“I write decadent books about Russian businessmen,” continued the big-bellied man in English. “You know: oligarchs. Not poetry, romans.”
“Really?” asked Sturla, sounding as skeptical as the word suggested; had the man meant to describe his books as “decadent,” or had Sturla misheard? And as soon as he asked whether the man had published many books the tall one lost control of the laughter that had been simmering under his giggles.
“I said: I write books,” answered the author, emphasizing the present tense of the verb “write.” He’d clearly been unsettled by the laughter of his companion, who clapped his paunchy friend on the back while he told Sturla that he shouldn’t trust his big-bellied companion (though he didn’t use the adjective “big-bellied”); it would be, to put it bluntly, dangerous to do so — though in all other respects Sturla shouldn’t be frightened; they were not dangerous men. The taller Russian’s knowledge of English and his convincing pronunciation had to a large extent thrown Sturla off-balance; with his own grammar-school English and clumsy Icelandic pronunciation, Sturla felt a definite sense of inferiority, but when the Russian continued Sturla thought he perceived an affectation in his word choice and his emphasis, and he decided that of the two parties he was faring a little better than the Russian in his struggles with the English language.
“He has no books under his belt,” said the taller one. “He is a businessman. He is the main character in the non-existing books he is talking about.” And he smiled at the self-professed author who responded to him, looking a little flushed in the face:
“I am going to write this book. Not poetry like you.”
He turned his eyes to Sturla. “Poetry is good but I am going to write roman.”
Then we’re in a similar situation, thought Sturla: he doesn’t want to speak ill of poetry but he doesn’t think he has any need for it. On the other hand, people everywhere around him seemed to have a need to tell him about their own desire to create, whether in the field of visual or written arts: the salesperson in the men’s clothing store, Áslákur in the elevator, and now this fat-bellied Russian in the strip club. Could it be that Sturla had the trustworthy countenance of a good listener, that people found they could entrust their secrets to him, tell him about their own personal creations, even before they have been created? If truth be told, Sturla was having some difficulty working out whether he was meant to repay the curiosity his table-companions had shown him and ask in turn what their job or business in Vilnius was — it had occurred to him that responding to questions of that nature might not be something these two were keen to do — and he counted himself lucky when he heard quiet music over the sound system: slow string music with soprano singing, far too loud for the small size of the hall. It was an aria from the opera Salomé, sung by Birgitta Nilsson:
“Jokanaan, ich bin verliebt in deinen Leib. .”
“Musick,” said the shorter Russian, rather loudly, turning to Sturla with a happy expression on his face.
His companion — who Sturla had decided, at least in his own head, to call Igor, while he called the paunchy one Yuri (a suitably stout name) — shushed him and indicated with a series of hand gestures that he should listen to the music, not talk about it. Igor also turned disapprovingly in the direction of the Swedes at the next table, who seemed to be becoming impatient, or, at least, one of them seemed like he was going to belt out some motivational cheers, not unlike the ones you hear at soccer matches. Soon enough the aria died down and was replaced by the following recorded announcement in English, spoken by a rather overly-emotive male voice with a noticeably stiff pronunciation:
“Tonight is a Salomé night. If anyone in the audience is named Jokanaan then he is here on his own responsibility and judgment.” (Here there was a little pause, as if to heighten the gravity of what had just been said and what would follow.) “A man’s head is a heavy burden but please keep it erected and we will guarantee you your full pleasure and admissional investment. Ladies and. .” (Now came another, somewhat strange hesitation from the announcer; he heaved a sigh, as if he disapproved of something, and cleared his throat before continuing.) “gentlemen, please welcome and make way. . give head to Salomé Martysevic from Belarus: our Baltic Salomé with seven veils.” Then he suddenly burst into throaty laughter which reminded Sturla of the Hammer Horror movies he had seen at the Hafnarbíó Movie Theater on Barónsstígur when he was a teenager; the taller Russian, Igor, asked himself out loud, very displeased, how in heaven’s name Belarus had become one of the Baltic states.
“A man’s head is a heavy burden. .” Where did Sturla recognize that from? When one of the stage lights clicked on to illuminate the dry-ice smoke which was pumped onto the stage from both wings, it suddenly dawned on Sturla, in light of what the voice had said about the heavy burden of a man’s head, that it was from some of the most quoted lines of twentieth-century Icelandic poetry. In this light, those lines evidently had some other hidden meaning, unless this meaning was exactly what had been in the poet’s mind when he wrote the poem. And perhaps it was the case that the double-entendre had been further pronounced by a kind of partner to the line: the title which another poet had given to both a poem and a full-length collection, The Head of the Woman, a head as different from a male head as can be.
“But please keep it erected. .” Wasn’t that how the man in the loudspeakers had put it? If Sturla remembered correctly, the readers addressed in the poem about the man-head were men, not women—“but yet we must stand upright” went the second line — and with the following line in his mind—“and summer redresses most of our sins”—Sturla allowed himself to contemplate the ugly idea that the poem was an incentive to young students who had filled their heads with serious study during the winter to head into the summer firm and rigid; to let the other sex sense their active libidos without having to ask; such aggression would be forgiven and no-one — no-one but the other sex — would note such brazen behavior amidst the dazzle of summer. .
Sturla tried to recall more lines from the poem — a poem which he’d been required to memorize during high school — and found the lines which he had buried deep in his brain were eerily well suited to the moment he had reached in his own life: “we left the old dwelling-place behind /—like a daily paper in a wastepaper basket—.” Reykjavík was now his old dwelling-place, it was the daily paper in the wastepaper basket, and if he remembered correctly, at the end of the poem was the line “excited and new,” exactly describing what Sturla thought he and his companions, the Russians, were expecting they would be offered any moment now: something exciting and new.
Just then a champagne bottle was brought to the table, along with three glasses on a black, dirty tray that was covered in old ring stains from other glasses. “With compliments from your host, Herodes,” said the bare-breasted hostess, smiling. It wasn’t the same woman as the one Sturla had got to know a little; this hostess was quite a bit older, with massive, rolling breasts, and a confident manner, which she made very clear as she swiftly grabbed Yuri’s hand and shook her head in reaction to his clumsy, bullying attempts to slap her on the ass. If Sturla read her glance correctly, he saw the endemic, historical antipathy of Lithuanians towards Russians, which flared up, instead of the submissiveness the club’s owner doubtlessly required her to show to customers. Igor seemed to be thinking along similar lines: he smiled at the girl and thanked her for the table service — though he found out soon after that the champagne was only cheap sparkling wine; he would have to order some real “bubbles” when they had finished enduring this piss from Herod.