servicemen be stationed there.’
Zen waved dismissively.
‘Well, all I know is that I saw plenty of these people about last night. And this was before I got drunk. Like that one I told you I saw standing beside you outside the café yesterday, while you were talking on the phone. They looked different, they dressed different and they acted different. And one of them tried to kill me.’
An odd look came into Guðmundsson’s eyes.
‘You say they dressed differently. How?’
Zen shrugged.
‘I don’t know. Like people who had just arrived from some remote village in the country. They were wearing coarse, homespun garments, badly cut and badly put together. They looked completely out of place, like the gypsies in Italy, but it didn’t seem to bother them. On the contrary, they were staring at the other people in a really blatant way, with this sort of mocking, malicious smile.’
Snæbjörn Guðmundsson nodded slowly, considering all this. Then he stood up and beckoned.
‘Come this way a moment.’
He walked over to the front door and opened it on to the tiny patch of garden that divided the house from the street. The consul looked both ways, then turned to Zen.
‘How many people are there in sight at the moment?’
Zen counted rapidly.
‘Eleven,’ he replied.
‘Ah,’ said Guðmundsson.
‘Why?’
The consul ushered him back inside and closed the door.
‘The reason why the police were on the scene so quickly last night was that all of downtown Reykjavik is monitored by a system of closed-circuit video cameras connected to viewing screens at the central police station, to deter and control violence among the roving packs of drunken youths who often go on revelling until five or six in the morning at this time of year. The patrol cars are parked strategically around the perimeter of the area, and can reach any trouble spot in seconds.’
Zen took out his cigarettes and looked questioningly at his host, who nodded.
‘The street in which you claim to have been attacked …’
‘What do you mean, “claim”? Look at my hand! Why do you think I needed all these stitches?’
‘Let’s leave that for a moment. At all events, the street is not very well lit, and the nearest camera was quite a long way from where this happened. Nevertheless, one of the police officers on duty saw you fall over and then start lashing out with your feet and fists, and called in a patrol car. What he didn’t see, and whatre-examination of the video tape has failed to reveal, is any evidence of a second person.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Zen, really angry now.
‘Not at all. I’m merely telling you what the police report stated.’
‘You think my idea of a good time is to get so drunk I see people who aren’t there and then slash my hand and shoulder with a knife I brought along for the purpose?’
‘Are you drunk now?’ asked the consul.
‘No! Just horribly hung over.’
‘Of course. Just a moment.’
He walked out to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a small glass filled with a brownish liquid.
‘Drink this.’
‘What is it?’ Zen asked, sniffing the liquid. It smelt indescribably foul.
‘Just drink it. Knock it back in one. You’ll feel much better.’
Zen did as he was told. A sharp burning sensation in his mouth and throat was abruptly followed by the most intense onrush of nausea he had ever experienced. He knew without the slightest doubt that he was going to vomit massively there and then, all over the consul’s hardwood floor. Then it passed, and was succeeded by a warm glow. The consul nodded.
‘It’s an infusion of hakarl , decomposed shark’s meat pickled in raw alcohol. In about five minutes you’ll feel much better. But it was important to check whether you were still suffering the active effects of the drinks you had last night before evaluating the results of my little test.’
‘What test?’
‘When I asked how many people there were in the
Zen waved dismissively.
‘Well, all I know is that I saw plenty of these people about last night. And this was before I got drunk. Like that one I told you I saw standing beside you outside the café yesterday, while you were talking on the phone. They looked different, they dressed different and they acted different. And one of them tried to kill me.’
An odd look came into Guðmundsson’s eyes.
‘You say they dressed differently. How?’
Zen shrugged.
‘I don’t know. Like people who had just arrived from some remote village in the country. They were wearing coarse, homespun garments, badly cut and badly put together. They looked completely out of place, like the gypsies in Italy, but it didn’t seem to bother them. On the contrary, they were staring at the other people in a really blatant way, with this sort of mocking, malicious smile.’
Snæbjörn Guðmundsson nodded slowly, considering all this. Then he stood up and beckoned.
‘Come this way a moment.’
He walked over to the front door and opened it on to the tiny patch of garden that divided the house from the street. The consul looked both ways, then turned to Zen.
‘How many people are there in sight at the moment?’
Zen counted rapidly.
‘Eleven,’ he replied.
‘Ah,’ said Guðmundsson.
‘Why?’
The consul ushered him back inside and closed the door.
‘The reason why the police were on the scene so quickly last night was that all of downtown Reykjavik is monitored by a system of closed-circuit video cameras connected to viewing screens at the central police station, to deter and control violence among the roving packs of drunken youths who often go on revelling until five or six in the morning at this time of year. The patrol cars are parked strategically around the perimeter of the area, and can reach any trouble spot in seconds.’
Zen took out his cigarettes and looked questioningly at his host, who nodded.
‘The street in which you claim to have been attacked …’
‘What do you mean, “claim”? Look at my hand! Why do you think I needed all these stitches?’
‘Let’s leave that for a moment. At all events, the street is not very well lit, and the nearest camera was quite a long way from where this happened. Nevertheless, one of the police officers on duty saw you fall over and then start lashing out with your feet and fists, and called in a patrol car. What he didn’t see, and whatre-examination of the video tape has failed to reveal, is any evidence of a second person.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Zen, really angry now.
‘Not at all. I’m merely telling you what the police report stated.’
‘You think my idea of a good time is to get so drunk I see people who aren’t there and then slash my hand and shoulder with a knife I brought along for the purpose?’
‘Are you drunk now?’ asked the consul.
‘No! Just horribly hung over.’
‘Of course. Just a moment.’
He walked out to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a small glass filled with a brownish liquid.
‘Drink this.’
‘What is it?’ Zen asked, sniffing the liquid. It smelt indescribably foul.
‘Just drink it. Knock it back in one. You’ll feel much better.’
Zen did as he was told. A sharp burning sensation in his mouth and throat was abruptly followed by the most intense onrush of nausea he had ever experienced. He knew without the slightest doubt that he was going to vomit massively there and then, all over the consul’s hardwood floor. Then it passed, and was succeeded by a warm glow. The consul nodded.
‘It’s an infusion of hakarl , decomposed shark’s meat pickled in raw alcohol. In about five minutes you’ll feel much better. But it was important to check whether you were still suffering the active effects of the drinks you had last night before evaluating the results of my little test.’
‘What test?’
‘When I asked how many people there were in the
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