The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning Read Free Page B

index finger, the video screen abandons Seinfeld’s hairdo for an info-map: A red airplane, the size of Britain, slowly crawls up the Atlantic, past some white thing that the talking man says is Greenland. Iceland on the other hand looks pretty green. The chatty one takes the next ten minutes to explain his theory about this mix-up: When the Norwegian Vikings discovered Iceland in some year before 1000, they found Irish monks up there, who’d already named the land Island , or The Land of Christ, for Jesus was Isu in their language. The Vikings, however, took the Savior for ice . I’m glad they did. Or else I’d be traveling to Christland.
    “OK. Cool. What about Greenland then?” the basketball player asks.
    “The first settlers wanted all of Iceland for themselves, so they named the other one Greenland, so that next wave of immigrants would go there instead. Many people say it was the first PR trick in history. It really should be the other way around. Greenland should be called Iceland and Iceland, Greenland.”
    Cool. I’m traveling under a pseudonym to a country with a pseudonym. Not too bad. I’ve heard about Iceland before. A friend of Dikan’s went there once for some arms-for-legs deal. The nights are bright and the girls are long, he said. Or was it the other way around? It’s a small island (ah, well, it’s two times bigger than Croatia) in the middle of the North Atlantic. The in-flight magazine shows lunar landscapes and sunny faces. Mossy rocks and fuzzy sweaters. They say Iceland is a young, hot country that’s still very active, shaking from eruptions and earthquakes almost daily, with boiling water and running lava breaking up through the surface. I wonder what brings Rev. David Friendly to this remote place? That’s me, that is. I have to start thinking like a priest.
    Bless my soul.
    Once more I try to find the right position for my aching legs. The stewardesses all have nice bodies and speak English with super confidence. Bright girls, long nights. Yeah, that’s how it was. The Icelandic look seems to be a cross between Julia Stiles and Virginia Madsen. Broad faces, barren cheeks. Cold eyes, cool lips. One of them hands me a tray of food and gives me an innocent, oh-what-a-sweet-puppy smile. Must be the dog collar I’m wearing. I’m not a man anymore. I’m a priest.
    In that way the bloody collar works. It keeps the sin away. Or keeps it all inside. My mind starts giving Munita a very long leash as I try to picture myself in bed with one of these northern nymphs. I don’t succeed. Munita has the upper hand. I miss her soft skin already.
    They make you pay for food. I find a few holy bills in Friendly’s wallet and send him my warmest thanks. Then I find out airline food tastes no better even when you’re paying for it. Maybe your taste buds stop working at five thousand feet. Suddenly the Wise Guy raises his voice as well as his glass of red wine, and, smiling, says “ skull! ” to me and the basketball player. At first I think he must be toasting my fresh hairdo, but he explains that this is the Icelandic version of “cheers!” The Vikings used to celebrate their victories by filling their victims’ brain shells with booze.
    I love this country already.
    After dinner I try to fall asleep. I really need my after-killing nap. But I seem to be the only one who wants to shut his eyes. The Vikings scream for another skull of cognac. And then the captain starts his voice-over bit, his manly voice tuned to the max in the overhead speakers. As with all his colleagues around the world, he speaks in Airish, the incomprehensive language of the skies. Those cockpit-monologues always sound to me like some Latin prayer, asking God for permission to cross his lawn. This one is fourteen minutes long.
    I keep my eyes shut. Being Friendly is an iron collar around my neck.
    Behind me I can hear the stewardess take yet another drinking order from two happy Vikings. And down the aisle, a group of