“He had a brand new Ford Falcon,” Erlendur said. “The man who was going to sell you the tractor.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The funny thing is, that car’s still around and it’s even up for sale if they can find a buyer,” Erlendur said. “When the car was originally found, one of the hubcaps was missing. Do you know what could have happened to that hubcap?”

“What are you going on about?” Haraldur said, his head darting up to glare at Erlendur. “I don’t know a thing about him. And what are you going on about that car for? Where do I come into the picture?”

“I’m hoping that it can help us,” Erlendur said. “Cars like that can preserve evidence almost for ever. For instance, if this man did come to your farm and walked around the yard and inside the farmhouse, he might have carried away something on his shoes which is now in the car. After all those years. It might be something trivial. A grain of sand is enough if it’s the same type as in your farm. You understand what I’m saying?”

The old man looked silently at the floor.

“Is the farm still there?” Erlendur asked.

“Shut up,” Haraldur said.

Erlendur inspected the room. He knew virtually nothing about the man sitting on the edge of the bed in front of him, except that he was nasty and foul-mouthed and that his room smelled. He read Einar Benediktsson but Erlendur thought to himself that, unlike the poet, he had probably never in his lifetime “turned darkness into the light of day’.

“Did you live alone out there on the farm?”

“Get out, I said!”

“Did you have a housekeeper?”

“We were two brothers. Joi’s dead. Now leave me alone.”

“Joi?” Erlendur did not recall any mention of anyone other than Haraldur in the police reports. “Who was he?” he asked.

“My brother,” Haraldur said. “He died twenty years ago. Now get out. For God’s sake, bugger off out of here and leave me alone!”

He opened the box of letters and removed them one by one, read some of the envelopes and put them to one side, opened others and slowly read them through. He had not looked at the letters for years. They had come from Iceland, from his parents and sister and comrades in the party’s youth movement who wanted to know about life in Leipzig. He remembered the letters he wrote in reply describing the city, the reconstruction and the morale there, and how it had all been in positive terms. He wrote about the collective spirit of the proletariat and socialist solidarity, all that dead, cliche?ridden rhetoric. He wrote nothing about the doubts that were beginning to stir within him. He never wrote about Hannes.

He delved deeper into the pile. There was a letter from Rut and beneath it the message from Hannes.

And there, at the bottom of the pile, were the letters from Ilona’s parents.

He hardly thought about anything other than Ilona during the first weeks and months that they were together. Having little money, he lived frugally and tried to please her with small presents. One day, when his birthday was approaching, he received a package from Iceland, including a pocket edition of Jonas Hallgrimsson’s poems. He gave the volume to her and told her that it was by the poet who had written the most beautiful words in the Icelandic language. She said she looked forward to learning Icelandic from him so that she could read them. She said she had nothing to give him in return. He smiled and shook his head. He had not told her it was his birthday.

“I just like having you,” he said.

“O-ho,” she said.

“What?”

“Naughty boy!”

She put down the book, pushed him back onto the bed he was sitting on, and straddled him. She gave him a long, deep kiss. It turned out to be the most pleasurable birthday of his life.

That winter he became closer friends with Emil and they spent a lot of time together. He liked Emil, who became more hardline the longer they stayed in Leipzig and the better he knew the system. Emil was unruffled by the other Icelanders” criticism of personal spying and surveillance, the shortage of consumer goods, compulsory attendance at FDJ meetings and the like. Emil scoffed at all that. Given the ultimate goal, such short-term considerations were trivial. He and Emil got on well together and backed each other up.

“But why don’t they produce more goods that people need?” Karl asked once when they were sitting in the new cafeteria discussing Ulbricht’s government. “People have such an obvious point of comparison in West Germany which is swamped with consumer goods and everything anyone could desire. Why should East Germany put such a huge emphasis on industrial development when there are food shortages? The only thing they have plenty of is lignite, which isn’t even proper coal.”

“The planned economy will deliver in the end,” Emil said. “Reconstruction has hardly started and they don’t have the same stream of dollars from the US. It all takes time. What matters is that the Socialist Unity Party is on the right track.”

Tomas and Ilona were not the only couple in their circle in Leipzig. Karl and Hrafnhildur both met Germans who fitted in well with their group. Karl was increasingly seen with a petite, brown-eyed student from Leipzig; her name was Ulrika. Her ill-tempered mother disapproved of the match and Karl’s descriptions of their awkward dealings sent everyone into hysterics. He said they had discussed living together, even getting married. They were compatible, both cheerful and easygoing types, and she talked about going to Iceland, even living there. Hrafnhildur started going out with a shy and rather nondescript chemistry student from a little village outside Leipzig, who sometimes supplied moonshine for their parties.

It was February. He saw Ilona every day. They no longer discussed politics, but everything else was smooth and they had plenty to talk about. He told her about the land of boiled sheep heads and she told him about her family. She had two elder brothers, which did not make things easier for her. Both her parents were doctors. She was studying literature and German. One of her favourite poets was Friedrich Holderlin. She read a lot and asked him about Icelandic literature. Books were a common interest.

Lothar spent more and more time with the Icelanders. He amused them with his mechanical, formal Icelandic and incessant questions about everything to do with Iceland. Tomas got along well with Lothar. They were both hardline communists and could discuss politics without arguing. Lothar practised his Icelandic on him and Tomas spoke German back. Lothar was from Berlin, which he said was a wonderful place. He had lost his father in the war but his mother still lived there. Lothar urged him to visit the city with him sometime — it was not far by train. In other respects the German was not very forthcoming about himself, which Tomas put down to the hardship that he had suffered as a boy during the war. He asked all the more about Iceland and seemed to have an unquenchable interest in the country. Wanted to know about the university there, political conflict, political and business leaders, how people lived, the US base at Keflavik. Tomas explained that Iceland had profited enormously from the war, Reykjavik had mushroomed and the country had been transformed almost overnight from a poor farming community to a modern bourgeois society.

Sometimes he spoke to Hannes at the university. Normally they ran into each other at the library or in the cafeteria in the main building. They became good friends in spite of everything, in spite of Hannes’s pessimism. He tried to talk Hannes round, but in vain. Hannes had lost interest. His only thoughts were about finishing his studies and going home.

One day he sat down beside Hannes in the cafeteria. It was snowing outside. He had been sent a warm overcoat from Iceland at Christmas. He had mentioned in one of his letters how cold it was in Leipzig. Hannes made a point of asking about the overcoat and he could detect a hint of jealousy in his voice.