The crowd was sparse, likely because it was just past 5:00 p.m. local time, even though the sky outside was deep black. This was her third establishment of the day for the quick story on bar culture in Reykjavík. She’d first gone to Pablo Discobar, an upscale place for expats and people who could afford expensive cocktails, then to Kaldi Bar, a beer experience. Slippbarinn was her last stop of the day. The exhaustion she’d thought she’d left behind weighed her down. The assignment felt like a means to an end. She didn’t feel her usual spark of interest, her joy at finding the right shot to convey the message.
Meena turned her camera back to the laughing faces of the three guys and snapped a few more shots of the brightly lit place. They’d already signed the photo releases so they could be part of the story. Iceland bars didn’t have a lot of rules, and on weekend nights they stayed open until 4:30 a.m. It was just the kind of assignment she needed right now: quick, not a lot of prep, and distracting. She’d been here for three days so far, and she’d barely thought about the Engineer’s House.
Or at least she’d tried not to think about it.
Got a quick assignment. Off to Iceland.
She’d left a note taped to her front door, just under the new cornucopia wreath that Sabina had swapped for the Halloween one. She’d left the apartment unlocked and taken a late-night flight. From Reykjavík she’d go straight to Manhattan and get those editor meetings back on the calendar. Then Christmas in London, then on to the next assignment.
She’d deal with the apartment in April.
She took the strap off her neck to roll the stiffness out.
A blond with big curls and glasses approached her and took a seat on a square wooden barstool. He was cute in a boyish way, like Sam, though they looked nothing alike. This one was in his late twenties and built for battering down opponents in a sporting arena, with thick thighs and a broad chest. She watched the flex of his forearm as he raised a pint to his lips.
He winked at her. “I’m Odkell.”
She gave him a friendly smile. An evening’s distraction was just what she needed to put the last month in the rearview. This was how she lived her life. Fun nights that ended with her knowing that there was little chance of seeing the other person again.
“Meena.”
“Pretty name,” Odkell said. “I like the look of you.”
“I’m not certain about the look of you.”
He laughed in a baritone. “I find that vodka helps.”
“That’s not a strong selling point.” She was done taking photos for the night and ordered a martini from the bartender.
He shifted to face her. “My face is not enough? You demand more. Fine. I play football. Not for the national team, but I know a few of the players. This is a small island.”
“I’m not a sports person.”
He took her hands in his. “I’m a, um, klár.” He tapped his head.
“Smart?”
“Yes.” He smiled wide, showing off his crooked teeth. “You know Icelandic?”
“No, only a few words, phrases I picked up while preparing for this trip.” Another word came to Meena, from Neha’s notes. “Window weather.”
“Gluggaveeur,” Odkell translated. “It’s a very common phrase. The tourists like it. Where did you hear it?”
She paused. “I read it somewhere.” In a note written to me by a woman who is probably my birth mother.
He rubbed the palm of her hand with his fingers. “What happened to your arm?”
“A silly injury.” She took her hand from his.