Eventually Erlendur told the experts to leave and went home himself, leaving Sunee and Niran in peace. Sigridur had left by then and the interpreter had also gone home, but Sunee’s brother stayed behind with the mother and son in the flat.
It did not seem to be common knowledge that Sunee had a lover. Gudny told Erlendur that she had no idea what he was talking about; she had never heard any mention of the man. Sunee’s ex-mother-in-law was equally in the dark. It was not until Erlendur asked Sunee’s brother Virote that he received a positive response. He knew about a man in his sister’s life but the relationship had not been going on for long, and he said he had never met the man and did not know who he was. Not wanting to disturb Sunee now that she had reclaimed Niran, Erlendur told Virote to ask her for details about the man and then get in touch. He had not done so as yet.
Erlendur soon found the woodwork teacher’s silver-grey car. He knocked on the driver’s window and the man wound it down. A cloud of cigarette smoke escaped into the winter air.
“Can I join you?” Erlendur asked. “I’m from the police.”
The woodwork teacher grunted. He gave a reluctant nod, as if doubting that he could avoid having to talk to Erlendur. He clearly disliked being disturbed during his smoking break. Unruffled, Erlendur sat down in the passenger seat and took out a pack of cigarettes.
“Egill, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I smoke too?” Erlendur asked, waving a cigarette.
A grimace formed on Egill’s face, which Erlendur found difficult to interpret.
“No peace anywhere,” the woodwork teacher said.
Erlendur lit up and the two men sat in silence for a little while, enjoying their tobacco.
“You’re here about the boy, of course,” Egill said at last. He was a large, fat man aged about fifty, who did not fit particularly comfortably into the driver’s seat. Big-boned, bald as a coot, he had a large nose, high, protruding cheekbones and a beard. When his huge hand raised the cigarette to his mouth it almost disappeared inside. On top of his bald head, towards the front, was a large, pink lump that Erlendur stole occasional glances at when he thought Egill would not notice. He did not know why, but the lump fascinated him.
“Was he good at woodwork?” Erlendur asked.
“Yes, reasonably,” Egill said, stretching out his big paw to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray. It creaked under the strain. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
“No, none,” Erlendur said, “except that he was stabbed close to the school here.”
“This society’s going to the dogs,” Egill grunted. “And you lot can’t do a thing about it. Is it a distinctively Icelandic trait, being so lax towards criminals? Can you tell me that?”
Erlendur was not sure what the teacher was getting at.
“I read in the papers the other day,” Egill went on, “that some jerks had broken into someone’s house to collect a minor debt, smashed the place to pieces and mutilated the owner. They were caught in the act but the whole gang were released after questioning! What kind of bollocks is that anyway?”
“I—”
Erlendur could not get his answer in.
“They ought to take those men and throw them straight into jail,” Egill continued. “When they’re caught or confess, they ought to be sentenced immediately. They shouldn’t see the light of day until they’ve spent at least ten years inside. But you let them go as if nothing had happened. Is it surprising that everything here’s going to hell? Why do repeat offenders always get such ridiculously light sentences? What is it in our society that produces such a submissive attitude towards criminal scum?”
“It’s the law,” Erlendur said. “It always operates in that lot’s favour.”
“Change it then,” Egill said, agitated.
“I understand you’re against immigrants too,” Erlendur said, accustomed to hearing tirades against Iceland’s lenient sentencing and peculiarly soft treatment of criminals.
“Who says I’m against immigrants?” Egill asked in a surprised voice.
“No one in particular,” Erlendur said.
“Is it because of the meeting the other day?”
“What meeting?”
“I took the liberty of siding with Jonas Hallgrimsson. At a parents” meeting for one of the years here someone proposed singing a few lines of his poem “Iceland, Prosperous Land” with the children. They’d been learning about the poet. Sometimes they teach a bit of sense in this school. A couple of parents started finding fault with the idea, saying that the school was a multicultural society. Like it was racist to sing Icelandic songs. There was a bit of a debate and I spoke up to ask if these people were soft in the head. I think I might have used those very words. Of course, some of them complained to the principal about me. Felt I was being rude. The poor old sod was shaking in his shoes when he talked to me about it. I told him to go ahead and fire me. I’ve taught here for more than a quarter of a century and I’d welcome it if someone would be kind enough to kick me out. I don’t have the balls to get myself out of here.”
Another cigarette appeared in Egill’s huge hand and when Erlendur darted a glance at the lump on his bald head it seemed to be turning red. He took it as a sign that Egill was becoming angry at the very thought of the parents” meeting. Or perhaps it was the quarter century that he felt he had wasted teaching woodwork at the school.
“I’ve got nothing against immigrants,” Egill said, lighting his cigarette. “But I’m against changing everything that’s traditional and Icelandic just to pander to something called multiculturalism, when I don’t even know what it means. I’m against the conservatives too. I’m also against having to sit out here in this wreck of a car to smoke. But what say do I have?”
“It was more than just poetry, I’m led to believe,” Erlendur said. “You made remarks about Asian women that upset people. If I understand correctly you expressed strong antipathy against these women coming to Iceland.”
The bell rang to signal the end of break and the children started to file back into the school. Instead of making a move, Egill sat tight, inhaling the toxic fumes of his cigarette.
“Strong antipathy!” he mimicked Erlendur. “I’ve got nothing against immigrants! Those buggers started arguing with me and I told them what I thought. We’re still allowed to have opinions at least. I said I thought it was terrible, the circumstances under which many of those women come to Iceland. They generally appear to be fleeing appalling poverty and think they can find a better life here. I said something along those lines. I didn’t criticise those women. I respect self-reliance in any form and I think they’ve got on very well in Iceland.”
Clearing his throat, Egill reached forward to the ashtray with difficulty and stubbed out his cigarette.
“I think that applies to all these races who come to settle in Iceland,” he went on. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t honour Icelandic culture and promote it everywhere, especially in schools. On the contrary, I think the more immigrants there are in this country, the more effort we should make to introduce them to our heritage, and encourage anyone who actually wants to come and live here in the cold not to reject it out of hand. We ought to support religious instruction, not shoot it down like something we’re embarrassed about. I told that to the people who were glorifying the multicultural society. In my opinion, people who want to live here ought to be allowed to and we should help them in every way we can, but that doesn’t mean we have to lose our Icelandic language and culture.”
“Shouldn’t you have—”
“Surely, as an absolute minimum we should be allowed to foster our own culture, even if people of other nationalities move here.”
“Shouldn’t you have gone back to your class ages ago?” Erlendur asked when he finally got a word in edgeways. Egill did not appear to have noticed that the break had ended long ago.