Tuesday, 7 April 2015

Angels of the Universe

Once we set off for Saudarkrokur and were halfway there when Peter suddenly stopped, scratched his dark grey stubble, adjusted his glasses on his nose and said, 'I've got to turn back. The shed's locked. The ghosts can't get in or out.

We sat by the side of the road and waited a long while for Peter. When he came back, he said: 'They were really relieved,' and judging from his expression he was telling the truth.


The madman says he's dead and been buried. Every Sunday he goes up to the cemetery and puts flowers on his grave.


This caused considerable concern to Brynjolf. One day he called me into his office, wanting to probe my sense of morality.

At least, he asked, 'What do you think about Southern Sausages?'
'SS,' I said. 'Do you mean the hot dogs or...'
'Precisely what you said, SS. Don't you think it's outrageous, Paul, for the largest food producer in Iceland to put up with having the same abbreviation as Hitlers's stormtroopers?'

I didn't know exactly what I should say. I had never considered the matter from that angle, but it certainly invited the misconception that Souther Sausages of Iceland Ltd had been behind all manner of dirty deeds in the Third Reich.

After a moment's thought I said to Brynjolf, 'If you go on like that I've got a nasty feeling you and I ought to swap seats.'