Narrator by Bragi Ólafsson

Author:Bragi Ólafsson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Letter
Published: 2018-04-29T04:00:00+00:00

Half an Hour Later

And that’s what he does. He continues. The match between the English and Costa Rican national teams begins about a quarter of an hour after G. settles into the sports bar. It is much brighter in the Brazilian stadium than the stage they find themselves on, he and Aron. But there is much merriment here. The atmosphere is relatively calm and well-tempered, considering an important match is at stake, something that traditionally involves fights or brawls, especially among spectators. G. sits with three young men at a table next to Aron; he gets their permission, he does not barge in on them. Aron has his back to him, and although he turns to follow the game on the television screen, to which he in fact doesn’t devote much attention, it is unlikely that Aron notices him. G. however, recognizes another man he knows, or at least has often seen, and not only recently or over a span of years, but almost all his life. This fifty-something man lives in Vesturbær, the west part of town, somewhere close to Aragata, possibly on Lynghagi or Fálkagata; he’s a rather singular character, one of his neighborhood’s landmarks, you could say. As far back as G. can remember, back to the first time he saw this man, from around the end of elementary school up through G.’s high-school years, the man wore blue. Always blue, except his footwear. G. is amazed, thinking about it, that he never managed to learn the man’s name. He cannot remember exactly why, but at some point his mother mentioned this person, and they talked about the jacket he wore, a so-called reporter’s jacket, an item of clothing reminiscent of a soldier’s uniform due to its many deep pockets, an indication that whoever was wearing the garment had all kinds of things on their person, plenty to keep them busy. G.’s mother once actually wanted him to have this kind of jacket, wanted to buy it for him at the Uniform Store on Laugavegur, after his father had advised her that such jackets were on sale there. As soon as G. recalls his parents’ peculiar suggestion that he wear a particular item of clothing, one they wanted to give him, he is surprised to realize, once again, how little interest they typically showed in him. Is it an ugly thought that the money he receives from them by way of monthly allowance is compensation for accepting their apathy? Wouldn’t it have sufficed to point this jacket out to him at the Uniform Store, wasn’t there some dogged affectation involved in wanting to get it for him? G. has enough money himself, money he gets from them. He declined the jacket. A reporter’s jacket is not for him. He is not a journalist. And on that note, there is no way the blue-clad man, the one present now, inside the sports bar on Austurstræti, has a job reporting the news to people. At first glance, he’s not

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