The façade of the church boasts a gigantic colonnade, which Sturla thinks looks like it is made out of plastic or cork — like some sweeping meringue, to use a clichéd metaphor from the world of baking. But as he convinces himself that the edifice he is now approaching looks with every step more and more like a department store and less like a refuge where humble mortals confront God, he tells himself it isn’t a good idea for him to be forming judgments given the prickly mood he is in at the moment. He isn’t in the same cheerful mood as when he woke up two hours ago; he can’t shake off the less-than-amusing message from his father. On the other hand, he is fascinated by the white-painted tower in the square. Was it possible that Jónatan hadn’t seen the essence of the article? Sturla goes up to the tower to see whether he is allowed to enter, but it turns out he can’t. What on earth did the half-witted editor mean by saying that someone had been making comments about assertions? Had Jónas lied when he told Sturla thirty years ago at Hressó that no one had ever seen his poetry? There are a significant number of tourists around the tower, and it comes to Sturla’s attention that many have taken their winter clothes off; it has warmed up, and he deliberates whether he should head back to the hotel and divest himself of his overcoat before continuing into the old downtown. But just then a cool breeze, like the blast of an air conditioner, plays around him, and he is glad to have a reason to keep wearing his new coat, which he is doing his best not to congratulate himself again for buying.
After taking an hour-long stroll around the friendly downtown Sturla feels much more light-hearted, and he sits down at a likeable restaurant on the city hall square, orders a glass of beer, and smokes a few cigarettes. He realizes he is hungry and asks the waitress for the menu, but then remembers the suggestion of the man who he met in reception earlier that morning, Jokûbas. He decides to find Pilies Street and see whether he might get to meet Liliya Boguinskaia, who Jokûbas had said in all likelihood would be there around midday. It turns out that Pilies Street is only a few steps away; it lies down from the city hall square towards the cathedral square, a very diverting little pedestrian street with an assortment of stores and restaurants (as Sturla imagines to himself it would be described in a tourist brochure).
It is more or less in the middle of Sturla’s thought about whether or not buskers play in the otherwise lively downtown that he hears the distant sound of live music. He recognizes the melody, and as he heads towards the sound he remembers it is a tune by Rod Stewart and the Faces, although he can’t quite recall the title. The performer is a fairly small man, probably around fifty, wearing cowboy boots, narrow black jeans, a frayed dark-grey suit jacket with sleeves that look rather like they had gone through some sort of shredder, and he is wearing on his head a broad-rimmed hat that matches the boots. He is standing in front of a restaurant and he is playing an acoustic bass guitar with an unusually long neck — an instrument Sturla didn’t know existed before he saw his son Egill playing one at a concert in Reykjavík several years ago. Although the raspy singing of this rather gloomy-looking man rises above his bass playing — a surprisingly weak sound for such a huge instrument — all his concentration seems directed at the instrument, and Sturla assumes he can pass by unnoticed, something he is happy about since he has no coins in his pocket to give him. In his overcoat pocket is his hotel key and the hazelnut from the airport — as he searches through his pockets he also finds the ticket for the VCR he took to the repair shop before he left — and it occurs to Sturla that he could of course give the man the nut.
Wasn’t it a good idea, giving someone in need a lucky charm? Though perhaps Sturla hasn’t gotten his full use of this lucky charm yet.
As he moves past the musician, and makes a sustained attempt to remember the name of the song, the nut in his pocket reminds him of how seriously self-incriminating the book he has just published is. It won’t take more than one phone conversation for it to be shoved in his face. He keeps looking out for the restaurant, which he is beginning to suspect he doesn’t have the correct name for. When he reaches the bottom of the street he asks a young man where the place is and heads back up the street with him; it is further up, but worth going a little way for, since it is one of the best restaurants in the city.
It turns out that the place they were discussing is the same place the bass player with the hat is standing in front of. As Sturla thanks the young man for the help, he notices that the musician in black is playing a new song, this time one which Sturla recognizes at once: Mandolin Wind by Rod Stewart. Sturla thinks this folky song might even be the next track on the same album as the earlier tune he’d half-recognized — a record he probably wouldn’t care to have in his collection these days, but which he’d enjoyed listening to since he was almost twenty. He admits to himself that this music cheers him: it reminds him of something good, something from a time in his life when the future lay before him — when the world hadn’t yet been revealed to him — and he decides to stop briefly and listen to the tune before he goes into the restaurant. The performer, who has lit himself a cigarette and hooked the filter into the head of the bass’s neck, notices Sturla’s attention, and rewards his listener by increasing the energy of his performance. Sturla nods to him, without being certain that the extra hoarseness he is adding to his voice is actually an improvement; nevertheless, he decides to oblige him. He fishes his wallet from his jacket pocket, chooses the smallest note he can find (10 litos), and puts it in the open instrument case on the sidewalk. But when Sturla moves to enter the door, the singer twitches his head to signal that Sturla ought to wait, and he suddenly pauses mid-song.
“Where are you from?” he asks in a deep voice, reaching out for the cigarette on the neck of the bass.
“From Iceland,” answers Sturla, one hand on the doorknob.
“How long are you staying here in Vilnius?”
Sturla wonders whether he ought to give a stranger this information, but when the small bass player points to the open case and thanks him, Sturla replies, thinking it both a little silly and somewhat fun: “I’m heading to Druskininkai in the morning. Do you know Druskininkai?”
“Do I know Druskininkai? I know it as the back of my hand,” he replies in English. His expression suggests he knows exactly what he’s talking about. And he adds: “Druskininkai is one helluva place,” with an emphasis which is as ill-suited to him as the huge bass. “It’s a fucking healthy place, you know. Very good for your body. For your body and soul.”