‘No, she hadn’t been there,’ Beta said.
‘Where did this fascination with lakes come from?’
‘No one knew, not even her. Dúna had always been like that, ever since we were small. She once told me that lakes had a strange power, a wonderful tranquillity. That you could commune best with nature beside lakes, with all the birds and the life of the shore. Of course she was studying biology. It wasn’t a coincidence.’
‘Did she ever go out on the lake? Did she own a boat?’
‘No, that was the strange thing about Dúna. She was afraid of water when she was a girl. It was difficult to get her to take swimming lessons and she never much enjoyed trips to the pool. She had no interest in being in the water, only in being near lakes. That was the nature lover in her.’
‘There aren’t many places as beautiful as Lake Thingvallavatn,’ Erlendur commented.
‘That’s true.’
24
Two days later Erlendur was sitting in the home of an ageing drama teacher called Jóhannes while the man poured him a fruit tea. It was not the sort of thing that Erlendur usually drank, but the man had been rather uncooperative, failing to understand what the police wanted with him and extremely unwilling to let him in. However, when he heard that the matter involved gossip about other people rather than him personally he calmed down and opened the door. He said he had just made himself some fruit tea and asked if Erlendur would like to join him.
Orri Fjeldsted had suggested the teacher when Erlendur asked him who would be the best person to ask about old students at the Drama School. Orri didn’t even stop to think. He said that Jóhannes had taught him in his time and was a great guy, though a terrible old gossip with a nose for information, and anything he said about Orri himself, should he crop up in conversation, was a lie.
Jóhannes lived alone in a terraced house in the east of town. He was quite tall, with a booming voice, a bald head, a twinkle in his eye and unusually large ears. Orri said he was divorced; his wife had left him years ago. They had no children. Jóhannes had been a hell of an actor himself in his youth but as he grew older the roles had begun to dry up and he had started teaching at the drama school in between taking the odd part in professional and amateur productions. Occasional cameos in films had also kept his face in the public eye and he sometimes took part in radio and TV chat shows, reminiscing about the old days.
‘I remember Baldvin well,’ Jóhannes said once he was seated in his study with two cups of fruit tea. Erlendur sipped his and thought it tasted vile. He had explained his business to Jóhannes and asked him not to mention to anyone that he was asking questions about one of his old students. From what Orri had said, there was little point in insisting on confidentiality but Erlendur hoped for the best.
‘He wasn’t good actor material; quit in his second year, from what I recall,’ Jóhannes continued. ‘Though he had a reasonable talent for comedy. That was it, though. He quit in the middle of the course – mid-performance, you might say. Seemed to think he’d discovered a vocation for medicine. I’ve hardly seen him since.’
‘Were they a good group, his year?’
‘Yes, they were,’ Jóhannes said, sipping his tea. ‘They were indeed. Well, there was Orri Fjeldsted, a decent actor, though he can be a bit one-note. I saw that appalling production of Othello. He was a disaster in that. Svala was in the group as well, and Sigrídur who was a real actress, born to play the Scandinavian giants, Ibsen and Strindberg. And of course Heimir, who I personally have always felt deserved bigger roles. He became rather bitter and disillusioned with age. Took to the bottle. I got him to play Jimmy in my production of Look Back in Anger and thought he did it very well, though not everyone agreed. I don’t actually know where he is today, though I did catch him in a small role in a radio play the other day. They’re all middle-aged now – Lilja, Saebjörn, Einar. Then there was Karólína. She was never much of an actress, poor dear.’
‘Do you remember anything about the time when Baldvin dropped out?’ Erlendur asked, realising that he wouldn’t exactly have to resort to torture to extract information from the old thespian.
‘Baldvin? Well, he just quit. He didn’t give any particular reason, didn’t need to. Though it was very difficult to get into drama school in those days and places were highly sought after, so people didn’t usually drop out in mid-performance, let me tell you. In mid-performance.’
‘You don’t mean literally?’
‘No, it’s just a figure of speech, you know; I just mean that he did it, he dropped out. Very suddenly, I thought, given what those kids went through to get into the school. Young people used to dream of becoming actors in those days. That was the dream. To make the big time, be famous and admired. Acting can give you that if that’s what you’re after. But it gives so much more to serious actors. It gave me culture, literature and theatre, opened the door to life itself.’
The old actor broke off and smiled.
‘Excuse me if I’m getting pompous. We actors have a tendency to be bombastic. Especially when we’re on stage.’
He laughed loudly at himself.
‘I gather Baldvin met the woman he later married shortly after he quit,’ Erlendur said, with a smile.
‘Yes, she was a historian, wasn’t she? I heard she died the other day. Killed herself. Perhaps that’s why you’re here, or…’
‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘Did you know her at all?’
‘Not in the slightest. Was there something suspicious about it? About how she died?’
‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘Was he completely resigned to giving up acting? Baldvin, I mean. Do you remember?’
‘I always thought Baldvin did just as he pleased,’ Jóhannes said. ‘That’s the impression he made on me. As if he wouldn’t let anyone push him around: a headstrong boy who did his own thing. But then the kids said that this girl had got such a strong hold over him that he completely changed gear. And anyway, he was no good as an actor. He must have realised that himself, thought better of it.’
‘Did they get involved with each other at all?’ Erlendur asked, putting down his fruit tea. ‘The drama students?’
‘Well, you know how it is,’ Jóhannes said. ‘A bit of that sort of thing is inevitable, but it doesn’t always last. Some of them have got married since, people from the same year. It’s always happening.’
‘What about Baldvin?’
‘You mean before he met his wife? I can’t really help you much with that. Though I did hear something about him falling for Karólína who was in his year. She was pretty enough but had no real talent as an actress and never played any major roles. In fact, I have no idea on what grounds we let her into the school. I never did know.’
‘Did she ever become an actress?’ Erlendur asked, regretting his ignorance of the theatre.
‘Oh, her career didn’t last long; it was a complete non-event. I don’t think she’s acted for years. She generally played very minor roles. Her biggest part got such bad reviews that it must have utterly destroyed her.’
‘What role was that?’ Erlendur asked.
‘It was a Swedish problem play that used to do all right in the old days. Not great but not a stinker either. It was known as Flame of Hope in Icelandic. I don’t know why they put it on; kitchen-sink drama was going out of fashion by then.’
‘Mm,’ Erlendur said, in complete ignorance of Swedish theatre.
‘The author was quite popular in those days.’
Erlendur nodded, still none the wiser.
‘There was one thing that was a bit unusual about Karólína. No one wanted fame more than her: to be the star, the diva. I think it was the only reason she went to the school, whereas the other students were probably more interested in the actual drama and what it can teach you. Karólína was a bit daft in that way. But then, she didn’t have what it takes, didn’t have the talent. No matter what we tried at the school, it just didn’t work.’