round for his attacker. He was nowhere to be seen. Two uniformed patrolmen got out of the car.One of them spoke to Zen, who shrugged and replied in Italian, ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’ One policeman inspected Zen’s hand, which was covered in blood. The other bent down and picked up a knife from the pavement. He got out his radio and made a call, then the two men led Zen over to their car.
The next hour and a half was spent in the emergency department of a hospital, where the injuries to Zen’s hand and shoulder were cleaned and the former stitched. At a certain point he remembered the consul’s card and the receipt with his address, which he handed to the hospital staff. When Snæbjörn Guðmundsson showed up in person, he initially seemed more agitated by Zen’s lack of agitation than by what had actually happened . Zen just ignored him. He was feeling better than he had for months. He had no idea what had happened, still less why. That didn’t matter. Something had, and he had dealt with it. He was in charge again, engaged with the real world, making and breaking. It felt good, and he wasn’t going to let some weedy, neurotic diplomat tell him otherwise. In fact it was only with the greatest difficulty that Guðmundsson managed to convince Zen to come home with him and go to bed rather than take to the streets and see if there were any bars still open, but in the end he prevailed. They drove somewhere, Zen got out, they went inside, there was a bed, he lay down.
He awoke in a bright, hard light. His shoulder and hand ached abominably, but neither could begin to match his head. He was lying fully clothed on a narrow wooden bed in a musty room filled with cardboard boxes. He had no idea where he was, or any memory of how he got there. The world was a painful enigma whose solution, if there was one, eluded him utterly.
Some time later, Snæbjörn Guðmundsson appeared with a cup of tea in his hand.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked in an excessively loud and patronizingly cheery tone. ‘Bathroom’s to the left. I’ll be next door when you’re ready to talk.’
Twenty minutes later, Zen shambled into the room next door. It was a bleakly austere space stretching from one end of the small one-storey house to the other. The walls were white, the floor bare wooden boards, the furnishings hard and minimal. Since the front door was at one end, he must have crossed theroom to get to the bed where he had woken up, but he had absolutely no memory of this.
‘So how are you feeling?’ Snæbjörn Guðmundsson demanded, putting down the book he had been reading.
‘Like hell,’ Zen replied succinctly.
‘Yes, well, you seemed a bit the worse for wear last night, I have to say. Apart from your various injuries, I mean.’
‘I drank a lot.’
‘Expensive business here in Iceland.’
‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. You’re evidently a VIP. I’ll bill the embassy.’
Zen collapsed in a chair made of wooden slats on a stainless steel frame. It was as uncomfortable as it looked.
‘Did they find the person who attacked me?’ he asked.
Guðmundsson looked at him oddly.
‘No, they didn’t. You say he was dark, unkempt looking and short?’
‘Shorter than me, and I’m shorter than most people here.’
‘That’s very unusual. Our genetic pool here in Iceland is remarkably homogenous. Or to put it another way, everyone’s related to everyone else. We don’t have a distinct class of shorter, dark-skinned people, like the Lapps in Finland.’
‘They must be immigrants.’
‘That’s not really a problem here. We’re an island, of course, which helps. The points of entry are strictly controlled and we’re very particular about who we let in. Excessively so, some might say, especially if it’s a matter of non-Northern European individuals. When the United States military applied to build Keflavik as a base during the war, the government agreed on condition that no black
The next hour and a half was spent in the emergency department of a hospital, where the injuries to Zen’s hand and shoulder were cleaned and the former stitched. At a certain point he remembered the consul’s card and the receipt with his address, which he handed to the hospital staff. When Snæbjörn Guðmundsson showed up in person, he initially seemed more agitated by Zen’s lack of agitation than by what had actually happened . Zen just ignored him. He was feeling better than he had for months. He had no idea what had happened, still less why. That didn’t matter. Something had, and he had dealt with it. He was in charge again, engaged with the real world, making and breaking. It felt good, and he wasn’t going to let some weedy, neurotic diplomat tell him otherwise. In fact it was only with the greatest difficulty that Guðmundsson managed to convince Zen to come home with him and go to bed rather than take to the streets and see if there were any bars still open, but in the end he prevailed. They drove somewhere, Zen got out, they went inside, there was a bed, he lay down.
He awoke in a bright, hard light. His shoulder and hand ached abominably, but neither could begin to match his head. He was lying fully clothed on a narrow wooden bed in a musty room filled with cardboard boxes. He had no idea where he was, or any memory of how he got there. The world was a painful enigma whose solution, if there was one, eluded him utterly.
Some time later, Snæbjörn Guðmundsson appeared with a cup of tea in his hand.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked in an excessively loud and patronizingly cheery tone. ‘Bathroom’s to the left. I’ll be next door when you’re ready to talk.’
Twenty minutes later, Zen shambled into the room next door. It was a bleakly austere space stretching from one end of the small one-storey house to the other. The walls were white, the floor bare wooden boards, the furnishings hard and minimal. Since the front door was at one end, he must have crossed theroom to get to the bed where he had woken up, but he had absolutely no memory of this.
‘So how are you feeling?’ Snæbjörn Guðmundsson demanded, putting down the book he had been reading.
‘Like hell,’ Zen replied succinctly.
‘Yes, well, you seemed a bit the worse for wear last night, I have to say. Apart from your various injuries, I mean.’
‘I drank a lot.’
‘Expensive business here in Iceland.’
‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. You’re evidently a VIP. I’ll bill the embassy.’
Zen collapsed in a chair made of wooden slats on a stainless steel frame. It was as uncomfortable as it looked.
‘Did they find the person who attacked me?’ he asked.
Guðmundsson looked at him oddly.
‘No, they didn’t. You say he was dark, unkempt looking and short?’
‘Shorter than me, and I’m shorter than most people here.’
‘That’s very unusual. Our genetic pool here in Iceland is remarkably homogenous. Or to put it another way, everyone’s related to everyone else. We don’t have a distinct class of shorter, dark-skinned people, like the Lapps in Finland.’
‘They must be immigrants.’
‘That’s not really a problem here. We’re an island, of course, which helps. The points of entry are strictly controlled and we’re very particular about who we let in. Excessively so, some might say, especially if it’s a matter of non-Northern European individuals. When the United States military applied to build Keflavik as a base during the war, the government agreed on condition that no black
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