Klemenz has stood by him all this time; he’s been very loyal and devoted.”
Diary II
June 30, 1912. Arrived in Tirol and stayed the first night in Kitzbühel. The proprietor of the bed and breakfast informed us that local people were now encouraging tourists to come to the town in winter to pursue the sport of skiing. When he heard that we were “ingenieurstudenten,” he said that constructing cable cars in the local mountains would be a worthwhile project for us. The proprietor tries to speak High German to us, since it is impossible for us to understand the local dialect…
July 4, 1912. We set off on foot early in the morning from St. Johann. Our route followed excellent footpaths that farmers have used throughout the centuries to reach their shielings high up in the mountains, to which they move their cattle in summer…At noon we overtook a group of young people sitting on the slope having their picnic. These people were not dressed like the locals, so we took them to be tourists like us. We didn’t want to disturb them at their meal so we just greeted them with a “Grüss Gott,” and continued on our way. I couldn’t take my eyes off a girl who was standing by the path, and she boldly returned my gaze until I became embarrassed and looked away. Her image has been in my mind all day…
July 5, 1912. It is many years since I have walked such a long distance. The muscles in my thighs and buttocks are sore; the locals call this phenomenon “Muskelkater.” We both had “Tirola Gröstl” for supper. As we were sitting in the drinking parlor afterwards, I saw again the girl whose eyes I had gazed into when we met on the mountain path yesterday. Her name is Elizabeth Chatfield and she is of English nationality. She is nearly eighteen years of age…
July 6, 1912. We met the group from the English school at breakfast, and their tutor, who is their guide, invited us to walk with them today. This makes a pleasant change and it is fun to practice one’s English. Elizabeth asks whether I would like to correspond with her. She says she has a few pen pals, albeit mainly female ones…
M arteinn was in the outer lobby when Erlendur entered with his new companion.
“Good morning to you,” the man in the black overcoat said to Marteinn, taking off his hat and offering him his hand. “My name is Matthías Kieler.”
“Um…Marteinn Karlsson,” the young detective replied, removing the rubber glove he was wearing and taking the man’s outstretched hand.
“You would perhaps be so kind as to hang this up for me,” Matthías said, handing his hat and walking stick to the young man. Marteinn cast a surprised look at Erlendur, who just nodded discreetly.
“Yes, of course,” Marteinn said, taking the hat and walking stick.
Halldór, observing this exchange from the inner lobby, imagined that Matthías was probably around seventy. He was rather portly and sported a substantial double chin. The old gentleman removed his hat, revealing a bald head fringed round with white hair, combed straight back. He was clean-shaven and very neatly dressed.
“It was not necessary for you to come here, sir,” Halldór said, striding toward Matthías and introducing himself.
Matthías’s hand was thick and soft, yet the handshake was firm. “I preferred it. I hope I do not disturb,” he replied solemnly.
“No, not at all,” Halldór reassured him.
Matthías entered the inner lobby and approached the body, now lying next to the doorway to the parlor and covered with a green sheet. He bent down with some difficulty and lifted the sheet from the face; then he stood up again and looked down in silence. No one said a word.
Halldór watched as Matthías’s face turned grave and seemed to age by many years as he gazed at the snow-white, lifeless face of his nephew. It was impossible to work out what he was thinking, but this sight clearly affected him. He finally bent down again, made a small sign of the cross with his hand
Diary II
June 30, 1912. Arrived in Tirol and stayed the first night in Kitzbühel. The proprietor of the bed and breakfast informed us that local people were now encouraging tourists to come to the town in winter to pursue the sport of skiing. When he heard that we were “ingenieurstudenten,” he said that constructing cable cars in the local mountains would be a worthwhile project for us. The proprietor tries to speak High German to us, since it is impossible for us to understand the local dialect…
July 4, 1912. We set off on foot early in the morning from St. Johann. Our route followed excellent footpaths that farmers have used throughout the centuries to reach their shielings high up in the mountains, to which they move their cattle in summer…At noon we overtook a group of young people sitting on the slope having their picnic. These people were not dressed like the locals, so we took them to be tourists like us. We didn’t want to disturb them at their meal so we just greeted them with a “Grüss Gott,” and continued on our way. I couldn’t take my eyes off a girl who was standing by the path, and she boldly returned my gaze until I became embarrassed and looked away. Her image has been in my mind all day…
July 5, 1912. It is many years since I have walked such a long distance. The muscles in my thighs and buttocks are sore; the locals call this phenomenon “Muskelkater.” We both had “Tirola Gröstl” for supper. As we were sitting in the drinking parlor afterwards, I saw again the girl whose eyes I had gazed into when we met on the mountain path yesterday. Her name is Elizabeth Chatfield and she is of English nationality. She is nearly eighteen years of age…
July 6, 1912. We met the group from the English school at breakfast, and their tutor, who is their guide, invited us to walk with them today. This makes a pleasant change and it is fun to practice one’s English. Elizabeth asks whether I would like to correspond with her. She says she has a few pen pals, albeit mainly female ones…
M arteinn was in the outer lobby when Erlendur entered with his new companion.
“Good morning to you,” the man in the black overcoat said to Marteinn, taking off his hat and offering him his hand. “My name is Matthías Kieler.”
“Um…Marteinn Karlsson,” the young detective replied, removing the rubber glove he was wearing and taking the man’s outstretched hand.
“You would perhaps be so kind as to hang this up for me,” Matthías said, handing his hat and walking stick to the young man. Marteinn cast a surprised look at Erlendur, who just nodded discreetly.
“Yes, of course,” Marteinn said, taking the hat and walking stick.
Halldór, observing this exchange from the inner lobby, imagined that Matthías was probably around seventy. He was rather portly and sported a substantial double chin. The old gentleman removed his hat, revealing a bald head fringed round with white hair, combed straight back. He was clean-shaven and very neatly dressed.
“It was not necessary for you to come here, sir,” Halldór said, striding toward Matthías and introducing himself.
Matthías’s hand was thick and soft, yet the handshake was firm. “I preferred it. I hope I do not disturb,” he replied solemnly.
“No, not at all,” Halldór reassured him.
Matthías entered the inner lobby and approached the body, now lying next to the doorway to the parlor and covered with a green sheet. He bent down with some difficulty and lifted the sheet from the face; then he stood up again and looked down in silence. No one said a word.
Halldór watched as Matthías’s face turned grave and seemed to age by many years as he gazed at the snow-white, lifeless face of his nephew. It was impossible to work out what he was thinking, but this sight clearly affected him. He finally bent down again, made a small sign of the cross with his hand
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