Season of the Witch by Árni Thórarinsson Read Free Book Online Page B

disquieting.
    “Brilliant! Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant!”
    Never before have I heard this overgrown Boy Scout use such language. He’s clearly beside himself.
    “Einar!” he exclaims. “That’s pure genius! Thank you, with all my heart.”
    I think I spot a tear in his eye.
    And when I’ve created a little canine drama, with an interview with a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and sent it south to the head office accompanied by a photo of the Missing Mutt, I find myself at a loss. What on earth am I doing here? What have I got myself into? Has the world become a madhouse? And am I the maddest, baddest of them all?
    I have the impression that news editor Trausti Löve would have answered
yes
to the last of my questions. “Excuse me, but do you think we’ve launched an Akureyri branch, at vast expense, just so that we can advertise for lost dogs?” he snapped.
    But I’d got all my ducks in a row. I’d called Hannes and explained the situation.
    “I feel we should do this as a favor to Ásbjörn, my dear sir,” he said. “But it will be up to you to ensure the paper is not flooded with more stories of lost dogs, or cats, in Akureyri. We can’t allow this to become a precedent. We have more important uses for our column space. Such as the article from Reydargerdi you and Jóa contributed to today’s paper. Excellent work.”
    I thanked him, on both counts. Then I went on: “I have my doubts about this Akureyri business, Hannes. I’m not at all sure it’s going to work. I don’t like…”
    “Nonsense!” replied Hannes. “Things are progressing in the right direction. We’re already seeing increased sales in the north and east of the country—subscriptions are up, and also retail sales and advertising. It’s all going as planned. You must give it time, sir, time.”
    In my case, giving it time is largely a matter of hanging in here until my daughter comes to visit me.
    What are those naked people up to?
    I gaze up at the painted ceiling of the whitewashed Café Amor on Town Hall Square. But I soon get a stiff neck, so instead I look at the view from the window, at the
Afternoon News
offices across the square, and the National Bank next door, like a miniature version of their Reykjavík headquarters. And the square itself seems like a miniaturized version of Ingólfstorg square in Reykjavík.
    Then I swing my head back again to contemplate the naked people on the ceiling.
    The café takes its name from the god of love. Are the naked people Doing It? Nope. They’re dropping glasses and cups… I make no more progress in my critique of the ceiling art. Jóa sweeps in and joins me at the table.
    “What are you having?”
    “Cappuccino. You want one?”
    “Not now. I’m going to take a look around town and take some pics for our files. Can I have the car?”
    “No problem,” I reply, handing her the keys and pointing out my heap of rust, parked outside a shop on the left of the square.
    It is four o’clock this Monday afternoon. The weather has warmed up, overcast and windless. I should think the locals may be worried about the lack of snow on the ski slopes. They’ve been advertising for weeks that ski conditions would be excellent on the Akureyri pistes over Easter.
    “But I really think we should be allowed to go home early, after all the rushing around we did over the weekend.”
    “I agree,” says Jóa. “When shall I pick you up?”
    “Oh, about five thirty. Ásbjörn’s on his way over here. Asked me to meet him. Don’t know why. He’s awfully upset about the mutt.”
    “Poor guy. His wife’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”
    I shrug and light a cigarette.
    Jóa stands up. “Have you stopped drinking completely, Einar?”
    I make a face. “I don’t know. How do you ever know whether anything’s stopped completely?”
    “But why did you stop?”
    “Well, Hannes made it clear to me that the paper’s tolerance quota had run out.”
    “Surely that wasn’t the first