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for the meal by putting the flight magazine back in the seat pocket, brushing something off the sleeve of his overcoat and rubbing his hands together, like someone who is looking forward to something good. Next he took off his glasses and put them down on the table, which was ready for the food tray.
    I guessed we would get chicken.
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    The cab driver pulled up in the parking space in front of the ice cream stand at Ingolfstorg. He paid the driver and when he told him to keep the four hundred kronur change, the driver, who hadn’t uttered a word all the way, said he never took more than the rate; he pointed at the meter and said that was the price, that was what he accepted for the ride. Then it will just have to be danger money, he said as he opened the door and worked his way out. He shut the door behind him, zipped up his anorak, fitted his hood over his head, and walked into Austurstraeti with his plastic bag. When he had gone several meters along the street he suddenly turned round and went back in the direction of the square. The taxi was still in the parking lot, and he knocked on passenger’s side window as he passed by. The driver seemed startled; he watched his former passenger walk on, and then muttered something under his breath when he saw the passenger stop at the ice cream stand and talk to a young man.
    He asked for ice cream with a topping. Wasn’t it possible to have it hot, it was so bloody cold outside. The young man smiled and said he could make him a child-size ice cream, he would be quicker with it. Maybe that was the thing, he answered; he’d have a child’s size one. Children knew what they wanted; if anyone could make a right decision it was a child. When he took the chocolate-covered cornet (and looked goggle-eyed at it, amazed at how small it was) he asked the youth if he knew of any good bars in the vicinity, if there were any in Austurstraeti for instance. Yes, there were two or three in Austurstraeti, but there were more and rather better ones in the neighboring streets—the ones on Austurstraeti were pretty weird. There was one that was some kind of health bar and another very strange one on the right—he gave more accurate details on how to find it—but wasn’t quite sure whether he should recommend going there. He liked the sound of it and would take a look at the strange place. The young man asked him if he had come from the country and he replied that he had been in Breidholt. Then he smiled, pierced the crisp chocolate with his teeth, and took a large bite. With his mouth full, he told the young man he had been living abroad, hadn’t been in Reykjavik for several years. He swallowed the ice cream and gave a shudder, it was so cold, then added that he was just visiting an old friend before going abroad again. He paid for the ice cream, said he was going to take a look at this strange bar, and got a peculiar smile from the young man behind the counter.
    He walked straight over to the bar, as if he knew exactly where it was. He peered through the window before going in and dropped the half-eaten cornet on to the pavement. He stood on it and squashed it like he was putting out a cigarette.
    Inside the bar, three men were sitting at a table beside the counter and a man and a woman were at another table near the window. The smell in there was the smell of yesterday, or all the yesterdays that had been since it opened—stale cigarette smoke that seemed somehow to choke any possibility of good memories. The interior was clearly not designed to distract attention from the customers, who all looked as if they had been there a long time. But, despite the fact that he had just come in, they took no special interest in him. He walked up to the bar and asked for a double vodka and coffee, if there was any coffee to be had. The bartender was a man of about fifty, with bushy eyebrows and a thick mustache. There was no coffee ready but he could make some; he, the