livery of Manchester United. The bar was clearly a meeting place for Faroese fans of the English football club. The reds and blacks and images of red devils did nothing to undermine the impression of an altar of sacrifice.
However, for all that it was dark and enclosed, the Glitnir was perfect for its real purpose. Not the monotonous rallies of men knocking balls over a net, but drinking. For the patrons, the tennis was a pretext, an excuse given to either their partners or themselves for congregating in the shadows and easing beer down their throats. Not that I was judgemental of any of that, far from it.
It was the barman there who explained the place’s name to me. Glitnir meant ‘splendour’ or ‘shining’ in old Norse. It was the hall of Forseti, the Norse god of law and justice, and the seat of justice among gods and men. It had pillars of gold and was roofed with silver. The modern-day version had pillars of televisions and was roofed by an Irish bar. I applauded the owner’s sense of irony.
The patrons sat almost exclusively round the fringes of the room rather than at any of the tables in the centre, a fact I only realized once I’d taken my own place in the middle. The others, my fellow drinkers and tennis fans, had their backs securely to the walls, like one of those centrifugal-force rides that you get at a funfair. No matter how fast the room spun, they’d never fall off into the middle.
They sat in ad hoc groups of two or three, dropping in and out of each other’s company with each visit to the bar to replenish their glasses. At some point – beer three, I think it was – I noticed that one pair of eyes in the half-light was concentrating on me rather than a television screen or the bottom of a pint. I ignored it, but when I turned back minutes later, I was still being watched by the same person.
Rather than stare back into the gloom of the far wall, I waited patiently for my stalker to come into the light, as he would surely have to do. Sure enough, I became aware out of the corner of my eye of the man getting up from his seat and venturing across the floor to the bar. He didn’t look at me as he passed, but I had every opportunity to see him.
It was the same guy that had taken such an interest in me in the Cafe Natur. The balding man with the white beard. Tummas Barthel. He was wearing the same leather waistcoat, this time over a black T-shirt. I stared at his back, wondering what the hell his problem was.
He turned, pint in hand, and walked back to his seat, this time looking at me openly. I could feel a familiar anger growing in me, uncomfortable at being an exhibit in a zoo, and barely resisted the temptation to stick a leg out and trip him up.
Barthel retreated into the darkness and I fixed my own gaze firmly on the tennis, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me turn to look at him. If anything, it made it worse. The irritation festered, beer going down my neck quicker, my patience shrivelling.
As the evening wore on, the darkness of the room engulfed my mood. I imagined my hands round the man’s throat, demanding answers. Demanding that he fuck off.
When he finally lumbered unsteadily from his seat and made not for the bar or the toilet but for the exit door, I made an instant decision to go after him. I sat still for a minute or so then threw the last of my glass down my throat and got up, discovering that my own feet weren’t much steadier than Barthel’s.
Emerging blinking into the half-light, I looked left and right until I saw Barthel a hundred yards ahead of me, steering a wayward ship. I set off after him like a dog chasing a car, with no particular idea what I would do if the pursuit was successful. I gained on him along Sigmundargøta, not wanting to alert him to my presence.
The darkness of Glitnir was still in me, an indignant rage boiling over, urging me to ask him what his problem was. Every step closer multiplied my need to know why he looked at
However, for all that it was dark and enclosed, the Glitnir was perfect for its real purpose. Not the monotonous rallies of men knocking balls over a net, but drinking. For the patrons, the tennis was a pretext, an excuse given to either their partners or themselves for congregating in the shadows and easing beer down their throats. Not that I was judgemental of any of that, far from it.
It was the barman there who explained the place’s name to me. Glitnir meant ‘splendour’ or ‘shining’ in old Norse. It was the hall of Forseti, the Norse god of law and justice, and the seat of justice among gods and men. It had pillars of gold and was roofed with silver. The modern-day version had pillars of televisions and was roofed by an Irish bar. I applauded the owner’s sense of irony.
The patrons sat almost exclusively round the fringes of the room rather than at any of the tables in the centre, a fact I only realized once I’d taken my own place in the middle. The others, my fellow drinkers and tennis fans, had their backs securely to the walls, like one of those centrifugal-force rides that you get at a funfair. No matter how fast the room spun, they’d never fall off into the middle.
They sat in ad hoc groups of two or three, dropping in and out of each other’s company with each visit to the bar to replenish their glasses. At some point – beer three, I think it was – I noticed that one pair of eyes in the half-light was concentrating on me rather than a television screen or the bottom of a pint. I ignored it, but when I turned back minutes later, I was still being watched by the same person.
Rather than stare back into the gloom of the far wall, I waited patiently for my stalker to come into the light, as he would surely have to do. Sure enough, I became aware out of the corner of my eye of the man getting up from his seat and venturing across the floor to the bar. He didn’t look at me as he passed, but I had every opportunity to see him.
It was the same guy that had taken such an interest in me in the Cafe Natur. The balding man with the white beard. Tummas Barthel. He was wearing the same leather waistcoat, this time over a black T-shirt. I stared at his back, wondering what the hell his problem was.
He turned, pint in hand, and walked back to his seat, this time looking at me openly. I could feel a familiar anger growing in me, uncomfortable at being an exhibit in a zoo, and barely resisted the temptation to stick a leg out and trip him up.
Barthel retreated into the darkness and I fixed my own gaze firmly on the tennis, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me turn to look at him. If anything, it made it worse. The irritation festered, beer going down my neck quicker, my patience shrivelling.
As the evening wore on, the darkness of the room engulfed my mood. I imagined my hands round the man’s throat, demanding answers. Demanding that he fuck off.
When he finally lumbered unsteadily from his seat and made not for the bar or the toilet but for the exit door, I made an instant decision to go after him. I sat still for a minute or so then threw the last of my glass down my throat and got up, discovering that my own feet weren’t much steadier than Barthel’s.
Emerging blinking into the half-light, I looked left and right until I saw Barthel a hundred yards ahead of me, steering a wayward ship. I set off after him like a dog chasing a car, with no particular idea what I would do if the pursuit was successful. I gained on him along Sigmundargøta, not wanting to alert him to my presence.
The darkness of Glitnir was still in me, an indignant rage boiling over, urging me to ask him what his problem was. Every step closer multiplied my need to know why he looked at
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