Valgerdur had quoted the critics as saying that Orri Fjeldsted appeared lost in the role of Iago.

‘I haven’t followed them,’ Erlendur said.

‘You haven’t seen the production?’

‘I don’t go to the theatre much.’

‘Bunch of bloody charlatans! Scum! Do you think we do this for fun?’

‘Er, no, it… they’re…’

‘Year in, year out, the same crowd with the same pig-ignorant bullshit! What was it you wanted?’

‘It’s about Baldvin…’

‘Oh yes, you mentioned that on the phone. I heard he’d lost his wife. All very sudden. We don’t keep in touch any longer. Haven’t for years.’

‘You were at drama school together, if I’ve understood correctly.’

‘That’s right. He was a very promising actor. Then he went into medicine. Wise move. At least he’s free of the bloody critics! And makes a sight more money, of course. What’s the point of being a famous actor if you don’t have two pence to rub together? Actors are paid a pittance in this country – almost as little as teachers!’

‘I think he’s doing all right,’ Erlendur said, trying his best to pacify the actor.

‘He was forever having money troubles. I do remember that. Used to tap us for cash and so on and took his time paying it back. You really had to chase him and sometimes he didn’t pay up at all. Apart from that he was a good bloke.’

‘There was a group of you at the drama school?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Orri said, stroking a finger over his thin moustache to make sure it was firmly attached. ‘A bloody good gang.’

‘Fifteen minutes to curtain-up,’ a voice announced over the tannoy.

‘He met his wife when he had just given up his drama studies,’ Erlendur said.

‘Yes, I remember it well, a sweet girl from the university. Tell me, why are the police asking questions about Baldvin?’

Erlendur chose his words with care, mindful of what Valgerdur had said about actors being dreadful gossips.

‘We’re collaborating in a Swedish study…’