Arnaldur Indridason - Voices
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- Year:2007
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VOICES
Arnaldur Indridason worked for many years as a journalist and critic before he began writing novels. The series featuring Erlendur and Sigurdor (Mi has won numerous awards, including Sweden's Martin Beck Award, the Nordic Glass Key and the 2005 CWA Gold Dagger.
Bernard Scudder's translations from Icelandic encompass sagas, ancient and modern poetry, leading contemporary novels, plays and art history. He lives in Reykjavik.
ALSO BY ARNALDUR INDRIDASON
Tainted Blood (originally published as Jar City)
Silence of the Grave
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781407020976
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Vintage 2007
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3
Copyright (c) Amaldur Indridason 2003 English translation copyright (c) Bernard Scudder 2006
The quotation on p.v is taken from 'At the Middle of Life' byFriedrich Holderlin in Poems of Friedrich Holderlin by JamesMitchell, Ithurial's Spear, San Francisco. Quoted with permission.
Arnaldur Indridason has asserted his right under theCopyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to beidentified as the author of this work
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
This book is a work of fiction. All names, places and eventsare either the product of the author's imagination or are usedfictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, organisations orevents is entirely coincidental.
First published in Great Britain in 2006
by Harvill Secker
Vintage
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
www.vintage-books.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
ISBN: 9781407020976
Version 1.0
Published with the financial assistance of the Fund for the Promotion of Icelandic Literature
The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest StewardshipCouncil (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation.All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified papercarry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at:www.rbooks.co.uk/environment
But when winter comes,
where will I find
the flowers, the sunshine,
the shadows of the earth?
The walls stand
speechless and cold,
the weathervanes
rattle in the wind.
From 'At the Middle of Life' by Friedrich Holderlin
(translated by James Mitchell)
At last the moment arrived. The curtain went up, the auditorium unfolded; he felt glorious seeing all the people watching him and his shyness vanished in an instant. He saw some of his schoolmates and teachers, and the headmaster who seemed to nod approvingly at him. But most of them were strangers. All these people had come to listen to him and his beautiful voice, which had commanded attention, even outside Iceland.
The murmuring in the auditorium gradually died down and all eyes focused on him in silent expectation.
He saw his father sitting in the middle of the front row in his black horn-rimmed glasses, his legs crossed, and holding his hat on his knees. He saw him watching through the thick lenses and smiling encouragingly; this was the big moment in their lives. From now on, nothing would ever be the same.
The choirmaster raised his arms. Silence descended upon the auditorium.
And he began to sing with the clear, sweet voice that his father had described as divine.
Elinborg was waiting for them at the hotel.
A large Christmas tree stood in the lobby and there were decorations, fir branches and glittering baubles all around. 'Silent night, holy night', over an invisible sound system. A large shuttle coach stood in front of the hotel and a group approached the reception desk. Tourists who were planning to spend Christmas and the New Year in Iceland because it seemed to them like an adventurous and exciting country. Although they had only just landed, many had apparently already bought traditional Icelandic sweaters, and they checked into the exotic land of winter. Erlendur brushed the sleet off his raincoat. Sigurdur Oli looked around the lobby and caught sight of Elinborg by the lifts. He tugged at Erlendur and they walked over to her. She had examined the scene. The first police officers to arrive there had made sure that it would remain untouched.
The hotel manager had asked them not to cause a fracas. Used that phrase when he rang. This was a hotel and hotels thrive on their reputations, and he asked them to take that into account. So there were no sirens outside, nor uniformed policemen bursting in through the lobby. The manager said that at all costs they should avoid arousing fear among the guests.
Iceland mustn't be too exciting, too much of an adventure.
Now he was standing next to Elinborg and greeted Erlendur and Sigurdur Oli with a handshake. He was so fat that his suit hardly encompassed his body. His jacket was done up across the stomach by one button that was on the verge of giving up. The top of his trousers was hidden beneath a huge paunch that bulged out of his jacket and the man sweated so furiously that he could never put away the large white handkerchief with which he mopped his forehead and the back of his neck at regular intervals. The white collar of his shirt was soaked in perspiration. Erlendur shook his clammy hand.
'Thank you,' the hotel manager said, puffing like a grampus. In his twenty years of managing the hotel he had never encountered anything like this.
'In the middle of the Christmas rush,' he groaned. 'I can't understand how this could happen! How could it happen?' he repeated, leaving them in no doubt as to how totally perplexed he was.
'Is he up or down?' Erlendur asked.
'Up or down?' the fat manager puffed. 'Do you mean whether he's gone to heaven?'
'Yes,' Erlendur said. 'That's exactly what we need to know...'
'Shall we take the lift upstairs?' Sigurdur Oli asked.
'No,' the manager said, casting an irritated look at Erlendur. 'He's down here in the basement. He's got a little room there. We didn't want to chuck him out. And then you get this for your troubles.'
'Why would you have wanted to chuck him out?' Erlendur asked.
The hotel manager looked at him but did not reply.
They walked slowly down the stairs beside the lift. The manager went first. Going down the stairs was a strain for him and Erlendur wondered how he would get back up.
Apart from Erlendur, they had agreed to show a certain amount of consideration, to try to approach the hotel as discreetly as possible. Three police cars were parked at the back, with an ambulance. Police officers and paramedics had gone in through the back door. The district medical officer was on his way. He would certify the death and call out a van to transport the body.
They walked down a long corridor with the panting manager leading the way. Plain-clothes policemen greeted them. The corridor grew darker the further they walked, because the light bulbs on the ceiling had blown and no one had bothered to change them. Eventually, in the darkness, they reached the door, which opened onto a little room. It was more like a storage space than a dwelling, but there was a narrow bed inside, a small desk and a tattered mat on the dirty tiled floor. There was a little window up near the ceiling.
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