The perspective of the movie leaves Bud back on the sidewalk as it heads inside the apartment. A middle-aged man is knotting his tie inside the room; a woman who is considerably younger than him zips up her dress and puts her necklace on. The man informs her that they have to leave the apartment, that he told the apartment’s owner to come back at eight o’clock, but the woman wants to have one more martini. And then we get to see Bud again; he is loitering outside, having lit himself a cigarette. At the moment it seems like his overcoat isn’t warm enough to cover him; it looks cheaper than it had seemed in the last frame.
Bud’s landlord, who according to his account is called Mrs. Lieberman, returns to the house with her dog on a leash and bids good evening to Bud. She asks if he has locked himself out but he says he is waiting for a friend. He continues to trot up and down the sidewalk and smoke. After a little while the door to the house opens and Bud’s boss and his girlfriend appear on the stairs. As they depart with the following exchange, Bud crouches out of sight by the stairway; in front of him on the sidewalk are five trashcans that are waiting to be emptied.
“Where do you live?” the boss asks.
“I told you. With my mother,” answers the woman.
“Where does she live?”
“179th Street, the Bronx.”
“OK. I’ll walk you down to the subway.”
“I don’t think so!” the woman bursts out. “You’ll pay for my cab.”
“Why do you dames always got to live in the Bronx?”
“Are you telling me you have other dames you meet up with here?”
“Absolutely not. I’m a happily married man.”
They walk briskly away, and Bud, who’s turned his back to the street so that the bickering pair don’t notice him, hurries up the stairs and through the door. As he gets his mail from the mailbox in the lobby Sturla scrutinizes his overcoat, sitting there on the green sofa with Galina. A few moments ago the overcoat had seemed cheap and of inferior quality, but now, inside the house, it looks more like a well-made piece. It’s not quite an Aquascutum overcoat — it isn’t laminated like a dust jacket, like the wrapping around some worthless poetry. The overcoat is from Brooks Brothers, a design from 1959 made by the oldest, most respected gentleman’s clothing retailer in the U.S. (Sturla had read that on the net, after sending the article to Jónatan). The flagship store is on Madison Avenue in New York City, and the retailer has been known for its first class products since 1818. Bud’s overcoat is made of thinner and lighter material than the one that you’d find in the locked compartment in Sturla’s suitcase.
He pours more vodka into his and Galina’s water glasses and as he screws the cap back on the bottle Liliya comes out of the bathroom and into the living room. The image on the television suddenly freezes, and Liliya’s mother vanishes from Sturla’s thoughts. He is no longer sitting beside her on the sofa; he has returned to the bar in Pilies Street. Instead of a vodka bottle on a cloth-covered side table, he has two beer glasses, one half-full and the other empty, and two generous full measures of cherry brandy on the dark brown wooden surface of the bar. He puts the DVD case back in Liliya’s bag and places it on the bar. Then he taps a cigarette out of the packet.
When Liliya sits back down beside him he has lit the cigarette; he first blows smoke across the bar, then takes Liliya’s left hand tenderly and smiles at her. Her hand is cold, and Sturla Jón imagines that in order to shorten the time she spent in the bathroom, Liliya hadn’t waited for the water to get warm before washing her hands.
“You’re ice cold,” says Sturla, leaving his cigarette between his lips while he strokes both Liliya’s hands.
“Then I should drink some more,” she answers, repaying Sturla’s concern by taking his hands. “And so should you. I am not certain you’ll want to be sober when you get to Minsk. At least by the time we reach the stairs up to the apartment.”
They let go of each other and raise their shots of cherry brandy.
“To Minsk,” says Sturla.
“To Minsk,” says Liliya, and they both smile. “To Mommy’s apartment block.”
And they down their drinks.
TRANSLATOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Grateful thanks to all at Open Letter, especially Chad Post, who has the best ideas, and E.J. Van Lanen, whose eagle-eyed attention made this a better translation. Thanks to Bragi Ólafsson for patience, enthusiasm, and volcano trips. Thanks to David Megathlin, Alyssa McDonald, and Lisa Levinson, early adventurers in Iceland(ic), and to Richard North, who pointed me towards and first taught me about Icelandic language and literature. Thanks to Jess, for encouraging and supporting me in this, as in all things. Lastly, abiding gratitude to my parents, Brian and Heather Smith, thanks to whom I grew up among many languages.
AUTHOR BIO
Bragi Ólafsson was born in Reykjavik and is the author of several books of poetry, short stories, and four novels, including Party Games, for which he received the DV Cultural Prize in 2004. The Ambassador was a finalist for the 2008 Nordic Literature Prize and received the Icelandic Bookseller’s Award as best novel of the year. He is also a founder of the publishing company Smekkleysa (Bad Taste), and has translated Paul Auster’s City of Glass into Icelandic.
TRANSLATOR BIO
Lytton Smith was born in Galleywood, England, and lives in New York City, where he is a founding member of Blind Tiger Poetry, a group which aims to find innovative ways to promote contemporary poetry. His book, The All-Purpose Magical Tent was selected by Terrance Hayes for the Nightboat Prize. His poems and reviews have appeared in American Letters & Commentary, The Atlantic, The Believer, Boston Review, Tin House, Verse, and the anthology All That Mighty Heart: London Poems.