Reykjavik Nights

34

By evening the skies had cleared and the wind had dropped. The pools lay smooth and unruffled as Erlendur threaded his way among them, crossing Kringlumýri in the direction of Hvassaleiti. He had walked this way before after talking to the boy on the bicycle. Erlendur was keen to meet the man who practised his golf swing on Hvassaleiti. So far he had had no success in tracking him down.

He made his way through the neighbourhood, passing terraced houses and blocks of flats. The streets were full of children playing ball games or hide-and-seek — they had erupted from the houses as soon as the rain let up — but he couldn’t see his friend on the bike. Neighbours stood around chatting about inflation or whether they planned to go to the Thingvellir celebrations. ‘Depends on the weather,’ Erlendur heard as he went by.

When he reached the edge of the development he caught sight of a man standing in a dip not far from the corner of Hvassaleiti and Háaleitisbraut, where the National Broadcasting Company was planning to build its new headquarters. Next to the man was a small golf bag. He was extracting balls from a bucket lying on its side and hitting them a few metres at a time across the grass.

Erlendur walked over and said good evening. The man returned his greeting, hit a ball six metres or so, then hooked out another with his club. This time he messed up his stroke, sending a chunk of turf into the air; Erlendur had ruined his concentration. He turned.

‘Can I do something for you?’ he asked, a hint of impatience in his voice.

‘Do you often practise here?’

‘Sometimes.’ The man was in his forties, tall and lean, dressed in golfing attire — cardigan, light checked trousers, a glove on his left hand. From his tan Erlendur guessed he had spent his summer on the handful of golf courses to be found near Reykjavík. It only confirmed his belief that the game had been invented for English and Scottish lords who had nothing better to do with their time.

‘What’s it to you?’ asked the man.

‘Oh, just curious,’ said Erlendur. ‘The local boys told me a golfer sometimes practised here in the evenings.’

He brought out the ball he had found and showed it to the man.

‘This one of yours, by any chance? I found it up by the pipeline.’

The golfer looked from the ball to Erlendur, then took it and examined it more closely. He was surprised, not by the ball but by the fact that this young man should have come all this way to return it.

‘Could be,’ he said. ‘I don’t mark my balls specially so... and this one looks quite old. No, I’m fairly sure it’s not mine.’

He handed it back.

‘Don’t you hit them towards the pipeline?’ asked Erlendur, pointing to where the conduit crossed the waste-ground between Fossvogur and Kringlumýri.

‘If I’m using the driver, they can travel up to two hundred and fifty metres. But mostly I work on my putting here. And I don’t lose these balls so easily.’

‘The driver?’

‘The biggest club.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘You’re not a golfer, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Putting’s the most important skill — those are the short shots. You can whack the balls as far as you like but the real knack lies in hitting them accurately over short distances.’

‘I don’t know the first thing about golf,’ admitted Erlendur.

‘No, not many Icelanders play.’

‘Does anyone else practise here — that you’re aware of?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

‘Been coming here long?’

‘I moved to this area four years ago.’

‘Ever see any activity around the pipeline? People walking along it, for example?’

‘Now and then.’

‘Ever come out here late in the evenings?’

‘Past midnight, sometimes, when it’s light enough. Try to make the most of these short summers. But I don’t see why you’re asking me all this. Can I help you with something specific?’

‘I don’t know if you remember, but a tramp drowned in Kringlumýri a year ago. He’d been sleeping inside the heating conduit. I found this ball nearby and wondered if you’d hit it over there and might perhaps have seen him.’

‘I do remember them finding him,’ said the golfer.

‘Do you recall seeing him in the area? Or over by the pipeline?’

‘Was he someone you knew?’

‘We were acquainted.’

‘No, I never saw him. Didn’t even know he was sleeping there until I read about it in the papers. He must’ve been in a pretty bad way.’

‘He was down on his luck, yes.’

‘Actually, now you come to mention it... I was out here late one night last summer, working on my stroke, when I noticed someone bending over by the pipeline.’

‘The tramp?’

‘I don’t know. He was just sort of bending over, like I said, and peering around, then he disappeared and popped up again. I’ve no idea if it was the person you’re talking about. I couldn’t see him that clearly. All I saw was a man busy with something over there.’

‘Did you notice where he went afterwards?’

‘No, I only spotted him briefly, then I went home. Though I do remember that the incident came back to me when those boys found the man’s body a couple of days later and I heard he’d been living in the pipeline.’

‘Did you tell the police?’

‘The police?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You didn’t think it might have been important when they found the tramp?’

‘No, it didn’t even cross my mind.’ The man hooked another ball from the bucket and positioned it on the grass. ‘Not for a minute. After all, I didn’t know if it was him. Why would I inform the police about some tramp hanging around in the old diggings?’

‘Could you describe him in more detail — the man you saw?’

‘No, not really.’

‘And he was doing something by the pipeline?’

‘I haven’t a clue what he was up to but I do recall thinking he must have been searching for something. He was a long way off, though, and I wasn’t paying attention. Just caught a momentary glimpse.’

‘Could it have been a woman?’

‘Not sure,’ said the golfer. ‘Maybe. Couldn’t say.’

‘And this was around the time the tramp was found in the pool? Do you remember when exactly?’

‘Only about two days before. I’m fairly sure it was past midnight.’

‘A figure bending over by the pipeline?’

‘Yes, presumably that tramp. It was an accident, wasn’t it?’

‘What was?’

‘His death. There was nothing suspicious about it?’

‘No, I doubt it,’ said Erlendur. ‘I expect it was just an accident.’

When Halldóra told him she was pregnant, Erlendur didn’t know what to think. The news was so unexpected that he was utterly thrown.

‘Is it mine?’ he blurted out as they sat in the cafe.

‘Yours? Of course,’ Halldóra answered.

‘Are you...?’

‘I haven’t... there’s no one else, if that’s what you think. Is that what you think?’

‘And you’re sure?’

‘Sure? What do you mean? Of course I’m sure. You’re the only person it could be.’

‘No, I mean that you’re pregnant. You only said you thought you were.’

‘No, I... I didn’t know how best to put it, but... there’s no doubt,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen a doctor.’

‘But... when...?’

‘In the spring. You’d been to the police party, remember? You don’t seem terribly pleased.’

‘It’s just such a surprise. What —?’

‘You should have realised how I’d feel,’ said Halldóra.

Erlendur sat in silence while her words sank in. There was a loud crash from the kitchen as some plates fell on the floor, and everyone except Erlendur and Halldóra looked up.

‘All that stuff about moving in together...?’

‘I didn’t know how to broach the subject,’ said Halldóra. ‘I don’t know where I am with you. You were so reluctant to meet my parents. And I know almost nothing about you. About your family, for example. We’ve been seeing each other for two and a half years but I still don’t know you at all and you know nothing about me. We meet at pubs, sleep together and go into town but...’

He thought she was going to burst into tears.

‘Either we make it serious or we might as well end it,’ she whispered across the table.

Erlendur had no idea what to say.

‘What do you want to do?’ she asked and he saw she was welling up. ‘What do you want to do, Erlendur?’