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shot. The farmhouse we were staying in has thrown us out – they believe we killed the cop – so now I have moved into the hotel. So I’ll talk to you, right?’
    Vigdís didn’t answer.
    ‘Right?’
    ‘I don’t understand,’ said Vigdís.
    ‘Cool,’ said Martin. ‘Then let me tell you all about myself.’
    And he did. He spoke slowly and clearly, pausing to choose simple sentence constructions that Vigdís would understand. And she did understand nearly all of it.
    He spoke of his childhood, how he had always been fond of animals and how as he learned about climate change and extinction he had become angry. His father was a senior executive for a power company who had become disillusioned with the efforts of his employer to talk about carbon emissions without actually doing anything about them. Martin’s father was too old or scared or well entrenched to do anything either, but he encouraged his son.
    Then he had died and left Martin a bit of money. After university Martin had used it to fund his protests against climate change and, increasingly, against animal cruelty either in the lab or the hunting field.
    Vigdís listened, caught up in Martin’s enthusiasm.
    ‘Now I am going to tell you about my girlfriends,’ he said.
    ‘Why?’ said Vigdís in English.
    ‘Don’t spoil it,’ said Martin. ‘You don’t understand me, remember. I’m not going to tell you my secrets if you can understand them.’
    ‘OK,’ said Vigdís. ‘I don’t understand.’ They had reached the lighthouse. There was a stunning view of the waterlogged Melrakkaslétta plain, of the town behind them and of the Arctic Ocean stretching north towards the icecap. The invisible Arctic Circle was only a few hundred metres away.
    ‘It’s cold up here in the wind,’ said Vigdís in Icelandic. ‘Let’s go down there.’ She pointed to a spot on the lee side of the headland, just above the cliff face.
    ‘OK,’ said Martin, understanding.
    They found a patch of soft dry grass and sat down. They were facing east, and the sun behind them was throwing golden trails on to the sea. Far below, driftwood from Siberia bumped up against the black pebble shoreline. Terns wheeled beneath them, making their familiar ‘kría!’ call.
    ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Martin.
    Vigdís nodded. She hesitated and then pulled out her vodka bottle and offered him some. Martin raised his eyebrows and took a swig. He passed the bottle back to Vigdís.
    ‘Now, Petra. Let me tell you about Petra.’
    Petra was a beautiful raven-haired goddess that had somehow been dropped down from the heavens into Martin’s high school. He told of his various stratagems to woo her, all of which failed. He was funny. Even in English he was funny.
    As the sun sank lower, Vigdís began to feel colder, but she didn’t care. The sea was beautiful. The light was beautiful. The lunatic German’s patter was warm and comforting. The vodka tasted good. She was having a good time.
    ‘Why do I like you, Vigdís?’ he said. ‘I mean, all you have said to me is “I don’t understand” and “Are you a murderer?”.’
    ‘That does not work?’ said Vigdís slowly in English. ‘I thoughtthat was a good speech. Perhaps that is why I do not have lots of boyfriends.’
    ‘Because you accuse them of being murderers? No, that’s not a good line.’
    ‘It works with you, I think.’ Although Vigdís scarcely ever spoke English, it turned out that she could do it better than she expected.
    ‘Yes. That’s true,’ said Martin.
    ‘Do you like me because I am black?’ said Vigdís. She found herself looking at Martin with suspicion. The answer was important.
    ‘Because you are black? Why?’
    ‘I do not know.’ She paused, searching for the English word. ‘Curiosity?’
    ‘I am curious about you. But not because you are black.’
    ‘You are curious about me? About what?’
    ‘I suppose I am curious about what a nice girl like you is doing in a dump like this, working for a