Sun on Fire by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson Page A

approached the entrance to the Icelandic embassy.
    Birkir said, “The Icelandic building is noticeably plainer in style than the others.”
    “Yes, I think it works very well. As you see, there is a contrast between the access and stairwell structure, which has this corrugated concrete texture, and the part containing the actual offices, with its rhyolite accent.”
    At the entrance, Arngrímur let them in with a pass card.
    Birkir asked, “You don’t know Jón the Sun Poet personally?”
    “No.”
    “Have you ever met him?”
    “Not as far as I remember.”
    “I see,” Birkir said thoughtfully. “It’s a small building, isn’t it? What’s the floor area?”
    “Five hundred square meters in total, with office space of around eighty square meters on each story. The site itself is somewhat small and impractical, and the service area, stairs, and elevator take up a large part of the structure. But that’s how it is. Just eight of us work here, so we’re reasonably comfortable.”
    “Was this the best solution?” Birkir asked.
    “Yes, all things considered. One idea that came up at the planning stage was to have the Icelandic embassy on the top floor above the Norwegian one. I’m very glad that didn’t happen, and I think our embassy looks very good among the others, even if it’s not very prominent.”
    “Have you ever met Helgi, the ceramic artist?”
    It didn’t seem to bother Arngrímur that Birkir kept on changing the subject, asking questions about the ambassador’s guests. He replied without a pause, “We were going to have a meeting to discuss his exhibition, but I was called away. He spoke with the ambassador about it instead, so no, I’ve never met him.”
    “When was your meeting supposed to be?”
    “On Sunday.”
    “Isn’t that unusual?”
    “Yes, but Helgi wasn’t able to make it any other day. Apparently he has a very tight schedule. At the embassy we do sometimes have to attend meetings on weekends. That’s not a problem.”
    “Lúdvík was here to manage Helgi’s exhibition. You’d met him before, hadn’t you?”
    “Yes, very briefly, as I said, when he organized an exhibition in the Felleshus. He is highly professional and efficient, and they didn’t need my help with that project, but I chatted with him at the exhibition’s opening.”
    “And I guess he’s no more prone to violence than the others?”
    “No, there’s nothing about him to suggest that.”
    “Fabían, the Sun Poet’s companion. He’s the last name on the ambassador’s guest list. Do you know him?”
    “No.”
    They walked up the stairs. On the second floor, the sound of voices could be heard through the open office doors. The work of the embassy seemed to have returned to normal.
    They arrived at the fourth floor, and Arngrímur opened his office with a key.
    He said, “I hope you’ll let us know if we can be of any further assistance? We’ll also need instructions on what to do with Anton’s body.”
    “If no relatives come forward, it’ll be up to the authorities to arrange some sort of funeral,” Birkir replied. “I assume his estate can cover the expenses.”
    “In that case I suggest that the body be cremated here in Berlin,” Arngrímur said. “The ashes can be sent to Iceland and quietly interred. That’s standard procedure when an Icelandic citizen passes away on foreign ground and no relatives come forward.”
    Arngrímur took a small book from a shelf and handed it to Birkir.
    “This is the booklet of quotations about the diplomatic profession I promised you.”
    Birkir took the slim paperback volume and read the Gothic lettering on its cover:
    Diplomacy
    Collected and translated by Arngrímur Ingason
    “Thank you,” Birkir said, and flipped through the first pages. He noticed mostly short excerpts, followed by author’s name or other source in small lettering. The preface bore the dictionary definition: “Diplomacy n. 1) Foreign service, especially the functions of