he said, in an accent that was pure popcorn and Budweiser. 'Anyway, I don't wanna talk about that.'
'What do you want to talk about?'
'You were looking for me, remember?'
I did, but that seemed a long time ago now. Abandoning all thoughts of subtle interrogation, I swallowed hard and went straight for it.
'You married Solrun, I believe?'
'Who wants to know?'
'Me.' I took his silence as the next question. 'I'm a newspaperman from London. I'm writing some stuff about her.'
He turned his eyes away in disgust. 'Why'd you think I 'II buy that shit?'
'You want credentials .. .'I reached inside my jacket, but he was already shaking his head.
'You wouldn't pull that one unless you'd got the paperwork.'
'So how do I convince you? I was a friend of hers. You can ask people. I knew her a couple of years ago when I was on a press visit.'
To my relief he was nodding his head this time. 'I got you.
The Brit. The shmuck in the photographs.'
This was no time to be proud. 'That's right,' I said, beaming with bonhomie.
A silence welled up between us as he studied me. If I'd had
all day to think about it, I still couldn't have guessed his next question.
'You lay her?' he suddenly snapped out. The silence spread to the other tables. A tall man in a suit who was halfway through the door, glanced around, and went out again.
'Yes,' I said, after a lifetime's pause.
This time he leaned further forward and pushed his crude colourless face towards me. 'You fucked my wife?' he said, in a soft whisper.
'Yes.' My voice bent a bit in the middle but I managed to say it.
He sat back, threw his head back and blew smoke at the
ceiling. 'If you'd said you hadn't, I'd have torn your ears off, man,' he said, his eyes, bright with amusement, returning to mine. 'I must be the only goddam guy on this island who hasn't.'
I concentrated on stirring my coffee. There was no sugar in it to stir, but it did seem a fairly neutral activity.
'You wanna write that down for your readers? C'mon, that's a great story - ain't that what you call it, a story?' I had a sudden thought then of Grimm and his ideas about the Sexy Eskies and I wondered what he'd make of reality when it came in this form.
Very gently, I inquired: 'And why was that?'
'Why didn't I get to screw her?' He took delight in spelling it out. Euphemisms weren't needed round here for the moment.
'Maybe she only liked you classy Brits and the way you say "bloke" and "bloody" all the time. Or maybe she was a real patriot and only kicked up her heels for these big dumb fish stinkin' Icelanders.'
He'd lifted his voice for the last few words and he turned and looked around to see if anyone else wanted to contribute to the debate. They didn't.
He was a puzzle. There was a pride in his bitterness, a violent and defiant pride, and I couldn't see where it came from.
'Course,' he went on, pleased with the discomfort he was causing, 'maybe she didn't like Uncle Sam too much. Some of the folks round here don't. Ain't that right?'
Two stone-faced housewives rose and left. A workman in a donkey jacket followed.
'See what I mean? No, they don't all love the Americanos on this little island. Now I wonder why that can be? I really do wonder about that.'
'But you're not American, are you?'
The smile sank and I was left looking at the hollow emptiness of his eyes. Casually he reached out and took my right hand in his left. He held it softly, without force. Then, with the finger and thumb of his right hand, he took hold of the thin web of flesh between my own finger and thumb. He began to squeeze.
'I know a hundred ways to give you pain.' He watched me with real
'What do you want to talk about?'
'You were looking for me, remember?'
I did, but that seemed a long time ago now. Abandoning all thoughts of subtle interrogation, I swallowed hard and went straight for it.
'You married Solrun, I believe?'
'Who wants to know?'
'Me.' I took his silence as the next question. 'I'm a newspaperman from London. I'm writing some stuff about her.'
He turned his eyes away in disgust. 'Why'd you think I 'II buy that shit?'
'You want credentials .. .'I reached inside my jacket, but he was already shaking his head.
'You wouldn't pull that one unless you'd got the paperwork.'
'So how do I convince you? I was a friend of hers. You can ask people. I knew her a couple of years ago when I was on a press visit.'
To my relief he was nodding his head this time. 'I got you.
The Brit. The shmuck in the photographs.'
This was no time to be proud. 'That's right,' I said, beaming with bonhomie.
A silence welled up between us as he studied me. If I'd had
all day to think about it, I still couldn't have guessed his next question.
'You lay her?' he suddenly snapped out. The silence spread to the other tables. A tall man in a suit who was halfway through the door, glanced around, and went out again.
'Yes,' I said, after a lifetime's pause.
This time he leaned further forward and pushed his crude colourless face towards me. 'You fucked my wife?' he said, in a soft whisper.
'Yes.' My voice bent a bit in the middle but I managed to say it.
He sat back, threw his head back and blew smoke at the
ceiling. 'If you'd said you hadn't, I'd have torn your ears off, man,' he said, his eyes, bright with amusement, returning to mine. 'I must be the only goddam guy on this island who hasn't.'
I concentrated on stirring my coffee. There was no sugar in it to stir, but it did seem a fairly neutral activity.
'You wanna write that down for your readers? C'mon, that's a great story - ain't that what you call it, a story?' I had a sudden thought then of Grimm and his ideas about the Sexy Eskies and I wondered what he'd make of reality when it came in this form.
Very gently, I inquired: 'And why was that?'
'Why didn't I get to screw her?' He took delight in spelling it out. Euphemisms weren't needed round here for the moment.
'Maybe she only liked you classy Brits and the way you say "bloke" and "bloody" all the time. Or maybe she was a real patriot and only kicked up her heels for these big dumb fish stinkin' Icelanders.'
He'd lifted his voice for the last few words and he turned and looked around to see if anyone else wanted to contribute to the debate. They didn't.
He was a puzzle. There was a pride in his bitterness, a violent and defiant pride, and I couldn't see where it came from.
'Course,' he went on, pleased with the discomfort he was causing, 'maybe she didn't like Uncle Sam too much. Some of the folks round here don't. Ain't that right?'
Two stone-faced housewives rose and left. A workman in a donkey jacket followed.
'See what I mean? No, they don't all love the Americanos on this little island. Now I wonder why that can be? I really do wonder about that.'
'But you're not American, are you?'
The smile sank and I was left looking at the hollow emptiness of his eyes. Casually he reached out and took my right hand in his left. He held it softly, without force. Then, with the finger and thumb of his right hand, he took hold of the thin web of flesh between my own finger and thumb. He began to squeeze.
'I know a hundred ways to give you pain.' He watched me with real
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