E-Book, Englisch, 352 Seiten
Arngrímsson One True Word
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80533-503-0
Verlag: Pushkin Vertigo
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 352 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80533-503-0
Verlag: Pushkin Vertigo
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Well-known to Icelandic audiences as a children's author, award-winning translator, and a prominent publisher both in Iceland and abroad, author Snæbjörn Arngrímsson has written three mystery novels for young readers. One True Word is his first thriller.
Weitere Infos & Material
‘He’s a bit of a ninny, but a good man,’ whispered Edda as soon as the publisher had closed the door behind him. She moved as though to put her bags on the table, but after a brief consideration—I noticed her eyes flitting down to the table’s spindly legs—placed her bags on the floor instead.
‘Thank you for inviting me to do this interview. Lovely. I’m so pleased—honoured, as they say—ha ha ha. I’ve so much to tell you… We’re going to have loads of fun.’
She rooted through her bags. Pulled out a book and laid it on the table.
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy.
‘Anna Karenina,’ I said. ‘Is it good?’
‘A masterwork.’
I wrote ‘Anna Karenina’ on a piece of paper on the table in front of me. Then I circled it.
Though the novelist was interesting and spoke with great gusto, I realized early in our conversation that my mind was elsewhere. As such, I had trouble immersing myself in her protracted trains of thought about gender relations, storytelling and authorship. In the end, I had to cut her off.
‘I’m so sorry, but I have to make a call before we continue. I’ll be very quick, is that okay?’ I said in the middle of her lecture about the soundscape of what she called ‘crazy sex’.
I didn’t wait for her response but took my phone out of my bag and walked over to a window that faced the street. I scrolled to Gíó’s number and called it.
No one answered.
I noticed that one of the authors who was pictured in the reception area was running down the pavement across the street. She had rather poor form as a runner—bent at the waist, lopsided and knock-kneed—and the movement of her arms was completely out of sync with that of the rest of her body and her stride. I watched as she hurried through the door of the publisher. She was no athlete, that author, and she probably was no great shakes as a dancer, either. Looking at her photograph, I’d noticed that she had nice eyes, but who’d have thought her physical movements could be so asynchronous?
I thought about calling again but decided that one attempt to get in touch over the phone would do and returned to the interview.
I double-checked the recording device on the table in front of us to be absolutely sure it was working. Everything seemed to be in order. Then I looked up at the author of titillating tales to signal that I was once again ready to listen to her reflections on the auditory world of ecstatic lovers.
‘Sorry for the interruption. Shall we continue? Is there anything you’d like to add to what you were talking about, or would you perhaps like to tell me a bit about where the book’s title comes from?’ I could feel that my heart wasn’t really in this conversation of ours and congratulated myself internally for having brought the recorder. I’d never have been able to write anything of sense or remember a word she’d said.
‘Why yes, I certainly would like to speak to how the title of the book came to be. The Laboratory…’ She trailed off and then reached over the table and tapped on my notebook. ‘Funny… or extraordinary, really… You’ve got a rather unusual notebook there… but… look…’ She picked up one of her bags, laid it in her lap, and rifled through it before holding up a black notebook that looked just like the one I had in front of me.
‘They are identical… i-den-ti-cal, look! Identical!’ she said breathlessly as she placed her own notebook next to mine. There was so much enthusiasm and conviction twinkling in her eyes that she could have ignited a bonfire.
‘Yes, they’re exactly alike,’ I said, looking at the notebooks in front of me. And indeed, they were the same size and were bound in the same black plastic material.
‘Where did you get yours? These aren’t your run-of-the-mill notebooks.’
I considered the book on the table in front of me, stroked it lightly with my fingertips and said, ‘I don’t remember where it came from, no… this… uh…’
I was having trouble focusing on what she was saying. It was as if my body was simultaneously numb and running all its systems at top speed. But all the while, I was trying to act like there was nothing wrong.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured my outing in the rubber boat, remembered how the sea spluttered up into the bilge, how soaking wet I got, how cold, heard my shouts for Gíó through the keening wind and saw that wild-eyed sheep.
Could it be that Gíó had come home and was now tucked up under the duvet, warming away his chills?
It was like I had no control over my thoughts. I tried yet again to focus on what the author was saying but could not banish the events of the previous day from my mind.
‘Sorry, I’m all over the place. My apologies, dear. I get like this sometimes, I can’t help myself, but I’m a notebook junkie. So okay: I’m going to tell you something amusing—or intriguing, if you will.’
She fell silent for a moment and sat regarding me, as if to draw out the suspense. She made herself comfortable in her chair as though settling in for a long story.
‘The inspiration for The Laboratory—my book, you know—was actually just such a notebook…’ She fell silent once again and looked at me intently. ‘…A notebook I found unexpectedly on a bookshelf at home.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, without really understanding where she was going with this.
She gave me a mischievous look and then said theatrically: ‘I’ll remind you that I specialize in erotica… spicy stories.’
She laughed merrily. She was so cheerful, this woman. Was she always so cheerful?
‘Yes, right. Exciting,’ I managed to reply.
‘So—now we get to the meat of the matter—I found just such a notisbok,’ and here she used the Danish word and made air quotes around it with both hands, ‘on the shelf where I keep all my notebooks. It was like new, seemed entirely unused. At first, I thought it was mine, that I’d bought it somewhere and just stuck it, untouched, on the shelf. I love buying notebooks, I’ve got so many, and I always believe that if I have a notebook to hand—and a writing implement, of course (she giggled)—that I’ll be able to put my life in better order. That life will become somehow more linear. I don’t actually know why that’s supposed to be preferable, but there’s something calming about the thought of an orderly life. You know?’
‘Ummhmm,’ I hurried to mumble, although I still didn’t really get where she was going.
‘My life’s about as orderly as a car graveyard… you know? It’s just total chaos, everything upside down or on its side, as if a tornado’s just blown through. But this notebook was large, unusually large, and wouldn’t fit in my pocket or my handbag. Which… it surprised me, you know, just oh my God… because why would I have chosen to buy such a big notebook, it wasn’t like me at all. But then when I opened it—because, you see, I’d decided to make a go of using it, even though it was terribly oversized—bigger is better, they say, ha ha—I saw it wasn’t my notebook at all. Someone had written in it. Not on the first page, but rather on several pages in the very middle of the book. Yes, right in the very middle—a strange place to christen a new notebook. Yes, someone had written in the very middle with a pink ink pen. The handwriting wasn’t mine, it didn’t look like my handwriting at all, but I thought it had a feminine look to it… See? Here, I have the big book with me—the match that started the fire, ha ha ha.’
She gave a hearty laugh as she paged back and forth through the notebook and was quick to find what she was looking for. ‘See the handwriting… pink pen… a feminine hand, don’t you agree?’ Then she turned the book so I could get a good look at the pink lettering. A moment later, she pulled it back to her and said: ‘I’ll read to you what I found written here. It’s so inspiring, I think, especially because I’ve got no idea where the book came from. It just lit a fire within me, gave me so many ideas.’
She started reading:
Breakfast at a café. Three men are sitting around a circular table and drinking coffee out of large mugs. One of them orders bacon and eggs.
Hung between the mirrors on the wall are colourful pictures of outdoor cafés and attractive terraced houses.
There’s a newspaper on the table. On the front page is a picture of an MP and under the picture is the giant headline: WOULD YOU SLEEP WITH THIS MAN?
The descriptions of the man, who is...
