Tuesdays to be precise, the
Question of the Day
comes from Akureyri. Or wherever you happen to be at the time. It’s all part of the deal, buddy.”
“And what on earth am I supposed to ask them?”
“Not my problem.
What’s your favorite place to party?
for instance. That should be easy enough for you. Get to it.”
I call Jóa’s cell phone.
“Hello,” she says. There’s something odd about her voice.
“Hi. Look, apparently we’ve got to go out on the street and do
Question of the Day
. I’d forgotten all about it. Can you come right away?” I turn around.
“OK.” Jóa is standing in the doorway with her phone to her ear.
Fortunately for us, the passers-by in Town Hall Square are in a good mood.
All looking forward to participating in the sufferings of Christ over Easter, no doubt. Within ten minutes we have our answers to the urgent question
What’s your favorite place to party?
The Sjallinn disco. Café Akureyri. The Vélsmidjan
bar. Glaumbær.
Glaumbær
? In Reykjavík? But it burned down thirty years ago.
That’s right. No other place has ever been as good.
I don’t suppose I have to specify the age of the person who gave that answer.
Now all I need is one more victim.
Three young girls walk into the square from Hafnarstræti, apparently in high spirits. They are convulsed with laughter whenI stop them and ask if they would mind answering the
Question of the Day.
“Who’s going to answer?”
They keep on giggling. I wonder if they’ve been smoking funny cigarettes.
All three are wearing low-riding jeans, exposing bare midriffs.
“Sólrún, you answer it,” says one of them.
“Yeah, Sólrún,” adds the other. “Answer what you said before.”
Sólrún is a pretty girl, a little bit chubby. Under her jacket she is wearing a sweater so low-cut that I very nearly forget what the
Question
is.
“All right,” says Sólrún, raising a clenched fist as if taking part in a political demonstration. “I’ll answer.”
“And your last name?”
“Bjarkadóttir.”
“What do you do, Sólrún?”
“I’m a student at the high school.”
Jóa takes a photo and goes off to send her pics in.
“What’s your favorite place to party?”
“Kjartan Arnarson’s dick.”
All three girls burst out laughing.
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask without a smile.
“Same answer!” gasps Sólrún. They fall about in gales of laughter.
“And your favorite drink?” But they have moved on, spluttering with giggles.
The news editor is in a ferocious temper. No doubt he’s late for his next gourmet dinner. “Einar, it isn’t rocket science. Even you ought to be able to cope with it. There are five answers to the
Question of the Day
. Not four, not three, not two, not one. Five. F-I-V-E. I’ve got five photos here and only four answers. Where’s the fifth?”
“It’s not fit to print,” I reply.
“Oh? Why not?”
“Believe me. It isn’t.”
“You mean the answer given by high school student Sólrún Bjarkadóttir?”
“Yes, that’s the one I mean.”
“So what did she say?”
“She said her favorite place to party was Kjartan Arnarson’s dick.”
A choking gasp from the news editor. “Who’s Kjartan Arnarson?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”
“Come on, Einar. It’s just some high school joke. It’s fun. A young, plain-speaking voice in the paper. Of course we’ll print it.”
I feel sweat beading on my brow.
“Are you crazy? It’s out of the question.”
“It’s not for you to say. It’s my decision, buddy.”
“But…but…whoever he is, that poor guy…and I think the girl was high.”
“So? That’s her problem. Not ours. Really, the things I have to deal with…,” grumbles Trausti Löve as he hangs up.
The woman who fell into the glacial river is dead. She never regained consciousness. Her name was Ásdís Björk Gudmundsdóttir. Fifty-five years old, she is survived by her husband and a grown son.
Jóa has
Question of the Day
comes from Akureyri. Or wherever you happen to be at the time. It’s all part of the deal, buddy.”
“And what on earth am I supposed to ask them?”
“Not my problem.
What’s your favorite place to party?
for instance. That should be easy enough for you. Get to it.”
I call Jóa’s cell phone.
“Hello,” she says. There’s something odd about her voice.
“Hi. Look, apparently we’ve got to go out on the street and do
Question of the Day
. I’d forgotten all about it. Can you come right away?” I turn around.
“OK.” Jóa is standing in the doorway with her phone to her ear.
Fortunately for us, the passers-by in Town Hall Square are in a good mood.
All looking forward to participating in the sufferings of Christ over Easter, no doubt. Within ten minutes we have our answers to the urgent question
What’s your favorite place to party?
The Sjallinn disco. Café Akureyri. The Vélsmidjan
bar. Glaumbær.
Glaumbær
? In Reykjavík? But it burned down thirty years ago.
That’s right. No other place has ever been as good.
I don’t suppose I have to specify the age of the person who gave that answer.
Now all I need is one more victim.
Three young girls walk into the square from Hafnarstræti, apparently in high spirits. They are convulsed with laughter whenI stop them and ask if they would mind answering the
Question of the Day.
“Who’s going to answer?”
They keep on giggling. I wonder if they’ve been smoking funny cigarettes.
All three are wearing low-riding jeans, exposing bare midriffs.
“Sólrún, you answer it,” says one of them.
“Yeah, Sólrún,” adds the other. “Answer what you said before.”
Sólrún is a pretty girl, a little bit chubby. Under her jacket she is wearing a sweater so low-cut that I very nearly forget what the
Question
is.
“All right,” says Sólrún, raising a clenched fist as if taking part in a political demonstration. “I’ll answer.”
“And your last name?”
“Bjarkadóttir.”
“What do you do, Sólrún?”
“I’m a student at the high school.”
Jóa takes a photo and goes off to send her pics in.
“What’s your favorite place to party?”
“Kjartan Arnarson’s dick.”
All three girls burst out laughing.
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask without a smile.
“Same answer!” gasps Sólrún. They fall about in gales of laughter.
“And your favorite drink?” But they have moved on, spluttering with giggles.
The news editor is in a ferocious temper. No doubt he’s late for his next gourmet dinner. “Einar, it isn’t rocket science. Even you ought to be able to cope with it. There are five answers to the
Question of the Day
. Not four, not three, not two, not one. Five. F-I-V-E. I’ve got five photos here and only four answers. Where’s the fifth?”
“It’s not fit to print,” I reply.
“Oh? Why not?”
“Believe me. It isn’t.”
“You mean the answer given by high school student Sólrún Bjarkadóttir?”
“Yes, that’s the one I mean.”
“So what did she say?”
“She said her favorite place to party was Kjartan Arnarson’s dick.”
A choking gasp from the news editor. “Who’s Kjartan Arnarson?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”
“Come on, Einar. It’s just some high school joke. It’s fun. A young, plain-speaking voice in the paper. Of course we’ll print it.”
I feel sweat beading on my brow.
“Are you crazy? It’s out of the question.”
“It’s not for you to say. It’s my decision, buddy.”
“But…but…whoever he is, that poor guy…and I think the girl was high.”
“So? That’s her problem. Not ours. Really, the things I have to deal with…,” grumbles Trausti Löve as he hangs up.
The woman who fell into the glacial river is dead. She never regained consciousness. Her name was Ásdís Björk Gudmundsdóttir. Fifty-five years old, she is survived by her husband and a grown son.
Jóa has
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