The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

hand now. I can relax.
    “Yes,” they say.
    Without thinking or blinking, I decide to be a good sport, forgetting all about the Lithuanian threats. Must be the gun. Or a belated show of gratitude towards the White Hats for giving me the summer of my life.
    “Yes. I saw them take the dead man’s body outside, just some twenty minutes ago. I saw it from my window,” I say, inviting them inside my cell. “They had it in a big suitcase. It looked quite heavy. They put it in the back of a white van and drove away.”
    “Did you see the number of it?”
    “The license number? Yes. It was SV seven-four-one.”
    I’m not kidding. I remember the fucking license number. The two officers look at me as if they want to invite me on a Caribbean cruise. First class. Next summer. Just the three of us. They then come to their senses.
    “And where was the car?”
    “Just…right here below. Outside the entrance.”
    We’re by the window and one of them leans over to my side to have a better look outside. In doing so, he accidentally touches the hard little thing in my pocket with his left hip. The policeman automatically turns his face towards me and says in the most polite way:
    “Afsaky.”
    This is Icelandic for: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to touch your gun.”
    The day after, when I come home from work, I see three white police SUVs parked outside our beloved hotel. Some yellow police tape rattles in the freezing summer breeze, and a White Hat guards the entrance. I keep walking past the building, at a good distance, once again taking on the role of the odd stroller on the empty sidewalks of Iceland.
    An hour later I ring Gunnhildur’s bell. She opens the door and soon we’re up in her messy kitchen, kissing like a pair of desperate lovers. I completely forget myself and hug her too hard: she feels the hard thing in my pants.
    “What’s that?”
    “German steel.”

CHAPTER 31
ICE-ROCK
    08.08.2006 – 09.08.2006
    Torture talks, Tomo walks.
    The great man takes me back to Hardwork Hotel to pick up my things and has a word with the police, using his powers of persuasion and invaluable TV fame to explain my case. Tommy Olafs is his protégé, a real sensitive guy who only wanted to get to know the country of his origin and can’t bear living with cruel and reckless criminals. I say goodbye to my Polish friends, and to my surprise I lean into Balatov’s cheek for a quick hug. Exile is a hairy sea.
    I spend the night in my Old Testament room in Torture and Hanna’s house. At work the day after, I have a crucial talk with Olie, and in the evening he greets me and Torture, at his doorstep, on the third floor of an old concrete building close to Gun’s house. Harpa is out for the night shift at her solarium, and me and Olie act out a little scripted scene for our beloved Torture: pretending that I’m renting a room at his place. Apparently Bible Man knows Meat Man, through Sammy, and they chat about the underestimated role of violence in teaching the Gospel while I examine Olie’s great collection of kitchen knives that he has hanging over his fancy gas stove. Despite being aware of the chef’s violent past, Torture has perfect faith in him as my landlord.
    “As long as you pay the rent, he won’t kill you,” he said in the car, with a hearty laugh.
    Some minutes after the preacher has left in his holy SUV, I’m over at Gun’s place, asking her where to put my things. She looks stressed, taking the cigarette into her bedroom (something she normally doesn’t do) and points at two empty shelves in her large wardrobe with a shaky finger.
    “Something’s wrong?” I ask.
    “No. Why?”
    “You maybe think we’re not ready to start living together?”
    “No, no. It’s just…”
    “I thought you wanted this. Is it Truster?”
    A heavy sigh, then: “Yes.”
    “You’re afraid he’ll tell your parents about us?”
    “No, it’s not that. I don’t mind.”
    It’s not that. It’s something else. But what it is, she won’t say. I offer to sleep upstairs, in the attic, but she says no, and soon we’re in her bed, trying to cheer ourselves up with some cheerless sex. Afterward, she picks up her cell and has a long and visibly difficult talk with her brother, who doesn’t seem to fancy living with a hitman. Shortly before midnight he shows up, pale and gloomy. Without even saying “hi,” he retreats into his small room out by the entrance and plays loud ice rock until two o’clock in the morning.