Page 10 of The Darkness
‘But you manage?’
‘Just about. I do quite a bit of interpreting for Russians, some of it for people in the same situation as … um …’
‘Elena,’ prompted Hulda. Not even Bjartur could remember her name. It was extraordinary how quickly the girl’s presence in Iceland was fading from people’s memories: no one gave a damn about her, it seemed.
‘Elena – of course. Yes, now and then I interpret for people in her situation, but I mainly work as a tour guide for Russians, showing them the sights. Some of them are rolling in it, so the pay’s not bad. Apart from that, I translate the odd short story or book, even do a bit of writing myself –’
‘What was your impression of her?’ Hulda interrupted. ‘Did she seem suicidal at all?’
‘Now you’re asking,’ Bjartur said, thwarted in his desire to talk about himself. ‘Hard to say. Maybe. As you’d expect, she wasn’t exactly happy here. But wasn’t it … I mean, surely it must have been suicide?’
‘Probably not, actually,’ said Hulda, with unwarranted confidence. She had a hunch that the interpreter knew more than he was letting on. The trick was to avoid putting too much pressure on him: all she had to do was be patient and allow him to open up in his own time. ‘Did you study in Russia?’ she asked.
He seemed a little thrown by this abrupt change of subject. ‘What? Oh, yes. At Moscow State University. I fell in love with the city and the language. Ever been there yourself?’
Hulda shook her head.
‘It’s an amazing place. You should visit sometime.’
‘Right,’ said Hulda, knowing she never would.
‘Amazing, but challenging,’ Bjartur went on. ‘A challenging place to be a tourist. Everything’s so alien: the language, the Cyrillic script.’
‘But your Russian’s fluent, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, sure,’ he said airily, ‘but then I got the hang of it years ago.’
‘So you had no problem communicating with Elena?’
‘Problem? No, of course not.’
‘So what did you two talk about?’
‘Not much, really,’ he admitted. ‘Mostly, I just interpreted for her at meetings with her lawyer.’
‘He mentioned that she was keen on music,’ Hulda said, in an effort to keep the conversation moving forward.
‘Oh, yes, that’s right. As a matter of fact, she did talk to me about that. She writes … used to write music. She had no chance of doing it professionally in Russia, but that was the dream: to work as a composer here. She played a tune for us once at the lawyer’s office. She was quite good – well, not bad, you know. But it was totally unrealistic. No one can make a living as a composer in Iceland.’
‘Any more than they can as a translator?’
Bjartur smiled but didn’t rise to this. Instead, after a brief pause, he said: ‘Actually, therewassomething else …’
‘Something else?’ Hulda asked encouragingly. She could tell from his expression that he was in two minds about whether to go on.
‘You’d better keep it to yourself, though.’
‘Keep what to myself?’
‘Look, I don’t want to get dragged into anything … I can’t …’
‘What happened?’ Hulda asked, employing her friendliest voice.
‘It was just something she said … By the way, this is strictly off the record.’
Hulda forced herself to smile politely, resisting the urge to point out the difference between a police officer and a journalist. Although she had no intention of making any promises, she maintained a diplomatic silence, not wishing to frighten him off.
Her tactic worked. After a moment’s hesitation, Bjartur continued: ‘I think she might have been on the game.’
