Frozen Assets

She headed out of town, and stopped at the Höfdabakki traffic lights next to Nonni the Taxi’s yard, scanning the car park outside for the green Mercedes. Gunna wondered whether or not to go in and ask for Matti’s whereabouts, but decided against it, unwilling to send him a message that could be misunderstood if not delivered personally.

Gunna checked the time and decided to take a round trip through the Bakki district and Kópavogur before a final look through Matti’s normal haunts in the old western end of the city.

Lunchtime traffic thickened as she gunned the Volvo out of Kópavogur and on to Kringlumýrarbraut back towards the city. Passing the airport, she wondered idly how the billionaires with their little summer houses around Skildingarnes would be preparing for the invasion of their territory if the city were to have its way and close the airport to make way for more building south of the city centre.

‘It’ll happen. Money talks its own language, as Mum used to say,’ Gunna grunted to herself, pulling up at the lights at Lækjargata for the second time that day and seeing that the taxi rank there was empty.

‘Hell. Lunchtime, I suppose.’

She drove slowly past the slipways and the remnants of the old town, where rusting houses clad in corrugated iron were gradually being replaced with steel and glass, and past Kaffivagninn. She thought of stopping there, but since office types had discovered the old dockers’ eatery on the quay, it had gone upmarket and lost some of its attraction.

Further along and beyond walking distance from the office district, she pulled up on a patch of waste ground opposite Grandakaffi among a cluster of taxis, pickup trucks and a bus at the end of its route. For a moment she admired the trawlers in their blue-and-white Grandi livery at the quayside and listened as a group of men in paint-spattered overalls engaged in a friendly argument in some Eastern European language as they made their way from a half-painted ship over the waste ground towards the café. They fell silent as they noticed her uniform, nudging each other as they passed her. Gunna walked behind the men, trying not to look as if she was following them to the café, but she could sense their discomfort.

In the sunshine half a dozen men sat over large meals and newspapers around rickety tables and Gunna scanned the faces quickly, catching the eye of a thin-faced elderly man who looked as if a square meal coming his way was a rarity. He nodded imperceptibly as she passed, and carried on with his bowl of soup.

The group of workmen were at the counter, bargaining with a tiny Asian woman in broken English. As Gunna approached, the woman looked past them in relief. Gunna wondered what had brought her to Iceland.

‘What’re y’looking for?’ the woman asked in perfect Icelandic that marked her down as a second-generation immigrant.

‘Coffee and a ham sandwich,’ Gunna decided. There was a palpable relaxation of tension among the group of men as they realized that she was there to eat. The woman put a sandwich on a plate on the counter and pointed to the coffee urns.

‘Six hundred.’

Gunna fished in her pocket for coins and finally came up with a crumpled thousand krona note.

‘Have you seen a green Mercedes taxi around?’ she asked, handing over the money.

‘What? Big Matti?’

‘That’s the guy.’

‘Not for a day or two. Want me to take a message?’ the woman replied, handing back a handful of coins.

‘No. It’s all right. Nothing urgent.’

Gunna took her sandwich and coffee outside into the sunshine and looked around before planting herself down opposite the narrow-faced man.

‘Well then, Baddi. How’s life? Keeping yourself occupied?’

‘Little Dodda, isn’t it?’

Gunna nodded and bit into her sandwich. Hearing the Dodda name, only remembered by a handful of family from Vestureyri, took her home and back thirty years with a jolt. ‘Not so little these days.’

‘Not so bad, y’know. Keeping busy.’

‘Good to know,’ Gunna said. She understood the older generation and their need to be working all the time. ‘I thought you’d have been retired by now, Baddi.’

‘Ach. You know. I tried for a while but my Magga didn’t like having me under her feet all day long, so I do three days a week now. Enough to keep out of the old woman’s way.’

Gunna nodded. ‘Working for Nonni?’

‘Yup. Just weekdays. Can’t be having with the drunks. There’s a young feller drives the cab nights and weekends. He makes a packet and works hard for it, and Nonni’s got his car working day and night. I do a few days, so we’re all happy. And how’s your mum these days?’

‘She’s the same as ever. Greyer. Still complaining. How about your boys?’

‘Nothing but trouble. Gummi’s still at sea, just. Beggi’s got himself married again. Fourth time, or maybe the fifth. I’ve given up counting. Filipina girl this time, half his age, at least. So, did you just happen to be passing?’

‘Sort of,’ Gunna admitted. ‘Looking around for our Matti.’

‘Ah,’ Baddi said with satisfaction. ‘Now there’s a lad who never got round to growing up.’